Cookies = Christmas

One major mile-marker on my road to Christmas has been passed: I hosted my family's annual Cookie Swap on Sunday.

The lineup of goodies swapped was impressive:

And the time with family was festive (with a large chunk of it dedicated to football, as expected):

My mom and sisters and I have been swapping holiday cookies for about a quarter of a century now, and Sunday's gathering had four generations of the family in attendance.

Cookie Swap prep time and baking can be quite a chore, but it's one well worth it as I hope the tradition will continue for many more years to come, for many more generations to enjoy.

Today's question:

If you had to eliminate all sweets and treats from your holiday diet except for one, which one seasonal goodie would you keep on enjoying?

No trophies for this grandma

Megan after Mad Mud Run 2011I've never been an athlete, never been competitive when it comes to sports and physical exertion. The only time I came even close to thinking I could come out on top in a sporting event was in first grade. It was field day and I was so enthralled with Frankie, the cutest of cute boys in my class, that I felt I could do anything, beat anyone in any competition I was signed up for—which was only the three-legged race and the tug-of-war every kid in the class was signed up for but, hey, I was ready.

Elementary school field days are a magical day near the end of the school year when the sun is warm, the excitability high, and the festive agenda includes running, racing, jumping and more. One of the highlights of field days back in my day (and back in the cold of Minnesota) was the rare opportunity to eat outside on blankets carefully placed across the school lawn instead of crammed onto cafeteria tables with built-in benches inside the dank, stale lunchroom. The picnic-style lunch was a favorite of students one and all.

My main event—the three-legged race—was scheduled for late afternoon, so I joyfully ate my lunch, sneaking peeks at Frankie across the lawn every chance I could, then looking away the second his head turned my way. We'd not yet spoken to one another; he likely didn't even know my name. But I was determined to change all that on our glorious day on the field.

My opportunity to do exactly that came just after lunch. A creek ran through the grounds just behind the school, and when we weren't on the roster for field events, many of us played along its banks awaiting our competition. Frankie was in the group of boys daring one another to jump across the water, I was in the group of girls fawning over their agility.

My eyes were in all-out adoration mode, focused on Frankie...until I saw in my peripheral vision a frog. A hopping amphibian of magical proportions that I was sure would garner me attention from Frankie, if only I could capture the creature and present it to him.

As the boys jumped and the girls watched, I stealthily approached the frog no one else seemed to have seen. The frog hopped ahead a bit. Then it hopped farther...and faster...with each step I took toward it. But I, too, moved faster and faster, determined to nab the prize and present it to my potential beau. Sensing my plan, the frog took one fantastic leap, right over the muddy bank and downward into the stream. Thanks to the momentum built in my pursuit, I, too, went over the muddy bank—then tripped and landed face first in the mud and tumbled on into the stream.

By then my stream-mates had gathered at the top of the bank, giggling as the frog hopped away. I gave up on the frog and, doing my best to hold back the tears, began my ascent up the muddy bank, slipping, sliding, stumbling as I tried to grab hold of anything that might help me reach the top. I finally made it—with no help from any of the other kids. Not from my girl friends, not from the boys, and especially not from Frankie.

I was a mess, a stinky, muddy mess. My mom was called, I was brought home to change, and I arrived back at the field just in time to join the three-legged race, which I reluctantly ran only for the sake of my assigned partner.

I can't remember whether we won or lost the race that day, but I do remember the entire experience revealed Frankie as a creep unwilling to help a lass in need. My crush was over, gone, abated for ever more.

My Frankie-and-the-frog incident had little to do with my athletic ability, but I don't recall ever being as excited about my subsequent field days and athletic attempts as I was that first fateful one. I grudgingly participated in P.E. classes throughout my school career, had a brief stint as a junior-high cheerleader, and joined a summer softball team only once as an adult—and quit soon after the team captain told me in not-so-polite terms that I really shouldn't be allowed on the field after flubbing the art of catching, throwing, batting so horrendously during practices.

There's no question about it: I'm no athlete. Jim is definitely more athletic than I, having been on wrestling, baseball, and football teams in high school, but he was never considered, by ability or association, a full-fledged jock.

