4 years ago today, there was a swirl of excitement, anticipation, romance and a sense of a new journey in my home. 4 years ago today, my littlest baby girl was getting ready for her wedding ceremony.

Jane. My baby Janie. There is a bit of wonder, and a bit of breath-catching awe, when your youngest child is getting married. I remember that December day. It was New England cold. Still. The bluest sky you can imagine and goldest sun. The whitest gown and the most sparkling platinum headpiece. The rose-colored dresses on the busy bridesmaids and the formality of Daddy’s black tuxedo. The brilliance of the flowers. The wide eyes of the flower girls. The serenity of Jane & Steve’s doggies, as this day would forever change their lives, too.

And my heart. My heart giving another soul the heart that I created, I nurtured and I loved each moment of my daughter’s life. The heart that beat within me. The heart that I soothed, mended and sometimes healed. The heart that loved me. And the love that my heart returned. I think maybe only a Mom will understand this love… this love that is bigger than life itself.

Today I remember that December day and its swirl of delicious colors and candlelight with great joy… and I wish Janie and Steve a glorious day of even more colors and candlelight and joy and love.

Happy, Happy Anniversary Janie & Steve!  (well, almost… read Jane’s post for the real story!)

This morning, I stumbled upon an old pocketbook in my shed. “How did it get in your shed?” you may be asking.

Oh. You’re not asking.

Anyway… I opened it, dug through it and found a bit o’ treasure:
1. $50.00 gift card to Stop & Shop
2. $32.16 balance on a Home Depot gift card
3. $16.10 balance on a Lowe’s gift card
4. $25.00 gift card to Border’s
5. $10.00 Dunkin’ Donuts gift card
6. 4 pens
7. half-full bottle of Aleve
8. 3 unredeemed lottery scratch tickets totaling $3.00

Now, here’s the deal. I will be using my gift card treasures soon. If not immediately. And I’ll keep the pens. But… should I turn in the scratch tickets for the grand sum of $3.00. Or purchase $3.00-worth of new scratch tickets? And who would like to split it with me if I win big?

(Will we need the Aleve when the press hounds us for the story?)

My thought is that you have to be a very confident and self-assured guy to wear a pink apron around the house… but to wear a pink apron outside the house? Well, amp up the manliness factor to sizzling.

Alexander, my 3-year-old grandson, put all his testosterone on the table (so to speak) when he insisted on wearing the Cherry Blossom pink apron from the Playskool Fruit & Cheese Please Set when the two of us hit the supermarket this morning. And, oh yeah… he also took along the recyclable shopping bag from the Cherry Blossom Produce Stand, and reminded me to take along my recycling bag, too.

Yes, when my guy shops and cooks, he does it his way! (Note how Alex wears his apron slung low and totally cool!)

I first heard about The Mother Letter Project from Stephanie at Adventures in Babywearing by-way-of Shannon at Rocks in My Dryer. I was amazed from the first moment… and I continue to be amazed and inspired and enlightened by the letters that have been contributed to this most perfect gift from a man to his wife. My letter is about moments… moments that all sewn together design the most beautiful life-quilt imaginable. And each Mother has the gift to create a warm and wonderful life-quilt for each child.

This is my “Dear Mother” Letter…

Dear Mother,

Mothers create the magic of moments, and it is the very simplest of moments that begin the journey of a priceless and unique life-quilt, adding one precious block at a time.

Memories are the gifts… the beautiful blocks that bind the life-quilt together. And each magical memory of my own Mom is one in which not one dime, or even one penny, was exchanged.

I remember standing on a kitchen chair next to our stove, using a wooden spoon to stir large chunks of chocolate and sugar and butter over a double boiler. My Mom guided my little hand with her warm hand as she taught me to make homemade fudge. I still see the gray and white padded kitchen chair… the old-fashioned kind with the silver tacks. I see the swirl of colors as the ingredients blend. I see my Mom’s hand, her little woven potholder, her smile.

I remember standing next to my Mom on a dock in San Diego, waiting for my Dad to return from an 8-month at-sea Navy duty. I see her beautiful white dress with the light blue polka-dots. The dress is pure 1950’s! I thought she looked like a movie star. She held my hand so tightly. She held my younger brother’s hand so tightly. She kept telling my older brother to stay away from the ropes. Then she saw my Dad, and it is a picture I will never forget. She let go of our hands and leaped into his arms… only to then panic for the moment of, “The kids!” Well, we weren’t going anywhere ‘cuz our Dad was home. I still see my Mom and Dad holding hands in our car all the way home.

