Conforming, or not.

I scrapped the idea of writing anything about the holidays because, well, I figured there was lots to read out there about the holidays.  “I am not going to do what every one else is doing” , I thought to myself.  That’s the way I am sometimes...a rebel.  I use to think it was charming to be someone who doesn’t always follow the rules.  Now, I’m less convinced.  Could it be that I have finally matured? Grown up? Become a conforming non-conformist?

When my son was a teenager, he and I had a few talks about conforming non-conformity.  I had this thing, you know, where I wanted him to dress a certain way, be a certain thing.  He had other ideas.  What he did not accept was that he was not an “original”.  Very few people are, truly, original.  I mean, and this is where he use to get pretty mad at me, if it is possible to find certain articles of clothing, say flannel shirts, then doesn’t that make wearing flannel shirts not original? If it is “popular” to go to Goodwill and find too small t-shirts with elementary school names on them, or city park and recreation league teams, isn’t that the norm? He and I had many discussions on “Clothes make the man, son” and he hated that phrase.  

I was pretty good about it though, and let a few pretty wild things walk out this door back then.  I wanted him to feel like he could express himself but not put himself in danger.  We traveled to Great America one October for Halloween.  In true style, he wore red pants and a brilliant orange windbreaker...and no doubt, his trademark tennis ball yellow sneakers.  The whole park was decorated for Halloween and ghouls, goblins, witches and vampires lurked.  He and his friend walked through the park, and I will admit...he was a standout.  One lovely young female vampire, standing on a pedestal, cloaked and pale, looked down upon him and said “My, my, you are a colorful little fellow, aren’t you?”  

The thing is, I love those memories about him.  He was fun.  He was fearless, in some ways.   I use to try to challenge him that wearing bright tennis ball yellow skateboard sneakers was not “original” if there was a company out there producing them.  He didn’t like it that I held that opinion, but I think he understood my point.   He was the only kid in school with them and I guess that made them original enough. 

A year or so later, he was feeling restless one night and took a stroll out of the house. Late.  Late, late.  He walked for a few miles and was stopped not far from arriving back home, by the police.  Seems a gas station convenience store was robbed and the “perpetrator” was seen wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, which is what he was wearing.  The police asked if he would go to the gas station convenience store for a possible identification.  Now, although some may have considered him a rebel, he was still a very polite young man, so he agreed.  The police took him to the clerk and had him repeat a phrase, which included calling her a name or two.  She replied the thief wasn’t him, as the thief had a noticeable speech impediment.  

"Besides," she said “He certainly wasn’t wearing THOSE shoes!” 

Blame it all on my roots...

Hubs and I had an interesting and entertaining weekend.  About  six weeks or so ago, daughter called and asked if I thought dad would like to go to a concert as a Christmas gift.  Not just any concert, but, Garth Brooks.  She loved Garth Brooks as a kid and he always enjoyed him, too, mainly because she had so many of his CDs.  Garth was doing a series of concerts to benefit Nashville flooding relief and tickets were an amazing $25 each.  

Well, I said, I’m sure he would but we are going to have to tell him because, well, he needs to know he has enough people working, etc. and oh, by the way, this is Christmas week.  But, we dove in, drove down and boogied down, country style, in Nashville. 

The concert was great.  Fantastic even.  It was loud and pure entertainment.  We did know all the songs, thanks to that middle-schooler-now-mom that loves Garth Brooks.  But what was better, and maybe even selfish, was that our two daughters were ours for the weekend.  Both their husbands opted out of the two day trip and we had them to ourselves.  (Our son was unable to attend but,  boy,  do I wish he were there).  Beautiful young women, good friends to each other and independent thinkers.  We had great fun, lots of laughs, deep talks, and now, new memories.  We didn’t get to eat the fancy meal I would have liked, but we did enjoy some tremendous music and some pretty decent pulled pork.   We didn’t dress up, which I also would have liked, but we sang loud at a dueling piano club with gusto and walked back to the hotel, talking way too loudly,  I'm sure.   We stayed up late, we enjoyed each other’s company and just let it happen.  It was the week before Christmas, and we all still had much to do, but we just let it fly.  We ate too much, spent too much and stayed awake too much.  

Nashville is a great city.  A wonderful place for a quick weekend getaway and a super easy drive from our location.  Be spontaneous and take a little trip; you won’t regret it.  Its a walking city, easy to get where the action is.  See the dueling pianos at Bang This.   Gosh, if there is a concert at the Bridgestone, take that in.  If its a hockey game instead, see that! See a college basketball game at Belmont or Vanderbilt.  You want football? Titans stadium is only blocks from where the honky tonks line both sides of the street.  There’s loads to do in Nashville; certainly lots more than I've mentioned here, and lots more than country music. 

