Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

Every year at this time I am reminded of the many blessings I have, and the times where I thought I had none.

It was before the second husband, the onslaught of babies, and the beginning of a new awareness that my life was no longer my own.

I was the single mother of a three year old son, and had moved to a new town. It was far away from where I was born, and farther still from any family, friends or outside influences.

I was 23 years old and mad at the world. God was a distant memory from junior high and certainly wasn't in my plans.

Having arrived with only our clothes and my young son's toys, I found a house close to work, so that gas and parking wouldn't eat up what was left of already a meager salary. I had recently started a new job as a secretary in a small firm, qualifying for help with day care. Not welfare, but an adjustable rate charged against how much my salary totaled. It was enough to buy food and pay rent, but not much else.

Time went by and we both made friends, although I didn't invite anyone over, since I had very little to entertain with. I didn't have a kitchen table, and the only bed was his, I slept on a mattress in the other bedroom. Our clothes were stacked neatly in cardboard boxes, our socks and underwear in plastic bins. My kitchen table was a purple suitcase. Christmas was coming and I didn't have much in the way of funds, let alone a christmas tree. I was invited to a cookie exchange, something even more foreign to me than learning to balance my check book. I respectfully declined.

My boss was a gruff old cuss, but as is usually with crusty types, he was a softie inside. He was a retired Navy captain, and would regale us with stories of his travels from all over the globe. He noticed alot but never said much. Fridays were Bagel Day, a day when we would take turns bringing in bags of bagels & cream cheese for fellow workers to share, a time to stop and reacquaint ourselves and not just talk business. Whenever it came to be my turn he would whisper to me I've got it this week. He noticed that I would always take an extra bagel and stuff it in my purse. He never drew attention to it except one time, to say conspiratorially For the boy? and I would nod, Yes. Thanks. It would be his treat after dinner, toasted and piled high with grape jelly.

Winter was in full blast in Pennsylvania, rumbling through the little town I had settled in like a locomotive on speed. Winters were damp and cold, and the wind chilled the bones so deep it is a memory that stays with me still. Snow was falling lightly the Christmas Eve of my memory, and I had wrapped the last of the three presents bought for my son with the money I had squirreled away. There was nothing else, no special dinner nor plans for church. I was still mad at God for putting me in this mess.

Putting my young one to bed, we talked excitedly about Santa and his expected arrival, for I didn't want to dampen his mood or lessen his child joy of the season. I had cut a small tree down from the neighboring park, and it sat in the corner of the livingroom, minus lights or christmas balls, just some silver tinsel I had gotten for 10 cents a package. Stuffed in a cardboard box to hold it up, it stood there, looking as forlorn as I had felt.

I sat on the deep sill of the kitchen window, watching the flakes fall against the backdrop of the street lights. It was early evening and the t.v. was off, a small black and white portable that also sat on a cardboard box. It was quiet and snow muffled any sound, except for the crunch of tires on the street below.

I thought about the choices I had made which had put me in this position. although I was tired, I was calm because I knew that I had done the best I could for my child and that was what really important to me. I knew that my time would come, but it would be a long time coming. It was then that I started to think about God again, and what I needed to do to make things right with him, to raise my son with morals and stability.

Lost in my thoughts, my eyes didn't immediately focus on the truck that had stopped in front of my house. It wasn't until I noticed the figure below waving their arms excitedly, that I realized I was looking at the face of my boss and some co workers. The crusty old man was beaming from ear to ear, and the doorbell rang loudly. My son ran from the bedroom asking, Is Santa here?

Running to the front and pulling the door open, I saw them standing there, holding chairs and end tables, a stainless steel kitchenette set and a mattress. With a headboard and frame, they smiled silently as they walked passed me and laid them down in the appropriate rooms.

One by one, they quietly placed them down, looking around the sparse rooms that were clean but empty. Box upon box of dishes, silverware and linens piled up in corners of the kitchen, until finally they were finished. They had cleaned out their attics, their cupboards and their wallets, also surprising me with a cooked turkey with all the trimmings.

They stood in my little living room, eleven in all. Co workers with spouses, they stood waiting never uttering a sound.

The crusty old man gave the cue, and they began to sing.