I remember my Mom teaching me to do cartwheels. We lived in New Hampshire by then, and all the girls seemed to know how to do them. I was the “new” girl. I still hear my Mom, step-by-step… “Raise your hands, left foot out, lean and go.” My Mom was very athletically gifted. She never even reached 5′, but she could smash a baseball, swim like a fish, and even stand on her head. Yes, I learned my cartwheel lesson well, and now I do them for my grandchildren!

I remember watching my Mom sew. One Christmas season in particular, her sewing machine buzzed well into the night… each night. She was making beautiful pillow cases for gifts. I loved the sound of her sewing machine late into the night. One night I got out of bed and she let me watch her sew. Her hands smoothed the fabric as the needle zipped along. She asked if I wanted to help. Of course I did! One long straight line of her hands guiding mine led to a love of sewing in me. All through high school and college I made all of my own clothing… even bathing suits.

I remember the night all of our polliwogs turned into tiny little frogs and escaped all over our living room. Oh, yes. My brothers and me spent endless hours with our friends in a little swamp near our home. One afternoon, we came home with lots and lots of cute little polliwogs. My Mom allowed us to keep them, with the rule that once all of their legs began to pop through, we’d release them back to the swamp. It didn’t happen quite like that. On that memorable night, we were watching television, and a little “thing” landed on my Mom’s shoulder. Then another. And another. My Mom laughed with such joy as we all began to scoop up the tiny frogs with our hands and place them back into our little aquarium (which, by that time, my Mom had secured with aluminum foil and lots of little holes). I will never forget our lesson in the life-cycle of frogs because of the miracle of that special night.

I remember my first prom… my Mom smoothing my gown with her hands before my Dad began the endless photographs. I remember her smile as I stood before her in my black cap and gown at my college commencement. I remember her trying to choke back her tears as I moved into my first apartment… with her blessing AND every used pot and pan and piece of cutlery that she could pack into every last box.

I remember the saddest and most difficult block of my life-quilt… when my Dad died very suddenly. My Mom was only 50 years old. But I remember her stoically going on. Moving forward. Teaching me and guiding me again with her great strength.

I remember my Mom holding my babies. Wrapping them in her love. I now see my Mom holding my grandchildren… a gift of love that is almost impossible to describe.

Dearest Mother… what I know with all certainty is that your children will remember the moments, the simple moments. These are the miracles. These are the gifts. These are the precious blocks of time, sewn together with stitches of love and joy and laughter and magic. There is enough fabric and enough batting and enough thread for each child who is ever born. This is the life-quilt. This is what will keep your children warm… long, long after they are grown. Sometimes your children will feel that they don’t need the warmth of your magical quilt… but they will. They always will.

And do you want to know the real magic? The true magic? This is it… I now take the life-quilt that my Mom created for me and wrap her in it. Each block. Each stitch. Each design. Each tack. Each layer. I give it back. I gently cover her aging hands and back and legs… and the magic begins anew. The warmth. The love. The memories.

All for less than one penny.

I hope that all the letters you are reading keep you warm and joyful and secure in the love your wonderful, wonderful husband is weaving for you. His gift transcends even time. He is your thimble of strength.

Always believe in the magic of the simple moments…

With much love,
Sharon

Yesterday was my father-in-law’s birthday. He would have been 94. He died nearly 11 years ago after a debilitating stroke. I remembered it was his birthday as I placed a little gift for my brother-in-law on our dinner table. This is the story of Joseph Soares Couto and how my mother-in-law convinced him to visit us yesterday through the little gift and an oven fire.

My father-in-law was born in Providence, RI, the youngest, by many years, of 4 children. An older brother had died as a child, but two sisters doted on Little Joe like he was the only child ever born. I have been told this by many, many people. As a very young child, Joe had an interest in music. He was given lessons in playing the drums, and the rest, as the story goes, is history. Joe became a legend, and by high school graduation, he had been offered a college scholarship. This was no small feat for a kid whose parents had immigrated to the Fox Point section of Providence from Portugal. But Little Joe had bigger plans. New York City. He went and he played with the best of the Big Bands, returning only to Providence to court his girlfriend, Florence.