However, if you have time to steal away with your adult child(ren), and see them in a new light, their new light...no spouse (the husbands were missed, but it would have been different if they had been there!), no kids, no schedule to speak of, not  your house, not their house ~ treat yourself.  Spend the time with the people you grew, listen to them, speak with them, you absolutely won’t regret it. 

December stuff

My holidays as a kid were a little different than my holidays now.  Since we were often quite far away from where my mom’s family lived in southern Illinois or my dad’s family in northern Indiana, there was often just the five of us.

We lived in a trailer most of my childhood..oh, excuse me. I meant mobile home.  The first one was tiny ~ 8 feet wide and 40 feet long.  I don’t have a lot of memories of this one, just the fuzzy few photographs and snippets.  The next mobile home was 10 feet by 50 feet.  My parents referred to it as “The Anderson” years later; the manufacturer.   

I don’t have a lot of things from my childhood as, well, you can imagine. There was no place to keep anything! I may have a report card or two and maybe a drawing.   I think my mom may have bought new Christmas decorations every year or something, until I was older, because I don’t remember decorations being pulled out and hung with great care.  This might speak to my yen for collecting things, although clutter is getting less and less attractive to me.  

When we were close enough to get there, we would travel to my mom’s hometown at Christmas.   My mom had been married before she met my dad and had two boys.  Those two brothers lived with my grandmother, so in order to spend the holidays with them, we traveled when we could.  I had a uncle, named Dude, with three daughters close in age to my sister and I.  We really loved visiting them.  My Aunt May and Uncle Dude would get a huge “flocked” tree every year and I thought it was the most glamorous thing ever.  It was so much bigger and grander than anything we could put up in the little trailer.  My mom’s sister and family often traveled up from Florida as well...they also had two girls close in age to us.  I just realized my younger brother, always a “man’s man”, must have been mortified during these visits!   

These memories are busting through the cobwebs of my mind this blustery December day.  I get a little sad during some of these memory walks, as I think most of us do, when we think of times we no longer have.  I don’t have contact with any of my cousins.  I don’t know their families or their homes.  We never made a solid connection with each other, I guess because we only saw each other those one or two times a year, if then.  Each of my uncles passed away, and their wives, and I wasn’t at their funerals.  My older brother Darrell lives the closest to the old town, and is in contact with what remains of my mom’s family, but, that is also a thinning thread.  

Yesterday, surrounded by aunts,  uncles, cousins and a great grandmother, my little granddaughter made her first Christmas cut out cookie.  She heard Happy Birthday sung to her by her large family.  She ran and giggled and dodged and played.  She heard laughter and banter, and licked sugar off of her sticky fingers.  It was a great cookie and memory making day.  I wish the same for each of you...make memories. 

49 reasons...

Its great how songs secure some memories for us. Songs don’t just serve as background to me, they are a piece of the memory or thought process. I’ve always thought that music is a language and some people are gifted with delivering it, as my daughter Lindsey is, and the rest of us, well, we get to receive it.

Not a musician but appreciative of music and musical gifts and talents, I have a lot of songs that remind me of things, or events. I'm sure you do, too. Or things remind me of songs. Not too long ago, my husband and I were driving along and listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash. Before Young...you know the album. As we rode along and I sang along to all the songs, he seemed surprised. He said “You know all the words to this album?” “Well, yeah, of course.” came my reply, and was equally surprised that he was surprised. Was it because we didn’t know each other then? That we have a hard time picturing each other during that time of our lives that it surprised him that I would know? I was in California for goodness sakes! Of course I know those songs!

Anyway, my sister and I use to sit in our bedroom and play that album over and over and over. Sister harmony is the best. Neither she nor I were great singers but we could sing together because, well, we just could. Or at least we believed we could. We had a floor length mirror at the foot of the bed we shared in the apartment in San Francisco. We would sit on the floor, facing the mirror, backs against the end of the bed and could prop our feet against the wall, if we needed to stretch out. We would hold the album between us while memorizing the lyrics and sing. And sing. And sing. Too young to date, and in a new place, we’d spend a LOT of time together. Sometimes we’d look in the mirror, at ourself or each other, and sometimes we would avoid looking.

I am truly thankful for people who have the gift of music. Whether its writing it, or singing it or playing it. I have always thought of music as the language of the world. Yes, I know all the words to all the songs on that great album, and lots of others, too. He's in for a real treat when I break out Janis Joplin....