Peace, Love and Understanding

While most people in this country pile into the car to congregate with loads of family at grandma's house for Thanksgiving, there are others who are very much alone. Some of them are "grandma", just without the requisite family. They don't have any, are too far away and without the financial means to see them, or their health is simply too poor to make the trip.

This year, I took advantage of an opportunity to teach my three daughters about the true spirit of Thanksgiving by visiting some of those less fortunate souls through the Meals on Wheels program. Lori, our friend and the local program coordinator, told me that for many of the program recipients, we'd likely be the only human beings they'd see that day--and very possibly the only people they'd see that week.

I was a little concerned about my preschoolers' ability to interact with elderly strangers in all the right ways, and was looking forward to sharing the experience with another friend and her two children so we'd have a cushion if someone decided to...well, act their age a bit. But when she canceled at the last minute, I could hardly back out on the people who were counting on the meals. I'd just have to cross my fingers and hope for the best. And bribe mercilessly, if necessary.

So off we went, my three girls and I, into 19-degree, windy, snow covered weather, to pick up meals at the local hospital and make the rounds to 8 different delivery stops. Lori was there at pick-up, which thrilled my daughters and set a great tone for the day. We were loaded up with handmade cards (my oldest draws a pretty damn good turkey in crayon, if I do say so myself), bland dinners, and lots of enthusiasm. With the radio tuned into the football game, we made our way to the first stop, which was a retirement home in a town not far from Detroit. Luckily, this one home encompassed 4 of our 8 stops, so once we made it inside it was pretty easy to navigate from door to door. That was a good thing, as I was managing a large cooler, a shopping bag, three small people and various coats and mittens. Missing the canceling friend about then.

Door #1: Leathery, brown-skinned, ancient man with a booming voice and commanding presence. He insisted on each of the girls telling him their names and ages and fussed appropriately about the cards they'd made. Using a walker, he sidled back to his chair as I set up his meal for him before wishing him a wonderful holiday and moving on.

Door #2: ...Actually, before we made it to door #2, we were intercepted by a woman whose door was wide open as she hovered in the hallway, waiting, it seemed, for an opportunity just like us to walk by and give her something to fawn over.

"Well, Happy Thanksgiving!" she cooed, which we politely returned. "We're just making our rounds delivering a few meals," I explained. "Oh, how nice!" she responded, with a pause.

"Um, I'm afraid I only have a small number for those who signed on," I fumbled, "...but would you like one as well?"

Thankfully, she really didn't want or need the meal. The pleasure of our company, however, was another story. Weighing the needs of 7 other people patiently awaiting their feasts against her need for some interaction, I decided a quick visit wasn't going to put us back too far. We discussed the twins (no, they're not identical) and Julia's impressions of kindergarten this year. We talked about the weather. We gave her one of our cards (I'd need to figure out the consequences of that later in the day). After a few minutes I was ready to get going and we told her to enjoy her day.

So, Door #2: Here we had a gentleman who called for us to come on in instead of answering the door, as it turns out because he would have had a heck of a time making the trek had he attempted it. Here, we did most of the talking, and while he seemed appreciative of the meal and our visit, I believe our 2-minute interruption on his life exhausted him.

Door #3: Mrs. Arlene Lawrence, if you please. A Southern Lady simply brimming with gratitude, and also a bit surprised to see us. Apparently she forgot she had requested the meal, or perhaps someone in her family or a friend had arranged it. In any case, she acted as though we had come to tell her she'd won the lottery--and I really wished I had.

Door #4: Another man, this one a bit brusque. Didn't deter the girls' enthusiasm one iota, poor guy. He had to listen to their ramblings and acknowledge their creative cards whether he wanted to or not. I'm thinking not, though he was polite enough. I believe he really just wanted to eat and get back to his football game, and we headed back to the car to reorganize for another stop.

