Bah Humbugs and Jolly Holidays

I have long envied the Christian-less at Christmas. Even the holiest of Hanukkah celebrants are able to handle December with far less stress, anxiety, and financial discord than this holiday-hostile heathen. As Thanksgiving dinner comes to an end with my stomach grumbling and my heart groaning, I know my discomfort is not due to the fourth helping of mashed potatoes or the sickeningly sweet chocolate pudding pie, but rather the fear of what’s to come. And what's to come is a month of buying, wrapping, decorating, cooking, cleaning, drinking, eating, and angsting. I find little joy in the season as I try to conquer the chaos, seek solace, and find micro-manage everything from the angel on top of the tree to the presents beneath it.  

Ironically, two of my favorite Jews made me see the light this Christmas. 

Madge, my bosom buddy of nearly 50 years, planted the mind-altering seed. She and I met in the middle this summer to take my mother out for lunch. As is customary, I commenced my ranting four months early about the ridiculousness of the nonsense looming ahead. 

“I always loved your house at Christmas time,” Madge said to my mother, shutting me down in the midst of my grousing over obligatory gifts, given and received just because long, long ago, three Wise Men came bearing gold, frankincense, and myrrh for the birthday boy. 

“Oh, I miss decorating!” my 94 year-old mother responded. “Now I just put out a few little things and call it a day.”

“I can’t wait for that day!” I piped in.

“Enjoy it while you can,” she said.  

“Enjoy it?”

“Yes, Betsy,” Madge said. “Enjoy it.”

I do love my house when its dressed up for Christmas. Once the work is done, that is. For he is a charming old guy with hardwood floors and trim around the doorways and windows. Garlands of greens spotted with red jingle bells and that old painted glass Santa Claus adorn the mantle; multi-colored Christmas ball gather in glass bowls on shelves next to the stained-glass nativity scene, bought at a craft fair the year we got married. Flying pig ornaments from my friend Ann Packles dangle with glee from a wrought iron tree. Three Santa mugs, one for each offspring, house candy canes, at least until they’re all devoured. A  wooden Nutcracker, pink for the breast cancer I outlived, gifted from my next door neighbor Kerri, stands tall and strong. And, every year I smile when I pull out the little plaque Susan Shanno gave me that reads: 

I love to give homemade gifts. 

Which one of the kids would you like?

“For some reason, I thought of you,” she said.

And, when I decorate the dreaded tree, I have to say, I get pangs in the heart as I unearth the battered and bruised ornaments. The metal measuring spoons, mangled from multiple garbage disposal mishaps, tied up with green ribbons and given to me by my sister as a reminder of my carelessness when we lived together. There’s a Lenox Christmas ornament my mother re-gifted back to me when she stopped getting her own tree. A not-very-attractive 35 year-old mouse from Dave Roeder that transports me back to my days at TV Guide. A food truck, an old minivan, and a cardinal for the dearly departed. There’s a football, a baseball, a cheerleader, a soccer ball, a basketball, and a “Middle Child: Mom’s Favorite” ornament. There’s a macramé snowflake from Patty, a hand-knitted Christmas tree from Gail, a dove from Donald and Theresa’s wedding, a wooden rocking horse from Anne Hare, a shimmery glass icicle from Gayle Squire, a bunch of funny looking clowns from Jack Hogencamp, a black lab for dead Chester, a yellow lab for living Griffey, and a monkey that moves around, hiding in the branches. 

But, I hate Christmas.

Admittedly, my aversion to the holiday is all self-imposed and intensified with each child I put forth. From the get-go, Santa Claus brought all three kids ten presents, each pile marked by its own distinct wrapping paper. To keep the illusion alive, the spouse had to get ten gifts as well, wrapped in his own paper. There are also the stockings with toothbrushes, underwear, Swedish fish, and AA batteries painstakingly wrapped in different paper than the big present pile. Bags of gifts wrapped and ready for the in-laws, the sisters, and the niece and nephew would sit in the basement as a reminder that the gift-giving will never be confined to one two-hour period. And, then there’s the mess and the subsequent stuff to deal with and find a place for. Meanwhile, I’d martyr out on Christmas morning explaining that Santa never brings mothers nearly as much as everyone else.

Christmas evokes all kinds of feelings in all kinds of people. My lonely friends feel lonelier, my poor friends feel poorer. My greedy friends feel greedier. My happy friends feel happier. My holy friends feel holier. And, I just feel bitterer. And, guiltier. Because I know that my anti-Christmasism can be caustic, and that’s just not fair.

Which brings me to Jew Number Two. 

Every night, I receive an email with a subject line of Your Daily Dose of Magic, from my friend Rob. In the Daily Dose, Rob composes and captures slices of life -- soulful, funny, bemusing, thought-provoking sentiments that on occasion appear to be written with me, and only me, in mind. Which, no doubt, is the magic of it all. 

This one popped up in my inbox last month: 

As the holiday season kicks into gear, 

it is up to you whether you greet it 

with an attitude of Bah Humbug 

or one of good cheer.

