Life of Wry

This is Walter Johnson.  But everyone calls him Swede.  He’s of Swedish heritage (well, yeah), grew up in the mines of northern Minnesota, and loves the Polka.  Really loves the Polka.

We met one another in the mid-80s when he walked into my office one day offering to volunteer.  For a few years, he filed.  He was a great filer.

He’s a veteran of the Korean war.  Following the service, he worked in the auto parts business.  After retiring, in addition to his volunteering, he became a collector and a distributor (he could find a recipient for just about everything he found on the street), worked as a box boy at Albertson’s, had his own business for many years: “Swede’s Cruisin’ for Carts” (the guy who rounds up errant grocery store carts), and now offers his time to the VA hospital pharmacy department.   He has a penchant for musical cards (you know the ones) and never comes to lunch without a few gifts and balloons.

About this time of year, we celebrate our birthdays with a pair of lunches.  He always has a boat load of friendly gossip, a few political opinions, and brings me up to date on his large extended family and current health issues.

The photo doesn’t lie: he’s got a ready smile and a generous heart.

What Monday morning isn’t about coffee, huh?

This is the bottom of cup number two, in cafe number two.  That was my morning…not unlike a lot of my mornings lately–hustled through morning mom missions, worked out, walked with people, drank coffee with people.

I’m a big fan of Monday mornings.  Because…

• I like beginnings.  I love a fresh start.  I like coming out of slothiness and into productivity.

• I love the morning.  I would start them earlier if I could end the previous day earlier.  Will work on that.

• I’m alliterate.

Anyway, on this particular Monday morning, the walk was with a friend’s mom.  She’s 81… and damn, she’s spry.  She’s so spry, it would be an insult to call her spry (I would imagine).  She is simply active, sharp & quick, engaged, competent.  Also, impressively, comfortable in her older skin–willing to admit when she needs help, and appreciative when she gets it.  (Filing that away.)  Every bit my match, and then some.  Exactly as you’d want someone’s mom to be; we want our elders wise.

I try to be mindful of not playing the part of younger person out with an older person.  I am remembering the words of my mom who, on a recent coffee outing, hissed at me: “do not talk to me like I am out on a hall pass.”  I got the message.  So did the barista, so did the people behind us.  Un.com.fort.able…but a point well made.

So, I’m thinking about all that…  Moms. Mondays. Mornings. Missions. Mindfulness.  (See? Alliterate.)

That’s the original picture –>

After days and days of either rain or dense fog in the valley, the skies cleared today which made an afternoon of bird watching a heck of a lot more enjoyable than it might have been.  We were there–the Cosumnes River Preserve and a side trip out to Staten Island–to watch the Sand Hill Cranes, who are here for the winter.

We witnessed a stunning sunset, too, with Mt. Diablo in the background and the wetlands in the foreground.  We watched thousands of cranes in mesmerizing formations come in to settle for the night.  The sights and sounds were just plain awesome.

And…. they’re off.

We sent the little one off on a skiing adventure this morning with his friend Quinn and a bunch of other teenagers.  On a fancy bus.

The above photo? That’s the fancy bus at its 5:45am departure.

It was an amusing pre-dawn scene.  We, the parents, clustered in small, awkward circles, in various stages of awakeness.  Most of us had responded to alarms that went off well before they should have on a Saturday morning.  Trip supervisors ran around busily loading food and gear, collecting forms and answering questions.. they were a lot more alert.  Good thing.   Kids–some in full ski regalia, goggles set just so on top of their heads, and some with their gear in shopping bags–milled groggily; some seemed apprehensive, some seemed cool.

Challenging logistics this morning were made trickier by the fact Peter had gone to a slumber party last night.. which meant little, and certainly not enough, sleep was had.  It also meant the mom of the slumber party host had to get up at an ungodly hour, find Peter in a dark room among a jumble of sleeping bags, revive him, and get him downstairs and to the front door for the hand-off.  In the car, he changed into snow clothes–clumsily–and off we went.   The changing-into-snow-clothes-in-the-car part?  With super tired and grumpy kid?  Yeah..