We wish you a Merry Christmas

We wish you a Merry Christmas

We wish you a Merry Christmas

and a Happy New Year.

Merry Christmas! They shouted and only then did I let the tears flow. Full of gratitude and love for my fellow workers, I never forgot the feeling they gave me. I relive it every year at this time, and I give freely to others. I don't think they knew the depth of their kindness and how much it touched me.

Two years after that, I remarried and spent alot of years raising a family. I have been rich and I have been poor, but I have never forgotten the joy that comes with giving as well as receiving.  I have thanked God for being and experiencing both.

Thank you, Wayne Smalley, where ever you are; your gift was much more than you'll ever know.

Merry Christmas to those who have and those who have not.

No matter what you have, share it with others.

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It's become a well oiled routine, taking the dogs for their daily walks.   Some times we take advantage of the fenced in yard opposite from the Lake, when some days we  cheat and let them play inside the outdoor playpen.  But more often than not, they are not satisfied with this temporary work-out.  For the one thing I've learned about raising labs is that they love the water.

And they love to run.

They need to run.

So, no matter what the weather, we are out there. Rain or shine, blizzard or heat wave, we still have to gear up and take them for their walks. Slathered up with sun block in the summer and bundled up with layers in the winter, it's become good exercise for us as well. Even though the first initial blast of arctic air in the face is enough to make you turn tail and run as far away from the wind as possible, we always push on because we know it is good for them.

Good for us.

The Summer sojourns are obviously more enjoyable than the colder months, and we can sit for hours on the shore line, watching them frolic in the water. Always mischievously looking over their shoulder to see if we're watching, the older one teaches the younger about fishing for salmon.

But the Autumn has its own beauty, the trees shedding their leaves and the bushes turning burning bright red, earning its name. The air is filled with the aroma of the burning leaves, and the sounds of machinery in far off orchards, harvesting of the apples in full throttle. The lake is still warm enough for them to go fishing, and the waves still flow in and out, with the tandem of the ages.

Spring is filled with wonderful surprises as we climb towards the hill where they like to run. An open field, it is grassy and soft and filled with the smell of flowers and the distant fruit trees beginning to blossom.

But it is almost Winter again, and we have come full circle. Although the first snow fall was minor, it was enough to cover the ground and created the need for snow boots. Our outfits are that of winters past, gloves and mittens, scarves and hooded sweatshirts, all layered under a heavy coat. The wind coming off of the Lake can be brutal, slicing the atmosphere and peppering the eyeballs with cold biting needles of air. Tears will gather in their corners to protect and lubricate so one can see the horizon, but its hard to look up for very long.

During our walks we mostly look downward, so as to be careful of our footing. It only takes one time to turn an ankle or slip ungracefully on the ice to remind you to watch your step. It was during the recent winter walks, however, that I was given a wonderful gift, an analogy for my beloved.

He is so different from anyone you've known, sometimes my friends would say. What is it about him that you like most?

I have to admit that I wasn't quite sure exactly what it was, and I would smile and answer, knowing it really wasn't enough for them.

I don't know, theres just something about him - and it wasn't until I stepped upon my gift one recent winter morning that I realized exactly what it was.

He's precise and determined, his demeanor is rough and hard. A call to standback, don't get too close, emanates from his body like a clarion call to all who walk by. But every now and then, a crack would break open. The armor in which he had so masterfully wrapped himself in became translucent and one was able to see inside. I was privy to view one summer afternoon and it drew me in, anxious to see more.

Able to see the soft and tender side of one who had given up but still held the sliver of hope that there was someone out there for him.

This day, however, was bleak and cold, no sun to be found overhead. The sound of the waves were loud and imposing the will of yet another storm on the way. We had bundled up in our gear and were halfway to the field for the dogs' run, our breath freezing in front of us, no words necessary. Our faces bound by scarves and face masks, the only thing visible were our eyes, and thats all we needed this morning to talk.

Another biting hit of the wind, I looked down to avoid the arrival of the lubricating tears. It was useless however, because they came anyway.

My gift was on the ground, and it was the final answer to a question that so many had asked. What do you see in him?

