I love outside Christmas lights.
I have always loved outside Christmas lights.
When we were kids, the inside of the house was never decorated before Christmas itself; our tradition was that Santa brought everything! Tree. Trains. Gee-gaws and trinkets. And presents.
So when we went to bed Christmas Eve, the only signs of the season inside the house were our stockings, hung on the railing going upstairs.
But outside!!
Outside were colored lights on the bushes; they were the big, fat bulbs that heated up in your hand, much to the chagrin of the Consumer Product Safety Commission. And a large spotlight on the front lawn that illuminated a handmade DellaRobbia wreath on the front door. And orange-bulbed candles in every window.
So when it came time for our own holiday traditions, I made a big deal out of outside Christmas lights. We have a series of bushes at the far end of our property. They are just a few feet from a main thoroughfare that goes northward through our community, and for years, I've stretched an extension cord from the house to these bushes and strung lights on them.
As well as draping lights on the flora on the front lawn. And the porch. And on the garage overhang.
But this year...
Well, suffice to say that 2013 is the year of Epic Fail Christmas Lights.
First, the string that goes on a lamppost at the end of the driveway must have some sort of plug issue because its performance this December has been very spotty. For reasons unknown to me, I'll arrive home in the dark and find them brightly and colorfully lit. And on other nights... Nada.
And the lights out back have had a seemingly endless variety of plug/timer/cord issues. One of my favorite sights this time of year is to round the bend after a hard day's work and find those trees gleaming. This year? Mostly a home run, but they've needed constant care and re-configuration along the way.
I cannot seem to settle on a once-and-done solution.
And then there's Santa. On north side of our property, out front, is a blow-up Santa. He frankly needs replacing, as he's got a rather nasty rip in his shoes that has been duct taped. Between his leak and the heavy weather we've had, most evenings he's been face-planted in the snow, looking like a frat boy the day after a killer party. I'm going to go shopping either just before or just after the holiday for a new blow-up, in hopes of catching something appealing on sale.
And as of right now, we're dark. I lost one timer/plug combo and jury-rigged a solution using my one remaining workable one. And just last night, that one now seems to also have given up the ghost.
In an act of possible defiance, though, the lamppost lights decided last night to take up the slack and light themselves.
About the only party to all this who is consistently satisfied is the electric company.
Burn on, lights. Burn on.
My aunt called Thanksgiving night to deliver the news that my grandmother -- Nana, to her seven grandchildren and howevermany great-grands -- had passed away.
She was 102.
It is sad but not overly so. She had declined significantly in the past handful of years. We made a large to-do over her 100th birthday, understandably, but since then, her awareness and clarity were on a steady decline.
I visited her, although not as often as I probably should have, which will now follow me around for a while as a cloud of guilt. I usually took Parker with me, just to brighten up her day. But he seemed to do more for the other more cognizant residents of her assisted living facility than for her.
Conversation was tough, especially the last time I saw her. She was bent over her lunch plate, hair in wisps over her face, slowly lifting food to her mouth to gum at it. Her watery blue eyes, usually so fiery with verve, were unfocused and gray.
I'm not even 100% sure she knew who I was. The past few times I went to see here, there was always a muddle about the distinction between her husband George and her son George, my dad. The stories of both their passing would cross over one another as she blended the details.
Not that it mattered. Both events were hugely painful for her.
But the Nana I'll remember far longer and with greater affection than the Nana she became is the Nana that had spunk and vigor. The one who would break into song while washing the dishes after a huge birthday dinner party at her house
"Peg o' my heart! I love you; Don't let us part; I love you..."
I'll remember the Nana who came absolutely laden with gifts at Christmas, both when we were kids and when my kids were kids.
I'll remember the Nana who hosted my brothers and me for overnights. The weekends were always full of fun. I remember trips to the Philadelphia Zoo and Dorney Park. Skating and merry-go-round rides in Fairmont Park. And rides on trolley cars, something three burby boys had never done.
I'll remember the Nana who used to have me for dinner one evening each December, when we'd haul out her tiny artificial tree, decorate it together and raise a glass to sweet memories.