Our next stop was nearby in mileage, but definitely lifestyles away from the neat, tidy apartment-style building our first deliveries were in. Using the provided Yahoo map, I traveled in many circles in the surrounding neighborhoods to try to find the next home....it wasn't there. Somehow my map reading skills couldn't overcome streets with no names, or neighborhoods with boarded up buildings where landmarks had been identified on my route. After venturing into sincere ghetto territory and getting a fast busy signal when calling the intended deliveree, I was just about to give up. Then I spotted a fire station. Two minutes later we were safely on our way to the right neighborhood with clear directions.

Door #5: Trailer home with 2 inches of ice and snow on the steep, slightly rickety stairs leading to the front door. The girls insisted on coming with me inside against my wishes that they stay in their heated car seats, so we slowly and very carefully made our way. The woman who answered the door was no more than a couple of years older than me---strange, given the Senior Alliance runs the Meals on Wheels program for the elderly community--but I assumed that her mother or father was somewhere inside, and regardless, that the meal was needed and appreciated. She seemed a bit embarrassed, or maybe just hurried, as we explained the contents of the meals. She told us to have a good afternoon and we made our way out of the park and onto our next 3 stops, all of which were just minutes from our own neighborhood.

Problem: there were two people at two of the last 3 stops--I had only been given meals for one at each location. Quick panic call to Lori begging her to tell me that it would be okay for me to buy Boston Market as substitute meals, to which she happily agreed. Side trip to the drive-thru. Thank God for holiday drive-thrus.

Door #6: Friendly older woman who seemed to be in the middle of cooking, yet pleased to see us and enjoy some food she didn't have to fuss over. Thrilled at the Boston Market bags. Quick in-and-out.

Door #7: Girls are fast asleep. The day has really dragged on much longer than anticipated. Missing the canceling friend again. The home is tiny and old, with a dog the size of a kitten and the bark of a Doberman. Nice woman with absolutely no teeth to speak of, aside from a sparkling gold cap which she brandished with an eager smile. No time to come in and chat with napping kids waiting in the car, but she understood.

Door #8: Our final destination. Still have a car full of nappers. Mrs. Wall greets me at the front stoop with perfect makeup, plenty of perfume to spare, and a view into her large, immaculate home. In our brief discussion, I learn that Mr. Wall over on the couch has had several strokes and needs constant care, while Mrs. Wall herself has suffered through some serious health issues of late. So the meals, she tells me, are very much appreciated. At 85, the woman embraces me with a hug that could easily establish peace in the Middle East. She absolutely, positively INSISTS that I take half of her bag of Hershey's miniatures for the girls to enjoy when they get home. There's no saying "no" to Mrs. Wall.

Finally, we're ready to head home, wait for dad to get back from work ,and start cooking our own Thanksgiving feast. And while I was pooped, I was also extremely thankful to have given my girls the opportunity to meet such nice people and bring them, I hope, a little holiday cheer along the way.

Born to Run

When I was in high school, Bruce Springsteen and Michael Jackson vied for the title of most beloved musical icon of a generation. By the time I reached college, Jacko had already started his decline into super sicko weirdo-dom, while Bruce continued to amaze us with his talent.

Plus he looked really, really good in those worn Levi's and boots.

I was a fan of Bruce, mostly because of the top 40, poppy songs from Born in the U.S. A. that permeated my teen years. But I didn't truly understand his depth--his specialness--until I saw him in concert for the first time. I was so desperate to go to the sold-out show that when my best friend wasn't able to snake her 2nd ticket away from her boyfriend, I agreed to a "non-date" with a considerably geeky guy on my dorm floor who I barely knew, with the suspicion that I was perhaps the first girl to ever go out with him.

No matter. By the time the nearly three-hour concert was over, we were singing and dancing like old friends. It was an amazing night, and I'll never forget the feeling of having 30,000 people all serenading him as one voice, lights up, with Bruce encouraging us from what felt like the bottom of his heart.

It was some time later--okay, probably15 years later--when I saw him again, this time without the incredible E Street Band. Instead, another friend invited me to see him in a much smaller venue, performing an acoustic show that ran the gamut from his latest release, Devils and Dust, to some of his most beloved standards, to unexpected covers. This time, he was close-up. He played a dozen instruments. He was seasoned, sexy and, it seemed, singing directly to moi.