After Flo and Joe were married, they headed off to New York City together. These would be the years that Flo would talk about with such awe for the rest of her life. The City. The nightlife. The musicians. The excitement. But the War, and responsibilities back in Providence, forced them to come home. Joe played lots of “gigs” locally, but when Flo was expecting their first baby… well, Joe was given “the lecture” by family and friends that he had to find a “real” job. He did. By day, he washed beer bottles at the Narragansett Brewery where his Dad worked. There, he was a guy who washed bottles for a paycheck. By night, Joe entertained. Flo never, ever let his dream die. She would wait up for him until 1:00 or 2:00 am each night he played, always with a bedtime snack. Joe did this for decades. Washing bottles by day in his green uniform… making his drums come alive 3 nights a week in his black tux. Even after Joe retired from the brewery, he played his music until age 80, when he couldn’t carry his drums anymore.

When I first met Joe, I was kind-of surprised. My husband is very demonstrative and very affectionate. Joe wasn’t. He was, “Hi. How are ya?” He didn’t smile easily. And Flo pretty much had to tell him what to do. “Hug her,” she’d say. Or, “Help your son carry those boxes.” Maybe all those years of being doted on just left him a bit… lost in the giving department. But the first time I saw him play his drums, I couldn’t believe he was the same man. Joe laughed. He swayed. He tossed his sticks in the air. He made the music come alive. He was born to entertain. My husband explained his Dad as, “That’s just the way he is.”

I grew to love Joe very much. We had a perfectly nice relationship. I began to hug him, and he hugged me back. He actually told me once that he loved me. It was the day Audrey was born, prematurely, and he came to see her in the Intensive Care Nursery. I will never forget that moment. This is a man who had 3 sons. A man who didn’t have girls crawling on him or combing his hair or begging for money for a prom dress. He was tough in many ways… and one thing he ALWAYS said to his children was, “Four years of college and you don’t know how to… (whatever it was at the moment).” It could be that Barry didn’t store the lawn furniture in the garage for the winter. Or that I ran out of gas. We’d always laugh out loud and say to him, “Dad, we didn’t take ’storing lawn furniture’ or ‘filling up with gas’ (or whatever) 101 in college.” This is the one thing I remember most lovingly about Joe.

So… on to yesterday. Barry and I had found a perfect 1962 vintage label from a bottle of Narragansett Beer and had it framed for Barry’s brother, Rick. I placed the gift on the dinner table and then remembered that it was Joe’s birthday. We all had a toast to Joe. Rick remembered that whenever Dad’s birthday fell on Thanksgiving Day, Flo insisted on having a birthday party, too… separate from the Thanksgiving festivities. We toasted Flo. Jane thought it was so nice that since this was Flo’s first Thanksgiving in heaven, she had a reason for a party!

Then… as Jane’s beautiful apple crisps were tantalizing us from the oven, a burning odor took over. My sister-in-law said it smelled like burning sugar. And it was. Jane opened the oven to little flames that turned into bigger flames. Jane and her husband Steve were tossing flour on it… trying to fan it out.

Then the angels came. I heard myself say, “Ten years of college between you two and you can’t put out an oven fire,” as I doused it with water.

I know Joe made me say that. I know Flo told him to. Yes, Flo and Joe came to visit yesterday on Dad’s Thanksgiving birthday. I always knew that Flo couldn’t miss a good party!

I wish everyone a truly happy and joyous Thanksgiving!

Much love,
Sharon

This is a Thanksgiving post. Can’t you tell from its title? It is. And I write it with great love for all women with crappy fingernails.

You have finished cleaning your home. Laundered your tablecloths and napkins. Dug out your roasting pan and rack and baster. Your nails have taken a beating.

You have been to the market. Picked up your 900-pound turkey. Dragged it to your car. Stuffed it in your refrigerator. You can’t even look at your nails.

You have found each last serving dish and utensil. Set the table. Stuffed candles into each candle holder. There are no nails left to get candle wax stuck under.

You’ve been to the market again. You’ve ripped open bags of potatoes and yams and apples. Peeled and sliced them (the potatoes and yams and apples, not the bags). You’ve scrubbed and cut green beans and squash. Shelled peas. Prepared your homemade cranberry sauce that everyone loves so much. And found the recipe for your mother-in-law’s stuffing. Back to the market.

You’ve washed your hands a trillion times so as not to cross-contaminate any food products. No, you just can’t get used to haz-mat rubber gloves in your kitchen.

You’ve whipped the potatoes and squash and appetizer dips. Your hands have been in and out of a 300-some-odd-degree oven for 3 straight days. You’ve opened countless jars and cans and bottles of olives, baby onions, wine. Oh, crap. You make a quick run to the liquor store.