However, there is much to recommend this trip–great snow conditions and sunny weather in today’s forecast, a very squared away adventure organizing company, and of course the commute to and from.  I’m thinking two hours each way with a couple dozen other teenagers on a bus that includes pillow-soft seats and a bathroom should be at least as much fun as the ski lesson they’ll take, the chair lift they’ll master, the sunny deck on which they’ll bask and, I hope, eat a little lunch, and the green circle slope they’ll slalom down like slaloming superstar ski studs…

Should be a great, great day.

Very gray and gloomy here in the central valley on a cold winter’s day in early January.  Took myself out for a walk to try and distract my sinking mood, headache, hunger and need for coffee.  Such the winning combo.

Found little to cheer me up, so decided to work with what I had–a sad, empty bleacher on a dreary day in the off season.

However.  Turns out, baseball tryouts (ahem, “skills assessments”) are scheduled for this weekend–hard as that is to imagine.  So the season of testosterone and spitting, scorekeeping and cheering, red vines and sunflower seeds, freshly cut outfields and finely shaped pitcher’s mounds, is not too far away.  Can I get a wuhoo!

The moms of two of my closest and best friends from growing up commented on my last blog post.  Sally’s mom and Katy’s mom.  I’ve recently reconnected with both of them through social media.  How incredibly sweet and blessed.  Nothing says village more than that: to pick up a conversation that might have begun nearly 50 years ago with the moms of your friends growing up… moms in whose homes you spent incredible amounts of time, who knew you at 6 and 11 and 18, through Brownies, sleepovers, go go boots & fishnets, pimples, track meets, college applications, and a few other turns in the road too painful to imagine.

There they are, making comments, sharing their thoughts, validating my own.

I was feeling pretty exposed after posting the Dismantling Christmas essay.  I didn’t feel (too) badly about dissing the holidays, but I did feel chagrined that I am somehow allowing myself to be tripped up by them, that I’m just not taking control.  Figure it out, I thought to myself, move on; it’s not that hard. Felt very self-critical.  Wanting to be more evolved.. definitely not wanting to be a person at some boringly rudimentary rung of some I don’t know what ladder.  Maybe the ladder of “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  Ye gods.  And while I don’t worry (too) much about others’ judgment, I did feel kind of out there, and not in a good way.

On the other hand, as I say to students in social media classes: social media is a new way to communicate; it’s raw and open, very transparent and best when it’s authentic and honest.  We’re just people.  So, I am a little surprised by my own reaction.

But then along come the moms and aunts, grandmas and friends–especially those moms of my oldest and best friends–willing to listen and talk about it, and offer their wisdom….and I guess it’s alright.

Also pretty cool.

[By the way, the photo is shot this morning at Putah Creek on a walk with Vicki .. very foggy and wet (note drips on branches).]

Roasted some chestnuts tonight.  The smell brought back memories of eating hot chestnuts out of paper cone cups while walking around a Christkindlmarkt in Germany–can’t remember which city–in December, I think in about 1984 and again in 1990.  Remembering cold, snowy night, hot mulled wine, hot sausages you had to eat before the fat congealed…

Davis version: Jim got a handful of chestnuts at the Food Coop and sneaked them into oven, while Peter and I tried to figure out, without looking, what was making the weird popping noises.

A Ladder Where the Tree Used to Be

Blah.  So disappointed.

Dismantling the tree and packing up Christmas tonight.  That is not the disappointing part.  I’m happy, more than happy, to wrap it up for the year.  Though tedious, I’m ok with returning everything to the 7 large boxes that will be stored on shelves high above the master bedroom.

What is disappointing is that the holiday season just feels so desperately wrong and I’m sad that I’m happy that it’s done.  Way too happy.  I dread its coming, I’m glad when it’s over.  That’s just really a bummer, isn’t it?  It’s a month-long sprint to get through a massive list of tasks in a timely manner, and spend a boatload of money, and, when it’s all over… who cares?  It’s just a lot of money and a lot to get through…and what exactly was the value?

While packing things up, I did have this great urge to open all the doors and windows and let the cold, 40-degree air blow through the house, as if to clear it all out, freshen everything, thinking that by doing so, I’d rid the house of over-spent, expectation-laden, fattening, beaten-into-submission energy.  So I did that too… until I got looked askance at.

