A tradition of Giving-A Christmas Angel

For many people, the day after Thanksgiving is a day for shopping. Black Friday. But when my children were small, it was our day to head to the mall, not to shop but to pick out angels. We visited the Salvation Army angel tree each year. My daughter would pick a girl angel and my son, a boy angel. We’d search the tree for angels about the same age as my kids. Then it was off to do our shopping. My children would fret over which toy to pick and then which articles of clothing. It was a time for our family to give to those less fortunate. I remember one Christmas morning, as my daughter was unwrapping her gifts, she looked up and quietly said, “I hope my angel likes her gifts.” In the midst of my daughter’s receiving, she thought about the gift she had given.

Another favorite activity during the holidays was to listen to “Christmas Cash for Kids.” The radio was tuned to the appropriate station the first few days in December each year. We listened to heart-warming stories of how people opened their hearts and gave what they could to help others in our area. My son and daughter would collect money in jars or boxes and then we would drive over to the radio station to present our donation. Sometimes our scout troop pledged money and we’d pile all the kids into cars and head to the station office. The girls giggled at the thought of their voices on the radio as they encouraged their schoolmates to give as well.

We’d also shop for gloves, hats, and mittens to add to the trees at church or at the school. My daughter was fond of pink hats and mittens. Those items would be bagged up, taken off to their destination, and clothes-pinned on the tree. It felt good to know that the people in our community would be helped to keep warm during the cold winter months.

Another holiday tradition was helping with the Boy Scout Scouting for Food drive. Father and son would head off early one Saturday morning to deliver the well-known plastic bags to homes in our neighborhood. The following week, we would all get in the truck and head out to help with the collection. Items in our area were taken to the Brunswick Food Bank. It was always heart-warming to see all the young people who came out to help weigh and sort the copious donations of food.

During the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, I like to take time to do something for others. We have so much, and we are always thankful for that, but my favorite holiday tradition is the tradition of giving. I hold dearly to the old adage that it is far better to give than it is to receive. The true gift of Christmas is the gift of giving.

A tradition of time with loved ones

Bob’s Your Uncle-a tradition of time with loved ones

A few years ago, after many distant years, my uncle Bob and I sort of re-united. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but all of a sudden, he was a hugely important part of my life. He’d call and we would chat about all sorts of things. Then we’d schedule an outing. My aunt, uncle, husband and I would head out for a day on the boat, or out to a nice restaurant for a lovely dinner. Many times, my uncle would share his culinary skills with us by preparing a gourmet dinner. At one point, my uncle shared with me his love for the Christmas holidays. “I’m sort of sappy about Christmas,” he confided. “Me, too!” I exclaimed!

And thus, another holiday tradition was born. Each year, around October, my uncle calls so that we can make our Christmas date plans. Our first Christmas double-date was an evening in Washington, D.C. We bought tickets to see the Nutcracker ballet at the Warner Theater. I was thrilled to see George Stephanopoulus, one of my favorite newscasters, as part of the cast that day. He made a great party guest in the first scene! After the show, we hurried in the cold to a restaurant not far from the theater. There we sat and talked and laughed and just enjoyed the pleasure of each other’s company.

We’ve been to Ford’s Theater to see “A Christmas Carol” a few times, once during the theater’s renovation and another after its completion. Whenever we see a theatrical production, my uncle will always ask my “professional” opinion of the performance. At the end of “A Christmas Carol,” there is always a tear in my eye when the company of actors shares that Scrooge kept Christmas in his heart and to Tiny Tim he became a second father. Something tells me that there’s a tear in my uncle’s eye as well. He’s sappy like that.

My uncle has taken the position of respected elder in my family. If I’m talking to my daughter about a particular concern, she’ll tell me to “ask Uncle Bob, he’ll know.” I turn to him now as a surrogate parent. I know I can count on him and depend on him. He shares stories with me of my childhood, things I don’t remember. He tells me about my grandfather and my great-uncles. There’s family history there. Our special times together have become increasingly important to me, and our holiday outings have become our tradition of showing how much we care for each other.

Dissertation Update

On Monday December 6th, I met with my dissertation advisor, Dr. Brenda Murphy. We reviewed what I had submitted for my proposal...all 60 pages. She agreed to submit the document to my reading committee! The defense of my proposal is scheduled for Monday January 17th at 1:30pm. I'm really on my way!

Less than a month ago, I had great doubts about being able to complete the task at hand. I had submitted a rough draft of my literature review and received an email from Dr. Murphy saying "We need to meet. The lit review needs some major work." Major work! I panicked at the thought. When we met, she handed me the pages I had submitted. It was a bit difficult to see what I had written through all the red ink she used to mark where changes needed to be made. On the way home from our meeting, I decided that everything we had scheduled for Thanksgiving break needed to be cancelled. I had some major work ahead of me.