You’ve been on the phone for 3 weeks explaining to guests that they do not have to bring anything but themselves… but when they insist, you make quick lists. They show up with nothing. Back to the kitchen to scrub the grapes and strawberries and slice the exotic cheeses that you purchased just in case the extra appetizers and desserts didn’t arrive. Can you say “stubs”?

Ah. The meal. The glorious Thanksgiving Dinner.

Grace. Heads bent. Hands folded in prayer. You lovingly glance at your family and friends and feast. Dancing before you are the hands of each woman at your table… glistening in your candlelight with color and shine and length and perfection.

Cue in the horror-movie soundtrack.

Your nails. What nails?

So… when you see a woman this Thanksgiving with crappy fingernails, kiss the cook. She’s traded lovely nails for lovely memories.

I was behind a woman in line at CVS just a few minutes ago. She was a bit frantic, trying to keep a baby in her shopping cart and manage both a toddler and a little girl while swiping her credit card. When the cashier handed her the receipt, the woman stopped a moment to study it… then she scanned the items in her several bags.

I was thinking, “Oh, great. I’m in a hurry. Now this lady is going to demand a ‘re-count’.”

She did.

But this is how it went.

She handed the receipt back to the cashier and said, “I don’t think you charged me for the Huggies.”

And sure enough, the cashier hadn’t… possibly in the confusion of the baby and the toddler and the little girl squirming and talking and touching all the candy that is put under the cashiers just to entice customers, especially kids.

The cashier was very apologetic in an amazed sort or way at the woman with the three kids who could have had all three kids strapped in their seat belts by then. It didn’t take long to make the adjustment, but in those few moments the woman turned to me and said, “I’m sorry for taking so long, but I would never want my kids to see blatant dishonesty. Even if they never remember this.”

I smiled and said, “They will remember.” And suddenly I wasn’t in such a hurry. I felt light and happy and unencumbered by even time. I had just witnessed a great lesson in the simplest of moments. And it made me feel very, very good.

Have you ever been witness to a great lesson-moment like this?

Last night, while babysitting for Audrey’s 4 boys, I got a great big slice of philosophical advice from her 3-year old, Alex.

I was helping him get into his pajamas when he reminded me that he needed new, clean underwear. I knew that meant another trip upstairs with these old bones of mine, so I asked politely, “Can you change your underwear in the morning?”

“No,” Alex answered. “I need my Batman underwear for the night.”

OK. I can understand that. So off I went upstairs to dig through his underwear drawer for Batman underwear. I found them rather quickly and headed downstairs again.

“Those aren’t them,” Alex announced when he saw the red waistband. “I want the black ones.”

OK. The black waistband must have some significance. So off I went up the stairs again. I dug through the drawer again. I spotted a black waistband on a pair of inside out undies and sighed with relief to see Batman staring at me from inside. “I found them, honey,” I practically sang.

“Thanks, Grandma,” he said with a big smile as I bounded into the living room. My heart overflowed with joy at having made him so happy with just a little pair of Batman undies with a black waistband.

“OK, buddy. Now let’s get your jammies on,” I said as I began to turn the Batman undies right-side out.

“I can do it myself,” he answered as he took the undies from my hand.

OK. He pulled off his old undies. He studied the Batman-with-the-black-waistband ones. He put them on. Inside out. And backwards.

“Buddy. Honey. Do you want me to help with your undies? They’re inside out. And backwards,” I said.

He seemed surprised that I asked.

“They’re perfect,” he answered. “Batman won’t mind.”

OK again. To be 3. To know with all certainty that your Batman undies with the black waistband, on inside out and backwards, is perfect, and that Batman won’t mind…

I guess I can toss out all that “underwear” advice that my mom gave me for all those years. You know, like they have to be “clean” and “presentable” in case of an emergency. But as I think about it, she never told me they must be right-side out and frontwards… hmmmmm.

Did your Mom ever give you “underwear” advice? All I know is that today I can’t stop singing a little refrain to my little Alex, my new underwear advisor… you know the disco hit… Diana Ross, 1980:
“Upside down
Boy, you turn me
Inside out
And round and round…”

“Mimi,” my very favorite boomer-blogging friend, asked in a recent post… “Are You Ready for Thanksgiving?”

