Month: November 2015

Christmas Presence

/ Ann Coleman / 31 Comments

One of my earliest Christmas memories is of sitting at the kitchen table with my father, working together to make “shadow box” nativity scene.  Shadow boxes were popular at the time, and as far as I can remember, they consisted of a box that housed knick-knacks or scenes in a decorative wooden box covered with glass to protect the contents.  Since I was about five years old at the time, we were making our shadow box out of a cardboard shoe box.

We had gone out into the back yard to cut some dormant, yellowed zoysia grass, which we glued on the bottom of the box to represent straw.  We glued strips of brown construction paper to the walls for the stable beams, and added a blue square window complete with gold star stickers on the back wall. Then we glued down the ceramic figures of Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus in the manger, with a little plastic angel standing guard.  Finally, we taped on clear plastic wrap to cover the whole front of the box.  I thought it was absolutely beautiful.

Our family didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but we always got a nice pile of presents for Christmas, and almost always got the gift we wanted the most of all (not counting the Shetland pony I was always secretly hoping for).  But as much as I looked forward to unwrapping my presents on Christmas morning, as happy as I was with the presents I received, I have forgotten almost all of them by now.  Sometimes my memory is helped by looking at an old photo and thinking, “Oh, that was the year I got the Chatty Cathy doll,” but I can’t remember that on my own, or even a few days after I look at the photo.

What I do remember, easily and clearly, is sitting at the kitchen table with my father, working together to make that cardboard shadow box.  I remember how special it made me feel that he was taking the time to teach me how to make something beautiful out of some dried-out grass, construction paper, ceramic figures and a cardboard shoe box.

IMG_0938I have no idea how long that cardboard shadow box actually lasted…our household had lots of rambunctious kids, so the chances are, it didn’t last very long…but I still have the figurines of Mary, Joseph, baby Jesus and the angel.  And even though they are old and chipped, I still put them out every year, to remind me that the best Christmas gifts aren’t the ones we put under the tree.

Giving Thanks

/ Ann Coleman / 24 Comments

IMG_0919Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the holiday that reminds us of all the things we have to be thankful for as we gather with family and friends for a terrific meal.  Traditionally, we are thankful for what we already have, but I think that this year, I’d like to list a few things that I’m hoping to be thankful for this Thanksgiving instead:

I’m having everyone at my house for the Thanksgiving dinner this year, and I will be very thankful if I manage to get through the whole day without the smoke alarm in my kitchen going off.  Just once, I’d like to know that the turkey is done by seeing the little thingamajig pop up, rather than hearing the annoying screech of the smoke alarm.

I know it sounds odd, but I’ll be extraordinarily thankful if our 14 year-old dog Lucy makes her annual bid for a part of the Thanksgiving meal, either by stealing some tasty scraps from the trashcan, going after a plate of appetizers that someone left within her reach, or even by jumping on the dining room table to grab whatever food is left once the rest of us are in the kitchen washing up.  Because I know that the day Lucy stops being bad and breaking the household rules is also going to be the day she stops breathing, and I am absolutely not ready for that.

IMG_0914I’ll be thankful if this is the year that, after stuffing myself with way too much turkey and all the usual side dishes, I finally realize that I do not need to also eat quite so much dessert.  Although I’ll probably do it anyway.   It’s not that I really want those desserts, its just that I don’t want to offend the people who made them and brought them to my house to share.  Really, that’s the reason I eat that second piece of pie.  It is.  I swear.

But mostly, I’ll be thankful if, amid all the cleaning to get ready for company, all the cooking and food preparation, all the eating and drinking and all the lively conversation, I remember to appreciate how very lucky I am to have so many things to be thankful for.  Even if that stupid smoke alarm goes off again….

 

Legacy

/ Ann Coleman / 14 Comments

IMG_0911I love a good estate sale.   Nothing is quite so much fun as spotting an estate sale sign when I actually have time to stop and check it out.  I’ve found good pieces of older furniture, lovely glass serving dishes, antique Christmas ornaments, books, tools, old linens that I can donate to the Humane Society, and lots of other useful stuff.  I especially like going on the second day of the sale, when there isn’t quite as much to choose from, but everything that remains is marked “half off.”  I’ve found some terrific bargains that way.