For the four days of Thanksgiving vacation, our dining room table looked like a disaster. Books and papers were everywhere. By Saturday I had made great progress. I could see light at the end of the tunnel, so I decided to attempt an all-nighter. I had delusions of finishing before I went to bed. By 1:30 Sunday morning, I was fading, so I decided to head to bed and finish up in the morning. By noon on Sunday, the document was completed! I thought about emailing the finished product to my advisor then, but decided to wait and proof it a few more times. Finally at around 8pm Sunday, I hit the send button to email the proposal to Dr. Murphy.

It was both relief and panick. I was terrbily afraid that the next time I saw that document it would be loaded with red ink. I waited an entire week to hear something, some hint from my advisor about her thoughts. I heard nothing. It was a long ride to Winchester on the 6th. I took a deep breath as I climbed the stairs to Dr. B's office.

But my proposal was accepted and sent on! Now, on to the next step. I might just get to my goal!

I Am Fifty

I am Fifty. Well, almost. Officially, I have a little over two more weeks of “youth!” At fifty, I will hardly be middle-aged. A crisis then, at this time, would not be appropriate. I should be elated as I have moved up the ladder of life! I’ve moved up a grouping, so to speak. But am I elderly? I think not, but sometimes, it’s the little things that make me feel that way.

I don’t feel elderly, most of the time. Except when I go to the State Highway Administration meeting on the expansion of Route 15 and they talk about the thirty year growth plan. In thirty years, I will most certainly be elderly. If I make it that long! When they talked about the plan, I felt old.

Each spring, as we purchase our new flowers and bring out the patio furniture, I feel youthful. I get excited about setting up our backyard living space, and I look forward to the beautiful colors the flowers will bring and the festivities of summer. But at the end of a day of yard work and planting, I feel elderly. My muscles and my joints tell me that I am not as youthful as I would like to believe.

Every eight weeks, when those gray roots start popping back and I have to head to Baltimore to the salon to have my roots “treated,” I feel a bit over the hill. As I leave the salon, people always comment on how nice my hair looks. I feel youthful! But when my students look at the pictures on my desk and say “Look, Mrs. Jarman, your hair wasn’t blond in this picture.” No, I think to myself, that was way before the gray set in. Sometimes, in moments like that, I feel older.

I love to sport around in my little sports car. That car came just before I turned forty-seven. A bit of a mid-life crisis, if you will. I wanted to abandon sedans and anything that looked remotely like a “family” car. My children were grown and moving out of the house. It was time to celebrate with a two door sports car. Well, every now and then, when I try to climb out of my beloved little car, my knees stiffen up a bit. It’s then that I don’t feel as spry as I used to.

When my husband and I go ballroom dancing on a Saturday night, we are youthful as we leave the house all spruced up for an evening of dance. Dating my husband is such fun and I feel like a young girl! We hurry out to the dance floor to try out new steps learned in our lessons. But on the drive home, after I have removed my dancing shoes and am rubbing my feet, I don’t feel quite so youthful.

It’s during moments like these that I sometimes think about wine, and how a wine ages to gain a full body flavor. Perhaps I’m in that aging process, still fermenting…and gaining a full body! But I’m becoming a richer person. Those lines I see appearing around my eyes are hopefully telling the story of a person who gets great joy out of life, who enjoys what she is doing and the people around her. It’s those little things that are making be think that fifty could be pretty nifty.

Half a century

Half a century

In November, I will be fifty. It’s a somewhat difficult number for me to say, to deal with. No longer can I justify being mid-life, not unless the life expectancy for women suddenly jumps to the age of one hundred. In a few short days, I will no longer be in my forties. It’s been a tough pill to swallow.

What’s really been tough is that now in my advanced age, I have no grandchildren! There isn’t even one on the horizon. At this moment, there are no possibilities. That concerns me. I believe I am ready for grandchildren and I think I would make a good grandmother.

My grandmother was forty-two when I was born and my mother was only thirty-nine when my daughter, her first grandchild, was born. I’ve put in my time, now I believe it’s time for my reward!

I have two grand-dogs, but I’m not sure they really count. I do buy them treats and spoil them on visits, but you just can’t take your grand-dog to an amusement park for the day, and a trip to Disneyland is certainly out of the question.

I’d make a great grandmother! I’ve been preparing our house for grandchildren for the past several years. Every time my husband threatens to close up the pool, I urge him to leave it open for our future grandchildren. I tell him that those kids will love the horses down at the barn and the stream in the back field. He thinks a condo would be more practical for us. Practical, yes, maybe, but grandchild friendly, I think not. So we have not yet moved into that condo. I’m holding out.

We were recently visiting friends who have two small daughters. I was able to occupy myself for much of our visit entertaining the two young girls. I kept the baby quiet, we bounced and smiled and giggled. I played games and read with the older one, although she was much more adept with an Ipad than I was. My friend commented about how good I was with the kids. “I’m practicing,” I told him. Then my son chimed in that I had plenty of time to practice because there was not a great likelihood that those skills would be needed any time soon!

My thirty-fifth high school reunion will be held in 2013, and I will be 52 at that reunion. Several of my classmates were already grandparents at our last reunion. I assured them that by the thirty-fifth I, too, would join their ranks. The clock is ticking away.

