Christmas at Three

Alden is three and he is concerned about all-things Santa.

Last night we were at a holiday party. A fire was burning in a beautiful stone fireplace. Alden gave the fireplace a thorough once over, finally asking a question common to three year olds, "How will Santa get in if there is a fire?" A quick-thinking party-goer pointed out a sizable vent, explaining to Alden that Santa could exit at that point, and avoid the fire all together. Alden found that answer to be satisfactory.

Alden has a lot of questions about Santa-related things. "Why is the North Pole on top and the other pole at the bottom?" "What do the reindeer eat?" "Do elves make all of the toys?" "Will Santa put the bag down the chimney before he comes down?" The questions go on and on and on.

He has also been listening for Santa at night. Every morning he reports the same information. "Mommy, I listened for Santa last night, but I didn't hear him." When I explain that Santa won't come until Christmas, Alden replies, "But Mommy, it is Christmas." To him, Christmas is the entire month of December.

Last weekend, as we were leaving a birthday party, Alden spied a Santa. This particular Santa was headed into another party in the neighborhood. Being the jolly soul that he is, Santa approached Alden and gave him a giant candy cane filled with treats. Santa "ho, ho, hoed" and asked Alden what he wanted for Christmas. Alden was wide-eyed and I wanted to hug that Santa. On the ride home, Alden asked why Santa was driving a truck.

Later that week, when another Santa visited Alden's preschool, Alden asked, "Santa, did you drive your truck today?"

We celebrated Christmas early with Grandma Tewsley, as she is leaving town tomorrow to spend the holidays with other family members. Grandma gave Alden the item from the top of his Christmas wish list, "Thomas at Water Canyon." Because Alden has already reported to three Santas that he wanted "Thomas at Water Canyon" he was worried that he needed to send Santa an update. Tonight he decided that Santa probably already knew and would just bring him extra tracks. Mommy didn't buy any extra tracks. I hope Alden will be satisfied with the other things that Santa is bringing to him.

Alden's fascination with Santa and his love of trains joyously collided when he watched The Polar Express for the first time. That night, he repeatedly shouted from his bed, "The first gift of Christmas."

Alden has also been getting his Christmas groove on. He strolls around the house singing Christmas songs. He doesn't always get the words quite right, but he belts them out with gusto and panache. My personal favorite goes like this..."Down through the chimney when I say NICK!" Repeat line five or ten times.

Tonight as Alden was drifting off to sleep, I heard him mumbling, "Santa will bring me two things, or maybe nine." I am quite certain Santa IS NOT bringing Alden nine things.

Christmas at three is the best!

The Bird is the Word

During the summer of 1976 I celebrated my tenth birthday. That same summer, Jimmy Carter won the democratic nomination for president, Nadia was scoring perfect tens in the summer Olympics, a hostage situation in Uganda prompted Israel to stage a raid on the Entebbe Airport, the Son of Sam was terrorizing New York City, Legionnaires’ disease killed 29 people at a convention in Philadelphia, and Viking 2 entered orbit around Mars. However, as a ten-year old that loved baseball, the most important thing to me that summer was the fact that Mark “The Bird” Fidrych was on the mound for the Detroit Tigers.

Mark Fidrych was relatively unknown at the start of the 1976 baseball season. He didn’t make his first start until late May – and that was only because the scheduled starting pitcher had the flu. In that game, Fidrych threw seven no-hit innings, winning the game 2-1. That season, he went on to win 19 games, lead the league in ERA, and serve as the starting pitcher for the American League in the All-Star Game. But, it wasn’t just his success as a pitcher that catapulted him to fame, it was his entire persona. He was tall and lanky with a mop of curly blonde hair. People thought he resembled Big Bird on Sesame Street, earning him his nickname, “the Bird”. He also, among other things, talked to the baseball, strutted wildly around the mound, and insisted that some baseballs “had hits in them.” His antics captured the imagination of baseball fans everywhere.

Fidrych also captured the imagination of my grandfather. My grandfather was born and raised on a farm in a small town in western Michigan. He had a thick head of white hair that he often topped with a fedora. His given name was James Lawrence, but everybody called him Bob. His vocabulary was often sprinkled with a foul word or four. He possessed a mischievous sense of humor. And, he enjoyed baseball.

I have several memories of my grandfather at Tiger Stadium. Most vivid is the final trip he made with us to Tiger Stadium. In his eighties, his boyish excitement was still evident. He ate a slice of pizza, reporting that it was the first time he had ever eaten pizza in his life. He got a kick out of watching two women seated near the Tiger bullpen. And, he had some choice words for a couple of obnoxious teenagers that repeatedly kicked the back of his seat. That boy-like splendor was often noticeable in my grandfather when he was at the ballpark. I remember how animated my grandfather was during a game in which the Tigers were playing the Chicago White Sox. He yelped, “Willllllburrrrr, Willlllburrrrr, Willlllburrr” in a booming voice, at Wilbur Wood, a pitcher for the Sox. My grandfather shouted at Wilbur for one reason only. It was simply fun to yelp the name Wilbur.