But even though I love estate sales, wandering through the houses in search of bargain-priced treasures is also just a little bit sad.  I can usually get a pretty good sense of who lived in the house, even though I’ve never met them.  As I go from room to room, I can see what the person’s taste was in books, home furnishings and clothing.  Sometimes, looking through the remains of their worldly possessions, I can even tell where they went to church, what their hobbies were, or what they did for a living.   I am reminded that the items for sale belonged to a real person at one time, and some of those things were probably very special to them.  And yet now they are sitting in an empty house with a price tag attached, being pawed through by total strangers.  I can’t help but wonder how that would make the person who owned them feel.

IMG_0346Even though I’m a minimalist at heart, I know that sometimes I still spend way too much time and money acquiring possessions, especially the things that are special to me.  I have certain authors that I love and I buy every book of theirs that I can get my hands on, and I have eight prints hanging on my walls by my favorite local artist.  Even though the two Christmas trees I put up every year are already loaded with glass antique ornaments, I still buy more, if they are in good shape and reasonably priced.  Every single room in my house has at least one thing in it that I treasure. And yet I know that some day (hopefully in the distant future), any and all of it could end up in my estate sale, priced to sell quickly.

The thing is, no matter how much “treasure” we manage to accumulate in our lives, there’s no guarantee that any of it is going to be valued when we’re gone.  Our stuff is not who we are, and it’s not what people are going to remember us by.  When I shop those estate sales, I can understand only a little bit of the person whose possessions I’m sorting through.  I may see their tastes and some of their life story, but I have no idea how they acted, how they treated other people or what their deepest values were.  Because I didn’t know that person, and I only see the stuff they’ve left behind.

So I don’t want to make the mistake of putting too much value on my things, even the things I value the most.  When I’m gone, I know that what I’ll really be remembered by was whether I was kind or cruel, generous or selfish, willing to take risks or always playing it safe, etc.  In short, I’ll be remembered by how much I was willing to try, in my own clumsy way, to make the world around me a better place.  That’s not something that will be put in my will or sold at my estate sale, but ultimately, it’s the only legacy that really matters.

 

 

 

My Turn

/ Ann Coleman / 21 Comments

Whenever I’m having a particularly bad day volunteering at the Humane Society, I will often joke to someone that the committee whose job it is to make my life difficult must have met recently.  In my mind, I envision a group of people sitting solemnly around the table, saying things like, “Well, Ann has finally memorized the door code, so that means it’s time to change it.”  Of course nothing of the sort is happening, there are just times when it feels like it, because there are always all sorts of changes and rules that I didn’t come up with and that I don’t particularly like.

But the Humane Society is certainly not the only place where I sometimes feel that others are setting the standards that I am expected to follow, even when I don’t like them one little bit.  For instance, who decided that in order to be considered physically attractive in our culture, a woman must be slim, long-legged, large-busted and have no hair on most of the places on her body that hair naturally grows?  Real women come in all shapes and sizes, and honestly, we don’t always have the time to shave our legs each and every day.  If I were the one in charge of determining our cultural standards of female beauty, it would be a very different thing than what I see staring back at me from the glossy pages of fashion magazines.

IMG_0430I live in an older house, with separated rooms, light hardwood floors and maple cabinets in the kitchen.  And every single time I tune into a program on HGTV, I realize that my house, my beloved house that my husband and I have spent years renovating, is completely out of style.  Someone, somewhere, decided that we all need “open concept” in our houses, which means that those pesky walls must be knocked down so we can live in one giant, single room, and that all floors must be dark hardwood and that maple cabinets are “so yesterday.”

I’m not sure who these people are who get to decide what’s “in” and “out” for the rest of us, but I can tell you that I’ve decided I want to be one of them.  I want to be the person who determines the clothing fashions, so that I can make sure that the clothes that flatter the aging, pear-shaped figure are the latest trend.   I want to make traditional homes (with lots of walls and original floors) cutting edge again, and I want the authors I like to have their books on the best-sellers list, and while I’m at it, I think I’d like our society to value maturity over youth.

Mostly, I want to stop feeling hopelessly out-of-the-loop because I don’t dress, look, think, or act exactly the way our current culture thinks I should, right at this very moment.  Just for a little while, I want it to be my turn to decide what’s hot and what’s not.

But since that’s probably not going to happen, maybe I’ll just settle for ignoring all those nameless, faceless people who are setting the standards and live by my own values instead.  Sometimes the simplest solution is also the best.