I saw three freshly preserved apples, frozen in the snow, hardened by life and the weather. I stepped on one of them to display a creamy soft center, bursting through the icy skin and emitting a sweet aroma of apples and juicy goodness.

That's my beloved. A Perfect Frozen Apple.

Don't walk by them when you first come upon them - for their is a wonderful soft surprise inside.

Posted by eloveman at 08:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

With the passing of another Thanksgiving holiday dinner, I am reminded of how things have changed.

When I was a young mother with babies and cats, the preparation for the holiday seemed to take days. Scouring the newspaper ads for the various sales at the competing supermarkets was a week long event, culminating with the Sunday paper and its pandora's box of colored flyers.

If I wasn't already confused by week's end, seeing the different prices for fresh cranberries and oranges, as well as bags of bread versus bagged ready made stuffing, I was close to the edge. Sweet potatoes or yams, mashed potatoes or baked, the choices were endless, daunting, but still, a lot of fun. Canned cranberry sauce vs. jellied? I could never decide, so I bought both. Corn, turnips, squash, I cooked it all and there was enough leftovers to feed an army.

Of course the crowning glory was the turkey, with stuffing in it, around it, and behind it.

In my neighborhood, no self respecting mother would serve a store bought pie, but I always bought an apple pie to hide in the pantry, just in case my pumpkin pie was less than adequate. These were babies mind you, and if I smothered a "mistake" with whipped cream, no one was the wiser.  But there were some people who kept score.

In fact, most imperfections could be hidden - dinner rolls whose bottoms were burnt could be cut off, creating "shorties" . Mashed potatoes too lumpy? Add more butter. Better yet, one could drown the whole feast in gravy.

Gravy, too, could be bought in a can or ripped from a package. I came from a long line of gravy makers, and my mother made the best. She knew how to make it, but didn't know how to teach me. Her heart laid more in matters of the arts, creative on canvas and clay, but not in the kitchen.

My younger sister picked up cooking like a second language, and once she started talking, I was truly a foreigner.

So any time it came time to prepare a meal with gravy, my heart was heavy with the thought of messing it up once again. It was either too watery, too gooey or too pasty. I tried and tried, but I just couldn't get it. It invariably turned out lumpy and uneven, a metaphor for the life I was living, and trying not to notice.

Fast forward many years later, and although I had become more adept in the kitchen, gravies still intimidated me. As I entered a new stage in my life, that of a woman alone with no one to cook for or answer to, I began to experiment with recipes and theories, both IN the kitchen and out.

I discovered the secret of the Roux.

To seasoned chefs in the kitchen, this may come as quite a surprise that I had never learned the mastery of a skill so simple.

Roux. Butter, flour and pandrippings/juice from whatever you're cooking.

As I had with so many other areas of my life that year, I had to practice, over and over and over again, the Roux.   Blending and stirring the three together, until they are one.  The Roux has to become invisible, immersed into the gravy without taste and texture. 

Because just as the Roux is the foundation of any gravy, the substance you pour over your meal, so is the Roux of Life.

Love, tenderness and kindness make the Roux of a life one can be proud of and happy.  They have to be blended to form the perfect base.  There will be lumps if you don't have all three.

As with all the good things in my life, I have learned the secret of the Roux. My foundation is now secure and the recipe is complete.

Everything else is gravy. Learn to make a perfect Roux.

You'll never be sorry.

I hope you had a wonderful and Happy Thanksgiving, now and forever.

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Most everywhere in the U.S. the day after Thanksgiving has been designated as Black  Friday, a day where all stores open early (read 3 a.m.) to hold holiday sales and drastic reduction in prices of their products.  Aimed at the frugal shopper, it has become a tradition for many families, mostly women, who take the opportunuity to rise at two o’clock in the morning, double up on socks and under garments (here in the northeast) and climb into a cold car with the motor running, blasting cold air because it takes 10 minutes for the vehicle to warm up. 

From there they travel to their local Walmart, Target or other discount store to fight for a parking spot, to  fight for a shopping cart and to fight other people just like themselves so that they can get 50 cents off a flat screen tv or a cd player or even the dolly their little girl is clamoring for.

Jeez, do they even call them dollies anymore?