Which is why it's so surprising our daughters were...and are. We could never afford for the girls to be on park & rec or club teams as youngsters, but from middle school on, all three were firmly entrenched in school sports. They continually impressed me with their participation in swimming, cross country, track, cheerleading, volleyball, soccer. Brianna and Andrea both received high-school letters and letter jackets for being three-sport athletes; Megan received the same for being in two sports plus choir.

Now that my daughters are adults, they continue to impress me with their athletic pursuits. Primarily as runners...running long distances.

Turkey Trot 2010

My daughters happily, willingly participate in 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons and more. This weekend, in fact, both Megan and Andrea are running some sort of Jingle Bell race, each in their respective cities.

The athletic (although not yet all that competitive) spirit continues with Bubby. At three years old, he's an avid swimmer, loves to hike and bike, and just last week he finished up his soccer season. For his effort on the team, Bubby garnered his very first sports trophy ever.

It surely won't be his last, especially if his mommy and aunts (and daddy, too) have anything to do with it. And if he's fleet-footed enough to dodge any non-athletic influence his grandma may have on him.

Today's question:

To whom would you award the Most Athletic trophy in your family?

Photo replay: 30 Christmases ago

Thirty years ago—nine months into the relationship and not yet married—Jim and I photographed ourselves together in front of a Christmas tree for the very first time.

(Gotta love that perm-fried hair!)

Happy Sunday!

From both sides now

Even several years into it, an empty nest can be hard to get used to. Especially during the holidays. No longer do I have play-by-play announcements from the family room of who's up next in the Thanksgiving parade as I prep the turkey in the kitchen. No longer must I search high and low for a favorite Christmas CD that's been nabbed from the holiday-music tin by a teen who wants to play it in her room or car. Nor do I have youngsters—or teenagers—waking up early as can be on Christmas morning, excitedly serving as the alarm that time had come for celebrations to begin. 

I miss all that and more—even the pilfered music—that was part and parcel of a full nest. Every now and then I indulge in pity parties, bemoaning the occasional sadness Jim and I now share since our daughters have grown up, moved on.

In my self-centered, self-pitying mindset, I often, no, I pretty much always forget that my daughters face their own sadness and challenges in the growing up, the moving on. Especially during the holidays. My youngest daughter, Andrea, recently—unintentionally—reminded me of exactly that.

Andrea was scheduled to work on Thanksgiving and wouldn't be able to spend the day with the family. As a counselor in a residential treatment facility for troubled adolescent girls, staff is required to be on-site 24/7, and Andrea's regular hours include Thursdays, which, of course, Thanksgiving was. Which meant she had no choice but to cover that shift. It was to be her first Thanksgiving absent from our table, so she and some friends who also had to work that day—plus a few who simply couldn't make it to their own family homes for the holiday—planned a holiday gathering of friends for later in the evening, after the workday was done.

The idea Andie couldn't be home for Thanksgiving—that now two of my three daughters wouldn't be around for the day—saddened me. But in these crazy economic times a job must come first, so I accepted it. I didn't accept as easily, though, the seemingly nonchalant attitude from Andrea each time we discussed it. I never voiced it to her, but in all honesty, there were a few times I thought my youngest might just be asserting her independence and actually pretending to me that she had to work but in fact was planning a full day of holiday fun and frivolity with her friends instead of her family.

How wrong I was. Turns out Andrea was just doing her best to stay strong in the face of reality, of growing up, of being an adult, of needing to stay employed. Her tough facade crumbled Thanksgiving evening. On her way home from the gathering, Andrea called me in tears. The celebration with friends had been fine, the food was good, she assured me, but it simply wasn't Thanksgiving at home, and it broke her heart to feel so far away from family during a holiday for the very first time.

"I'm 26 years old," she said through her tears, "I'm just being stupid and a big baby, but I missed being home. It was just...so...hard!"

I realized at that moment how rarely I take into account what my girls have gone through, continue to go through, on the road to adulthood and independence from their parents. I focus only on what I'm missing, what I've lost.

I don't consider often enough Andrea's steadfast determination to continue traditions instilled in her childhood, everything from green eggs and ham on Saint Patrick's Day to pumpkin-carving competitions for Halloween. Or a holiday turkey dinner with friends that may be fine...but oh-so hard to get through without crying.