 

 

In Remembrance

/ Ann Coleman / 15 Comments

One of the best things about reaching middle age is having friends that I have known for many decades.  These are the people that knew me when I was just a little kid wearing scuffed saddle oxfords, and have stayed in my life ever since.  We understand exactly where each other came from, because we were there, too.  Their parents were friends with our parents, and now, our kids are often friends with their kids.  They may be “just friends,” but our relationships have lasted so long and our families are so connected that I think of them more as close, personal relatives.

Thanksgiving in NorthfieldI have very good friends that I have met in recent years, but they can’t share the stories of the past the way these long-term, family friends can.  They can’t talk about the time my parents had the neighbors over for a backyard barbecue and it started to rain heavily.  Rather than risk losing his precious pork steaks, my father simply picked up the grill and ran in our back door and down the basement steps with it, leaving a trail of curse words and black smoke behind him.  Or the time when my husband and I had just moved to St. Louis and we all packed into my friend’s father’s van to head to Chicago for Thanksgiving at my parents house, never mind that it was a cargo van with no real seats in the back.  We even took our friend’s dog, who was the only one who seemed comfortable sitting on the floor for the six-hour trip.

But one of the worst things about middle age is losing so many of those life-long, family friends.  Tomorrow I’m going to a funeral for one of those family friends, one from my parent’s generation, who was the father of a very dear, life-long friend of mine.  He was someone I’ve known my whole life, a very smart man who told funny stories, who could make just about anything in his shop, and who gave my husband a part-time accounting job on the side at a time when we desperately needed the extra money.  He was a part of my past, and my family’s past, but now, like so many others, he is gone, and my heart aches for his grieving family.

I do know that as I age, everyone else in my life is aging as well.  I mourned when my beloved grandparents and great aunts and uncles grew old and died, and now we are losing my parents’ generation too, one by one.  Between my husband and I, we have only one parent left.  I understand that this is just the natural progression of life, and that my generation’s turn will come soon enough.  But I’m not going to lie; sometimes it makes very very, very sad.

It’s not that I want to live in the past, or am yearning for a “better time.”   I’m not.  It’s just that it’s hard to lose so many people who I loved or cared about, and that with each loss, there is one less person to “remember when,” one less person who shares my past, one less person who knows not only who I am now, but who I was then.  It’s one more reminder that time is moving relentlessly forward, and that life is, and always has been, both precious and fragile.

Poker Night

/ Ann Coleman / 22 Comments

IMG_0905I have to admit that when my neighbor asked me to join the new poker group she was starting, I had my doubts.  The group was going to meet one Friday night a month, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to add another standing commitment to our already too-full calendar.  Even more concerning, I was going to be the only member of the group who actually knew how to play poker, which meant it would be my job to teach everyone else how to play.

My first inclination was to say no.  My second inclination was to say yes, and then explain that poker always has to be played for money, and that it was a good idea for everyone to bring their valuable jewelry and car titles so that they would have something to bet if their money ran out.  (Did I mention I was the only one who knew how to play?)  Luckily, I went with the third option, which was to agree to join the group and teach everyone how to play, and to play only for the little plastic chips that are handed out before each session.  I do have a few finer instincts left.

My father taught me to play poker when I was five years old, and my in-laws play poker at almost every family gathering, so I am very comfortable with the game.  But I quickly found out that teaching other people how to play is not always so easy.  A typical exchange goes something like this:

Me:  “Okay, now that I’ve dealt the cards, you can either bet, fold (quit that hand) or check the bet (wait to see what the bet is without quitting the hand).  We start with the person to the left of the dealer and go around the table.”

Debby:  “I check the bet.”

Sandra:  “I bet one.”

Paula:  “I check the bet.”

Me: “You can’t check the bet, because Sandra bet one.  So now you have to either bet one, raise, or fold.”

Paula:  “But you let Debby check the bet.”

Me:  “That’s because nobody had bet yet.”

Paula:  “But I want to check the bet.”

Me:  “You can’t check the bet.”

Paula:  “Why do you hate me?”

And so it goes….  But we muddle along, with me slowly learning to be a better teacher and the others slowly mastering the game.  I suppose we might give up if the whole point of the evening was just to play poker, but of course, it isn’t. Between arguments about who is and isn’t allowed to “check the bet” we spend a lot of time talking and laughing, catching up on each other’s lives and just plain enjoying each other’s company.