I let that one sit for a bit. But, I kept thinking about it. Until I came to the conclusion that attitude is a choice. 

The day after Thanksgiving, I got to it. I donned my holly-trimmed earrings, and long-lost Christmas spirit and trooped up to the attic. I pulled out the many, many boxes of decorations and dragged them down the stairs. I put on some Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer-style holiday tunes, began draping garlands, jingling bells, and hanging the red and silver over-sized Christmas balls on the porch. 

I went to Holly’s tree-trimming party with holiday cheer and Gretchen’s cookie exchange with fresh-baked cranberry cookies. I momentarily lamented the decision not to have a party of our own, but barreled through it. We bought the tree two weeks earlier than usual and Leo and I set it up without a hitch. Though it leans a little to the left and its branches are a little more than uneven, I stood back and smiled, wondering what exactly it was that I hated so much about having a tree. 

I’ve been professing my distaste of Christmas for so many years that perhaps it's become more of my shtick than an actual thing. Maybe I don’t really mind hunting down, wrapping, and presenting the ultimate electronic device for the boys, the acceptable accessories for the daughter, and the perfect sweat socks for my spouse. Maybe I don’t really mind getting a few surprises myself. Maybe I don’t really mind all the cheery Christmas greetings, leaving the garbage collectors a case of Bud, and eating a plethora of cookies and candy. And, maybe I don’t really mind all the commotion that comes with a week or two of jockeying for position for food, bathrooms, and televisions with three adult children returning to their childhood beds.  

So, I did all my shopping online. All of it. Gave up the color-coded wrapping. Cut the gift-giving down by half, with the threat that every subsequent year will yield one less present under the tree until we’re down to one a piece. I turn on the Christmas tree lights without having to be prodded. And I bellow Merry Christmas to passersby. Adjusting my attitude to be more in tune with normal people has made all the difference. 

Now, I’m not foolhardy enough to think that I’ll get through the season unscathed. But, when I feel myself slipping back into old habits, I just have to remind myself that it’s only money. It’s only time. It’s only work. 

I remind myself that I’m one of the lucky ones who the downtrodden envy at this time of year. After all, I’ve got the ever-loving spouse, three marvelous minions, a drafty old house, and a yellow lab. What more could you ask for?

And so, if I continue to count my blessings, spread good cheer, and drink lots of bourbon, I think that I just might find that missing magic, and manage to have a very Merry Christmas. 

Happy Holidays 

to all my loving friends 

and loyal readers! 

It's not as easy as it looks

“You are so lucky to have a core group of friends like that,” said my sister, Nancy, after serving us up some good southern hospitality on a recent girls’ trip to her home town of Charleston. 

But, alas, luck has nothing to do with it. Keeping friendships alive is work. Fulfilling work, for the most part, but work all the same. Contrary to popular belief, girlfriends don’t just miraculously appear for a weekend together, and certainly not for 40 years in a row. Someone has to take the reins and do whatever is necessary to make it happen, including the tried and true methods of persuasion, guilt, and bullying. 

Back in the very, very late 70s, we were finishing our stints at Shippensburg State College. I say finishing, rather than graduating, because some of us did, some of us didn’t. A couple of us transferred to institutions of higher learning, and some of us just threw our sociology notes in the air and left. For jobs, or boys, or simply to save some semblance of sanity. 

That last spring, at a party at Leslie's mother’s house in Pennsylvania, we promised to turn this ending into a new beginning. Regardless of how often our paths crossed during the year, we vowed to get together the first Saturday in December for the Annual All Girls’ Christmas Party for ever and ever, amen. Attendance was mandatory. 

For a good twenty-five years, we rotated houses, sending spouses and subsequent children away for the night. We’d gather around 4 pm with grab-bag gifts and we’d eat, drink, and be merry, returning the house to its rightful owners by 11:00 the next morning. As our lives got more complicated and we saw less and less of each other on a regular basis, we realized that one short night together was not nearly enough. And since December was becoming increasingly busy, we deviated from our plan. We began renting off-season vacation houses for three nights in the fall or winter, lugging sheets and towels and pillows and enough food to feed an army up and down those stilted beach house steps. 

Recently we have started springing for occasional hotel trips to places like New Orleans or Charleston, opening it up to any other Shippensburg cronies who want to tag along. In 40 years, the only one who has never, ever missed a girls' get-together is Peggy. The rest of us have taken a year off here and there to breastfeed babies, battle blizzards, move to a new house, or attend a funeral. But, the weekends weren't rescheduled for minor events like a kid’s soccer game, a husband’s birthday, or a daughter’s wedding. 

Peggy’s our pusher. She starts nudging the day after we’ve returned to pick a date for the following year. I’m our planner. I have the most quirks and requirements, so I come up with the place. That way, if there’s mold in the toilet or crumbs in the bed, I have no one to blame but myself. And then, there are the others, who just show up when and where we tell them, happy to have someone else in charge for a change.

But, there have been many blips along the way which could have caused us to skip a year. Skipping a year could very well turn into two years, which would turn into ten years, which would turn into the end of our tradition. 

