Pretty sure, ALL of them,

Life has taken me away from my own and toward the traditions of other’s for now.

I was once told that tradition is a kind of anchoring glue for families. By doing the same things at each holiday, the same things our previous generations did, we keep each other close and can even lure any wayward family member who may have strayed, back to the fold.

This concept stuck. It gave any and all tradition magical powers. It bumped their importance into manditory. At least in my hopeful young mind. I was responsible for four small humans, I HAD to maximize their chances in the world. I set up my life to give these four the best shot a very limited me, could. Tradition was big, probably because of all the effort I went to, I want to report now that tradition was more of a a fun way to celebrate and not the serious glue I counted on.

As a young mom, I one-upped my own spotty tradition-lacking childhood. I mined my early years and found tortaires, traditional French Canadian meat pies. Borrowed and made up others traditions, kept them sacred. Every one.

My parents made these pies for many years. It was part of my Christmas memories, the lively Christmas fights we could count on every year. There was the pie baking, the tree finding, the ornament unboxing and of course the fight of all fights, the wrapping of the tree properly with lights.

I have one good memory of a Christmas Eve dinner of tortaires.

My aunt on the side of the family we hardly saw, made them. We dined at her big formal table, we kids actually ate WITH the adults, as if we were every bit as valid as our parents. So strange and yet so cool and memorable sitting up at that table. The memory burned itself into my five year old mind.

I miss making these clove and cinnamon spiced pies.

As it turns out, if you weren’t raised on them, the odd combination of spice, mince and mashed potatoes tucked into buttery short pie crust, is a hard taste to get used to. Who knew?

Well, not me. I was born with a very wide palette, so new and foreign tastes have always become new loves for me. Not the nose wrinkling, culinary trauma that my meat pies have caused my new in laws, the meatless version didn’t win any prizes with our vegan and vegetarian family members either. My new daughter in law was even allergic to potatoes. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not, but other things had to be added!

Quiche, shepards pie, lasagna joined the Christmas Eve table. I still made one token meat pie for my own kids, (and me), but the magical tradition was dying out, as were many others. Eventually, every single one had its last day. I stopped making pies years ago. I don’t bake cookies, I don’t serve Easter brunch, I don’t make hot crossed buns, I don’t go anywhere for fireworks. No popcorn, no movies. I let all loyalty to tradition go.

I am no longer tethered to the strict rules of creating the perfect traditional meal or activity or holiday. I’m a go-with-the-flow girl now. I have no fear of what will happen without magical family glue to keep us all together.

Tradition has been replaced by this new magnetic force known as grand children. The happy faces of this new batch of small humans, lure us back together all the time. Luckily because we are now living in five separate cities spread far across the county.

Life. What a ride.

Was not typical. I flew out fot my granddaughters seventh birthday. Out of my oppressive uncomfortable New England summer, and into some fun.

My son and his family were there to pick me up at 10 am. The party started at three, so lots of time to catch up and get ready. My daughter had it all covered.

Just our family and a couple of friends, a pool, some cake. It was relaxing, refreshing and fun. The cousins played in the water for hours. We stopped for French fries and burgers on the way home. Simple. Kid friendly. Perfect.

It was a day filled with light and sunshine and joy. The echoing laughter of kids in a pool. Of all of us enjoying happy children and each others company.

Endearing names that we are sometimes called by loved ones or friends.

I actually nicknamed my first grand daughter without really meaning to. Somehow it stuck and she still will smile when one of us calls her ‘Bean’

She’s thirteen and out-growing us older folk fast. She will always be our little Jelly Bean, though, the first of the bunch. A sweet loving force.

The others all have their real name as part of their nickname. Somehow I like having endearing nicknames for these babies, I think they feel even more loved and special to me when I call them by their names (which we all use) which they absolutely all ARE, super loved, nick names or not.

My grandfather nicknamed me, his first grandchild, Andie. He was the only one who called me that. My parents tried to discourage it, but I secretly loved having a different name even if it was a boy name (according to my mom).

