Tag: reminiscing

Oh, hello again!

Ugh, my poor, poor blog.  I’ve been neglecting you, I know.  Thanksgiving has come and gone with a wham! bam! no more turkey ma’am!  And I’m standing here with nary a leftover!

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving. We traveled to Florida to visit with the Hubs’ side of the family. Fastest trip to and from Florida ever. Left on Wednesday and came back on Friday.  Thanksgiving dinner was outstanding, and I am not even worried that the button and the button hole of my pants have broken up.

I caught myself being super prepared for traveling to Florida.  Everyone had one set of pi’s, an outfit for traveling in and an outfit for Thanksgiving.  Baggage fees are ridiculous and I was trying squash as much in a carry-on as possible.  The first night away from home, I’m trying to wrangle the girls away from their cousins so that they can get ready for bed — an exercise in futility for sure, but you gotta try.

I’m pulling out a pair of lightweight pi’s for Co – it’s 75 degrees in South Florida, by the way — and she turns her nose up at them.  This little biscuit, clad in nothing but a pull-up, starts telling me she wants her other pajamas, the ones with the feet.  I don’t have any other pajamas and I for sure know that I didn’t pack any fleece, footed pajamas!  Yet, Co keeps saying that they’ve been packed.  Like a dummy, I’m digging in the bag that I packed myself, wondering if I put a second pair of pajamas in there.  Finally, I sit back on my heels and say to Co, “Look, I don’t have any other pj’s for you.  This is it.”

“Oh, I remember!,” Co says and literally slaps her palm to her forehead.  She turns to her backpack, tosses aside a Monster High Doll, two coloring books and some crayons before  fwipp! She pulls out a pair of fleece, footed pajamas.  “I packed them myself! “

And so I added “self-sufficient children” to my list of thanks.

Like I said, the trip was quick. I’m pretty sure we spent more time traveling to and fro than actually with family.  Still, the time together was great.  My nephews have grown so much and yet they weren’t too big to play Wii, hide and seek, and whatever else the girls wanted.  It was shame we didn’t have more time, but I’m hopeful we will all get together again soon.

This is the first year in a while that we didn’t watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.  The TV was permanently fixed on the series of football games that were being broadcast.  I don’t mind football, but I would have liked to have at least seen the Rockette’s in the parade this year.

Last year, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was on television while the family was in the kitchen prepping for the main event.  The girls floated in and out of the family room, pausing in front of the screen to take in the sight of marching bands, super sized floats, and the scores of cartoon characters inflated high in the sky over the crowds.  I checked some things out when I heard the broadcasters mentioned a name or group that I was particularly interested in seeing.  Somehow, between setting the table, shuffling pots and pans, and trying to sneak off with a book for a hot minute, I caught the Rockettes the same time that Morgan and Coever did their pass by the TV.

Growing up, my grandmother used to tell me that she was the first Black Rockette.  There wasn’t any evidence to back up her claim.  There weren’t any fliers, there weren’t any photographs tucked into a worn photo album.  There wasn’t anyone who could corroborate her story.  She just repeated it every year, especially around the holidays when the Rockettes were more visible during the parade and their holiday extravaganza at Radio City.  She was almost Pavlovian in her reaction.  Rockette’s on TV? Here comes Gram, “I remember when I was Rockette, doing all those high kicks. “

For years, I believed her.  Then with the cynicism that comes with early adulthood, I jumped onto Google one year to find out who indeed the first Black Rockette truly was.  Her name is Jennifer Jones and she made her debut in 1988.  Was I depressed at learning the truth? No, I was kind of proud. Gram had been consistently bestowing a gift on me year after year.  Sure, she wasn’t the first, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be if I wanted to.  Whatever I wanted to be, I could.

Last year, when the girls and I caught the Rockette’s doing their performance, I thought about Gram. I thought about her maintaining her status as “the first Black Rockette”.  When those ladies lined up to do their iconic line kick, I found myself tearing up.   My throat grew thick with missing my gram, and the temptation to just whisper to the girls, “You know, your Great-Gram was a Rockette.”

I didn’t tell them, of course. What with their access to Google and all things digital, they’d quickly figure things out.  Instead, I told the story of how their Great-Gram Eleanor told me she had been a Rockette.  I told them of how she had a department store’s worth of perfumes on her dresser, how she always said, “Hey, doll!” when she answered the phone.  I told them that even though she passed away when Mo was just a baby and that Co and Vivi had never met her, she loves, loves, loves them dearly, and always will. I told them how lucky I was to have had an adult relationship with my grandparents and how lucky they are, too.
I guess I’m getting a little maudlin in my old age. 