Now I'm an official, career-spanning, dedicated fan and I can't wait until I see him live again. Since I missed his surprise performance with my favorite band of all time at U2's concert in Philly a few weeks ago, I'll have to settle for my memories....and this funny little hangman game I found to better test my knowledge of his song titles.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

By the time Halloween decorations began spreading through the malls and adorned the homes in my neighborhood, I could already feel the impending holiday storm building around me. Every year, the evil retail establishment starts earlier and earlier with its push to make year-end sales quotas. The bathing suits have barely dried from the last dips of summer and we're seeing catalogs come in for Thanksgiving table displays.

"It's too commercialized!" everyone frets.

"It's too early!" my friends complain.

"They're playing holiday music on the radio already!" they sneer.

I have a different take on the whole matter. I love that radio station!

What I hate is the cold, so the very first frosts and crisp night air of autumn mean only one thing to me--miserable weather until May. While others are delighting in new sweaters, enjoying the change of seasons and heading off to football games as happy as can be, my one and only solace is knowing that I will be enjoying the sights and sounds of Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and New Year's very soon.

How can cheerful lights and pretty ribbons and....oh yes...SHOPPING...not be viewed as a wonderful thing? The earlier the better, I say! Bring it on! If I can't be lolling at the pool, I want to jump right into the good stuff. I want to shop without making excuses. I want to wake up early and get good deals. I want the kids to be exhausted from being dragged store to store.

People should lighten up about the holidays coming too much too soon. We need more plastic trees and Muzak in our lives. It's all good. I can't wait to bake cookies. Maybe I'll even wait until Thanksgiving is over this year.

Peace on Earth, baby. And a good dose of Marshall Field's, too.

What Would You Say

In today's mail, I received the following solicitations for non-profit donations:

* League of Women Voters
* Amnesty International
* Haven House (a local domestic violence shelter I sometimes support)
* a national food bank
* a local food bank
* NARAL
* a personal charity drive for a woman with a rare liver disease in Atlanta (sent from a friend)
* local arts council (which I worked closely with all summer)

Yes, that was in TODAY's mail. And it's barely November. Obviously from this list you can deduce that my left-leaning political stance makes me a prime target. But how, exactly, is one supposed to say no to any of these organizations???

I do have a whole "I've identified my charities of choice and stick to just those for the year" speech for people who show up at my door or somehow catch me by phone. But I physically could not throw this latest stack of mail away.

They even sent me free address labels!
Scheming bastards. The guilt is just too great to ignore.

The check's in the mail.

Semicharmed Life

Self pity is like leftover Halloween candy: once you allow yourself the indulgence, it's difficult not to go back for more.

Now, in the big scheme of things, I do realize that I lead a charmed life. It's just that I find myself needing to be reminded of that constantly over the past few weeks as I start to nibble on the self pity pie.

Simple perspective is usually my most effective tool in fighting that urge. Appreciate the moment, I mantra.

The problem is that lately my moments have been filled with screaming children, never-ending remodeling projects and hideous work deadlines.

Truth be told, most of it rolls right off of my shoulders. It's the screaming children that really put me over the edge. But just when I start daydreaming about beautiful New England boarding schools for the pre-K circuit, one of my little people comes up with a doozy.

Today it was my youngest (by 17 minutes, but she embraces the role). She's figured out that if I get angry at her about something, the quickest route to redemption is to make me laugh. (I think her father modeled that for her, actually.)

In any case, she had done something naughty, and square in the middle of my resolute and practiced speech about making good decisions, she squished her little cheeks with her fists and muttered through puckered lips, "I can't stop my dimples!"

Do you really think I could maintain a straight face with dimples bursting in front of my eyes? Me neither.

So just like that, she's off the hook. My perspective is back right where it ought to be.

This is not hard, for God's sake---she's healthy and beautiful and so are her sisters; we have plenty to eat and clean clothes and more toys than I'd like to admit. We have a roof over our head, regardless of how often work is being done on it.

The next time I feel overwhelmed I'm going to take a step back and recognize all of this for what it is: my own semicharmed kind of life.