Who knows? Maybe I will live to be one hundred and this is just my mid-life crisis. Some people want sports cars, others crave exotic travel…my crisis is grandchildren!
I will be printing copies of this column to give to my children as Christmas presents.

Niagra

For some reason, I thought that a Labor Day weekend trip to the baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, and a visit to Niagra Falls was a great idea. And it did start out that way. Bright and early one Saturday morning, we piled into the car to begin our drive to Cooperstown. There was a special tribute to Charles Schulz at the museum, and I was eager to see the exhibit.

We arrived at the museum and spent a few hours visiting the exhibits and wandering through the special area dedicated to the work of Charlie Brown’s creator. There were images of Charlie and his baseball team and Charlie Brown as the manager. There were also photos of Charles Schulz and baseball memorabilia. We had a wonderful visit. After we left the museum, we headed to a quaint little diner on the main street of Cooperstown. Lunch was typical diner fare. There were burgers and fries topped with catsup. We ordered iced tea to drink and then sat and enjoyed our meal in a most pleasant country setting.

It was after five o’clock when we hit the road for Niagra. We wanted to get as close to the falls as we could before we stopped for the evening. It looked like it would be about a four and a half hour drive. It was a little after nine when we decided to start looking for a hotel for the night. Yes, I decided not to make reservations in advance. I thought that there wouldn’t be that many people on the road for Labor Day weekend. Boy, was I in for a surprise!

At each exit off the highway, we were told the same thing at every hotel, “Sorry, no vacancies.” My husband came out of one hotel to tell me that the desk clerk said there wasn’t a room available in any hotel for five hours! We would be in Ohio before we found a room for the night.

We pulled in to one hotel parking lot. It was a rather run-down, seedy looking place. The front desk clerk was a very large man sitting on a lawn chair on the porch of the hotel. I would not have been surprised if he had downed a six-pack of his favorite brew before he began manning the check-in “desk.” Yes, he had a room! For $250.00 for the night! We were desperate. The family convened for a conference in the car and we decided that none of us would feel comfortable spending the night at that hotel.

Then my husband made a suggestion. “What if I find a place that looks safe and we just camp out in the car. We can find a restroom to wash up for the evening and get what sleep we can.” He was right. It was already almost one o’clock in the morning. We weren’t going to get much sleep wherever we stopped. So we bathed at the next rest stop we saw and then settled down for the night in an elementary school parking lot just outside of Niagra.

The next day at the falls we had a wonderful time. We donned raincoats for the tour under the falls and we walked the bridge from the U.S. into Canada. We were a bit groggy and the kids and I slept most of the ride home, but it was a wonderful weekend. I would do it all over again, but I would most definitely make a hotel reservation before we left!

Tokyo Disneyland

When my husband was serving in the Navy and stationed in California at NAS Moffett Field, he had two deployments to Japan. The second one occurred around the time that our daughter was about a year and half old. We decided that Tiffany and I would join my husband for the middle two months of the deployment. She and I packed up and flew across the Pacific in the middle of August.

We stayed in an apartment just outside of the base in Misawa, Japan. In September, we decided to take a vacation. A trip to Tokyo and Hong Kong sounded like the break that we all needed. So, we packed up and flew first to Tokyo for a few days.

Since our daughter loved Disneyland so much, we thought that an excursion to Tokyo Disneyland would be something she would enjoy. The park was a short train ride outside of the city, so early one morning we set out for a day of fun and park attractions.

What we did not realize was that the main attraction that day at the park was going to be our 18 month-old blond haired, blue-eyed little girl. Once we were inside the park, we headed to the Country Bear Jamboree. Back in the U.S., that had been one of Tiffany’s favorite spots in Disneyland. It took a few minutes to adjust to the fact that the bears were singing in Japanese with country accents! But we enjoyed the show tremendously.

On our way out of the Jamboree, a Japanese family motioned us over to them to take their picture. We grabbed their camera, and they grabbed our daughter! They wanted a picture with Tiffany! “How sweet,” I told my husband as we walked to our next event. I was touched by the fact that this family wanted to include our daughter in their memories of Disneyland.

While we were waiting in line for the ride through “It’s a Small World,” a Japanese woman handed us a small bag of treats and motioned that it was for Tiffany. Once again, I exclaimed to my husband about the hospitable nature of the Japanese. “They are so kind!” I told him.

As we walked through the park, people gestured to us to allow them photo opportunities with our little girl. She was like a rock star let loose in the crowd. “Hon,” I told him, “I think that our baby is absolutely the most perfect child on the planet, but I am her mother. I cannot understand the Japanese fascination with her.”

My husband took a deep breath and said, “It’s really quite simple. Look around the park. How many blonds do you see?” he asked me. As I stood there and took in all of the visitors to the park that day, it finally dawned on me! Our Tiffany was the only blond in the park, and probably in Tokyo for that matter.

My realization was almost a let down. I scooped my baby up in my arms and whispered to her that she was truly a very special little girl. What I thought was a global adoration of my little angel was simply that in that particular place, she was unique. For me as her mother, that uniqueness would be forever.