I'll remember the Nana who was there for Easter eggs, pumpkin carvings, July Fourth fireworks, graduations, Christenings, engagements, weddings and cookouts. I'll remember the creamy cucumber salad she used to make. And the birthday cakes that were several stories high. The Christmas poppers. The "kids" table. The Sundays we would go for dinner and then gather around the TV set for The Wonderful World of Disney before heading home. Tupperwares of Pepperpot Soup for Dad, with never enough doughballs. The vacations at the shore, when steamy pre-airconditioned nights were wiled away playing Uno. Whiskey sours and Manhattans. Playing the foil for Pop-pop, who used to giggle with us kids by shorting out the doorbell with a screwdriver in the basement, making her think someone was at the front. Candy-glass taffies. Circus peanuts. Bags of Halloween candies. Chocolate-covered coconut Easter eggs with our names inscribed on them in scripted icing. The time she came to visit us in Limerick and got snowed in for almost a week, leading us all to get a touch of cabin fever.
At 102, there was so much life she had seen first-hand: She would tell stories of old Philadelphia, when snow in the streets would cause residents to haul out sleighs and commute via horsepower. And when a trip to the shore was an arduous adventure that began and ended with long waits for ferries to the Jersey side (no bridges). She saw two World Wars. And tough times during the Depression, when she and her husband and two young children experienced a household budget stretched almost to the breaking point, forcing the reliance on the generosity of the extended family to get by. Civil rights. Kennedy assassination. Space exploration. Construction and destruction of the Berlin Wall. 9/11. All witnessed first-hand.
She was a great-grandmother.
And a great grandmother.
Rest well, Nana. We love you.
Our household runs on catchphrases.
At the mention of a specific word -- or set of words -- one of us is bound to respond in a manner that is 100% predictable, based on some inside joke that a visitor would find utterly confusing.
Or downright weird.
For example:
- During a meal in our home, if you accidentally bite your lip and produce a droplet of blood and then comment on it, you'll get in response: "My mouth's bleeding Bert! My mouth's bleeding!" The quote is from the climax to It's a Wonderful Life, my favorite film of all time.
- From the same movie, a greeting in our home of "Merry Christmas" might well prompt a full-bore Jimmy Stewart-accented cheer: "Merry Christmas, emporium! Merry Christmas, you old Building and Loan!" Again, as George Bailey, Stewart bellows these phrases while trotting down the snowy streets of Bedford Falls, reveling in his resurrection.
- Ask "Are we having soup?" You'll get a question back: "Soupy soup?" This exchange isn't exactly traceable, but we suspect it took hold when the girls were younger. When in the grips of a cold, Eileen or I would prescribe soup for either lunch or dinner later in the day. But of course, parental patience ebbs when kids are sick, so when the toddler question was tossed back -- "What kind of soup?" -- out of frustration, one of us (probably me) came back with "Soupy soup." The delivery of this catchphrase is now always a question, with an upward rising pitch. Probably mimicking the response we got when naming that particular flavor: "Soupy soup????"
- Let the word "people" fall from your lips. You may very well get a squeaky quote from Singin' in the Rain. In the film, when prissy platinum blonde Lena Lamont is chastised, "People just don't do that," she responds: "People?!?! I ain't people! I am a 'shimmering, glowing star in the cinema firmament!"
- Same film. Express disdain for someone and one of us will chime in: "...and I kan't stan'em." Response: "Cahn't." Second response: "kan't." Third response: "Caaaaahn't." Forth response: "kaaaaaaan't."
- If a story told around the dinner table involves someone's exclusion from something, my voice will rise to its upper wobbly register and make the Misfit Toy observation: "Nobody wants to play with a Charlie-in-the-Box!"
- Also Christmas related: "Calendar book with the name of my insurance man." That's here. Love Allan Sherman.
- A casual mention of snow elicits the response, in a stilted accent: "I do not believe in snow!" This is from The King and I, where the children of Siam, having never heard of this frozen precipitation, express doubt that it even exists. Not sure how this has caught on in our home -- my doing for sure -- but it's a guaranteed response.
