"Love You!"

One time, a few years back, I was at my mother-in-law’s house, talking on the phone with Hurricane Miah. Signing off on our conversation, we both said, “Love you!” in a happy, singsong voice. After I hung up, my mother-in-law commented that I am the only person she knows who does that – who says “I love you” to friends when saying goodbye.

Now, mind you, I don’t say that to all my friends. And most of the ones I do say it to, I don’t say every single time I talk to them. Hurricane Miah is one of the only ones for whom that is an automatic addendum to “goodbye,” but then again, it’s been many, many years since I stopped thinking of her as a friend and started thinking of her as family. I wouldn’t dream of not telling her I love her, any more than I would dream of not telling the same thing to my mother or sister.

Still, there are other people to whom I say it on a fairly regular basis. It’s not really something I think about, or make a conscious decision to do. It’s more like my subconscious’ way of letting me know that someone has become a really good friend – when I find myself saying it, I know that’s someone I care about, trust, enjoy spending time with. I’ve recently caught myself ending e mails that way, or saying it as part of goodbye, to two friends I’ve known for about a year. It’s always a pleasant surprise when I realize I care about someone that much.

It’s not reserved only for female friends, either, there are male friends who merit it too. I actually have one male friend right now, to whom I suspect I would say it daily if I didn’t think it would scare him away – that particular line between “friend” and “more” is blurred, and so I tread carefully. But there are other male friends who, like the above mentioned females, warrant it often.

Me, I can’t understand people like my mother-in-law, who rarely say it at all… I think the only people who hear it from her on a regular basis are the grandkids – not even her daughter or her mother. She sometimes says it to me, only when I say it to her, and it always feels like it’s a social response. When someone sneezes, you say “Bless you.” When your daughter-in-law says she loves you, you say, “Love you too.” I can’t imagine living a life where you don’t love your close friends, and I can’t imagine a life where you don’t express the love you feel for people, at least every now and then. I just believe you need to figure out who in your life you care about, who in your life you love, on whatever level – and then tell them. Tell them often. You never know when it will be your last chance, and you never know when hearing it will make someone’s day.

Walk the Line, Part 2

Let’s start where the last one left off, with Papa.

Papa, I may have mentioned before, was my mother’s father, and a professional musician for many years. He played with the likes of Buck Owens and Bob Wills, and I don’t know who else. Mama has told me a few times in the past, that there was a big tour Papa was supposed to go out on – I forget the big-name musicians she said had also been part of the tour – and that he had stayed home to be with Nana and his children instead. That tour, apparently, was when those big-name people became big-name people. I never really understood that, because my concept of touring was basically your established artists going out on big stadium tours and such – your Stones, Eagles, even your (vomit) Britney Spears or Jennifer Lopez. But this movie showed the kind of tours Johnny and June went on… with Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis, Carl Perkins, etc… tours where they caravanned in cars, or had one tour bus, and stayed in hole-in-the-wall-looking motels, and shopped in the local dime store. No fancy suites and assumed names, no entourage, no bodyguards, just a bunch of musicians traveling together and playing shows and hanging out. I see the business, and Papa, in a whole new light. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been, as a musician, as someone with a true gift, to give it up. And while my heart aches for him, that he too could have made it big, at the same time I am so proud, because he gave it up to be a husband to my grandmother, and a father to his children. If he had, instead, sacrificed his marriage and family for his career the way Cash did, where would I be right now? With a famous grandfather I may never have met. Instead I have warm memories of the Grampa (he only became “Papa” to me when the great-grandkids started coming along) who always had butter rum lifesavers in his pocket, who loved to watch beauty pageants on TV, and who I saw at least once a week from the time I was born until I moved to Texas for college.