With every gathering, we are getting to know each other a little better.  We feel comfortable telling the truth about our families, both the proud moments and the painful ones, knowing that we will get nothing but support in return.  We talk about the things we’re happy we’ve accomplished, and the dreams that we are still hoping will come true some day.   And in between the friendly banter, the serious talk, the eating and the drinking, and the occasional hand of poker, the evenings just fly by.

I’m so glad that my neighbor started this group and invited me to be a part of it.  I’m even happier that I didn’t decide I was too busy to join.  Sometimes being middle aged means feeling that we are already doing all that we can do, and don’t have room to add more friends, more commitments, more new anything, and that’s a shame.  Because there is always something new that is worth the time, if we are just willing to give it a chance.  I took the risk on poker night, and that’s a bet that paid off, big time.

Second Chances

/ Ann Coleman / 20 Comments

Last night, my husband and I went back to a restaurant we had visited a few months ago, where we had a great meal and a nice waitress, but where we also had what seemed to be a rude encounter with the chef/owner as we were leaving. I wrote about it in my blog post, Be Nice, and some readers suggested that I needed to give the restaurant another try.  Frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to, because I thought the owner had insulted my husband and I, and I wasn’t quite ready to forgive that.  But some close friends were anxious to try the restaurant (its fairly new and getting great reviews), so we agreed to meet them there last night.  And I’m so glad we did.

The restaurant was definitely more crowded than it was on our previous visit, but we had a reservation and were seated immediately.  Once again, our waitress was friendly and helpful, the food was delicious, and I did spot the chef/owner walking through the dining room a few times, scowling a bit. But as we were leaving after our meal, he approached my husband, asked how his meal was and thanked us for coming.  My husband assured him the meal was fabulous and told him we would be back, and we will.

The thing was, he deserved a second chance.  Because now I realize that maybe what I took for a scowl on our first visit could just be his natural expression.  (I know when I get a sinus headache, as I frequently do during allergy season, I tend to walk around looking rather crabby.)  And maybe when he walked by us on that first visit, rolled his eyes and muttered something unpleasant, he wasn’t directing it at us.  I tend to take the actions of people around me personally, but maybe he had just burned someone’s dinner or spotted something near us that upset him.  Because, although I have a hard time believing this, it’s not always about me.  Go figure.

One of the good things about reaching middle age is the opportunity to look back on our lives and see some definite patterns.  And one pattern I have noticed is that when I forgive someone who I think has insulted me or hurt my feelings, I am almost always glad I did.  Honestly, I can’t think of a single person in my life who hasn’t said or done something that has caused me emotional pain at some point, and I’m quite sure every one of them could say the same thing about me.  I  think that’s just the nature of human relationships.  We sometimes say or do the wrong thing and hurt the feelings of the people we know, even those we care about the most, and usually without even realizing we’ve done it.

0516 2Which means that we have a choice:  we can either hang on to the hurt, nurse the grudge, and distance ourselves from the people who have hurt us, or we can choose to forgive them, and let our relationship with them grow and mature.  Sometimes there are just too many emotionally painful instances to forgive, and then it probably is best to move on.  But most often, when we are strong enough to forgive and give someone a second chance, we’re rewarded with the kind of deep, honest relationships that are real gifts in our lives.  Or in the case of this particular restaurant and its owner, the chance to enjoy another great dinner……

True Victory

/ Ann Coleman / 27 Comments

There are many times when I wish life was more like the movies, where there’s almost always a happy ending.  I wish that I could know for sure that no matter how bleak things look, if I just keep on trying hard enough and don’t give up, that I will triumph in the end.  That I will have that moment of victory, usually accompanied by lots of applause and inspiring music.  Sadly, real life seldom works that way.

The truth is, sometimes my best just isn’t good enough.  I tried for years to become a commercially successful children’s book writer, but it never happened.  Instead of a shelf full of my published books, I have a file cabinet stuffed full of rejection letters.  I have taken aerobics classes, yoga classes, pilate classes, and spent hours on my exercise bike and walking around the neighborhood, but my chubby upper thighs are still with me.  (I strongly suspect that even if I starved to death, they would still be there.  They are that resilient.)

IMG_0411I head down to the local humane society three times a week to walk the shelter dogs, but no matter how many I walk, no matter how many frightened dogs I comfort, or how many rowdy dogs I work with to teach the most basic of manners, there are always more dogs that I don’t have time to help.  My husband and I work hard to take care of our house and my mother’s house, but no matter how much time and money we spend on them, there is always something else that needs to be done.