But enough with the trips down memory lane.  To catch up on what’s been going on. . .hmmmm. . .nothing and everything.  We have been busy in the minutiae of just living.  Once we got back to VA,  we decided to get a jump on the Christmas season.  We got our tree on Saturday, if you can believe it.  I’m the type of person who waits until a week before Christmas to get the tree and I’m already undressing it on Christmas afternoon.  This is a big step for me!  I think far enough ahead to get the girls’ Christmas photo snapped and our cards ordered.  I decided that I was going to book a few jobs for holiday shoots and it would be best to get mine done early.  I’m glad I did because I had a great shoot yesterday and two in the pipeline.  

And I added “new and repeat clients” to my list of thanks.

My brother and his fiancee came by on their way home from my parents house on Saturday afternoon.  It was a quick visit but a worthwhile one. Their wedding plans are underway and they officially invited Mo and Co to be flower girls on the big day.  There’s an item Mo can check off her bucket list.

We are just moving right along, one day to the next, taking what come along with it.  Tomorrow I go to the doctor and see where I am with my recovery.  I’m hopeful that I can get out of this walking boot once and for all.  I’m running out of wide leg pants!

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IN: ON: November 26, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Recipe Friday

It’s been very hard for me to ask for help these last three weeks, despite the fact that I truly need it. I mean, I can’t use my hands and walk at the same time, so I’ve had to rely on the kindness of others.  They’ve been more than happy to help.  Many friends and neighbors have offered their services; everything from childcare to carpool to meal preparation. I’ve been expressing my gratitude by saying thanks, by making a mental inventory of how best to repay everyone who has gone above and beyond.  I’ve been saying “Thank you” so often, I sound like Elvis Presley after he finished a set.

1. Thanks to the nurses for excellent care and prep.
2. Thanks to the doctor for repairing my leg and the great Rx that came home with me.
3. Thanks to the Good Samaritans who held the doors open for me as I crutch my way in and out of stores and who offer to load my things into my car while I waited for my ride.
4. Thanks to my husband for truly honoring our vows, because this definitely falls under the “for worse” category.
5. Thanks to my daughters for being so well behaved, for all of the hugs, kisses and get well drawings.
6. Thanks to my mother-in-law for cooking, cleaning, baby bathing, and stimulating conversations.
7. Thanks to my dad for playing chauffeur for me and the kids.
8. Thanks to my mom for coming dusting off her own Superwoman cape and coming to my rescue once again.

My mom is pretty remarkable.  I have had a chance this week to really sit back and marvel at it.  This is a woman, who after having had double knee replacement surgery last year, has been trucking up and down the stairs daily to get the kids, dress the kids, put away laundry, and make sure I haven’t face-planted on the bathroom floor in my attempts to hop from the bed to the toilet.

This is a woman who put her reluctance (or is is just a case of “I’d-rather-not-thank-you-very-much”) to the side and not only made breakfasts, lunches, and dinners for the family, but actually took the time to make faces out of English muffins, bacon and scrambled eggs.  When faced with protest, she convinced the girls that they weren’t having peanut butter and jelly for lunch, but were in fact having jelly and peanut butter (big difference). And guess what? They ate it.

My mom simply shook her head when she saw me hopping around on one foot without my crutches, knowing what I hard head I have. While she may have wanted to knock me in the head with the crutch to get me to sit down, she knows how tough it has been for me to sit back and let people take care of things for me.  When I said, “Hey, let’s go to Target. I’ll drive!”, she gamely got into the passenger seat and away we went.  When I politely declined after she and the clerk suggested I get into one of those motorized carts (uh, no thanks!), she just checked in with me to make sure I wasn’t getting too tired as I hobbled from the shoe department to housewares to health and beauty.  I treated her to her favorite Iced Chai Latte at Starbucks and we sat talking like two adult women, not just mother and daughter.

This is my mom’s second week helping out after ankle-gate.  The first week found her getting hitting her stride on all things that go on here by Friday (she left on Saturday).  One Wednesday, I got up, got myself together and found the house still dark and silent. I knocked on her door, pushed it open with my crutch and she popped up out of bed like an Eggo Waffle – “What?! Who’s that?” I still laugh when I think about it.  When I told her it was ten minutes to seven (the girls have to be up and dressed by 6:45), she said, “Crap!” bounced out of bed and got down to business.  That afternoon, I was sitting at the table making lists — and we all know how I love a list — when she came to join me. 
“Whew,” she said, looking into a mug of long cold coffee.  “I am beat! I think I’ll just rest for bit.”
“Uh,” I said, looking at my watch. “You might have to do that after you get Mo.  You have to leave for carpool in about two minutes.”  She jumped up out of her seat like she’d been stuck with a pin, grabbed all the gear and slid out the door.  Impressive. 
When she left that Saturday, we joked that she would probably go into hibernation mode until she was called back into service a week later.  Well, I was joking; my dad said she got home, got into bed and he didn’t see her for a few days. 