After the movie, one of the many discussions that Cole and I had was actually a continuation from a discussion we had on the way out to go see it. We’re wondering if it’s even possible for a celebrity, to not lead a screwed-up life of some kind? I mean, yes, all people have their secrets and their dark sides. But so many famous people wind up with drug problems, alcohol dependency, violence, deaths at an early age, suicide, mental problems… a whole laundry list of serious issues, and it’s like a chicken-egg question. Does celebrity screw them up, or are they the type of people who would have had those kinds of problems anyway? Is it something about like in the limelight, and all the pressure, that drives them into those situations? Or is there something about people who would naturally live on the edge, that predestines them toward celebrity?

One more thing, and then I’ll quit for now. It made me think, again, about how much of my artistic side and my passions I have quietly allowed to die. I spent seven of the best years of my life in the theater, and I don’t think I’ve even attempted to set foot on a stage in the last fourteen. I love to sing, but have never pursued it further than the occasional karaoke night, though I’ve been wanting to take voice lessons for years. And as for my writing… well, right now my blogs and my school papers are pretty much the extent of it. Though I’ve been thinking lately about a book I’d like to write, and Cole said it sounded like it would be interesting. I’m not quite sure I could do it, nor am I sure I could sell it if I did, but I’m seriously thinking about looking into it. It’s high time I do something with the talents I’ve been given.

And with that, my lunch break is over and it’s back to the grind. Luckily, even “the grind” involves another of those talents, so it’s no real loss.

Walk the Line, Part 1

Last night I did something that I don’t think I’ve done in over a year. I went to a grown-up movie. Oh sure, I’ve been to the movies, even recently. Things like “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire,” “Chronicles of Narnia,” and “Chicken Little.” But last night, I went and saw “Walk the Line.” Add the bonus of an intelligent fellow grown-up with whom to discuss the film, and I was in heaven.

I’ll probably have to split this into two posts, so I’ll start with the basic review. First of all, the acting. Now, I like Reese Witherspoon well enough, truly I do. Throughout most of the movie, though, it seemed I was always aware that I was watching Reese-as-June. The only exceptions were the parts where she was singing. I think Mrs. Philippe might have a bit of the closet singer in her, because to me, the transformation was startling, even if she was lip-synching… suddenly she became June Carter.

Joaquin Phoenix was simply amazing. I’ve heard many things about him as an actor in general, and many things about his process during the filming of this movie. Still, I was blown away watching him, because never once did I feel like I was watching Joaquin-as-Johnny, even when I went deliberately looking for it after making that observation about Reese. (Here again, nothing against her – I think she’s one of those people who just has such a unique look to her, that it’s hard to get past.) From what I hear, Johnny Cash hand-picked Joaquin Phoenix to play him, and I can’t help but think the Man in Black is pleased with his decision.

I don’t know enough of Cash’s music, didn’t know enough of his story, to lose interest in that part of things. In places, it moved me nearly to tears. Mostly, though, it was just an incredible story. It was told well. I was amazed at how perfect Robert Patrick seemed as Ray Cash – I couldn’t picture him as old enough to play Johnny’s father, but then again, Terminator 2 was a long time ago, wasn’t it? And it was a nice touch, to have Shooter Jennings play Waylon Jennings. I couldn’t tell you if they look alike, but it was still a nice touch.

I had read an article that said one of Johnny’s children with his first wife, wasn’t pleased with the portrayal of that marriage and of his/her mother. The child apparently thought the mother came off badly. I didn’t see that; I saw a tragic story of a couple that probably never should have been married in the first place, and a messed-up man who didn’t know how to do right by his family, and who just plain fell in love with another woman. I don’t agree with how he went about things, but hey, are any of us perfect? I know I’m not… I was amazed that Vivian put up with his antics as long as she did. I was impressed at her strength when she told June to stay away from her children. And I was proud of her decision to leave when she did, and under what circumstances.

Overall, I’d say it was a pretty fantastic movie. I love looking into the lives of people so iconic, and I have a special soft spot for Johnny Cash because he’s one of the artists who has always made me think of my beloved Papa… and that’s part of the story for me to tell in another post, about the things this movie made me think about.