- "Ouch, Charlie!" Internet meme. This will probably fizzle out in our house soon, but for now, it's getting plenty of air-time. Charlie Bit Me!
- Elf: "Bye, Mr. Narwhal." "Bye, Buddy. Good luck finding your dad!" In a deep Narwhally voice. Weird. But we say it.
Some of our notable quotables are short-lived and die off after over-use. I was in a rut of quoting Despicable Me's lead character Gru, using Steve Carrell's unidentified western-European accent: "Dat's how I roll!"
We also got a good run out of the Minions from the same movies: The incredulous "WHAAA?" from DM1 and the alarmist "Bee-do, Bee-do, Bee-do" from DM2. From the same franchise, we were also known to observe, in a southern twang: "Somebody's got a frowny face!" and with kid-like glee "It's so fluffy, I'm going to die!" And high-pitched excitement: "Oooh! Stuffed crust!"
But none of these have reached classic status.
They've played out.
Leaving none of us saying: "Play it again, Sam."
I've written before about crying in the movies.
Rarer, I think is crying while reading a book.
There's something about the enveloping scope of film that, at least for me, encompasses my emotions to the extent that I can give myself over to tears.
It's imagery, yes, but also music and tone and performances and color and movement.
Words on a page are captivating, make no mistake. And I've certainly been taken to another place and time while in the pages of a book.
But there's something about reading that makes me less likely to cry while doing it.
Now laughter, that seems to come easier. I remember receiving a copy of David Sedaris book Holiday on Ice at a work-related Pollyanna one Christmas. I opened it down in the bowels of the SEPTA train station on my way home that evening and dove into The Santaland Diaries. And before I had turned even a half-dozen pages, I was stifling a smile.
And then a short chuckle.
And before long, I was stuffing my fist in my mouth, trying not to appear like a lunatic in public.
It was a tough battle, I can tell you.
But when it comes to shedding tears, I can honestly think of exactly two books that have sent me over.
The first one might seem strange considering the author is horror-meister Stephen King.
But that one was The Green Mile.
For those of you who don't recall its literary beginnings, The Green Mile was a serial novel, in the style of Charles Dickens, who wrote and released chapters in tandem, over time. The Green Mile came out in a chain of short books, as King doled out his story piecemeal.
The conclusion came out while we were on a family beach vacation, and I can remember dashing to a bookstore on the boardwalk to snag a copy and find out the fate of hulking inmate John Coffey and sympathetic warden Paul Edgecomb.
And when I placed my hand once again in King's and read where he took me... my eyes just overflowed.
In a setting that could not have been less conducive to crying: At a crowded New Jersey beach with hundreds of sunbathers, swimmers, families, ice cream hawkers, walkers, talkers and gawkers.
The other book to push me to tears was, not surprisingly, Marley and Me. John Grogan's account of his goofy and loveable Lab was a must-read for someone with his own goofy and loveable Lab. But the ending was gut-wrenching.
That's it. Over a lifetime of reading, exactly two books have caused me to cry with emotion.
Now if we want to talk books that bored me to tears, that's another conversation...
The day began with an alarm at 4:15 a.m.
I was due in Broomall at 6:30, and although the commute in the early morning murk would have taken no more than 40 minutes or so, there was a dog to walk first.
So I popped out of bed as quietly as possible, dressed for the pre-dawn chill, grabbed the leash and collar, and set forth with Parker.
I didn't want to cheat him, even though I knew that an expenditure of physical capital in the morning might come back to haunt me later in the day. But what the heck, I thought. It's a good warmup.
So we walked one of our usual two-mile treks.
Back home, I filled his kibble bowl and his water bowl, changed, and hopped into the car.
It was ride day.
For the second year in a row, I was attempting the MS City-to-Shore Ride to benefit MS. This fundraiser is a 70+ mile ride (not a race, thankfully) between Cherry Hill and Ocean City, NJ. Last year, as a rookie rider, I successfully completed the course with my team, the Spoke Busters, blogging about the incredible experience here.
But this year was different.