We could have called it quits after Chris Kirk called it quits for reasons none of us even care about anymore. We could have taken the year off after the other Chris died. We could have taken a break when one of us had back surgery. Or hip surgery. Or knee surgery. Or breast cancer. Or a relapse to rehab. Or when we were broke from paying for our kids’ colleges, or sad over a divorce, or so in love with someone new that we couldn’t bear to leave. We could have skipped it when our kitchens were getting gutted, our car engine lights were blinking inexplicably, or when our favorite dog crossed over the rainbow bridge. We could have been too busy, too bored, too worn down by our Raynaud’s syndrome, or too worried that our depression, anxiety, or addiction would rear its ugly head. 

So many times it would have been so much easier to just table the Girls’ Weekend, just this one time. 

But, we never did.

Instead, year after year, we bring all our pain and angst and joy and silly stories with us, letting them bounce off each other until our souls are settled and our hearts are full. 

We give group hugs, blink back a few tears, and return to our routines, rejuvenated and ready to face all our demons and delights. And as we do, we can't help but think how very fortunate we are to have each other. 

And, that maybe luck does have a little something to do with it, after all. 

The Last Ride

“Koree, you OK, back there?” I bellowed into the rear view mirror of the Old Minivan. 

Koree flashed me a thumbs up.

Koree hadn’t been in the minivan for half a dozen years. Maybe more. But he was once a standard feature, as were Jordan and Jaelin, who that night, as usual, snagged the middle captain chair seats. Leo, being the proud son of the minivan owner, rode shot gun. Koree had always been relegated to the way back. But he never minded. He crawled back there, rolled up, and dozed off within minutes of being picked up. 

“It feels like we’re going to a Titans’ game,” Jordan said, and the other boys, excuse me, men, concurred. 

My heart pinged.

“The difference is, today you guys all got yourselves to my house,” I said. “Back in the day, I was driving all over Teaneck, and beyond, to get you. Remember, we’d be on our way to the game and I’d get a call from Anthony who needed to be picked up. Then Coach Leon would call and say we had to pick up some random ringer in Lyndhurst. And halfway to the field one of you would remember you promised Brandon a ride and we’d have to turn around and start over.”

The 23 year-old men laughed.

“Yeah, sure. It’s funny now. How many times did I say these words: ‘I hate every single one of you and the mothers who birthed you?’”

“Yeah, you did. But, you didn't really hate us because you always sang, ‘Seatbelts on so you do not die. Seatbelts on so I do not cry.’”

I smiled, remembering that little ditty I sang every single time a new character piled into the van. Because, only the good ones ever buckled up on their own accord. 

It was late August. My spouse had procured two dozen Mets tickets and suggested that Leo bring his old pals along. Just like old times, I’d drive us all to Queens, and he’d take the subway over from work and meet us there. 

“This might be your last time in the minivan,” I said solemnly.

“Are you getting a new car?” Jordan exclaimed.

“Thinking about it,” I said. “I mean this thing is 15 years old. You guys were eight years old when we bought it.”

There was a moment, just a moment, of silence before we started talking about all the places we’d gone and the kids we’d transported in the Old Minivan. We talked about former teammates and coaches and crazy road trips in the snow, sleet, and rain. We remembered all the off-season trainings: batting lessons in Rutherford, speed and agility in Wayne, lifting with Steve DeMattheis in Caldwell, pitching with Bobby Jones at Paramus Catholic, infield, outfield and everything in between drills at Teels, Hot Corner, and Frozen Ropes. Friday nights in the Giants’ Stadium bubble. Saturday morning workouts in Central Jersey. Sunday mornings at an indoor facility in Oakland. Monday nights at the Waldwick Superdome. Parisi on the off days. Personal training with Mike Hoban, Kevin Ensenat, and Vince Burke, if you could fit it in (or afford it). We laughed about how we learned from Coach Leon that being on time was being late and snickered over picking up Benji and his boys in the Bronx and how they ended up sleeping in my basement. 

We’d fill both the minivan and Coach Dave’s car and drive to Rhode Island, Delaware, Long Island, Central Jersey, New York state, South Jersey, Maryland and Virginia for tournaments. After the games, particularly after the bad losses, boys would trip over themselves trying to get the last seat in the van where there were no rules (except for seatbelts) to avoid driving home with their well-meaning mean parents. 

The old minivan wasn’t just a baseball car. It did its share of cheerleading competitions in far-flung gyms; basketball games in Harlem, Queens, and everywhere in between; football games and combines on college campuses and fields afar. It delivered kids to sleepovers and birthday parties, SAT tests and barbershops, nail salons and part-time jobs. To family vacations in Avalon, Vermont, Canada, the Catskills, and New Hampshire. It made drop-offs at elementary school, pick-ups at middle school, and forgotten book runs to the high school. It went on college visits, college graduations, and to first apartments. It drove us to weddings and funerals and bar mitzvahs and dinner parties. To plays and concerts and malls and amusement parks. It took hundreds of trips down the turnpike to see our families in Pennsylvania and Baltimore, to visit friends in states near and far, and went on many, many, many girls' weekend trips. 