Anyway, it has become a rite of passage somehow, for mothers and daughter and sisters and cousins who enjoy the camarderie of finding the perfect gift, planning their game plan and escape route, all the while setting up for the kill in case one of their own happens to touch their stuff.

Its not my idea of a good time.

I thought about it one year, thinking I was missing out on something important, some kind of cultural phenomenon that I would be all the better for once I had experienced it – but when the alarm when off at 2:30 a.m., even the dogs raised their heads up off the floor to look at me and then at the LCD face of the clock to stare at me with their best What, are you nuts? look. 

So I rolled over and never looked back.

I thought back to when my children were little and for many years had to wait until the last paycheck before Christmas, forgoing paying the rent or the mortgage, and used it to purchase all the toys (and dollies) that I could afford.   In the words of fashion guru Tim Gunn,  I “made it work.”

For a long time, I couldn’t part with the funds to buy something early, discovering layaway as a godsend.   Maybe that’s where the innovative idea of shopping early and cheap arose from – the need for other mothers like me to buy in bulk and all in one place. 

There was no such thing in my house as hiding presents, for there wasn’t anything to hide until perhaps three or four days before hand.  I would wrap the presents on Christmas Eve as soon as they  (and their father) went to bed, when I had the whole house to myself and the Christmas music played softly in the background.  Even though it was the early 1980’s, I preferred to play cassette tapes of Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney while wrapping and taping.  A hot cup of tea steaming beside me on the kitchen table, I wrapped and taped until the wee  hours of the morning.  Like my mother before me, she was heading to the bedroom just as little slippered shod feet came clamoring down the hallway, exclaiming "Santa is here!" 

I’d think about my parents, living down south and far removed from the snow and cold of the season, a move they had looked forward to for a very long time,  and how much I missed them.  We were all raised basically the same way.  I thought about my siblings, all of us scattered across the country because of spouses and job comittments.  We would visit on the phone on Christmas afternoon, after all the gifts had been ripped open.  the shiny paper and shredded tape all over the living room floor, the wrapping I was now trying desperately to stretch to fit the last present.

It is a great memory to have, not one I would do away with if given the chance.  The gifts, either homemade or store bought, were always little treasures and pieces of my heart, and they knew that.

Nowadays the gifts are bigger and more expensive, and there is much more thought put into them, because I have both the luxury of time and funds to be able to put into the purchase.  Buying for grandchildren is much different that buying for kids, somehow.   There doesn’t seem to be the urgency to find the perfect gift or the present they have been begging for.  They are content to receive what Nana sends them or what Grandpa Steve hauls all from the truck.

I do get involved in the Cyber Monday experience – much more my style, because the only traffic is in cyberspace and I can roll over and go back to sleep when I am finished.

But I still wait until Christmas Eve to wrap all the presents, little treasures from my heart, as I listen to Frank, Bing, Johnny and Rosemary.

That is one tradition I can not do without.

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I start every morning by reading the obituaries.

“Are you in there?” Father would ask me, referring to the list of the dearly departed. 

It was my first time.

Lunch packed and sent off with a kiss, my beloved had left for work allowing me to complete the morning rituals of cleaning up and feeding the dogs and our embattled old cat, Zeekee.

But I knew today would be like no other day, for I was also left to accomplish the task I knew he could not bear to do. It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, a time of thanks and gratitude.

Our appointment wasn't until 2 pm so I had time to prepare us all.

Laying on the feather bed they all shared from time to time, it had become a place of solace for her threadbare, nearly skeletal body. She had lost a considerable amount of body fat, and her skin just hung from her frame. She was always cold now, and I had taken to wrapping her in a blanket to keep her warm on cold mornings. They took turns laying with her and licking her head.

Most often she would wait patiently in line to be fed, knowing I took care of her brothers first, watching and waiting, sometimes grabbing a sip from the community water bowl they all shared. The boys gave her a wide berth now as they watched her slowly pander over to the dish, now looking mammoth against her impoverished frame. She drank slowly, as if to savor the taste since this had become the only thing she was able to keep down.

I had wondered how I would transport her to the destination, as she hated riding in the car and didn't like to be handled. A quarter of the size she once was, I thought of putting some bath hand towels in a small plastic tub. Laying it on the couch, it laid there waiting for her for several hours.