I don't consider often enough the role reversal for my middle daughter, Megan, who as a child definitely enjoyed the giving but wholeheartedly preferred and relished the receiving at Christmas. She'd happily pose with her piles of presents, giddy with the prospect of opening them. Once her picture was taken, she'd dive right in with unbridled joy, not worrying one whit what went on around her. Now as wife/Mommy/grown-up, Megan must care plenty of whits, as she plays supervisor of the family giving and receiving, making sure celebrations run smoothly, successfully. In other words, putting everyone else first. Which can be hard, is hard.

I don't consider often enough that my oldest daughter, Brianna, leads a solitary home life yet still does her darnedest to make her home a happy space filled with holiday joy to enjoy on her own. Just last week she decorated her tree, by herself, with no one to help string the lights, hang the ornaments, place the angel on top. "You have no idea how difficult it can be doing it all by yourself," she later told me.

And I don't know. Because I have a husband to help. And because after Brianna finished her own tree, decorating her own place, she hopped in the car and drove over to help Jim and me decorate our tree, our place.

"I had to come," she said when I thanked her for doing so. "With Megan gone now and Andrea not able to help this year, I didn't want you and Dad to be sad doing it alone. We have to ween you off such things slowly, Mom. I know it's hard."

She's right. It is indeed hard—for all of us. I need to consider that, I need to remember that. Especially during the holidays. 

Today's question:

What did you miss most about holidays at home when you first left the nest?

Serendipity

Brianna & Andrea, ready for Hugo in 3D."Our brightest blazes of gladness," Samuel Johnson once said, "are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks." I learned the truth of that this past Sunday.

Thanksgiving weekend was pleasant all the way around, but my favorite day of the long holiday wasn't the top-billed, highly planned for Thanksgiving Day. Nor was it the day after...or Saturday. It turned out to be Sunday. Unexpectedly. Unintentionally.

My youngest daughter, Andrea, was unable to join us for the Thanksgiving Day gathering because she had to work. We had talked about her possibly making the trek from Denver to home at some point over the long weekend if her schedule allowed, but there were no definite plans, not even as late as Saturday morning.

Then Sunday worked out for her, opened itself up for a visit. She headed home, Brianna headed over from her place, and Jim and I were fortunate to have two of our three daughters with us for the afternoon. And two out of three ain't bad at all.

We played the ABBA You Can Dance video game on the Wii. Andrea proved to be the true dancing queen, Brianna was the karaoke queen, I was the queen of busting moves to my own groove instead of those intended. And Jim...well, he just laughed while watching the rest of us, far too cool to grace us with ABBA moves of his own.

We ate the last of the Thanksgiving turkey and potatoes and more, not at the table in proper family dining fashion, but in front of the TV. We—okay, they—watched and talked about football. We ate pie. We conducted a mini chocolate taste-testing of Lindt Excellence chocolate bars for my Holiday Guide.

And we went to see Hugo, the 3D movie directed by Martin Scorsese, produced by Johnny Depp, and crowned with an A+ rating by Roger Ebert. That's all we knew beforehand, as the trailer doesn't come close (thankfully) to truly revealing the tale...so we were all delightfully surprised by how magical, moving, and memorable Hugo turned out to be.

Just like our unplanned, unexpected day turned out to be: delightful, surprising, magical, moving, memorable.

Today I bask in that blaze of gladness, sparked by pure serendipity.

Today's question:

What leftovers from Thanksgiving still remain in your refrigerator?

Oh, the horrors: Movies most scary...to me

Happy Halloween!

In honor of the holiday, I thought I'd share with you the movies that have most scared me over the years (in approximate order of viewing):

The Birds (1963) — I remember watching this in the house we lived in when I was born, so I was likely under the age of 5. I recall it being around Christmas time, as there were homemade ornaments hanging in the pass-thru from kitchen to family room (or wherever the TV was) and without explanation, the ornaments fell during one of the more intense moments. I've been frightened of huge flocks of black birds and egg-carton ornaments ever since.