The children grew and flew and yet, I kept the minivan. I just kept driving and driving. And, the old fellow got more and more tired. By the end, the old minivan’s front fender was duct-taped together, there was a crack across the windshield, the headlights had cataracts, the college stickers were fading fast, the tires were unbalanced and bald, the wipers scratched and squealed, the door hinges didn’t hinge, and the poor old guy rattled, roared and rasped. But, still it drove on. 

Fifteen years and 182,000 miles in, the old minivan and I went to visit my mother in Pennsylvania for her birthday. Halfway down the turnpike I heard an all-too-familiar thump, thump, thump. I pulled over, grabbed the duct tape from the back seat pouch, got out, and attempted to re-tape the fender. But, since it was pouring rain, I had to open the trunk, grab a towel, and dry the car so the tape would stick. I was cold and miserable, and at that moment I knew, it was time to pull the plug. 

The day before I picked up my brand-spanking new SUV that talks to me, beeps at me, and veers me back on course, I cleaned out the old minivan. As I went through the consoles and glove compartment and seat backs and trunk bins, I relived a thousand memories. 

Photos of my friend Claire's seven year-old Noah, and a prom picture of Zack and Sibohan; a funeral card for my beloved college cronie, Chris; three rolls of duct tape; three pairs of gloves; eight ice scrapers (yes, eight); a lone lemon drop (Koree’s favorite); a bag of wintergreen lifesavers; a compartment full of tootsie rolls; my handicap parking tag from my hip replacement (five or six surgeries ago); a 2013 Christmas card from my favorite ESL student; three EZ passes (wonder if I got billed for them?); a photo of Coach Fernando, Coach Dave and Coach Tom in the dugout; a relaxation and healing CD that Ginny Brown gave me when I had breast cancer; a pair of scissors, 23 pens, three notebooks filled with grocery lists and reminders – check in with Diane Wells, buy dog biscuits and order The Last Convertible for book club. 

I found a signed blank check; five pairs of sunglasses, three with both lenses intact; two pairs of reading glasses, a bank deposit slip from 2006; a dental appointment reminder from 2007; a feather duster (?), Max’s freshman basketball team photo; a PSP with Grand Theft Auto stuck inside; the original sales receipt from the minivan, as well the trade in papers from the preceding car; a 20^th Anniversary card from my ever-loving spouse; a Taylor Swift, a John Prine and an Ashlee Simpson CD (all other CDs had been removed eight years ago when the last CD got permanently imbedded in the slot); a Titans’ baseball roster so old that Donovan Mitchell, now a star NBA player, was still on the list; a bill for a new tire bought after getting a flat on the way to my mother’s 90^th birthday party; a 2010 Six Flags ticket; eighteen dollars and fifty-three cents; multiple half-full water bottles, and an almost-full pack of L&M cigarettes. 

I was almost finished filling bags with the minivan's contents, when I reached for my phone and blared my favorite John Prine song. The song I want played at my funeral. The song I chose for the Old Minivan's farewell. 

Memories, they can't be boughten

They can't be won at carnivals for free

Well it took me years

To get those souvenirs

And I don't know how they slipped away from me.

As I unhitched my bicycle rack, I noticed through the dirty, dirty back window, a console that I never knew existed. There, sitting on a bed of crumpled chewing gum and granola bar wrappers winking at me was one last thing I almost missed. 

 A battered and bruised baseball. 

And that's when I cried. I really and truly cried. 

“Koree!” I bellowed into the rear view mirror that Mets’ game night in August. “You still awake?”

“I’m still awake, Miss Betsy,” he said. “You know, the back seat of the minivan's not as big as it used to be.”

I smiled a bittersweet smile. Little Koree is now a six-foot-two, almost 24 year-old man who grows hair on his face. But, to me, he’ll always be that little boy who, when he wasn't sleeping, babbled about his dreams and schemes from the back of the van.

I can't help but think of all the eight, nine and fourteen year old dreams that took root in the back of that car. Of the dozens and dozens of kids who piled in and out, leaving cleat dirt, hair ribbons, and candy wrappers behind. I think of how life has changed them, rearranged them, and taken them on journeys they never expected. And, I have to wonder if the Old Minivan didn't have a just little part in turning them into the amazing young adults that they grew up to be. 

The amazing young adults who, as they grew up, changed me, rearranged me, and took me on journeys I never expected, both in and out of the Old Minivan. 

Never Alone

“Can you even imagine any one of them grown up and married?” I asked my friend Claire, twenty or so years ago. We were sitting at the park across the street from my house that was within yelling distance of hers. And yes, with seven collective children, six boys and a girl, all within seven years of each other, there was plenty of yelling. Not to mention smacking each other with hockey sticks, running away from Noah, and professing their eternal need for snacks. 

“I just want them to be happy,” she answered, in true Claire fashion. “And if they don’t get married, that’s fine, too. It’s not like they’ll ever be alone.”

Right on cue, six of them flew past us, poor Noah pedaling his little legs as fast as he could to keep up. Which, of course, he couldn’t.