I mean

I have been. I can be. I probably will be.

Mostly I’m trying not to focus in that direction. It’s not easy some days. Really, truly, not easy.

After a good nights sleep, I’m ok. Reset. Ready to tackle the tasks that are easy in today’s modern world, but weirdly not in my current situation. Laundry, dishes…Ready to let all the conflicts and tough energy roll off my back.

There is no yoga today, no work, so I’m up and out in the cool of the morning. it’s already hot in the house, muggy as usual, but there might be the chance of air conditioning later. You never know.

I’m breathing. I’m walking. It’s not so bad.

Good luck out there, according to the news, it’s rough in every direction. Our struggles are part of our being human. The less fun part.

The other day G went to buy a tool at an automotive store. He learned while shopping that he could rent the tool for sixty three dollars and eighty cents. He’s not a machanic, he likely won’t need the tool again so even though the tool cost fifty nine dollars, he considered the rental, asked the guy about it. He was told if he brought it back within 48 hours he would be given back the sixty three dollars and eighty cents.

G asked : “So, it’s free?” The guy looked at him and with the voice inflection only an impatient, grumpy New England man could, said “No. It’s sixty three dollars and eighty cents.” He didn’t add, “Are you completely deaf or stupid?”, but he sounded like he may as well have.

The next morning G got his money back and, well, the rental was in fact, free.

Oh the grouchiness, the odd confusions. G still can’t get over this business model.

I’m excited to go back to town hall and try to get one of the employees to come out to the house, so we can get a trench dug for a water line. I have thought of getting a job there so when a person goes in to ask a question, they’d get me, instead of one of the cranky cast of a work force they currently employ. I’ve wondered more than once if the job requirements include a generally negative disposition. I probably wouldn’t do well in that environment, so just as well.

My current job that I liked for its zen-ness has been worrisome lately. For reasons no one knows, they bumped one of their drivers into a full time position inside, without training him how to do much of what we do there. So he does everything interestingly different. An unusual amount of mix ups, losing orders and chaos has resulted. He has some notion that he is also a boss over everyone and gets upset when no one takes him seriously.

Tension has risen around this situation, I’m sure you can imagine. The fun zen vibe has been sadly replaced.

This morning G and I are waiting to go to a place an hour away. We don’t care to go.

We are waiting because…

I’m not sure what is happening or why, but I should absolutely not run over to this very popular garage sale that is a block away because what if I’m not here at the exact moment we are leaving.

Oh man.

This part I sort of understand, I’ve learned that G’s mom, like many people, stresses over getting ready to go places. She tries to hurry, even though there is rarely a strict time for anything. I’ve noticed that efficiently is not a thing, (most tasks are drawn out) so she doesn’t have much practice with it. The concept of hurrying is rarely tested. Ever seen someone trying to hurry when they are stressed? Add in that they only move in slow methodically practiced ways. We always tell her to take her time. It doesn’t matter to us how long she takes. It really doesn’t. Still, self imposed stress, lots of lost keys or glasses.

I was hoping she WOULD take a while so I could check out the sale. Communication around timing is also tricky, so better to be safe and just wait.

I’ve already had my fun for the day. I was pushing my luck as it was.

Lots of complaints about weeds, grass, traffic, etc. complaining is a perfered form of conversation. Meanwhile I climb into the backseat, country music is playing loudly so I can’t hear them anymore. Just banjos and yodeling. I’ve tried to gain an appreciation of this genre, but it rarely puts me in the good mood it puts G’s mom in, which makes it worth it. Sadly I forgot my ear pods.

It’s never one thing that tanks the day. Usually after a few errands, involving angry drivers who are impatiently enduring fellow drivers, speed limits, and parking. (they don’t have freeways here, but maybe they should consider building some so people can satisfy the need for speed). What they do have are long, winding, thickly tree lined, two way roads with double yellow lines, everywhere.

Everywhere.