The Child Molester (1964) — This incredibly grisly "educational" film was shown at school during my early years and I will never, ever forget the bloody shoe floating down the stream. (And my girls wonder why I was such a paranoid mother.) I looked for the name of this movie for this post and found the whole scary thing posted HERE. Beware: You'll never again look at children's shoes the same way.

Chamber of Horrors (1966) — How could anyone, especially a youngster, not be afraid when the Fear Flasher and Horror Horn made it oh-so clear that it was the only appropriate response for what was to come?

House of Wax (1953) — My introduction to Vincent Price. Likely one of the "Creature Double Feature" flicks on Saturday nights spent with older cousins in Wisconsin.

Crowhaven Farm (1970) — I told you in this post how the sound of rocks being stacked scare the cuss out of me because they sound like the ones stacked by the coven of witches in Crowhaven Farm. I think of this one often, as we have lots of rocks on our property...and seem to stack them on a fairly regular basis, for some unknown reason.

Sisters (1973) — Siamese twins and Brian de Palma were forever linked in my head after this. Oh, along with putting on panty hose, just like the crazy sister in the barn loft. Gah...!

Picture Mommy Dead (1970) — For this post I finally figured out the name of a movie that has haunted me for years and years, especially every time I heard "the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, in through your stomach and out your mouth." Imagine my surprise when I realized Zsa Zsa Gabor was part of the horror. Yep, it's true. And still scary to me.

The Exorcist (1973) — I was often sick as a child. I remember being quite ill with pneumonia at the time this movie came out. Up in my room in the old farm house, I'd be falling asleep to the sound of the radio when—AH!—the commercial for The Exorcist, with its chilling music, would come on and make me want to run downstairs or scream, but I couldn't do either because I was so freakin' sick. Years later I actually watched the movie...and had my fears validated.

Audrey Rose (1977) — Anthony Hopkins, reincarnation, burning alive. Need I say more? Okay, I'll say a little more. Not too long ago, I watched this with Jim and my then teen daughters. They've made fun of me ever since for recommending as "one of the scariest movies ever" this campy Exorcist rip-off. It really was scary the first time. Honest. At least when you're young...and a big chicken.

Carrie (1976) — Yes, it was truly scary. And I'm not the only one who thought so. And not just the first time you watch it. Honest. I still think of it often...and actually just last week told Jim as he was leaving for work one day, "They're all gonna laugh at you." (Yep, that's the kind of joy involved in being my spouse.)

The Shining (1980) — I have twin siblings, and the creepy twins at the end of the hallway were just a small part of it. Supposedly having happened in my home state was a big part of it. Funny thing, I've now been to the hotel that inspired the story—The Stanley Hotel—many times, including when they were remaking the film into a TV series and for two ghost tours.

The Entity (1982) — I was a brand-new mommy who spent a lot of time alone with my baby as Jim worked his butt off to support us and the idea that the story of a malevolent spirit beating and raping a woman was supposedly true was more horrific than my hormones could bear at the time. I used to bring Brianna, in her infant seat, into the bathroom with me while I showered just so I wasn't alone.

Blair Witch Project (1999) — I didn't watch that many scary movies between the one above and this as being a mother of three daughters was frightening enough. But the year this came out, I took my teen daughters to see it one afternoon during spring break. It was more nausea inducing than scary. Until a week or so later: I was out on our deck in the middle of the night watching for shooting stars when I scared myself by thinking of the movie. I set out to run back into the dining room through the open screen door...only the screen door wasn't open and I mangled it as I dashed through anyway, determined to escape whatever may have lurked in the dark.

There were other horror flicks throughout the years, but these have been the most memorably scary for me.

I do still enjoy watching scary movies. Scary ones, though, not disgustingly grisly and twisted ones like the "Saw" movies and such. For the most part, I don't get as scared by them as I used to.

I just no longer go out on the deck in the middle of the night by myself anymore.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

Today's question:

What movies were most scary to you?

Photographs and memories

You surely can tell from this blog that I love to take photos of my grandsons. As a long-distance grandma, I take advantage of the times we have together in many ways, but a priority always involves stocking up on lots of shots of memorable moments during our visits.