Sat in Jim’s office and whined until he booted me out.  Said to go write about it, it’s obviously potent.  I said it’s not going to be pretty or nice.  It’s going to ugly up my blog a LOT.  Then I decided what the hell.  I’m the only one who reads it.   [So, I did do that, sat down and wrote furiously about why I hate Christmas.  It was a little more interesting to read before I cleaned it up. If I think that Peter might discover this blog one day, I’ll probably remove this entirely, even this cleaned up version, because he doesn’t need to see his mama completely effing up his memory of Christmas.]

The truth is though, I despair of the repulsive commercialism and consumerism that is Christmas.  Who doesn’t, I know.  Nothing new there.  I’ve grown just so incredibly weary of the holidays and resentful of the expectations, and I know I’m not alone.  But worse, I have felt increasingly angry that I haven’t somehow managed to find some work-around, or been successful in creating some smaller, more personal, more meaningful traditions for my family.  We can do better than this.  It’s my job, because I have a kid, to create what will become his Christmas memory.  I did for a lot of years, but then .. man.. he got older and more single minded and it got harder and more crass. And I grew cynical.  But now I feel like I’ve allowed myself to be taken hostage by my cynicism, and can’t seem to view Christmas as anything but a trial.   And now that’s making me mad.  And I feel like a shitty mom.

This is probably what happens when you have a 12-year old for whom Christmas is about presents.  Only presents.  And who does not really take responsibility for or care about present buying for his family or friends.  Just the getting.  It’s dispiriting, but I don’t blame him, it’s not his fault; he’s 12.

I thought I had this Peter thing figured out a couple months ago, well in advance of Christmas.  I decided to lighten up, accept it as a developmental reality, a very real limitation of his age.  I convinced myself that, developmentally, 12-year olds are simply incapable of truly feeling empathy and compassion, and for them, the magic of Christmas (I only use that term because it’s in all the literature) is beyond them.  For kids–mine anyway–it’s about presents.  So… let’s just let it be that for him and do away with expectations to the contrary.

I figured we could ride it out.  Give him exactly what he wants, make it age-appropriate magic.  I thought we could provide gentle and consistent reminders along the way and by the time he IS old enough to pay more than lip service to the “real meaning of Christmas” he’ll have a pretty good sense of what those things are because he will have heard about them from us.  But no need to beat him over the head with values he simply cannot get his greedy little hands around.  Let’s just go where he is and let him have fantastic, memorable wrapper-ripping fun.

This is what I thought.  I was quite happy with the idea.  But my cynicism still festered, as my cheery ideas for this event or that activity were assaulted, one right after the other.  “Do we have to do this?”   “Can I stay home?”

Just my god.

In true beat-self-up fashion, I feel totally responsible for Peter’s lack of empathy and compassion.  We should have done a better job of teaching him what this, Christmas, and life in our world is all about.  Nobody said it would be easy to teach kids values, but it is still our responsibility to raise them to be reverent, kind, honorable, compassionate humans.  I do realize that a lot of activities that we might foist upon him hold no meaning–let’s say serving food at the annual Community Meal, or delivering presents to needy children, or donating his old toys to the shelter, or, as a family, choosing a charity and sending money, or volunteering or whatever.  Believe me, at one time or another, we’ve tried.  It’s all been a part of our holiday effort, feeble though it’s become.  Feeble because I didn’t keep it up; it felt forced and it became easier not to suffer through it again.  Felt like an empty gesture, so, after a while, I gave up.

[Never mind that life is about kindness and giving, not just December.  A topic for another time… today, it’s a Christmas themed rant.]

So there’s that.  And then there’s this:

Since I’m the mom, the organizer, the social coordinator for our small tribe, I bear most of the brunt of Christmas chores, and I’m utterly anal about it.  I recycle the same to-do list every year, making small adjustments and updating the deadlines.  It’s 7 pages long and very comprehensive–takes me through gift ideas, shopping lists, decorating, baking, wrapping, shipping, cards.. all of it, right down to thank you notes.  I can get plenty of satisfaction out of getting it all done, ridiculously, but, really, is this what it’s come to?  Project management?

And then there’s the guilt.

