Suanne and Lord Byron

My friend, with whom I shared so many girlhood conversations, has died, at the too young age of 59.

We met when we were twelve. Her family had just moved to my neighborhood, and she lived between my house and the all-girls school where she and I were among the "new girls" that year. We became the walking to school friends that I wrote about in my last post. I would stop by her house sometimes after school for awhile before heading home.
Here we are in our school uniforms:




I met her mother and the toddler brother of whom she was so proud. I remember a day when she showed me a tuft of fur she had saved from her dog "Rex", who had died not too long before. Even at that tender age, an age when we are often too wrapped up in out own little worlds to notice to much about others', I could tell how much love she carried in her heart.

We discovered we both had a love for art and music. It was in the world of music and singing that we really came together. I envied her her high clear soprano, I was a lowly alto, but even so, we often competed for the same solos in the various choruses in which we sang. She usually got the Soprano solo, and I would sing the lower harmony.

Our class graduated in 1970. I don't know how it came to be, but around our junior year, we began calling ourselves the "Babes of 1970", and that name has stuck for the last forty-two years.




After graduation, we went our separate ways. We had children, married, divorced, remarried. But we always were "the Babes." I have seen Suanne every ten years at class reunions, but, with the help of the new technologies that keep us all connected, email, and social networking, have been able to enjoy her friendship, and that of most of us "Babes" on a daily basis.

Yesterday I scrolled back through three years of "conversations" with Suanne on Facebook. I saw her comments to others, including other "Babes". All were filled with love. Love for her friends, her husband, her children, of whom she was so proud, and her lovely grandchildren.

It was through this medium that I learned she had written and illustrated a children's book*, and I am proud to be the owner of an autographed copy.

I also learned things about her life I had not known when we were growing up, after I encouraged her to write a "25 things about me" note, which she graciously shared with her friends and family. One of her children asked her to illustrate it on paper, because, "face book will not last forever". I hope she did that.

I have written again and again of the endurance and importance of childhood friendships. When we are children we do not know what we will become, nor how much we love each other. But the experiences we share as children are what bind us. When I met Suanne for the first time after thirty years in 2000, I knew her mostly by the sound of her laughter. Like water flowing over pebbles in a stream. The sweet soprano of her voice so much the same as it had been when we sang together at seventeen.

She seemed to find her joy as an adult. It was in her art, music, and especially her family. As I reread all those posts on Facebook, that joy was always at the surface. She had married her true love, and was living a life surrounded by beauty. Even as she wrote of the trials of her final illness, she was optimistic.

Last Friday after treatment, she wrote one day, one of the techs asked, "do you meditate during treatment?"
Surprised by her query due to my daily struggle for calm, I replied, "no. I sing".

Lord Byron could have been describing Suanne when he wrote this poem, so I'll let him describe my friend.

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,—
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.




* http://www.kopaldart.com/SKK_Illustrations.html
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Omaha

Parades and Football

It's the second day of the year.  Most Bloggers are waxing poetic about New Years' resolution lists, ad nauseam.  Most of my own list-making comes in May, around the time of my personal New Year, the anniversary of my birth, so I don't waste too much time in January stressing about such things.  Personal disclosure, last May, my resolution list began and ended with one. 

Laugh more.

I spent most of yesterday thinking about two things, what I wanted to write about in this blog, and why were all the parades and college football games moved to Monday?  

Forgive me a little rant.  On New Year’s Day, each year, January First, I expect to roll out of bed, make some coffee, and turn on the TV to watch the Tournament of Roses Parade, and then a whole bunch of football games.  So yesterday morning, I woke up, made my coffee, opened my paper, and clicked on the remote, only to see...  Newt Gingrich, not covered with a gazillion tiny cornflowers and poppy seeds or whatever.  

Hmm, wrong channel maybe?  Click!  What's this? An Infomercial?   Click!  More Standard Sunday Morning Stuff. Hmph. I wanted to see marching bands and Palomino Ponies fahcrissakes, not Meet the Press. 

It is at times like this that some personal affirmations are in order.

     I love Change.

     Change is Good.

     I embrace Change.

   

  (Okay, okay. That may qualify as a list.)