Apparently the double yellow lines are optional if a driver is following the speed limit or going any speed, but in the way. This can really tick another driver off and commonly, they rush around the person in an exaggerated huff. It’s both frightening and surprising, but very typical.

By the end of the day, I’ve experienced enough disgruntled people who don’t like this or that. The way things are, what’s being done, weather, sports, people, there’s a long list. I’m usually exhausted from all the sighing and quiet exasperation. New Englanders are generally polite, (with a silent edge), side eyes, sighs and sarcasm pepper their complaining. Oh and also the assuming that everyone is shady and up to no good or just really really stupid.

I’m not a fan of trying to be understood here. It may not sound like I’m speaking another language, but since most people have already made up their minds about everything, anything I say is filtered through a lot of negativity and lands meaning plenty of things I didn’t say, so being clear is challenging. I do love a challenge. I don’t love being balled out by a plumber because he thinks I’m trying to get away with having water routed to the garage, because I guess I might be up to no good? Weird. But only to me. I’m not from around here, clearly.

We’re on our third plumber. I had a similar experience with finding an electrician. This new guy might be the one to make this miracle happen, you never know. I’ve alerted the town and it is awaiting the ‘pulling’ of the permit. There’s some amount of confusion around this, even though the form is only a half a page long and very straightforward. I get the feeling that progress isn’t wanted. Change is hard.

Suddenly, there is concern over where dirt will go during the excavation. This has caused loss of sleep, agitation and a general shift in whether the project can happen. That’s the latest issue. The dirt. Which will go back into the hole, um, after the pipe has been connected?

I’m learning that it’s all part of things New England. If I want to do anything, I have no choice but to wade on through, get over it. Find the silver lining. Keep moving. Let it all roll off my back. Euphemisms are sometimes helpful. Add in the muggy weather, no air conditioning, (New Englanders are so tough they don’t need the luxury of cooled air, I once went this famous tourist island getaway, not a single shop or restaurant had air conditioning, not one!) rain every day and mostly cloudy oppressive feeling heat, biting bugs that itch for days, and there you go. New England.

Crankiness is completely understandable.

My family, of course.

We are all living so spread apart, it would be amazing to all be together around one big table again.

Up by 5 out by 6:30 or 7am

It used to be earlier, but my days of hitting the gym at 5:30 (before getting kids to school and myself to work), or 6 am hot yoga classes, are over. Kept me sane at the times, but I have other things now. I’m still an early riser.

I wake up early because it’s my nature. Plus, I love mornings. I always have. There is a peacefulness. A fresh newness. I prefer morning energy, I personally have the most energy in the morning.

My favorite running time was always dawn, before anyone else was up, beach runs at low tide, with no one around. It’s beautiful. Moon on the water, sun coming up. I used to take my son’s dog, he also appreciated a morning run.

My kids are all different. Some were early birds, others had trouble falling asleep and liked sleeping in. I think everyone comes wired differently.

It’s odd that our culture praises early birds and shames late sleepers. Artists often prefer the peace of the middle of a night. Creativity flows from 1-4 am. I’ve felt that. I have plenty of friends who come alive as the night goes on, (while I slowly fade).

If there’s fun, I’ll push on, not wanting to miss it. But you won’t see me sleeping in the next day, not for any morally superior reason. I just can’t. I catch up by falling asleep ridiculously early whenever the fun ends.

I liked the last question about never sleeping, because if I never had to sleep, I could easily be awake at all the times.

I like sleep though. And I like waking up. I don’t get into any trouble while I’m asleep, that’s a bonus. So I vote no to never sleeping but I’m not sad to wake up at 2 or 3 or 4am. Or to stay up past my bedtime. Which is usually around 9-10 pm. I could be in bed watching a movie at 8 too. It’s all life. I have no routine.

…is probably singer-song writer soul satisfying, sometimes, but not always, up beat, but with authenticity and a good measure of heart. You know, music that is moving and affecting and can bring a tear to my eye, the kind that makes me forget and remember all the right things

Is there a genre of that? What’s it called?

This morning I woke up needing to jump in Jenny jeep and crank up the stereo.