I feel really guilty for having such a bad attitude.  “What can I do to make it better?” Jim genuinely asks like a true and willing problem solver.  And I think to myself, when did I get to be such a downer?  Maybe I’ve made this more complicated than it is.  Really, how hard is it to find the joy?  Really?  This is what we have to complain about?  Do what you enjoy, enjoy it, and leave the rest.  Want to give? Give.  Want to bake? Bake.  Want to not spend so much money on superfluous gifts?  Don’t.  Don’t want to haul 7 large boxes out and decorate the house?  Don’t do it.  Oh, wait, you do want to?  Well, then do it, and shut up.  Am I taking my cynicism too seriously?  Has it become a rote response to the season’s crassness?  I think maybe it has.

Lighten up.  It’s the season of light, right?    Will Peter grow up and mature and eventually get it?  Probably.  Maybe not in my lifetime, but just keep putting it out there; it might penetrate on some level, sometime.   Let’s just stop with the attitude.  Move on.

It’s not that parts of it aren’t lovely.  I could write about all the stuff that works, because a lot of it does; there really are some gatherings and events and activities that are truly enjoyable.  Maybe I’ll write about these sometime.  But that doesn’t take away from the fact that so much of it is just not right.  They’ve screwed the whole damn thing up.  But maybe we can deal.

When I started writing this, I was in a very marginal state of mind.  It seems now that passion has morphed into calm.  Angst  has turned philosophical.  And in deference to future generations, I’ve edited out most of the swearing.  This isn’t the blog I started two nights ago…which in some ways is too bad.  But in other ways, I may have worked out a few things.   Blog as therapy.  Today, the 7 boxes are repacked and replaced on the shelf high above, the house is clean and free of Christmas clutter, and the sun’s out, so, you know, it seems better.  I’m thinking that if December is just going to keep rolling around, year after year, it’s going to have to be a season that we all look forward to, and a time that we all look back on with happiness and satisfaction.

So it goes. We’ll see about 2011.

Walks figure prominently in my life these days.  They’re a good thing.  I mean, really, time for daily (mostly) long walks?   When I’m alone, it’s thinking time.  When I’m with a friend, it’s talk time.  And always it’s exercise–exercise that supports a pretty lusty eating habit.  (She’s a good eater.)

Definitely a good thing.

On those alone days, I take a lot of pictures.. now that I have this here Blackberry. I record ideas and notes-to-self (before on a recorder, now on my BB). I sometimes text. Sometimes, I even use my cell phone to make calls (zounds). When I’m not digitally multi-tasking, I’m just thinking. I work out a lot-o-shit. I get distance on the daily minutia. Walks are just a big hunk of time to do stuff I don’t have time for in my non-walk life.

I do cherish the alone walk days.

I also love the friend days.  I have friends who are way smarter than me and so damn thoughtful, whose experiences and perspectives truly enrich me.  No other way to say it.  It’s like being at a TED talk.  Or a TED walk.  (Until I figure out how to linkify a word: ted.com).

Today’s walk was with Lorilyn and Aqua the lab, who had the same long, thick stick in her mouth for most of the morning (gotta love them).  We talked about the holidays, our boys (both 7th graders teeming in hormones and self-absorption), the passage from one decade to the next, other people’s marriages, her upcoming trip to Vietnam, our thoughts about a trip to Africa.  Stuff like that.

The Putah Creek loop takes about an hour, usually followed by another 30 or 40 minutes drinking coffee somewhere; today: downtown Peet’s.  Davis cafes at mid-morning are typically filled with workers on break, yoga moms, retirees.. and people like us–former professionals, not currently in day jobs, doing a lot of non-paid work for the schools or nonprofits.  Or whoever.  And, depending on which cafe we end up in, there might be students.  With laptops.

It’s a scene–the daytime cafe scene.

Forever, it seemed, I looked at this scene from the other side–the working stiff side–and totally envied it.  To be that person, sitting with that other person, bent intently over mugs of frothy coffee, thoughtfully listening, talking eruditely, laughing, or gesticulating classily.

Or really, I just envied having the time. Downtime, leisure time. Time to walk, talk, think, read, write, process, plan, and the time to carry out those plans.

If I’d have given it any real thought (which I NEVER HAD TIME TO DO), I don’t think I’d have expected to be having this kind of time in my 50s, but I guess I do.  And I really do enjoy the walks, especially the walk by Putah Creek, and today its wintry beauty.

In this case, at least for now, the grass is as green as it looked from the other side.