“Though, it would be nice if Ian married Victoria or Molly,” Claire added.

Victoria is a blond-haired beauty who is Claire’s other best friend’s daughter and Molly, who I’m not allowed to name in a blog, is a chestnut-haired beauty belonging to me. 

As it turned out, Ian didn’t marry Victoria or Molly, but they were both at his wedding two weeks ago. 

For at least a dozen years, I spent more time with my friend Claire than I did with my own spouse. When my first-born was in second grade, the creative services department at CNBC moved to California, and I was out of work. Rather than looking for another real job, which was the biggest financial mistake of our lives, and perhaps the biggest parenting mistake, depending on which child, under which circumstances you were to ask, I began part-time freelancing, part-time mothering, and full-time volunteering. 

I didn’t know how to volunteer, but my friend Claire taught me. 

We started our day after the last kid got on the bus, was delivered to pre-school, or was extricated from our pant legs. Together, we served as PTA presidents, orchestrating picture days, book fairs, and field days. We ran the town Little League, coordinating opening day events, managing the concession stand, scrounging for sponsors and designing, ordering, and distributing uniforms. We fed the high school football team before games, we organized awards dinners at the end of the season, and together we cheered from the bleachers at every single game of every single sport at which any one of our shared seven children chose to participate.

And while we were watching our children grow, we spent countless hours talking about the what ifs, and the who knows, and the do ya thinks, wondering about what they’d do, who they’d become, and how they’d get there. 

We worried about who they were or were not dating, how they were getting to the prom and with whom. We worried about the new friends they were bringing around and worried about the old ones they'd discharged along the way. We worried about whether they’d hit a home run, throw a touchdown pass, pin their opponent, medal in the pool, score a goal, or land their back handspring. We worried that they wouldn't pass their drivers' test, and then worried when they did. We worried they wouldn't get into their first-choice college, and then when they did, worried if it was indeed the right choice after all.

And, despite all that worrying, wouldn’t you know it? They all grew up. All seven went to college, with the last one right on track to finish in May. After they graduated, they went south, they went west, they went across the state.

Ian, Claire’s oldest, went farther than all the others put together. Like around the world far. Like to Japan-to-teach-English-for-a-year far.

But, the others, they came home, they left home, and they came back again. So, while Claire and I have both had week-long, sometimes month-long stretches of being Empty Nesters, we’ve come close, but our kids have never completely left us alone. 

And then, a mother’s fourth (fill in your own blanks for numbers one through three) worst nightmare came true. Ian announced he was not coming home. He loved the culture. He loved the country. And, by the way, he met someone. 

Claire half-joked that she’d never see her eldest son again. That he’d get married and have grandbabies that she’d never know. But, she always amended those thoughts with, “As long as he’s happy.” 

Sure enough, one day Claire forwarded me the link to an adorably touching video that Ian had created, featuring Kaori, the love of his life. He put together clips of her doing all kinds of things showing the many facets of who she is: smart, funny, adventurous, silly, beautiful. The video ended with Ian asking her to marry him. 

A sweeter proposal I’d never seen. 

The summer before last, Ian and Kaori got married in a traditional Japanese ceremony in Japan. And two weeks ago, they got married in a traditional American ceremony in America. 

It was a perfect wedding. Kao wore a beautiful white wedding gown and Ian wore a smile as wide as Japan is long. 

The bride and her father danced to The Monkees’ Daydream Believer, a happy, boppy, tune from the good old days. The bride and groom danced to Can You Feel the Love Tonight, a tribute to Kao’s love of all things Disney and presumably of all things Ian. And the groom and his mother danced to Lady Antebellum’s Never Alone.

May your tears come from laughing

You find friends worth having

As every year passes

They mean more than gold

May you win and stay humble

Smile more than grumble

And know when you stumble

You're never alone

Never alone

Never alone

I'll be in every beat of your heart

When you face the unknown

Wherever you fly

This isn't goodbye

My love will follow you, stay with you

Baby, you're never alone

Ian and Kao don’t know where their forever home will be. He says he wants to live in Japan. She wants to live here. For now, they’re in San Diego where Kao is finishing up graduate work in psychology.

But, whatever they do, wherever they live, be it 3000 miles, an ocean, or just a zip code away, may they forever and always feel the love, be daydream believers and know, as sure as the ground they stand on, that they are never alone. 

No Friendship is an Accident

Life is all about stumbling into random situations with random people, some of whom we never see again and others who become our new BFFs.  

Five random 18 year-old girls from different parts of the country converged in Chapel Hill at the University of North Carolina nine years ago. On the bus ride back from their sorority initiation, Molly asked Julianne if she wanted to be her friend. In true Julianne fashion, she shrugged her shoulders and just said, “Sure.” 

So, while the initial meeting may be serendipitous, friendship is intentional. There’s always that moment of choice, that one decision that cements your fate in another person’s soul.

The two of them shared a room in the Phi Phi house the next year; Jenny and Lauren were right down the hall, and Julie, who had been their suite mate, lived in a dorm a stone’s throw away. The following year, the five of them rented a somewhat dilapidated house where they lived together until they graduated. 