Always delivers.

Top down, not caring if no one else wants to listen to Tom Petty or Andrea Boticci or George Harrison or Prince at full volume., in the morning

Jelly Roll, His Golden Messenger, or whoever

Sorry that some songs just sound better loud. Thats my favorite genre. The loud nuance-y song one.

Happy 4th weekend.

Im a sucker for romance. I love love. I love the deep, daring, logic defying nature of romance. The rose colored glasses. The exaggerated beauty, the surety, the boldness. It’s why I love opera and Shakespeare.

Romance means different things to different people. There’s a quote “there are plenty of mediocre things in life, love shouldn’t be one of them.” Romance is not, at its core mediocrity. We are told it can be bought, but it can’t.

Romance is monetized and redefined by media, this is nothing new. Fairy tales and Disney have taken their toll, but if we look beyond all the advertising, there is something deep and real and magical about what we call romance. It’s raw and vulnerable. The unexplainable eruption of emotion. Movies have tried to create it, and have done a fair job in some cases, but the true essence of romance, is organic on one hand, ethereal on the other. It’s like a connection to the cosmos.

Romance is like an electrical spark, a flash of lightning, a surge of power in love’s most undeniable form. it can’t last for long, but can be rekindled, remembered, appreciated.

Art, music, theatre and film find ways to depict it and emote a little, but the actual thing we call romance, is the inspiration. Art tries to capture the uncapturable, and often, does a nice job of retelling, recalling in some cases, and we humans, many of us, eat it up!

The last thing I want to say on this topic, is that romance can be more than just two lovers. It can be a sports team winning against all odds and bringing tears of joy to the most unlikely, tough hearted fan. Romance I think, is pure joyfulness encased in love, fleeting, memorable, and real, without being tangible.

I have never been able to keep plants alive. I blame ADD.

Kids and animals are easy. They walk around looking hungry, all day long, luckily.

Plants suffer silently, sadly. It’s too late by the time they show outward signs of thirst. I usually stay on top of watering for a while, a month at least, maybe two, by then there are already looking less healthy, less green. I don’t know why.

So against my better judgement, I decided to get some herbs for my kitchen (these looked great and made me very happy). When they started to falter, I put them out in my garden. Magically they all came back to life!

Speaking of magic, my garden bed is doing great!

We all got one of the raised beds. Knowing my limited skill, I took the smallest one. With much enthusiasm, I planted a variety of vegetables and a few flowers that supposedly repel bugs. We had an array of free seedlings from a friend of G’s mom. Planting was fun. I even tried bean, carrot and lettuce seeds. Early on before we decided to each have our own, I planted some purple potatoes that were old. These are in G’s garden. They came up and look great.

Everything came up and GREW!

I credit the rain. Plus, because I planted so many things, weeds didn’t have much space to grow. It even looked pretty.

For once, plants solely taken care of by me, were flourishing. I see how this could be rewarding.

Then, bugs ate some leaves. I sprayed the leaves with soapy, cayanne pepper water. Then it rained, then more bugs. I had to take the buggy plant out to save the rest. My cucumber plants will hopefully pull through.

Still my garden is the most lush and in my opinion beautiful. I’ve been warned that this might be the best it will be, that it might be down hill from here. So I’m enjoying it as much as I can. I really don’t know what’s going to happen.

I can already see baby tomatoes, tiny beans and little cucumbers. My lettuce is nice, I’ve already made a salad or two. Sampled a few pea pods, enjoyed rosemary, tyme and basil. I love my garden. I talk to it encouragingly every day. I’m sure you can see why I put the baby bird in there. It looks like a sanctuary to me.

I’m not sure why I’m seeing this kind of success. Probably the rain. But after a few days of no rain I do water when it looks dry. I love going out every morning and checking on it every night. Something about the peacefulness of all that cool green. The quick growing and loveliness of all that life. It feels like for me, a triumph.

I’ll keep you posted. Let’s see if I get tomatoes or carrots. Or cucumbers…