The other day, I remarked on how I have had lots of time to reflect and count my blessings.  I’m definitely blessed to have my mom.  There were times growing up when we go on one another’s nerves, times when I thought “Ugh, she just had me so that she wouldn’t have to empty the dishwasher/fold laundry/vacuum”, and times when I thought she was unreasonably unfair. I’m sure she could say the same for me, how my high maintenance, my talking back, my teenage foolishness and the like was enough to drive her bananas.  But despite all that, I’m so thankful that we’ve come full circle. That she can see me parenting (and laugh her buns off when the girls are acting just the way I acted at the exact same age) is priceless.  I love that I can now appreciate all of her hard work, her rules, her Classical Music Wednesdays, and all the ways in which she has shaped me into the mother, the wife, the woman that I am now.  I love that she can see the fruits of her labor, both literally and figuratively.

There are so many more examples that I could give of how she’s easily taken the helm of running this household, but this post would never end.  So, I’ll share two more little tidbits and call it even.  The greatest gift my mom has given me since she’s been here has her appreciation of everything I do to make our family function.  On several occasions, she’s just stopped what she’s doing and said, “I don’t know how you do it, Hilary. It’s pretty impressive.”  That simple sentence has been the best balm.  It has taken the ache out of my ankle, has made my heart swell and my throat tight. Yeah, I got a little verklempt.

Earlier, I said how my mom had been doing some cooking while she was here.  We like to joke that my brother and I don’t know how we ate during childhood because we don’t really remember my mom doing any cooking.  I mean, she must have, but I don’t remember seeing her at the stove, stirring anything in a pot.  Food materialized, we ate, plates were cleared and the dishwasher ran. What I do remember is my mom teaching me how to make a Waldorf Salad. I haven’t had one in years; all I remember is apples, walnuts and mayo on a paper plate as I sat with my feet swinging back and forth at the kitchen table. I snacked on the salad while my mom drank diet Cream Soda Shasta. . .good times.

(image)

Waldorf Salad 
(recipe found here)
there are many variations, but this is the one that I remember

Ingredients:
4 medium unpeeled red eating apples, cut into ¼- inch slices 
Dash of lemon juice to keep apples from turning brown 
3 tablespoons chopped walnuts 
1 cup of vanilla (or plain) yogurt
1/4 cup of mayonnaise
2 medium bananas-diced
1/2 cup of seedless grapes (cut lengthwise) 1/2 cup of orange juice

Toss ingredients and enjoy! 

Happy Friday, y’all!

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IN: recipes ON: September 28, 2012 TAGS: , , , , , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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From the Archives