A movie that made me think. Imagine that.

Stretch Armstrong and the Slinky

This post grew out of a thread on the BFS forums, asking people to tell about their favorite toy ever. Well, I can't recall one or two toys that I loved above all else - but I can SURE talk about one I hated!

When I was about 4 years old or so, what I wanted more than anything in the world was a Stretch Armstrong doll. I have no idea why I wanted one, just that I did. I only found out last year that it was my father who did the honors, and my father to whom I owe an apology. Because I opened the package on my birthday, and squealed in delight when I saw that I'd been given the much-desired doll... right up until I reached into the box. Because the same thing that made him stretch, also made him (at least to little baby me) terrifying! Weird texture, kindy gooshy... yikes!!! So I tossed the doll, box and all, across the room, screaming, and refused to go anywhere near it.I wish the story ended there, but there's one little detail. You see, being a good big sister, Chelle did what any respectable big sis would do. She hid the doll in my underwear drawer. That night, as I was getting ready to take my bath, I reached in, totally not expecting my hand to brush that wierd, icky, gooshy squooshy thing... and the screaming began again.

I can get even with her though. As bad as Stretch scared me, I eventually got over it. Chelle, on the other hand, still breaks into hives when she sees a Slinky.

It started when Chelle was about 3, and still tiny baby Shelly. Our cousin Robbie was 5, and our cousin Ronnie was... hmm... significantly older and quite the juvenile delinquent in the making. He got it into his head to put the girls back to back, Shelly standing and Robbie sitting. Then he tied them up with a Slinky. One of the old metal ones. And left them there. Now, the first problem came because it took the grown-ups a little while to even figure out that Robbie and Shelly were missing. Then, once they were found, the grown-ups realized that the Slinky was so hopelessly tangled, there was no way to simply unwind it. It would have to be cut away. With a pair of bolt cutters. Bolt cutters that were about as long as Shelly was tall. Can you imagine being three years old and seeing those coming at you? No wonder she was scared!!! But the part that I always tease her about, is that now, over 30 years later, she still can't stand the sight of a Slinky. She honestly, literally breaks into hives. Hyperventilating. Shuddering.

Of course, every time I threaten her with a Slinky, she counters with a threat of sending me a Stretch Armstrong. I just don't have the heart to tell her that I'm not scared of Stretch anymore.

I'm not.

Really.

Although It's Been Said Many Times, Many Ways...

Merry Christmas to you, friends and loved ones... or Happy Hanukkah, or Happy Kwaanza, or Feliz Navidad, or Buon Natale, or Joyeux Noel, or Happy Winter Solstice, or Happy Saturnalia, or Frohe Weihnachten, or however you say, whatever you are celebrating at this time of year. My wish is simple - that this holiday season, amid the hustle and bustle and stress and strain, you take a moment to look around and realize what it's all about, whatever that might mean to you. To me, it's the chance to look at my lovely Little Women and see how they have grown over the year. To watch the Clone as she walks the line between little girl and young lady, and to delight in the times she steps to one side of the line or the other. To watch Red, usually a ball of pure energy, occasionally stop for a second and be still and contemplative. To see the kind of child Little Bit is turning into, now that she is old enough that her own uniqueness is starting to shine through.

May your days be merry and bright. For those of you (those of us I should say) for whom the holidays can sometimes be difficult, sad, lonely, may you find the moments that shine for you and use them to carry you through the harder ones. For those of you stressing because you can't afford to make the holidays what you want them to be - believe me, the people you love understand that, and they love you just the same. For those who would rather not think about the holidays and wish the world would just go back to normal and the carols would stop for crying out loud - it's almost over; why don't you load up with snacks, a few good books or movies, run a nice hot bath, and close your door to the world for a couple of days. Heck, we all need a vacation anyway!