Throughout the morning, she systemically walked from room to room, slowly and deliberately, before she made her decision to wash herself in the makeshift bedding.

She was looking for him to say goodbye, and my eyes began to well up at the realization she knew what was to follow.

She jumped right in among the towels, thankful again for the warmth. It was as if she knew the makeshift bed would be a welcome method of travel, since her legs were now wobbley and shakey.

After starting up the car and letting the heat blast throughout the vehicle, I placed her on the passenger seat next. Putting it in gear, I backed up slowly out of the drive so as not to startle her in the sudden shift in direction. Her little head poked between the towels, and she watched me with her tired eyes the entire trip. More than once I had to cover her head gently as if to beckon her to rest, for I couldn't bear to watch her watch me.

Barely two minutes before our arrival, she got a burst of energy and jumped out of the box! It was so surprising I had to pull over to retrieve her from the back seat.

"What is this?" I admonished her gently with a sad smile, and "You'll catch your death......." caught in my throat as I covered her back up.

The greeters solemly ushered us in and my swollen eyes needed no explanation. They knew whey we were there, and had done this many times before.

"This is my first time....." I offered lamely and the one in charge put her arm around me and kissed my cheek.

"You can stay with her as long as you need" she offered and we went to the room with a countertop covered in quilts and bathed in dim lights.

Kneeling down to look face to face, I stroked her back gently as they administered the first injection, the one that would begin to take the pain away. Like a soldier on a battlefield, she crawled slowly on her belly in an attempt to get closer to me so that we could wait together cheek to cheek. My tears fell on her soft fur, and I answered the ringing cell phone that was in my pocket. It was him and he was crying softly, waiting for the inevitable.

The fur on her boney leg was shaved gently, and the second, final injection complete; I kissed her pink nose while stroking her head. As I looked into her eyes one last time, I watched her slowly fade away, until the light in her eyes went out. No more pain and never to be hungry again, I said good bye to our brave warrior feline.

"It's done" I whispered to him and promised to bring her home to him soon.

Posted by eloveman at 08:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Listen to me Thanksgiving morning (11/22/07) on the Morning Show with Beth & Chet at www.wham1180.com or on the radio from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 am  WHAM 1180 am radio.  It will also be replayed the next day Friday, November 23 

They usually air the book interviews at around 7:30.  You can also click on the interview on the website.  

The interview was to promote my newest book "George & Bob Stories: Life Lessons From Little Brothers" available now through www.barnesandnoble,com  and www.amazon.com and at my booksignings at the Artisans Loft in Pultneyville on November 24, and Barnes & Noble in Webster on December 8. 

Thanks again for your support!

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Originating from Long Island, a stones throw away from New York City, I consider myself to be a woman of keen fashion sense, flair and style. I will openly admit I am very much a snob when it comes to the clothes I will wear. Garments hawking Donna Karen, Bill Blass, Anne Klein and Ralph Lauren were what I most preferred. I entered young adult hood nourished by a steady diet of the most expensive designer labels and products. I only bought the best, and if I didn’t have the money, I would save my pennies until I did. Classic designs and lines, (with matching shoes and hand bags) were the mantra of my day.

 

As a result of this upbringing, I have been rewarded with a wardrobe that has withstood the test of time, and has lasted through many dry cleanings and raising many children. Classics never go out of style, and good fabric is indestructible. Which is why I surprise everyone every late Fall, when the chill winds turns to winter snow, and I look in my closet for my winter coats.

 

There is it again. The ugliest coat I have ever seen.

 

It’s a brown, hounds tooth pattern, double breasted, mid length wool coat. It cost $75 in 1987. Every winter since then I look at this monstrosity hanging in my closet, haul it out, and make myself wear it for several days as the chastisement from my daughters and friends begins. It's become a tradtion and they think its all a big joke. If they only knew.

 

“What were you thinking”, I hear over and over. “Oh, not THAT coat again! That coat is SO not you! This coat is so unfashionable, so not chic. It's so 80's! It has no lines, no pleats. It has no collar and no fur. No cuffs, no silk lining and no gold buttons. It’s a plain, black buttoned, rayon lined blanket!” I smile. Fashion diva that I am, I still will not allow myself to part with this coat. For they don’t know the story.