During the prep for City-to-Shore 2012, I was unfortunately unemployed. One of the only upsides to that disaster was the opportunity to train more rigorously. I could basically get out on two wheels every day of the week, which I did, for the most part, weather permitting. After my morning chores and scrub of online job hunting sites, I'd mount my metal steed and roll through a dozen miles or so.
This year, being gainfully employed (thank God), I had a tougher time prepping.
My rides would be limited to weekend, and even they were tough to get out, taken up with projects like this one.
By early September, however, my weekend calendar started to clear and I found myself with more time to prep.
There was also one big upside to this year's ride.
I'd be sharing the road with one of my oldest, closest friends. JT had, almost by accident, been at the finish line last year and made a commitment to himself that he'd join the Spoke Busters for 2013.
We trained together, riding both in NJ and PA to acclimate to longer mileage. And had a lot of silliness along the way. Added benefit.
The other challenge that emerged this year came in the form of a notice from NJDOT, which determined that a pothole along the way would require a detour.
So what was a 78-mile ride.
Became an almost-80 one.
Bring it!
And so as the sun crept above the horizon on that early morning of the ride, JT and I -- along with our team -- set out.
It turned into a brilliantly beautiful day, making the roadwork an enjoyable time in the late-summer temps.
John and I paced ourselves together, catching and passing other SB members; allowing them to pass as they chose. As happened last year, we all connected at the five rest stops along the way.
We talked as we rode, JT and me. Laughed ourselves silly. Spurred each other on. At a stoplight, as the cyclists clustered behind a police officer and waited for the go-ahead, we noticed a biker with a sign above her rider number: Today Is My Birthday.
It didn't take much of a mischievous look between us before we launched into a top-of-the-lungs rendition of "Happy Birthday."
The fact that we didn't know her name didn't stop us at all: "Happy Birthday, Dear Ridergirl, Happy Birthday to Youuuuuu!"
We also giggled at the cyclist who seemed intent on nothing more than selling his riding partner financial products en-route. Mile after mile, he prattled on about household income and college planning and cashflow interruptions.
The cycling salesman.
The up-hill huckster.
I reminded JT of the scene in the Woody Allen movie Take the Money and Run, where Virgil Starkwell is put into solitary confinement, where his punishment is made all the worse when he's locked up with an insurance salesman.
Much of the same goodwill that carried me along last year was also an inspiration this year: Signs along the way. The occasional neighbor at the end of the driveway, clapping and cheering.
When John and I ran out of conversation (shocking, I know), we merely dug in and churned through the miles.
The finale, as was the case last year, consisted of the double-hump bridges to the north of Ocean City. By then, a stiff wind had kicked up, requiring a real dig-dig-dig of effort to get over, especially the first.
The second, however, turns toward the island itself, which thankfully put the wind squarely at our backs. We ascended and waited for our teammates at the pre-arranged stop.
Snapped photos.
Congratulated each other.
When the Spoke Busters were again united, we whooshed down the far side of the incline and into Ocean City proper.
A few twisty blocks later, we had made it.
Last year, this ride was a matter of: Can I make it?
This year, this ride was a matter of: Can I make it again?
But as before, considering where the dollars go and who they benefit, this much remains unchanged.
Crossing that finish line may have been fun.
But it really wasn't the point at all.
I'm asked a lot if my musical talent spills over into other instruments.
And with a dose of regret, I've got to say, No.
It's not for a lack of trying, though.
My grandfather played violin in a String Band as part of the New Year's Day Mummer's Parade, a Philadelphia tradition. Or at least that's what I've been told.
Sadly, I never heard him play.
On the occasional birthday party celebration at my grandparents' house, "the fiddle" would occasionally make an appearance.
But he had 103 different reasons why he could never scratch out a tune: No rosin. No A string. Bow was bent. Horsehairs had dried out. Etc. Etc. Etc.
When he passed away in the mid-1980s, my grandmother decided "the fiddle" should come to me (despite having a cousin who played viola, as I recall).
But hey, it wasn't my decision to whom this musical treasure would go.
And I tried valiantly to learn how to play it. Had it restored. Found a teacher. Took lessons.
Was terrible.
I managed to get through "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and that was about it.
So, yes, I've played Mozart on a violin.