My love to you and yours, this season and always,
SaraSmile

Church

I went to church this morning, in the car on the way to work. No, I don’t mean I drove to a church, I mean I went to church in the car. See, flipping around radio stations, I landed on the local classic rock station playing the Doobie Brothers, “Jesus is Just All Right With Me.” And that, friends and neighbors, is going to church…

See, I was raised Catholic, and at the time it worked out pretty well for me. I got the religious education; I got the good schooling through the Catholic school system (and even came out of that relatively unscathed). Then I discovered that organized religion didn’t work real well for me, and so for several years I was agnostic. I always believed in God, and in fact always had some pretty strong feelings about who He was and what He’s all about. (See my previous post, “Our Father Who Art in California.”) But as for religion, that just doesn’t work too well for me. I’ve tried attending church in another faith or three, and it’s always nice enough at first – the routine of a weekly service, the feeling of awe and reverence at being in a house of worship. Still, that quickly fades, replaced by my indignance at being told exactly what I should believe, particularly if it conflicts with my experience and/or rational thought. There’s faith (very, very good) and then there’s blind faith (God gave us brains, why wouldn’t he expect us to use them?) and in my opinion, far too many denominations expect blind faith.

Well, somewhere during one of my agnostic periods, when I worked most every Sunday morning at the grocery store, I noticed that song playing fairly frequently on Sundays. It struck me one day, then, that that was my church for the time being. A relatively quiet place, where I could be by myself, just me and my thoughts and my Father and my faith. And after all, one of the integral parts of church, to me, has always been the music. Even in the Bible – songs as praise, singing a new song unto the Lord. He loves music – He must love music, why else would he have called Jimi and Jim and Janis and Stevie Ray and so many others, up there so early? So yes, it’s a little odd, a little unconventional, a little spirit-not-letter-of-the-law, but as far as I’m concerned, me and my car and the Doobie Brothers and God and Jesus… well, that’s just all right with me.

Smitten

My daughters, it seems, are smitten.

It started last Saturday night. One of my friends from school was hosting an open house. I first met her 14 years ago, but never knew her well and had lost touch with her quite a while back, until we wound up in the same class in our first semester at the GSSW. I was better friends, back in the day, with her now-husband, but he and I had also lost touch ages ago. The open house was them and another couple, at the other couple’s house. An eat, drink and be merry type of thing, children welcome. So I brought my girls, some holiday-y goodies… and a friend of mine. A male friend. (Can I stress the word “friend”? Just friends.)

We picked up my friend – let’s call him Cole – at his place, where I happily turned over the keys to the van, and the maps to the party. Yes, maps. The one included in the invitation, and the one from Mapquest. I have a feeling that with either map alone, we would have been toast. As it was, we got slightly, er, misdirected, with the kids piping up from the back seat, “Are we lost?” “No, of course we’re not lost!!!” insists Mom. Well… only kinda. LOL In the meantime, Cole had rolled down my driver-side window. I, of course, had forgotten to tell him that I don’t ever roll that window down, since it doesn’t like to roll up. So as we finally pull up to the house, we’re still struggling to close the window. Finally we decide, it’s a safe enough neighborhood, with enough people around, that we can leave it rolled down.

I’ll fast-forward through the details, and give you just the highlights of how my girls became so smitten. I think it started when Cole took a seat somewhat near the piano, watching as Red and Little Bit tinkered around with the keys. Little Bit soon lost interest, but when I looked around, I saw that Cole was teaching Red to play a song. I forget which song, I recognized it, but nevertheless, he was teaching my Red, a.k.a. Princess ADHD, how to play. Soon the Clone joined them, and he taught her the same song. Long after Red had wandered away, Cole and the Clone were working happily on “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” I was free to wander the party, talking to old friends and new, checking occasionally on whichever kids weren’t with Cole at the time, while he charmed them each in turn.