 

Many years ago, Sunday mornings were spent going to church together as a family. There we would be, the seven of us, going down the aisle to our seats, taking up a full pew. I would be so proud of my little ones, all dressed in matching jackets or identical sweaters, baby girl in a little fake fur hat and matching hand muffler. Praying was secondary, I was all about “showing off” my brood.

 

Their father and I would be dressed in our Sunday best. Because of our large family, finances were tight and our best didn’t always look that great. Our coats were never dirty or torn, but would look old and worn, having seen better days. His looked worse than mine. Of course, his things always looked worse than mine. He never bought himself anything, and wouldn’t accept a gift from me. That’s the kind of man he was.

 

An older woman used to sit alone in the pew behind us. She would always give us a big hug and kiss during the sign of Peace. She usually had a sucker or piece of chocolate that she would sneak to the kids for “after church.” When it came time to give me a hug, Dorothy would inevitably first look at my coat, then sigh, and then look at my husband with a look to say “can’t you get her something decent?”

 

I know it always made him feel funny, but we never discussed it.

 

One Sunday in October, when the leaves were just about off the trees, Dorothy surprised me with a gift out in the church parking lot. It was a mink coat, a REAL mink coat, one that had obviously been of excellent quality to have lasted so long. The buttons were worn, some of the clasps were torn off and there was tear at one of the seams. It had been her coat when she was younger.

 

“I know it needs a little tailoring” she said pulling me closer so no one else could hear, “but its better than what you have now. Get it fixed. No one needs to know I gave it to you.” She headed towards the church entrance to sit back in her seat and begin saying her rosary smiling, content she had done the “right thing.”

 

“eh, thanks,” I stammered, not really knowing what to say. I had never had a fur coat. We couldn’t afford one, and it would be some time before he would be able to even think of getting me one. My grandmother had a black mink that my mother borrowed now and then. I remember rubbing my hands on it the one or two times a year she would wear it. I had the same feeling now as when I felt grandmother’s coat. Envy. After Mass and getting in the car, I couldn’t look at my husband. Neither could he look at me.

 

Several days went by as I struggled with my conscience. I wanted to run out to a furrier and repair that coat, get the buttons replaced, the latches secured. I wanted to get it steamed cleaned and have the torn lining sew back in. I wanted to wear that coat.

 

But I knew that if I traded it in for money, I could get $300 for it. $300 could buy groceries for a month. Toys for Christmas. A coat for my husband. Or I could get a new coat for myself.

 

When I left the furrier with the money in my hand, I was torn as to what my next step should be. As I turned the corner, I tried to convince myself that I was the one who the coat money should be spent on, not the kids, not the family. Dorothy gave that coat to me, I reasoned, I deserved a new coat! I work so hard, have all this responsibility and I haven’t bought myself something nice in years. Why shouldn’t I take this money and get myself an expensive leather jacket?

 

My question was answered when I turned the next corner. God doesn’t waste any time. Another one of those defining moments.

 

It was a beautiful winter afternoon, and people were walking up and down the street, enjoying the day and chattering in their own little worlds. As I got to the end of the corner and was about the cross the street, the light turned red. I had to wait. I looked over to my left and saw a parked car. A 1979 Rambler. Brown. It was full of papers and clothes and books. In it was a woman close to my age and what looked to be two young girls, around 7 & 8 years old. Several coloring books were stacked on the dash board. What a mess, I thought to myself. What a slob, I sniffed. Until I looked again.

 

The kids were sleeping close together in the back seat, dirty blankets pulled up to their chins. The woman had her head on the steering wheel, softly crying. The mess that surrounded them was every possession they had in the world. They were living in that car. In the midst of all the activity of this beautiful day was a family living in a car. How many times had I passed them and didn't notice? All I knew was I didn’t have a nice coat.

 

Before I could change my mind, I knocked on her side of the car. Barely allowing the window to be rolled halfway down, I threw the $300 through the small slit and choked out "Merry Christmas.” I turned and walked away, quickly and ashamed. What had I become?

