Five years ago our first grand-daughter was born in Washington. We eagerly anticipate our visits to Maryland and Liesl's visits here and miss her imagination and bright conversation when we are not with her. Not to mention her blond curls and her mother's big brown eyes. Have a great day, Liesl.
The third oldest of our grand-children, Charlie, is celebrating his seventh birthday today. We will be going over later for dinner with him and the rest of his family and I plan to post a few photos of the event on Flickr. There are a few photos of him and his sibs up in on of the sets already. Here he is, shovel in hand, after clearing off our front walk on Monday.
This morning’s Detroit Free Press carried an Associated Press article on Hallmark’s latest venture. I stopped buying cards at the Hallmark shop a long time ago, mainly because all I wanted was a pretty card saying “Happy Birthday”, and I had to wade through shelves marked “To my step-son’s mother” or “To my cousin’s wife’s aunt.” In fact, after a lifetime of buying and sending birthday cards, it only recently struck me that it was a dumb thing to do in those cases when I enclosed a long letter that mentioned the birthday in the text anyway. For years I had been subscribing to the marketing ploy that kept Hallmark afloat.
But there are times when a card won’t do, though Hallmark is determined to fill that niche: The new line includes cards tackling cancer diagnoses, quitting smoking, caring for an aged parent, miscarriage, anniversaries of loss, loved ones in the military and traumatic loss, such as someone dying in an accident or homicide.
There are 176 such cards, so that when someone is suffering from eating disorders, you can assure them, “All I want for you is to be healthy—healthy and happy with yourself. Please take it one day at a time until you are”. Or how about: ”Cancer is a villain who doesn’t play fair… but it can’t dim your spirit, and it can’t silence prayer”? All at around $3 a pop.
I know it is often hard to find the right words in difficult times, but this is not the answer. To all school superintendents I say, “Find a spot in your English curriculum to teach written human communication. Include journals, e-mail and, yes, even blogging. Explore thank you letters, sympathy letters and plain old newsletters. Of course the relevance of literature to the student’s life is important, but teach the relevance of a few well chosen words.” And to parents I add, “Teach your child the power of a note that simply says, “Thank you,” or “I’m sorry.”
And to the CEO of Hallmark I say, “Don’t count on me to contribute to your $4.2 billion empire.”
Today it is Marcie's turn. She got an unexpected birthday present thanks to the weather. Andrew's school is closed yet again thanks to the snow, ice and cold in Maryland, so the five of them can enjoy a day together. I love this photo of Marcie and Linus taken on Christmas Day. With any luck he'll be needing those sunglasses soon.
Last year I lamented the absence of snow. We had had no snow to speak of this year, until last night. Down it came, and schools in Grosse Pointe were closed today. By 9:30 this morning Ron and the kids were over to shovel the front walk for us. The three boys shoveled, while Eleanor came inside in the warm. Not in deference to her gender, you understand, but in deference to her age. After a while, everyone trooped inside for hot chocolate.
So what is it I remember? Not how truly helpful children can be, not what fun they can have in the snow—but what a royal pain boots and snow pants and mittens and caps and jackets are. However well you dress children before they leave the house, they come in with dripping pant legs and with boots full of snow. Snow has seeped under cuffs and into gloves, and as soon as the small folk pile through the doorway, the floor is littered with sopping garments. All that explains the contraption that Ernie built and which remains in our furnace room. It is a rack with dowels protruding from every cross bar, perfect for drying small snowsuits. It hasn’t got much use of late, but Elizabeth, remembering its function, requested one from her dad last year. It stands inside the door from her garage, ready for another generation of small children.
But the memory that is truly burned into my brain—spending ten minutes bundling a kid in snow gear, sending him outside with a sigh of relief and having him (or her, I should add) bang in the door fifteen seconds later, saying, “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
The gods of winter have talking points. Theirs is a vocabulary designed to make us believe this truly is a magical time of year. If they just make us hear the right words enough, we will be convinced.
You know the deal: words like glisten, sparkle, crunch, fluffy . . .. Trees are “frosted” with snow, not drooping under big globs which threaten to turn to ice and break every power line in the vicinity. It is ponds that are frozen, never batteries. And small children, usually in scarlet sweaters, glide over them, their joyful voices ringing out in the still, crisp winter air. When Jack Frost nipping at your nose becomes frostbite attacking every inch of exposed flesh, you know you have passed from Mel Torme to Ernest Shackleton.
Eventually even the deities get tired of this corny winter wonderland and bring their shenanigans inside. They have their inside voices too. Fires crackle and the glowing flame always dances, usually on burnished copper. Curtains “banish” winter’s gloom and the words hearty, fragrant and flavorful attach themselves to the content of pots on the stove. Cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg are abundant. Boredom, chilblains and drafts are not in the nostalgic vocabulary of winter.
It takes a woman poet to capture the stark reality of winter: In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Christina Rossetti hit the nail on the head. To heck with greasy Joan and Dick the shepherd and that silly owl. I’m going to re-read Men of Salt and remember nostalgically those days when I was complaining of the heat.
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Ronni Bennett wrote an interesting post yesterday, contrasting AARP’s mission statement with the cover of the latest edition of their magazine. Airbrushed or beat up, which do you prefer?