Then came the walk through Lights in the Heights, a holiday light display in the neighborhood. We bundled the girls up in their jackets and headed out. With no discussion whatsoever, Red and the Clone each grabbed one of Cole’s hands and headed out down the street, as though they did that every day. Soon Red was begging to ride on Cole’s shoulders, and even as I was scolding her for asking, he was lifting her up over his head. Now, Red is almost 9 years old, she’s a big girl, but Cole was game. I hoisted Little Bit onto my own shoulders, the Clone grasped Cole’s hand again, and off we went. That alone amazed me. What amazed me more, was that when he put Red down and the Clone begged for her turn, he lifted her onto his shoulders with no hesitation. The Clone. The 10 year old, who is getting bigger, taller, and to her mother’s chagrin, heavier/curvier by the day. Like she was made of air, he lifted her up. Of course, Little Bit eventually got her turn on his shoulders too, and was delighted. Heading back to the party house for one last restroom trip, Little Bit started getting fussy, and Cole quickly launched a game that kept her distracted. Even I can't do that.

I think one of my favorite parts of the whole evening, though, was when we were pulling away. As soon as he started the van, Cole started trying again to get the window to roll up, and less than a block away, it finally did. Amidst the cheers that filled the car, I heard Little Bit’s emphatic declaration, “I KNEW you could do it!!!”

Quietly, so that the girls did not hear, Cole extended the invitation for us all to hang out at his place for a while. You can’t know how much that meant to me, both that he wanted us there, and that he was thoughtful enough to ask me privately, rather than in front of the girls and backing me into a corner. So we headed to his place, where the girls ooh’ed and aah’ed over his holiday decorations and settled happily on the couch to watch the Grinch.

Now, I knew the girls must have really liked him, when their recounting of the evening to their grandmother the next day was punctuated by, “Mr. Cole did this” and “Mr. Cole said that.” But I REALLY knew it last night. You see, somewhere along the walk, the Clone had started singing to Mr. Cole. This is the same child who will stop singing when she sees that her grandmother and I are paying attention, and she was singing to him. So Monday, I mentioned to him that the big girls are in their school choir, and will have a short outdoor concert Friday night. I told him not to feel obligated to come, but to know that he was welcome. He cleared his calendar and promised he would be there. And when I told the girls last night as we drove around looking at Christmas lights, I heard two high-pitched squeals from the back seat, and the sound of feet kicking against the cushions. It seems they are thrilled at the idea of Mr. Cole coming to hear them sing.

Yep. My girls are smitten.

Letter to Santa

Santa Clause
North Pole, Earth


Dear Santa,

I have been a good girl.

It really wasn't my fault what happened at Miah's office party. It was Steve who spiked the punch with too much whiskey. I can't help it if I drank 13 glasses. It was so good---smelled and tasted just like vanilla.

I thought it was funny when I put Keira's skirt on my head and danced the limbo on the couch while singing `"Please Come Home for Christmas"'. I didn't mean to break Miah's iPod and don't know why Miah would accuse me of grand theft auto.

I don't remember calling Ruben's wife a slimy cow---even though she looked like one with sapphire eye shadow and burnt umber lipstick!

And when I threw up on Kim's husband's arm, it was only because I ate too much of that spaghetti.

After all that fun, I admit I was a little tired. So I fell asleep on my way home and drove my hot-rod through my neighbor's attic. I don't think that was any reason for my neighbor to call me a small ferret and have me arrested for burglary!

So, Santa...here I sit in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, all sharp and slow. And I'm really not to blame for any of this wise stuff. Please bring me what I want the most---bail money!

Sincerely and quickly yours,
Sara (Really a nice girl!)

P.S. It's only 7 bucks!