As the 1976 season neared an end my grandfather made two ill-fated attempts to witness the magic of “The Bird” first hand. He decided that we needed to make a trip to Tiger Stadium on a day that Fidrych was scheduled to pitch. As luck would have it, we made that trip on the third of September. It was a beautiful night, and on the way into the stadium my grandfather bought my brother and I large “The Bird is the Word” buttons from a street vendor. We proudly wore our buttons into the stadium, displaying the cartoon-like drawing of Fidrych as part man, part Big Bird. Fidrych pitched just three and two-thirds innings. The Tigers lost that game to the Brewers 11-2.

Disappointed by that trip, my grandfather had another idea. Mark Fidrych and Mickey Stanley, were scheduled to appear at a local department store (Rogers) to sign autographs for fans. My grandfather made plans with my father to take my brother and me to the event. We arrived early, but we were still 200 people or so from the front of the line. If we were patient, we would eventually get an autograph from Fidrych. My grandfather and father, however, could tell that we would need more than patience. As the line of fans grew in number, the event organizers snaked the line back and forth in an effort to contain the crowd. This was problematic because they were weaving line without stanchions, barriers, or ropes. When the doors opened, the crowd moved forward in one big mass. We waited for two or three hours and never moved from our spot. The difficult decision was made to take my brother and I home. I did what any disappointed ten year old girl might do – I cried. Not just a little. I cried for the duration of the thirty minute trip home.

I wish I could go back in time and do that car ride over. Instead of tears, I would have said, “Thank you for trying Grandpa.” But, at ten, I was not yet mature enough for that type of response. Time passes. It is no longer the fact that you did not get an autograph that makes you want to cry, but rather it is the fact that you are not sure you EVER told you grandpa thank you. Not even when you were older and had gained the maturity to do so.

And this is life…so things happen. Eventually, everyone that waited it out at Rogers Plaza got an autograph. Wilbur Wood was seriously injured in a game at Tiger Stadium in 1976. He pitched again, but was not able to regain the level of mastery he had prior to the injury. Mark Fidrych never again matched the glory he had achieved in 1976. My grandfather eventually passed away. And me, well, I learned a lot about life that summer of 1976 – I just didn’t realize it until about 1991.

The History of a Little Girl

My daughter, Maxine, just turned seven. She is not your average seven year old. Alright, in some ways she is a normal seven year old girl. She likes Hannah Montana, The Jonas Brothers and High School Musical. She also loves the John Travolta and Rikki Lake versions of Hairspray. If you ask her why, she will tell you that she liked how “black people and white people marched together so they could be equal.”

The name Maxine is old fashioned. It was a popular name in the twenties, but has since fallen in popularity. When my husband and I first tossed the name around, it felt sort of clunky and even a bit ugly. But, as other names came onto the list and left the list, Maxine remained. It emerged as a strong and even cute name. And, it was a name that held meaning because it was my maternal grandmother’s name.

We began to tell a few people that we had settled on the name Maxine. My mother was thrilled. My mother-in-law was not convinced, but kept her sentiments quiet. Then, at approximately 7:30 PM on November 12, 2001, Maxine Eleanor Tewsley made her way into this world. She was one week overdue. Her cheeks were marked with red blisters. She barely had a nose. She was beautiful. My husband announced her arrival to our parents, all of whom were in the hospital waiting room. My mother sentimentally expressed how pleased her mother would have been. And, at that moment, my mother-in-law fell in love with the name Maxine.

Maxine knows the significance of her name, because we have told her stories about her great grandmother from the day she came home from the hospital. It would make for a great story if I could tell you how much Maxine is like my grandmother. I cannot tell you that. Maxine is uniquely Maxine. But, Maxine loves stories. She will tell you she loves stories that “really happened.” I may have hoped that naming Maxine after my grandmother would have resulted in a genetic miracle. A miracle that would have parts of my grandmother come alive in my daughter. Instead, something unexpected happened. The story of “how she got her name” created a desire in Maxine to hear other stories that “really happened.”

At first Maxine asked for stories about things that happened to her father or me, when we were little. Then, there was a night, when she was four, that she listened, captivated, to a story about Abraham Lincoln. She became somewhat obsessed with Abraham Lincoln. In first grade, the first book she checked out of the library was pictorial of Abraham Lincoln that contained almost 200 pages. Just the other day, I spoke with the librarian at her school. She commented on how Maxine always checks books out on Abraham Lincoln. At six she could tell you about the Emancipation Proclamation, the names of Lincoln’s wife and assassin, and the years in which he was born and died. And, although she is most fond of Lincoln, she can also tell you quite a lot about Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King, Jr., Harriet Tubman, Anne Frank, and Helen Keller.