What makes this friendship so unique is that the parents muscled their way into the mix, vowing to visit their daughters on the same weekend every year so they could all be together. 

What makes this doubly unique is that even after graduation, the parents and girls come from Chicago, Denver, Brooklyn, Asheville, Cleveland, New Jersey, or anywhere else they may be living, for a yearly reunion in Chapel Hill. 

What makes this triply unique is that it all began with a random meeting 35,000 feet in the air. Lauren and her parents were flying to North Carolina back in 2010 for freshman move-in day. They got to talking with a couple named Stephen and Sandra, who were on their way home to Chapel Hill after visiting their son who lives in Denver. 

“Call us!” Sandra said, handing them a business card at the end of the flight.

They didn’t call. Not that trip, anyway. But, when Lauren’s parents came back out for Parent’s Weekend six weeks later, they decided (there’s that word again) they had nothing to lose and they made the call. 

And now, nine years later, we still gather at Sandra and Stephen’s once a year and marvel at how lucky we are. 

Last weekend was the annual reunion and all but Jenny and her parents came. Jenny was busy birthing babies and her parents, well they were reunioning at Ohio State. But, Jenny Facetimed in for the scavenger hunt. 

The scavenger hunt that was secretly orchestrated by Lauren.

The scavenger hunt that took us all from the sorority house to Sutton’s, the iconic drug store/eatery that boasts dozens of UNC basketball jerseys, hundreds of photos of the famous and infamous, not to mention a plaque dedicated to our daughters over the booth at which Hollie, our favorite waitress, was gifted a Duke game ticket in exchange for the girls’ picture on the wall. 

Clues took us from Sutton’s to their old home on Carr Street. The house that they fondly named Bar Carr; where they celebrated 21^stbirthdays, battled cockroaches, and tearfully sighed that while they were eager to move upward and onward, they knew it was the last time they’d ever live together as best friends. 

To lighten things up, we headed over to Franklin Street, to Top of the Hill, a bar/restaurant staple and a parental favorite. We were charged with chugging Kansas City Ice Waters, a multi-liquor concoction before moving on to the UNC landmark with a tradition that claims a drink from the Old Well brings good luck.  

And finally, our last destination led us to Sandra and Stephen’s house where Lauren greeted us on one knee holding a huge poster board that read: 

I’m so excited to marry Rob and be the bride.

But I can’t say “I do” without you all by my side.

UNC made us best friends and I wouldn’t have it any other way,

Jenny, Julianne, Julie and Molly –

Will you be bridesmaids on my big day?

Obviously, there was not a dry eye in the house. 

Later that night, as always happens after a drink or five, someone, usually Dan or Tom, throws out a thought-provoking question. This year’s was: What was the best decision you ever made?

The answers were somewhat universal in, duh, deciding to go to UNC, though adopting Bowie the Bow-Wow was in there as well. The married folk, at least those with spouses present, solemnly swore that was their best decision of all. Lauren, who we fully expected to say, “Deciding to marry Rob,” gave us a more realistic version of that truth. Which was her conscious decision to open her heart and let love in. 

Again, not a dry eye. 

And me, well, sitting at a table like that, spouse safely at home hunting down news stories, what else could I say? The best decision I ever made was saying, “Oh, OK. I’ll go out for dinner with all your roommates’ parents even though I have zero interest in forging friendships that won’t last past graduation.” 

Next year, as we mark ten years of this magical multi-generational friendship, we’ll be having our reunion in Denver, in dual-celebration of Lauren and Rob's wedding. 

All because of a few good decisions we made along the way. 

The Wheels on the Bus

I’m at that nostalgic point of parental life where I look at other people’s children writhing and crying at restaurants, in churches, on airplanes, and just say, “Aww!” I false-remember like my mother-in-law did, “She was a delightful baby! She never cried!” And, I find that I have fond memories about random things like school buses. 

The other day, I was stuck behind a school bus for a three-mile stretch where it painstakingly stopped and started, ejecting backpacks and children, no less than eight times. In another stage of life I would have spewed curses, flashed fingers, and beat dashboards. 

But, I wasn’t in any particular hurry last Wednesday at 3 pm. I didn’t have that insides-shaking anxiety about having to be there when the kids got home from school. Or over the thought of short-order cooking family dinner. Or about having to be at a Little League board meeting and a PTA event before driving to cheerleading, baseball, basketball, or all three.

No, now I’m free; enjoying a refreshingly free freelance life with physical freedom from most of my children. A life in which I can sit behind a school bus, alone, and reminisce without fear of getting caught. 

I grew up riding a school bus. In the mornings, I’d walk up Woods Road with any number of my three sisters, or none, depending on who was in the same school at the same time, and who, if any, were in my favor on that particular day. I, or we, would pause at Margaret’s house, where she and her brother, or sister, or neither (same deal as above), would skip down their steep driveway. We’d wait for Debbie Atlee to appear in her hip huggers and tube top, then head up to Schaeffer’s for Kit and/or Johnny, again dependent on familial relationships. We cut through the Schaeffer’s backyard to avoid Carol Zeigler, crossed the edge of the Faust’s property, and ended up on the outer edge of the Eble’s yard, waiting for the bus with one or six other kids who chose the upper end of Woods Road over their pre-assigned bus stop.