After a kind-of startled moment, I realized that I am not completely ready for Thanksgiving this year. It is not because I haven’t ordered my fresh turkey or carefully removed my favorite recipes from their plastic folders. It is not because my silver is not polished (OK, I don’t have silver to polish, and if I did, I probably wouldn’t polish it anyway). It is not because my tablecloths are at the dry cleaner’s (OK again. I don’t use fine linens. My tablecloths are, gasp, polyester/cotton). And it is not for lack of guests.

It is so much bigger. So much harder. So beyond anything I could ever have imagined.

My mother-in-law is not here this year. Flo is the one who loved the holidays. She began to plan her holiday meals in July. I inherited this gift from her. I begin to toss around holiday appetizers and soups and exotic vegetable dishes in my mind right after Labor Day. (One thing I never did, though, was dare venture into desserts. That was Flo’s domain. Period. Even last year, at 88, Flo came to my home on Christmas Eve toting bags and boxes of homemade apple pies, blueberry pies, mince pies, trays of cookies… she remembered each person’s favorite dessert, and that was her greatest gift.)

Flo is not here this year. My heart began to pound as I read Mimi’s words. My memories came swirling around me… and I remembered the first Thanksgiving that Barry and I had at our home. I must tell you here that Flo did not mince words. She told you how she felt when she felt it. I was sitting in her kitchen, the one with the bright yellow wallpaper. She loved the color yellow. It was late October. Audrey was 1 1/2. I said, with the fear of God in my throat, “Mom, Barry and I would like to have Thanksgiving at our house this year…” I didn’t get to finish my sentence.

Flo turned to me. “What?” she said slowly. “You don’t have the service to put on a big meal like that.” By service, she meant the good holiday plates, serving dishes, utensils, cutlery, etc.

I swallowed hard. “But my brother and his wife are flying in. And the kids are excited to help with the dinner. And…”

One word. “Fine,” Flo said. The unstated words were something like… “I dare you.”

Well, we did it that year. Barry and me and the kids. The turkey. The stuffing (Flo’s recipe, of course). All the trimmings. Everything but the desserts. Flo wouldn’t let me touch them with a 10-foot spatula. I know Flo wasn’t all that happy about the turn of events… I mean, holiday dinners were her very domain.

But you know what she did do? I had been admiring a set of Christmas dishes at a local department store, and when she showed up at my door with her bags and boxes of desserts, she had another big bag with her. In it was a service for 12 of those Christmas dishes. With the serving platters and bowls to match. Her words were simple and to the point… “You need good service that matches.”

Well, that service has grown from 12 to 32… and Flo herself added most of the pieces as the years rolled along. The Christmas Tree motif has four different manufacturers, but that matters least to me. What truly matters is that Flo reluctantly released Thanksgiving (and then Christmas Eve) to me… but, as always, with a gift. Now I understand that the true gift was not the “service,” but the trust in me and her son to create memorable and beautiful family traditions at our home. And since that Thanksgiving all those decades ago, the very first thing I do to ring in the season is unpack pieces of my service and lovingly arrange them on my kitchen hutch… and now I tell my grandchildren the story of the Christmas Tree dishes.

Notice the salt and pepper shakers with sterling silver tops on the top shelf.

My heart aches as I think of the holidays without our beloved Flo… but I kept everything that she ever cherished in her kitchens. One of her most cherished belongings was a cutlery service for 24, stainless steel with a little rose wrapped around each piece. It wasn’t expensive, but it was complete. She loved that. Now I have it, and I will love watching my family use her most special pieces for all holiday meals to come. I have her mother’s crystal salt and pepper shakers… the ones with the sterling silver tops. Ahhhh… I do have some silver to polish. And you know what? I will. I have her aprons and pot holders and cooling racks. I have her vintage measuring spoons and cups. I even have her handwritten booklet of recipes… including her coveted cookie recipes.

I will be thinking of Flo each moment of these holidays. And I know with certainty that she will be watching every move that I make in my (yellow!) kitchen. She will be tapping me on the shoulder as I bake her cookies from her recipes. She will be whispering that I need “more buttah.” “More salt.” “More sugah.” She’ll be saying, “What is it with you young girls and your substitutes?” And this year, I will be using the buttah and salt and sugah, and yes, even lard. I will do it for Flo with the greatest sense of honor and love that one woman can have for another.

So… Mimi, you got me thinking. You got me crying. But now, I understand that the love and honor and joy I have for Flo will be the greatest ingredients of my holiday meals and celebrations. Thank you for the great big smile that I have right now! I truly mean it…

Now I’m ready.