Honeymoon
Madrid, Barcelona, Paris
September 10 -20, 2001
Barcelona
La Tour Eiffel, Paris
Eleven years ago.  My goodness, we were young and green!  DH, in his mysterious ways, culled together a honeymoon trip that was out of the pages of Fodor’s.  When I think back to our trip to Europe for those 10 days, it’s with mixed emotions — happiness, excitement, and a little anxiety.
Happiness, to be surely attributed to really starting our lives together as a married couple.  At that point, we’d been married a three months, but had delayed going away until we both had some time to really enjoy it.  Happiness for sure to be in Europe, traveling to places familiar and new with someone I loved.  While I’d already been to Barcelona and Paris, it was a first for DH and I was excited to show him what I remembered.  Las Ramblas, the Sagrada Familia and Casa Milia of Antonio Gaudi, and the Christopher Columbus Monument.  The Erotic Museum of Barcelona. We were on our honeymoon, afterall.
I was excited to break out my “frenglish”,  especially when we got caught in a nasty bout of cloudy and windy days and DH was without a jacket. Going to La Galleries Lafayette, just browsing and then buying (even if it was for DH). Visiting Notre Dame, the Louvre and the Winged Victory (always awe-inspiring), and the food! Oh, the food.  *le sigh*
The anxiety, though stems from what happened on the first full day of our trip. We left DC on September 10, 2001.  We arrived in Madrid, checked into our hotel,  explored a bit before jet lag gave us the one-two punch.
September 11th, 2001.  How we spent our morning is kind of hazy to me.  I’m sure we ate breakfast  or lunch and planned our day.  What I remember was walking around, window shopping. In one of the many squares that are laid out throughout the city, there was a giant video screen, similar to the one in Times Square.  Tons of people were crowded around it.  It must have been close to 1pm local time, but the crowds were thick.  On the video screen, GW Bush was talking, in Spanish.  DH and I figured it was some kind of news report and we kept walking.  It was siesta time for us, so we headed back to the hotel.
Once in our room, DH excused himself to the bathroom while I flipped through the TV stations as I dozed.  Everything was in Spanish, except for one channel that was showing airplanes flying through the sky, buildings on fire, sheets of paper fluttering to the ground like leaves off of autumn trees.  “What movie is this?” I thought.  So, I kept watching, thinking once I saw some actors, I’d figure it out.
DH came out of the bathroom, asked me what I was watching. “I don’t know,” I said as someone launched themselves from the top floor of a skyscraper.  “I thought it was a movie, but then the news ticker started running across the bottom.”
And in minutes, everything became painfully clear.  Hijackers. Airplanes. Twin Towers.  We were watching it live.  We were transfixed. We were watching when the second plane flew into the tower. News centers had no idea what was going on, the magnitude of it all, so nothing was edited.  Nothing.  The cameras showed those who managed to escape, staggering about, soot and grime covered, bleeding, crying.  The boom mikes picked up soft whumping sounds, which we later discovered were people falling from the sky.  
We watched.  We waited.  We thought, “What in the world are we doing here?!”
We went to the nearest Internet cafe we could find and started banging off emails to family and friends in New York, begging them to respond to let us know they were okay. We called our parents who reassured us that they were alright.  They said that we might not be able to even get home, so try to enjoy our trip as best we could.  It was probably safer where we were, they said.  We sat in the hotel lobby, striking up conversations with other English speaking travelers about what in the holy hell had just happened.
One couple, who had planned to leave Madrid that day anyway, was waiting to get an all clear sign from the airport.  They’d been gone from Beaumont, Texas two weeks on a golfing trip and were tired of living out of suitcases.  The husband said, they’d gotten to the airport, then got turned back to the hotel.  Then they’d gotten the call to come back to the airport. They went back, got on a plane, then got turned back. They’d gotten another call to the airport, got on the plane, got as far as Canadian airspace, and were turned back.  To Madrid.
I remember sitting on the yellow and ivory striped sofas of the lobby, listening to the soft whirring of the elevators, the gentle clicks of the keyboard as people were checked in and out.  I remember listening to the southern drawl of Mr. Beaumont, Texas and wondering when we’d hear from DH’s brother, who was living in the city.  We wondered about DH’s fraternity brother who worked not far from the towers, and my good friend who lived in Manhattan.  How could we possibly continue on a honeymoon? It seemed so foolish.  And yet, what choice did we have? Could we even get home? And once we did, then what?
We stayed.
We heard from Brandon, Billy, and Tanja.
We enjoyed the rest of Madrid, inhaling the history, the culture and the people. We went to bullfights, tapas restaurants and flamenco dancing performances.  We traveled to Barcelona, rubbing our fingers along the walls of Picasso’s house.  The aquarium, Las Ramblas, and Pans restaurant, which seemed to be the only place to get some lettuce in your sandwich.    We traveled to Paris. We dined on escargot, zoomed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and walked, walked, walked all over the city.
We readied ourselves to go home and when we did, witnessed the marked difference in airline security.  The new normal, as it come to be.
Every generation has a turning point that defines them.  The “where-were-you-when” scenario that connects one person to another.   Most assuredly, this is mine.  
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IN: ON: September 11, 2012 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Giving Thanks

Last year, just as in years’ past, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was on television while the family was in the kitchen prepping for the main event.  The girls would float in and out of the family room, pausing in front of the screen to take in the sight of marching bands, super sized floats, and the scores of cartoon characters inflated high in the sky over the crowds.  I, too, would check some things out when I heard the broadcasters mentioned a name or group that I was particularly interested in seeing.  Somehow, between setting the table, shuffling pots and pans, and trying to sneak off with a book for a hot minute, I happened to catch the Rockettes the same time that Morgan and Coever did their pass by the TV.