Real life rarely comes with a sense of closure, never mind triumph.  The older I get, the less I believe in the whole concept of winning.  I think I am one of the few people who approves of coaches giving the young children on their team a trophy at at the end of the season, just for being on the team.  Those trophies aren’t rewards for winning, but they do acknowledge the perseverance of showing up for every practice and game and always giving your best effort, even when you don’t win.  Which, if you think about it, is probably a better preparation for real life than playing on a team that wins every game.

The only thing I can ever offer is my best effort.  I don’t know whether or not my best effort is going to fix a situation or guarantee that I reach my goal, because the truth is that sometimes it will, and other times it won’t.  But I think the important thing is that I don’t get discouraged and quit trying, because that will guarantee that I never accomplish a thing, and I don’t want to live like that.  I want the courage to keep trying, the wisdom to change strategies when necessary, and the perseverance to never stop trying to make the little bit of the world that I touch a better place.

So I’ll keep writing, because I love to write and I’m not a happy person when I’m not writing.  I’ll get back on that exercise bike and head off to my yoga class because I’m a healthier person when I exercise, even if my chubby thighs insist on staying with me.  And I’ll keep heading down to the humane society to help shelter dogs, even with the terrible knowledge that I won’t be able to save them all.  Because I’m finally realizing that the real victory is not giving up.

Unplugged

/ Ann Coleman / 28 Comments

IMG_0083My favorite part of getting my hair done has always been the chance to sit quietly in the salon, reading magazines with absolutely no literary merit while I’m waiting for the color to set.  I don’t have to talk to anyone; I don’t have to remember a word I’m reading; I can just sit and relax for a good forty minutes or so in an oasis of self-centered tranquility, with the added bonus of knowing that by the time I leave, my grey roots will be nothing more than a bad memory. Unless, of course, I forget to turn my cell phone off.

Because when I leave my phone on, someone is sure to call or text, or I’ll hear the familiar ding that lets me know I have a new email, and instead of having my peaceful “me time,” I find myself compulsively checking my phone to see just who wants me to deal with what.  And, of course, answering those texts and emails, or making a mental note to return a call. (I refuse to be one of those people who holds loud, personal conversations on a cell phone in a public place.)

Similarly, almost every morning when I get up, no matter how much I’m rushing around to get out the door on time, I sit down in front of my computer and check my emails, my Facebook page and my blog page.  I answer the emails, reply to or “like” comments on Facebook, and answer any comments on my blog.  I’m not sure why I feel the need to do this at the start of my day, but it has become as much a part of my morning routine as the Diet Coke I drink every morning.  Sometimes what I read on the computer screen makes me smile and starts my day off on a positive note, but other days I read about problems and issues that are very stressful, and I find myself irritated and crabby before I’ve even had breakfast.

I struggle to find a balance between the instant (and constant) connectedness that our technology provides and my need to have some personal space, or a chance to pay attention to what, or who, is right in front of me.  I’m not going to lie, I like the way social media lets me communicate with old and faraway friends, and I get a kick out of seeing their photos and sharing memories.  I value the way I can so easily get in contact with my someone when I need to (remember the old days, when we had to find a pay phone if we wanted to call someone when we were out and about?) My cell phone also makes me feel safer, since I know I can always call for help in an emergency.

But that doesn’t mean I want to be available to other people all the time.  I don’t want someone calling or texting me when I’m out to dinner with my husband or friends, when I’m finally, after a long session at the Humane Society, sitting down to a very late lunch, or when I’m trying to concentrate on my writing.  I don’t need to know instantly how many people liked my latest Facebook post, or even how many people have read my most recent blog post.  And I hate the fact that I have to remind myself of that, each and every time I hear my phone ding, or notice that I have 12 unread emails on my computer.

Maybe it’s because I tend to be compulsive, or maybe it’s because I’m a worrier (I don’t want to ignore a true emergency), but I know that I have to figure out a better way to live with my digital connections.  I have to find that balance between communicating with others and finding the time I need just to live my life in the here and now.  I know that’s not going to happen over night, but I’m going to try to do better.  I have a hair appointment this Tuesday morning, and the minute I sit down in the stylist’s chair, I’m turning my cell phone off.  It’s not much, but it’s a start.