Create your own Santa letter here: http://members.aol.com/frogiearno/dearsanta.htm

Twinkies and Clicks

Did you ever run across someone you just totally click with? It’s happened to me a lot, especially in the past year or so. A big part of it has been all the cool people I’ve met on Books for Soldiers (that includes the ones that are no longer even active in that organization, BTW)… My “Twinkies” like Jo and Keira and Kim and Dawn, with whom I keep finding all sorts of interesting things in common. It always amuses me when we start saying and thinking the same things, and a huge part of the fun is also when I see in them, things I aspire to be some day. I’ve told Keira more than once, I want to be her when I grow up. (She is all of two months older than I am, I think…)

I had another one of those weird/fun/cool coincidences last night. There is someone I work with, that I’ve recently had occasion to talk to a little more than usual. If I’m not mistaken, we might actually be forming what could be called a friendship – always a pleasant surprise. Yesterday afternoon, he was working on a speech he had to give for a commencement last night. Like me, he waits until the last minute, and also like me, he agonizes over every word, every phrase, the slightest nuances, when the fact is that his thrown-together, last-minute effort still comes out sounding much better than about 90% of the population could come up with after two solid weeks of working on it. Side note: though I consider him a coworker, he actually works at another office. So we were carrying on a discussion about this speech via e mail, and early on I had offered to help him in any way I could. I would have written the whole thing if he wanted me to. He sent me a copy of what he had already, or rather, his intro, a space he left to tell the “how I got where I am” part of things (part of which I already knew), and then a closing piece which he said was flat-out lifted from something else and still needed to be modified. I really liked what he already had, and told him so. He asked if I would help him modify that last paragraph. Even though it was still missing the “how I got where I am” part, I could still see basically where the speech was going, so I dug back in my e mail (sometimes it pays to be a pack-rat!) and found a copy of something my sister had sent me, a commencement address given at Stanford by Steve Jobs (you know, the Apple Computers/Pixar guy). So I tossed that quote in at the end, and then did a little modification of the lifted paragraph, tied it up with a phrase that echoed something he had expressed in an earlier part of the speech, and mailed it off to him. On my way out the door already, I called him to make sure he’d received it, and to give him a little encouragement.

This morning, I got to the office and to my e mail, to find a copy of the full text of his speech. He had added in his story, and I realized that the more I get to know about this guy, the happier I am that we are becoming friends. He’s just a really cool person, and I love to meet really cool people. I liked his story of how he got to where he is. What I also liked was that he had taken the ending I’d given him and gone with it, not changing a word (and most likely delivering it with honesty and conviction). What I liked most, though, was that he mentioned to me that the quote from Steve Jobs that I had included, was actually something that he had looked at when he first started writing his speech, he just hadn’t been sure how to incorporate it.

James Douglas Morrison

In just under an hour, it will be Jim's birthday again. He would have been 62. He would have hated his age, and would have still been quite lucid, and quite brilliant.

In just under an hour, it will be Bret's birthday, too. He will be 37. Still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still The One, and still a dream I will likely never realize. I guess that's the way it will always be. Both of my December 8th dreamers, forever out of reach.

JIM MORRISON 1943 - 1971

You could say it's an accident that I was ideally suited for the work I am doing. It's the feeling of a bowstring being pulled back for 22 years and suddenly being let go. I am primarily an American, second, a Californian, third, a Los Angeles resident. I've always been attracted to ideas that were about revolt against authority. I like ideas about the breaking away or overthrowing of established order. I am interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos - especially activity that seems to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom - external revolt is a way to bring about internal freedom. Rather than starting inside, I start outside - reach the mental through the physical. I am a Sagittarian - if astrology has anything to do with it - the Centaur - the Archer - the Hunt - But the main thing is that we are The Doors.

We are from the West. The whole thing is like an invitation to the West.

The sunset - This is the end
The night - The sea

The world we suggest is of a new wild west. A sensuous evil world. Strange and haunting, the path of the sun, you know? Toward the end. At least for our first album. We're all centered around the end of the zodiac. The Pacific - violence and peace - the way between young and the old.