My teacher knew the story of how I came to own a violin. And after reaching a point where it was pretty fruitless for me to continue, she had a heart-to-heart about my hands.
My big, beefy hands.
The ones I discussed here.
She told me how unsuited they were to the tiny spaces on a violin. Suggested a better fit for me would be either the cello or the string bass.
Given the size of my hands, maybe one of those washtubs with a broomstick handle tied to it would have been best.
So my violin career was snuffed a'borning.
For years, I also struggled with the piano. Having honed skills on the organ, I found them totally nontransferrable to piano, for some reason.
I couldn't master the touch; I had trouble maintaining consistent intervals when running up or down the keys; and I needed something to do with my feet that involved more than just three pedals.
Over the years, I got passable at piano. Faked and fluffed my way through as needed.
I carry around exactly one tune on piano that I can riff through at a party or whatever, when asked: "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in E-flat.
Don't ask for it in another key.
I have always wanted to play something like "The Maple Leaf Rag" on piano.
But haven't climbed that particular Everest yet.
Recently, however, I've been challenging myself to get better at the piano. Our church had a baby grand donated (!), and in an effort to keep it from merely gathering dust, I'm forcing myself to play the thing.
I'm still baffled by a lot of the technique, but I'm at least able to capably lead some singing sitting behind the 88s.
And if all else fails, our congregation may find itself singing a rousing chorus of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."
In E-flat.
I cry at the movies.
There, I said it.
I've cried in the movies for a long time, too.
I remember seeing Dumbo in its 1972 big screen re-release (I would have been nine then) and, of course, crying over the"Baby Mine" sequence, where the li'l pachyderm, unjustly separated from his mommy, finds solace the only way he can, nestled in the trunk that she's stretching from behind her jail cell.
And Bambi (1975 re-issue), searching for his mother.
And Old Yeller, on one of its revivals, too, because I wasn't born when it premiered in 1957.
And Brian's Song (1971), which, for some bizarre reason, our Catholic elementary school -- Sacred Heart Manoa -- decided to show us as a class (!), bringing us into the gym, where we sat on rickety metal chairs and tried to use the clatter of an ancient 16mm projector to hide our sniffles and snuffles.
Especially the guys.
I remember being so swept away in the story of The Elephant Man (1980) that, blubbering tearfully at the scene where he is tormented by cruel Londoners who don't see the beautiful soul beneath the deformities, I actually stood up in the theater and yelled at the screen, "You leave him alone!"
Not my proudest moment in a theater house.
Even Gone with the Wind (1939), which I've had the good fortune to see on the big screen a handful of times, gets me. If Clark Gable, the rough and tumble man's-man of the movies, gets washed out as Rhett Butler at the death of his daughter, how can I do less?
Let's see. Terms of Endearment (1983) reduced me to jelly. Titanic (1997), despite being overblown, knocked me over emotionally at the sight of the elderly couple holding each other as the water washes underneath the bed in their cabin. And the Irish mother trying to soothe her children in their bunk.
And I stupidly took our middle-kid, Claire, to see My Dog Skip (2000), unaware that it was a heart-breaker. So she and I reduced a pile of napkins, obtained for blotting popcorn grease, to a sodden mess.
Marley and Me (2008) was another toughie. Yes, being a dog lover makes me particularly susceptible to being affected by canine calamity pictures.
Which also came to light in recently watching Quill (2004), a Japanese docu-drama about a seeing-eye dog.
Not that I don't recommend these movies; I can honestly say I've enjoyed each and every one of them.
They're just likely to send me reaching for a Kleenex.
It's not even like I can get over it by watching them repeatedly. No matter how many times I watch Travis Coates man-up and face the awful fate that has befallen his "ugly yeller dog," I am moved.
If I could shuck this emotionalism off by repeated viewings, surely I would have stopped reacting decades ago to It's a Wonderful Life (1946), a movie I have seen probably hundreds of times.
Matters not. When brother Harry toasts brother George as "the richest man in town"...
...well
...suffice to say I may have to discreetly wipe away a mote of dust that has unfortunately landed in my eye around that point in the film.