 

Several days later, I bought the brown, black buttoned, hounds tooth patterned, blanket coat on sale for $25, marked drown from $75. It is the ugliest coat I’ve ever seen, but I wear it at least for a week during the winter.

 

Not to remind myself that I did a “good deed” and gave the woman some money. God knows she needed more than the $300. Not as a clarifier that I was an unselfish person and thought of someone else. I keep it to remind myself that I had felt the other way. Greedy, entitled and selfish. I never wanted to feel that way again.

 

Now, I am not going to pretend I am a martyr and wear nothing else but that coat. I'm not saying I won't try to find the next "gotta have" dress, or forgo the whole shopping experience of scoping out the perfect shoes. But I will keep the Brown Blanket Coat forever. I will never get rid of it. There but for the grace of God, go I. Life can change in a moment. I don’t know what the circumstances were to force the woman and her kids to live in their car. I didn’t want to know. But I keep the Brown Blanket Coat as a warm reminder. When I start getting cocky, I remember the coat. I still want nice things, but I will never get rid of that coat, and I will never put things before my family.

 

There but for the Grace of God, go I….

 

Posted by eloveman at 11:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

When you have a house full of kids, you grab every opportunity you can to connect with the outside world, whether it be by going to school functions, attending church obligations or even going to the supermarket.

Back in the 1980's, one of the most expensive and obvious necessities of raising my young brood was the weekly event of food shopping.  We all traveled in a pack back then, my children and I, and the mini van I stuffed them all into was filled to the brim.   Always on the verge of breaking down, it had seen better days than when first purchased, our miracle “Voyager Mini Van” that would come to define a generation of mothers and families in general.

Of the five children in tow, three were in baby seats, so I really had no choice.  It was either the mini van or a mack truck; the mini van was much more fashionable.

In addition to the stroller that had its own place behind the ‘way back’ (bench seats that were in the very rear of the vehicle) there was the prerequisite plastic tub, holding dear the collection of army men, dollies and leggo figures.  You would think we were going half way around the world, when in reality it was only a ten minute drive.  Eons before the addition of tv screens in vehicles, it was up to each kid to entertain themselves as well as their sibling sitting beside them. 

Beside me on the passenger seat sat securely my own plastic tub of valuables – food coupons.   On days that items were doubled or even tripled the amount off the price, we felt like we had won the lottery.   Not only could we afford to get ice cream, we might even be able to sneak in a steak or two.

On the rare occasions when I got to make the voyage myself, I always felt like I was forgetting something.  In fact, I would feel sad the crowd hadn’t traveled with me, and so to ease my guilt I would pick up a new box of crayons and a coloring book, or a puzzle with candy to eat on the side.

Their eyes would search my face as I unloaded the car, brown paper bag after another, never saying out loud “What’d you bring me? What’d you bring me?” for they knew that was not acceptable.   They were always taught a gift was something not expected, and not to expect something just because I went out without them.    

Finally neither of us could stand it any longer, and I would reach into the last bag of suspenseful anticipation, their hopeful excitement shining brightly in their little faces.  

“Look what Mom got us!” they’d say proudly to each other, comparing the coloring books or the other small token of affection.   They would run around the house, dancing or jumping in place, warm chubby arms encircling my neck with a thank you hug.  You would have thought I had handed them the moon.

Nowadays, they have their own families to shop for, and I often wonder if they remember the feelings of innocence and joy from receiving an unexpected gift.  The act of love by merely handing something from your heart to theirs.

My days now are spent shopping when I want to, and not when I need to.  The recipients of the tokens of affection are waiting for me as I unload the car, plastic bag after another.  The bags are less in number, but only by a few.

A small caravan of canine faces greet me as I enter the kitchen, hands filled with goodies and surprises.

What’d you bring me?  Their eyes say to me, sparkling with love for the lady that feeds them most mornings and gives them their cookies at night.

Reaching into the bag, I pull out three “binkies”; stuffed dog toys that squeal when you squeeze them.

The feelings are the same.  Look what Mom got us!  They say proudly to each other, as their jaws clasp around the gift.  They parade around the kitchen, nudging each other as they go round our little house in paradise, happy to be the recipient of love, happy to be with us.

You would have thought I had handed them the moon.

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