Taken from the original Elektra Records biography, 1967

WTF

This morning, getting ready for work, I was listening to a news story – don’t remember if it was a network morning show, or CNN, or what… anyway, they were talking about this new trend of hiring celebrities to perform at private parties. The same story was running on the radio – Steven Tyler from Aerosmith for $250,000, at your Bar Mitzvah or Sweet Sixteen, etc. There was a whole long list of celebrities who do that, and I can’t really fault them for wanting to make a buck, though I still have MAJOR issues with the Aerosmith/Target commercial. Anywho, the TV story was talking, particularly, about this super-expensive Bat Mitzvah with this very spoiled little turning-thirteen girl. The piece ended with a comment about how they were only three years away from her Sweet Sixteen.

Now that is a case for the WTF Files.

A Bat Mitzvah and a Sweet Sixteen? Now, I don’t claim to know everything there is to know about the Jewish culture, but a Bar or Bat Mitzvah is an important coming-of-age, rite-of-passage type of event that symbolizes leaving childhood and entering the world of adulthood, particularly as it pertains to their faith. In some Hispanic cultures, a quinceañera is a similar ritual that takes place at age 15. Some cultures, or perhaps more accurately some social classes, celebrate a Sweet Sixteen or a Debutante Ball. But they’re all essentially a grand, usually expensive, celebration of basically the same thing – entrance into adulthood, maturity, responsibility, etc. I’ll refrain from making any comment about how “adult” your average 13, 15, 16 or even 18-year-old is, and stick to the issue at hand. First, why are people spending such ridiculous amounts of money for a party? I mean, for crying out loud, if you have that kind of money do something useful with it! Lord knows we don’t need any more spoiled, materialistic brats with a misplaced sense of entitlement, than we already have. But especially with Miss Mitzvah… why does she get a Bat Mitzvah and a Sweet Sixteen too? Don’t they serve basically the same purpose? IMHO, unless you happen to be a Mexican Jewish girl, if you must have parties that cost stupid-money, show a little class and limit yourself to one.

Affirmation

I sent an e mail of support and condolence this afternoon to the Chaplain for a Marine Unit that lost 10 soldiers on 12/02/05. My “baby bruvver” Nate is in this same unit, though last I heard, he is fine and well and going on leave this week to see his lovely wife. When the Chaplain responded to my initial e mail, he said “bless you and your little girls” for our thoughts and prayers. As is my typical response, I told him that we were already blessed, which is why we do this. I also told him that I could appreciate how important, and how difficult, his own job is, and that as a social-worker-in-training, I knew from whence I spoke.

His response brought tears to my eyes.

“Keep forging ahead in your career. The world needs people who reach to the depths of the soul and care for other human beings. What a great vocation. Thanks for connecting with us out here on the fringes of the world.”

Now if that’s not a reason to press on in times of struggle, I just don’t know what is.

My Holiday Tribute to Books for Soldiers

'Twas the month before Christmas, and through the BFS house
One could hear frantic typing and the clicking of a mouse,
The requests had been posted by moderators with care,
in hopes that OVs soon would be there.

The soldiers were nestled all snug in their bunks,
(and some of them sure were adorable hunks!)
And surrounded by boxes and holiday wrap,
Who has the time to waste on a nap?

When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew in a hurry,
’round FRBs and FREs I did scurry.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what did I see throwing kisses and hugs,
but a minivan full of BFS Chatterbugs!

With a driver careening through many a mile,
I knew in a moment it must be SaraSmile.
More rapid than eagles, rabble-rousers they came,
and she whistled and shouted and called them by name:
"Now AvsFan! Now TammyCat!Now, TizWiz and Lis!
On, Kimcatus! On, DC!On, Elizabeth and wendyc!
To the post office counter!Grab your stash of Flat Rate stamps!
Let’s pack up those boxes,My fellow wild …scamps!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so on the post office, this crew they descended,
leaving workers bewildered, amused though upended.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard clearly the sound
of postal trucks idling in the background.
I knew they’d be headed that very same night,
Toward APOs and FPOs for an MPS flight.

Across hundreds of miles and crossing the seas,
Soldiers were waiting, some with decorated trees
For the gifts that they already knew to expect,
From people who live to show them love and respect.