Because, in those days you could do that. There wasn’t a mother out there who cared if you preferred to walk a block farther so you could clamor for the attention of Bobby Amsler, John Rothrock, or Jimmy Lustri at their bus stop. There was no mother who chided you for singing “Pink, pink, we all turn pink cause Matthew Ramsey stinks.” Or Henry. It ran in the family. 

There was definite bus protocol. The older kids sat in the back, the youngers tried to act cool near the front. The bad boys smoked cigarettes in the rearmost seats and the bus driver rarely bothered to notice. We made fun of Andrea Mumford who “threw fits,” which cruel as it was, probably wasn’t much worse than the upper classmen who sprayed my puffy red hair with a water pistol, laughing as it frizzed, calling me Bozo the Clown. (And, my spouse wonders why I spend the big bucks on keratin treatment at my advanced age. Some scars run deep.)

Every now and then, when we got older, we’d actually choose to walk the 1.9 miles home from the high school, cutting through Oreland Presbyterian Church so we could pass the Maher’s house, filled with kids, one more popular than the next. But mostly, we rode the bus, earning our backseat status as the years flew by.  

So, when my kids went to school, I didn’t suffer any of the school bus angst that many of my peers experienced. I was happy not to have to drive them to school and dismayed to find that parenting norms and gasp, school rules, dictated that a parent had to be at the bus stop at both ends of the day. What, I wondered, did these people think was going to happen?

But, I found a way to turn the bus stop into a social opportunity, and turned the elusive Claire-on-the-corner into the best of friends. Between the two of us, we had seven kids, in seven different grades of school. And while all seven were never on the same bus, we’d wait for the elementary school bus with the kindergarteners and pre-schoolers in tow, so we pretty much dominated the sidewalk. Our fluid parenting style confused outsiders as to which kid belonged to whom. The only sure thing was my daughter because everyone knew Claire only produced boys. For a while, my middle son, Max, truly believed he was Claire’s child. 

I did nothing to set him straight.

One year, the day before Christmas break, Claire sent her son, Zack, onto the bus with a present for the driver. 

“I had no idea!” I exclaimed. “My mother never gave the bus driver a Christmas present!” 

“It’s my husband,” Claire explained. “His reasoning is; if something happens, the driver is going to remember the kid who gave him a gift.”

I laughed, never been one to buy into bad things happening. But, I still felt bad. 

That afternoon as I stood waiting in anticipation for my young ‘uns to hop off the bus, I heard the bus driver say to my Max, “Thank your mom for the gloves!” 

"Okay," he said in his deep kid voice.

So much for remembering which kid gave the gift. Or which mother birthed the kid, for that matter.

The squeal of the bus brakes at Every.Single.Corner last week triggered me back to childhood. I remember jumping off those high, high bus steps and rushing home where my mother would ALWAYS be waiting with open ears and open arms. And while I was never half the mother she was, I can still picture the unfettered joy on my own kids’ faces as they bounded off the bus, prized (and crumpled) artwork in hand, into my half-open arms and closed-off ears.  

The sound of brakes remind me of coming home from hockey practice on the late sports’ bus to my meatloaf, mashed potatoes and string beans warming on a plate in the oven. They also remind me of my grown-up self, crammed into a pint-sized seat, bouncing all the way up Route 17 for yet another apple picking trip. 

But, mostly they remind me of the punch-in-the-gut look of trepidation as my youngest got on the kindergarten bus for the very first time. An image repeated time and time again, by each and every one of my kids, in each and every stage of new life challenges. And, how each and every time, I pretended to be happy about letting them go.  

Sometimes a Dream is Just a Dream

I am a memory hoarder. 

So much so that I have notebook after notebook filled with my life’s details, including New Years’ Eve in Moscow, phony number fun and foibles with Margaret, honeymooning in Montreal, singing karaoke in Manilla, bicycling in France and just about every hope, dream, victory and vice I ever combatted throughout my high school career. 

I have charts recording the fluid that came from the drains in my chest after my double mastectomy, the number of steps I took, and when, and how much it hurt, after each of my joint replacements, and how much I weighed every single week of my adult life. 

I have scraps of paper with profound statements that have changed my life, prize emails saved from the hundreds of thousands my friend Laura and I have exchanged since 1990, lists of names and descriptions of people Patty and I have loved, for a week at a time, on cruise after cruise, and a file cabinet with folders marked Memories, Things to Remember, and since I’ve been a mother, Fun Kid Stuff.

Which is where, when looking for nothing in particular, I found a conversation that took place, in the brand new minivan, between my son, Leo, and his best friend, Koree. It was July, 2005 and they were nine years old. 

Koree: 

Me and Leo are best friends. 

Me: 

Do you think you’ll be friends for your whole life?