Growing up, my grandmother used to tell me that she was the first Black Rockette way back in the day.  There wasn’t any evidence to back up her claim.  There weren’t any flyers, there weren’t any photographs tucked into a worn photo album.  There wasn’t anyone who could corroborate her story.  She just repeated it every year, especially around the holidays when the Rockettes were more visible during the parade and their holiday extravaganza at Radio City.  She was almost Pavlovian in her reaction.  Rockette’s on TV? Here comes Gram, “I remember when I was Rockette, doing all those high kicks. ”

For years, I believed her.  Then with the cynicism that comes with early adulthood, I jumped onto Google one year to find out who indeed the first Black Rockette truly was.  Her name is Jennifer Jones and she made her debut in 1988.  Was I depressed at learning the truth? No, I was kind of proud. Gram had been consistently bestowing a gift on me year after year.  Sure, she wasn’t the first, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t be if I wanted to.  Whatever I wanted to be, I could.

Last year, when the girls and I caught the Rockette’s doing their performance, I thought about Gram. I thought about her maintaining her status as “the first Black Rockette”.  When those ladies lined up to do their iconic line kick, I found myself tearing up.   My throat grew thick with missing my gram, and the temptation to just whisper to the girls, “You know, your Great-Gram was a Rockette.”

I didn’t tell them, of course. What with their access to Google and all things digital, they’d quickly figure things out.  I did tell them the story of how their Great-Gram Eleanor told me she had been a Rockette.  I tell them of how she had a department store’s worth of perfumes on her dresser, how she always said, “Hey, doll!” when she answered the phone.  I tell them that even though she passed away when Morgan was just a baby and that Coever never met her, she loves, loves, loves them dearly, and always will. I tell them how lucky I am to have had an adult relationship with my grandparents and how lucky they are, too.
This day, and always, I’m thankful for my family and my friends. I am thankful for the roof over my head, the clothes on my back, and the food in my belly. I am thankful for opening my eyes every morning, for walking on my own two feet.  I’m thankful for the people whose lives I’ve touched and whose lives have touched mine. I am thankful for the people whom I have never met, but work to ensure my safety and the safety of my family, friends and neighbors.  I’m thankful for all the things that I take for granted the other 364 days of the year and I’m thankful for all of the things that I often complain about as well.  Sometimes, I need a national holiday to remind me.  
Or a Rockette’s high kick in the pants. 
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!

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IN: ON: November 23, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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In Memoriam

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

April 11th, 211. Today is your birthday, Gram. You would have been 93, I think. I miss you so and I feel tears stinging my eyes as I write this. I won’t delete your number from my speed dial although it has been over five years since you last answered at that number. I miss your voice when I would call you on the phone, the way you would say, “Hey, doll!” and always have time to talk to me. I miss the way you would chastise me for writing you thank you notes for simple things like birthday cards. I miss the way your home smelled of you, of Red Door. The way you would offer me anything and everything in your pantry, your fridge, your cupboards, even if I walked in bearing food.

Mom gave me a recipe box filled with some of your favorite recipes clipped from newspapers or written in your own hand (hello, fudge!). My eyes devoured them greedily. My nose inhaled the scent in that little tin box, so faint and yet so powerful and I was instantly 5 years old, wrapped in your arms, being pulled out of the tub and stood upon the toilet seat while you rubbed me dry with a towel before sprinkling me with Jean Nate and dusting me with a big powder pouf. 

This is how I will teach Morgan and Coever about you. I will give them these memories. I will show them your picture and I will tell them how much you loved them, even though you had only met Morgan once and Coever, not at all, because I know that for as much as you loved me, you didn’t have to know them to love them. You always loved them.

I miss you so much and I want to talk to you and tell you what has been going on. I want to tell you what the girls are up to. I want to hear you laugh when I tell you how Morgan wheedled me down into letting her watch “one show, but that’s it” and how Coever ends every sentence she utters with, “you know”.  I want you to tell me how you told Helen and Aunt Saville that you’ve got to get out to get new frames to put up the pictures of the girls that we just sent to you. I want you to ask me, “How is that broken down brother of yours?” and I’ll gladly respond, “Broken-down.” I want you tell me to give Craig a “big ol’ sloppy kiss”. I want you to tell me to come on over any time when we next come up for a visit. I want to bring you that egg foo young you like so much and try to foist off on me after eating just a taste.

You’ve celebrated 5 birthdays since you’ve gone; I haven’t come to visit, I doubt I even had a moment of silence. I hope you understand the feelings are still tender and raw. I’m stronger now and there are things that I want to do. I will hang Degas’ Ballerinas in the girls room. I will learn to make your fudge; commit it to memory even. 

I had willed myself not to cry at your memorial service. I don’t know why; my reluctance to grieve has only made it that much more powerful when I have given myself that chance. I saved Frye’s poem from the program, though. I like to think this was your way of reminding me of the years of memories we made. I love you, Gram. Happy Birthday.

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IN: ON: April 11, 2011 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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