Today, I am happy to say, finally feels Iike New Year's Day.  I got up, drank coffee, went for a walk in a brisk Nebraska January wind, came home to a warm breakfast while watching, yes!  Palomino Ponies.  Marching Bands.  Huge floats covered with thousands, no, millions of flower petals!

At lunch, I started watching College football.  As I write these words, I am still watching College football.  I expect to spend the rest of the day... Watching College Football. It is a joyful activity for me, even when my team loses.   

I'll segue now back around to where I started on this.   New Year's Resolution Lists, or my lack of them.  Here is a little pearl of wisdom I'll drop in your lap, dear reader, dear friend.  A little bit of common wisdom that is so wise it is often mistake for cliché.  Every day is New Year's Day.  Every day is a day for a list.  So here's my list for this New Year, and for every new year:

     Laugh more.

Laughter, Nerves, and the Christmas Roast Beast

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.  For me it is one of the most fun days of my year.   On this day, most of my grandchildren come to my house to decorate my tree, eat the Roast Beast, and open presents.  There is chaos, and laughter, and food and fun.   

For the Manly Spouse, it is the most stressful day of the year.  While I am cooking and chatting and laughing, he is watching small children run wild in our home (or so he thinks).  It is a juxtopositon of our different personalities.  I love watching the children decorate our tree.   He is terrified it's going to fall over and that ornaments will break (gasp!). Some years ago we decided to put up the tree, set up the lights, and leave it alone.  The families descend on our home before the meal is prepared.  Decorating the tree gives them something to do while they wait.  We have plenty of ornaments.  Some inherited from my parents, others we have collected over the years.  Some are made of cheap plastic, paper, or felt, others look antique.  If we break a few, the world won't end, and we have plenty more.

Of course there's also lots of food around, crackers and cheese, fruit, veggies and ranch dip, and cookies.  Don't forget the cookies.  

Early in the morning, before the day hardly begins, I prepare the standing rib roast by making a paste of coarse sea salt, coarse ground pepper, garlic (lots of garlic), olive oil, thyme and rosemary.  I don't have any particular measurements to this paste, I just start mixing it up until it feels right, and spread it all over the roast.  This isn't really a blog about the recipe, but if you're interested, I'll post it at the bottom of the page.

First son is supposed to bring the green bean casserole, with fresh beans, real cream, real mushrooms, and sourdough croutons, but he's not really very reliable, so sometimes we just have the old standard.  Some sort of potatoes, and corn, and we're good.    There are pies waiting for dessert.   We seat as many people as will fit in the dining room, one of the two times a year we use that room, eat and get full.  

Then it's time for presents!  Around this time also, Gramma starts to relax.  When Gramma starts to relax, she starts to laugh. We open presents.  We watch the cousins interact.  Gramma laughs some more.  This year we will have two little ones, almost two years old, together for the first time since they were babies.   

Grandpa is already nervous about tomorrow.  I plan to spend most of the day laughing.  

Oh... Here's a copy of my "recipe":

Cold-Brewed Coffee

First of all, let me say, that I didn't make this up, or even think of it on my own. I first heard about it while chatting with Older Son last week while we were having lunch together. Munching on Crab Rangoon we talked about this and that, and somehow the subject of coffee came up. He told me that he and his wife had been "cold brewing" their coffee. He verbally passed on the recipe, which I transcribed into my mildly intelligent phone, and I determined to try it.

Next day, my daughter-in-law posted pictures of her brews:








She also posted this link:
http://www.southernplate.com/2009/03/todays-home-brew-secret-to-great-iced-coffee-without-great-expense.html

Thank you Christy Jordan! My son always complained that he loved the smell of brewing coffee, and then was so disappointed by the taste. Christy says coffee "... never tastes as decadent as it smells." Son loves the taste of cold-brew.

I may have mentioned before that I consider most recipes to be suggestions, rather than directions, so... I found a jar and ground some coffee beans. FYI, I don't like milk in my coffee. I am (a little) embarrassed to admit that I prefer that fake powdered coffee "whitener" over actual milk, or even half & half. Sorry. I put a tablespoon of the stuff in the jar, and poured the ground coffee over it, then poured the cold water over it, put the lid on the jar, and went to work. As I was driving to work I thought, "I should blog about this!"