Koree: 

Nah. Cause we’re going to go our separate ways. Leo’s going to be a professional baseball player and I’m going to be a professional basketball player. 

Me: 

Well, you can certainly still stay friends!

Koree: 

No. Cause when we split up, he’ll be in Baltimore and I’ll be in Dallas. 

Leo: 

I know. We’ll write each other’s names down so we’ll remember each other. 

Koree: 

But we’ll need a cell phone. 

Leo: 

When Koree’s famous, I’ll go backstage because I’ll be like Barry Bonds and I’ll get in for free. 

When I was nine years old, I had been a published author for two years, having my “Christmas is a time of giving, and I’m so glad that I am living,” second-grade poem printed in the Oreland Sun. For as long as I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was be a writer. 

And write I did. I recorded everything I did and said and heard and witnessed with the hopes of one day twisting and turning those phrases and fragments into the Great American Novel.  And in the meantime, I wrote short stories and poems, and love letters to my friends. I wrote speeches and eulogies, and long-winded yearbook homages. I wrote toasts and tributes, and silly little birthday ditties.

When I was in 11^thgrade, Ms. Scott, said my writing style reminded her of Lillian Hellman, which prompted me to devour every one of the famous author’s plays and memoirs. When I was asked to read one of my pieces aloud at Creative Writing Night, I had to sheepishly admit to a tearful audience, that the story about my dead sister was purely fiction. 

In a journalism class in college, realizing I was about to miss a deadline, I whipped up the story of how we pulled off the old bucket-of-water-perched-precariously-outside-the-detested-resident-assistant’s-dorm-door caper. The feature story was published in the school paper and we were caught, perhaps precipitating our subsequent visit to the Judicial Board. 

I majored in Advertising, with a concentration in copywriting and a minor in Creative Writing. When I graduated, I was an insecure college graduate with no paid writing experience, so spend ten years in related, but unfulfilling fields, working harder on making friends than making a buck. After I got married and moved to New Jersey, I landed a job at the new cable station, CNBC, as an administrative assistant in the marketing department. Had it not been for the faith of my boss-turned-friend, Caroline Vanderlip, to this day, l may never have had made a dime penning my words.

But, my dream never included writing brochures about how to read a stock ticker tape, or ads touting Maria Bartiroma as the first woman to report from the floor of the NYSE. Though I must admit I did have fun writing promo spots for Geraldo Rivera, trembling my way through an interview with Phil Donahue, and dodging the late, great Roger Ailes. 

My career evolved from CNBC to freelance writer, working from home, playground benches or baseball bleachers. I crafted all kinds of copy for all kinds of companies, but still, it wasn’t what I had envisioned back in Mrs. Baker’s second grade classroom.

And, so I wrote my novels. Three of them. One about a bunch of families navigating their way through the 12 year-old travel baseball world. Another about a 30 year-old looking for love in all the wrong places, and the last about four college friends who reunite for a week on a cruise ship. They say always write what you know.

Novels, plural, complete. I did it. 

Except that they’re all three still sitting in my computer, afraid to come out, afraid to face the world, afraid to become a dream come true. 

Back in 2005, Koree and Leo both played baseball, basketball and football. But within a few years, they had each committed fully to their sport of choice. Leo to baseball, Koree to basketball. They never balked, they never wavered; they were all in. They traveled the country playing in national tournaments, showcasing their skills and picturing themselves first in UNC jerseys and then in whatever pro uniform they were paid to wear. They played hard through high school and into college until their pro ball dreams came to an end. 

“Did you ever think of coaching?” I recently asked Koree, who is now in the throes of job hunting. 

“Never!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want anything to do with basketball ever again.”

Leo nodded in solidarity. 

And that hurt my heart.

Not because of the thousands of hours they devoted to the game. Not because of the tens of thousands of dollars we pumped into the sport. Not because of the millions of dollars they wouldn’t make. 

But, because, like their parents before them, they, too, had unfulfilled dreams.  

I thought not just about myself and my unsubmitted novels; I thought about Koree’s father who had big dreams of his own. As a college hoops star, he went up against the likes of Michael Jordan and Kenny Smith, who even gave him a shout out while commentating the NCAA tournament. 

I couldn't help but wonder how different all our lives would be if he, or I, or the both of us, had "made it." What if our DNA had just a little more drive, a little more confidence, a little more talent? 

For one thing, Koree and Leo would never have met. He, or we, would be living in different towns, in bigger houses, running in different circles. Instead, we co-raised five pretty decent athletes, who someday, somewhere, will lead their adults leagues in base hits and buckets. They say they won't, but they'll coach their kids in cheerleading and soccer and softball. 

I picture ourselves, in the not so distant future, gathered for a Hargraves-Voreacos family dinner. There will be a spouse, or five, at the table, a bunch of grandkids in tow. We'll get to talking about the good old days - the coulda, woulda, shouldas. 

Looking around the table, soaking in the love and laughter, we old folk will finally come to terms with our lives. We'll realize that, despite all of our missed shots, we still ended up with a winning season. 

And that is, indeed, a dream come true.