Their eyes--how they twinkled in anticipation!
These brave men and women defending our nation,
Serving their country so far from their homes,
but knowing in their hearts they are never alone.

The strong, stalwart soldiers, Marines brave and true,
hard-working sailors, courageous airmen too.
Each one of them special, each one such a hero,
even as desert nights drop down near zero.

They never complain and resolve never wavers,
they have such a hard time asking for favors.
Yet they know our support is just a modem line away
and mail call can be such a special time of day.

They speak words of thanks every chance that they’re given,
when it’s us who should thank them for the secure lives we’re livin'.
They fight for our liberty, fight for our freedom.
We can’t ever let them think that we don’t need ‘em..

So pack up those boxes with jerky and candy,
Books are great, too, and CDs are just dandy.
Let them hear you exclaim, even to excess,
"Happy Christmas to all, with love from BFS!"



BFS= Books for Soldiers, a support site
OV = Official Volunteer, a BFS member who has access to troop requests and mailing addresses
FRE/FRB = Flat Rate Envelope/Box, which often saves a small fortune in postage on heavier items
APO/FPO= Air Post Office/Fleet Post Office (part of a military address)
MPS = Military Postal Service, everything sent to an APO or FPO is then transported via MPS to the actual locations where the soldiers are

The Perfect Pizza - A Tribute to Rocco Messina

This has been a pretty rough week. I guess in part because it came after a busy and fun-filled four day weekend, but also in part because of finals and final papers, and also because it seems like I have this neon sign on my forehead saying, “Trouble: Land Here.” (Read my immediate previous post for some of that fun.) So last night, a friend suggested that I really needed a long hot bath in a deep bathtub, with some bath salts – said I would sleep like a baby. I countered with the need for some hot cocoa with Bailey’s, which was met with enthusiastic agreement that it, too, would ease my sorrows. Then I said if I was feeling really reckless, I would also splurge on a pizza. We discussed the relative merits of different toppings, and both agreed that Domino’s and Papa Johns are good, Pizza Hut not so much. (Hmm. I wonder how we avoided a debate on crust?) But all the talk about pizza, got me thinking about real pizza. Pizza like we used to get when I was a kid in good ol’ Vallejo, CA, at Rocco’s.

Now, first of all, that is not pronounced “Rocko.” It’s hard to explain it phonetically, but you have to roll the “R”, the first “o” is long, there is a brief pause/hiccup between the two “c’s”, and the second “o” is also long. Emphasis on the first syllable. Rocco. Rocco Messina.

For the majority of my childhood I couldn’t even eat pizza. I had a bad milk allergy, and the cheese would have had me aching for days, my nights filled with nightmares. But eventually I grew out of the allergy (though sometimes I still get a little bit sick if I have too much dairy) and was able to see what all the fuss was about. And, OH MY! Rocco’s pizza was killer. Rocco, you see, was from the Old Country. He must have been around my parents’ ages, since his daughter was a year behind me in school. It was one of those success stories, where he came over with very little to his name, built his business on blood, sweat and tears, wisely invested every spare penny, and by the time he sold the pizza place (and of course, it never ever tasted as good again) he was quite a wealthy man. His pizzas were perfect. Crust – thick and chewy. Sauce – perfectly spiced, not too much and not too little. Toppings – highest quality, and he never skimped on anything. Cheese – oh, the ooey gooey cheese that had been the bane of my younger years, golden and… well… cheesy. Very likely it would have been a heart attack in a box, but for the garlic. That’s why we Italians can eat all that meat and cheese and still live into our 90s, because we counter it with enough garlic to clear the arteries right back up.

I don’t even know offhand of a pizza place around here that compares, or if they even exist anymore, at least not in cities that don’t have a Little Italy neighborhood. But you can bet your bottom dollar that the next place I settle in, I will look until I find it. Because nothing makes a bad week better, than a hot bath, cocoa with Bailey’s, and a really good pizza.