"No, I better wait to see if this works, I'll probably end up writing about my several tries..."

As I write these words, I hear my mother's voice in my head, "Oh ye of little faith!" she says. I concur. Oh me of little faith. Dee-Lish!

Here's the way I make it:

Pour one (large-ish) tablespoon of your favorite powdered coffee "creamer" into a 32 oz. canning jar.
Grind 2 (large) tablespoons of coffee beans on the "coarse" setting. Pour on top of the creamer in the jar.
Fill the jar with cold water (leave a little air space at the top).
Cover and set out on the counter overnight.








I strained it through a paper towel, since I have been using a French Press I have no filters, squeezed in a drip of agave nectar, and yummmmmm.

Lately, fall mornings are getting cool here in Nebraska. I poured a cup, set it I the microwave for 1 minute. Smooth brew.


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NineEleven

I have a couple of friends who have their birthdays on September 11. I want to send you happy, loving greetings. It's not particularly an "accomplishment" to complete another revolution around the sun, but in our culture, we have made it an excuse for celebration. And I like that.

I also have my own personal memories of September 11, 2001. I was in Omaha....so far away from the three geographical locations of holy ground, but not so far either.

In those days, I worked at the home office of an independent broker/dealer. We had friends across the street. We had colleagues who lost their lives. I had just switched jobs within the company and had moved to the fifth floor from the fourth floor of our short, squat building. I was down in my old cubicle picking up a few items when I heard about it. "A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!" someone called out.

My first thought was for the poor pilot of the small Cessna type aircraft I imagined had crashed. That thought lasted until I got back upstairs and saw that a T.V. had been moved out into the main area of the floor. No need to go into my thoughts and revelations in the hours that followed, because I share those thoughts and feelings with most Americans.

My new office space was down the hall from a member of the executive committee of my company. I heard her speak, quietly but firmly, to anyone who would listen, as she strode on her way to meet with our C.E.O., " they are not going to force us to close our doors!". And we didn't. Although I worked in a business that was almost completely dependent on the stock market, we never closed, never sent people home from work unless they wanted to, and I felt proud to be associated with a company that stood strong in the face of that atrocity.

Meantime I felt guilty and strange because I started having dreams about being trapped in tall buildings. So far away from New York, about 1300 miles, and I was having bad dreams? I was safe in my home, in my city, and I felt guilty for being fearful, but I understand now that it was another shared emotion.

Back to birthdays. I hope that anyone reading this, whose birthday, or any other happy anniversary, happens to fall on September 11, has a happy day. I hope you have a day filled with joy, and celebration, and love. I send you my love, and good cheer. Eat your cake and ice cream - take a stand against the bad guys by putting on a little paper hat and blowing on a little paper horn. I love you all.

Lessons in Joy

My mother was a teacher in the art of being joyful.  She  understood the importance of having fun.  She taught me how to make s'mores,  sit-upons, and sourdough bread.  Not just in girl scout camp, either.  

     When I was a young girl, maybe 8 or 9 years old, she threw me a birthday party.  We invited every girl in my class and she taught us all how to make dresses using newspaper and stick pins.

     The summer I was 15 or 16 we found an old buffet in a barn.  We spent a day (at least!) antiquing it... Blue.  It was a fun, funky piece of furniture that sat in the hall outside her kitchen for the rest of her life.  Every time I looked at it I remembered how much fun we had painting it.

     Once, when my mother was in her eighties, we went to lunch together.  She ordered soup, and a glass of white wine.  "Don't you want a sandwich?" I asked.
     "Not today," she answered, " I'm having the chocolate cake for dessert!" 
When we left the restaurant, it was raining.  My mother took off her shoes and splashed, laughing,  through the puddles back to the car.

     In September, 2001, after 5 heart attacks in 6 weeks, there was nothing to do but hospice, and she rode home in an ambulance to die.   When she was wheeled out of the ambulance she said, " That was so much fun, looking out the window backwards!"   She laughed and laughed.  

     My mother taught me that Joy is wherever you find it.  She taught me how to make my own joy.  She reminded me how much fun it is to splash in the puddles in my bare feet, and that it's. Okay to eat dessert first!