I might have thought that her interest in history was just a passing curiosity, but then there was a trip to the Henry Ford Museum and her Hundred Days Project.

Just after Christmas last year we journeyed to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. There were amazing things to see: huge Christmas trees with beautiful lights and decorations, elaborate doll houses, and big shiny trains. But, there were two things that thrilled Maxine. Lincoln’s chair from Fords Theater, and the bus on which Rosa Parks took a stance.

Shortly after our trip to the museum, Maxine began work on her Hundred Days project. At her school, it is a tradition for all of the kids to create something that represents their 100th day in school. It could be as simple as making the number 100 out of Cheerio’s. Maxine decided to draw 100 pictures representing 100 dates in American History. She asked her father and me to tell her about a date in history. Then, she would draw a picture of that event. She worked on her project for one month. We put all of the pictures into a three ring binder and she proudly carried it to school.

This year Maxine wants to draw 100 pictures of dates in world history. I told she is not your typical seven-year old.

But then again, she wants “Baby Alive Learns to Potty” for Christmas.

Who Are You?

Do you know who you are? Bullshit answers don’t count. I mean, do you REALLY know who you are?

I know who I am.

I am a pilgrim
I sailed on the Winthrop fleet
I fought the Narragansett
I stormed the beach at Normandy
I am a widowed mother of four
I deserted my children
I fought in the Civil War
I tried the man that shot President McKinley
I am a murderer
I am a teacher
I founded a park system
I am a U.S. Marine

I am all of these things and more

I know this because I have been researching my ancestors. If you haven’t started digging up yours, I suggest that you give it a go. It is easier to do than you might think. The internet has made it easier. Chances are you are already spending way too much time online. Why not spend a little bit of that time learning something about yourself.

Check out ancestry.com. Ancestry.com is a lot of things. It is a time machine. It is a detective service. It is fun. It is easy. There is one thing that it is not. It is not free. Get your parents or other relatives to help you foot the bill. That’s what I did. I guarantee you will be glad you did. And if you’re not, well…you should be.

And… you might just find out who YOU are.

Starting Over

I started a new job this week. I haven't started a new job in almost 14 years. Until June, I was employed by a company at which I had hoped I could spend the duration of my career. Okay...I know that is not realistic these days, but it was something to be proud of in our parent's generation. I guess a little of that generation rubbed off on me because I was proud of my longevity.

So...like I was saying, I had worked at the same place for nearly 14 years when my job was eliminated in June. I was still in my twenties when I began my career with "the company." I met my husband at "the company." He sat in a cubicle close to mine. I could overhear occasional phone conversations that he had with his parents and grandmother. I fell in love with him, in part due to those phone calls, and before he ever asked me on a date.

Truth is he never really asked me on a date...we just sort of happened. And then we just sort of moved in together. Eventually we were married. People from "the company" came to our wedding. Then we got pregnant...and just after we entered our second trimester...just when we began to tell people that we were expecting our first baby, we had a miscarriage. I was at a business dinner for "the company" when the bleeding started. Later we got pregnant again. We had a beautiful daughter. Then, we got pregnant one more time. That time we had a son. Along the way, between the wedding and the day on which my position was eliminated, other things happened. Two of our friends died. One in his sleep. Another shot himself. My father-in-law began a prolonged battle with cancer, that he eventually lost. I worked for great bosses, okay bosses and downright lousy bosses. But, I loved my job. And, I loved "the company."

And then one day, after almost 14 years of service one of the boss-types referenced above invited me into her office to tell me that the company was fiscally challenged and that my services were no longer needed. I had one hour to clean out my office. But, how do you clean out an office full of 14 years worth of accumulation? I could box up the photos on my desk. I could pack the files that were mine to keep. But I could not put the life I made at "the company" into a box. It was entangled in the walls and halls. I could not extract those things in the sixty minutes I had been given to pack my things and leave. So I packed what I could into boxes. My husband put them onto a rolling cart, pushed them down the hall and out the front door. Then he loaded them into the minivan. It has been almost six months now and those boxes are still unpacked on a shelf in the basement of our house.

So, I started a new job this week. Everyone is really nice. I am enjoying myself. I am glad to be starting over again, but I wonder how long it will take me to untangle myself from that place and time and take root at someplace new.

I Don't Know What I am Doing

Really. I don't. And, I don't know why I am doing this either. Writing a blog. I guess it just seems like the thing to do. I am not a writer. Altough I wish I was. I don't have much to say. That is, I don't have much to say that I want posted on the web for everyone to see. But...oh well! I am going to try the whole blog thing anyway.