Often, though, I don't have my camera on hand for some of the most memorable moments of all. For example, when bedraggled Mommy Megan and the boys first came into view at the airport, Bubby beelined it for Gramma. As I picked him up, he held me tight and said, "I missed you so much." It was and likely always will be one of my all-time favorite moments with him, yet not one accompanied by a photo.

Another memorable-but-not-recorded moment was when Bubby and I sat in the hot tub together. Although I did take pictures of the experience—and had Megan take a few, too—the funniest, surely most memorable moment of all was when I was putting the camera down. I stood up out of the hot tub and leaned over the edge to put my camera in a safe, dry place. When I turned back around to sit once again next to Bubby, he wore a huge grin from ear to ear and looked guilty as all get-out. For what, I didn't know. Until I began to sit. Bubby giggled and told me, "I said 'that's Gramma's big booty patooty'!" Apparently Bubby got a giggle-worthy shot of his own as Gramma leaned over the edge.

I've mentioned before that Bubby and I like to have dance parties of a sort when we're together. During the most recent visit he and Baby Mac made to our house, the dance party was larger than usual, made especially memorable with the addition of Baby Mac in my arms. I bopped with Baby Mac as Bubby rolled with Rock Dog. Another moment not caught on film.

The day before our house guests were scheduled to leave, I mentioned to Bubby that he'd be heading home the next day. "But I want to stay here," he said. I told him that he couldn't do that because his friends were all at home, and he had to go to school. "But I can go to school here," he said. My heart melted at the idea that Bubby was willing to give up his beloved friends and great times at school in favor of staying at Gramma's.

Similarly, the day Bubby and Mommy were packing up the luggage, Bubby passed me in the hallway and woefully told me, "I will miss you so much." A second mention to match the first when he arrived, sweet sentiments to bookend the visit.

Those sentiments and other equally memorable moments may not have been captured in photos, but they're definitely imprinted on my heart. Which makes them longer lasting and not likely to ever fade.

Today's question:

What recent moment(s) for you were not caught on film but imprinted on your heart?

Doing time at the North Pole

Brianna (back) coming down the Candy Cane Slide with her cousin Tiffany in 1987.I live in the mountains. So high up in the mountains, in fact, that I'm within a 30-minute drive of the North Pole. THE North Pole. Where Santa Clause lives.

Having lived in this area the majority of my life, work at the North Pole—Home of Santa's Workshop was a viable employment option when I was a teen. I worked at the North Pole the summer I turned 16 years old and could drive myself through its enchanting gates.

Jobs for teens at the North Pole were aplenty. Teens worked as shop attendants, ride operators, food servers, magician assistants, and Santa's assistants...more commonly known as elves, with the most sugarplum of assignments being Santa's dedicated elf, the one who hangs with Santa in his house and takes the photos of all the good little girls and boys who come to visit him.

I never got to be Santa's personal elf. In fact, I never got to be an elf at all. I wasn't perky, pretty, and personable enough in the job interview, apparently, to have the honor of being named one of Santa's sweeties. Nope, I was named a "front ride operator." Meaning I helped with the rides at the front of the amusement park.

For the duration of the summer, I covered business at the bouncy house, or took tickets and strapped kids in on the miniature car ride or the Shetland ponies walking in an endless circle. The north ride I was assigned to most often of all, though, was Santa's Candy Cane Slide.

As gatekeeper of Santa's Candy Cane Slide, my duties included not only taking tickets and handing out gunny sacks for sliding down in, I had the honorable task of waxing the spiral slide from top to bottom every single morning before the park opened. With a bar of wax, I'd crawl backward down the slide, waxing on (never off) all the whole way. Then I'd grab a gunny sack, start at the top, and shimmy my way down, shining and slicking from side to side with my gunny-sacked tush. Then I'd climb the stairs again, plop down at the top of the slide and take the first slicked-up ride of the day.

Each morning, I reported to duty in my navy blue slacks and red North Pole T-shirt. I arrived uniformed and ready to roll. No need to join the hundreds of girls in the elves' dressing room, giggling and gaining friends (and fodder for future comparisons to Santaland Diaries) as together they donned varied but equally festive jumpers, skirts, pinafores, peasant blouses, vests, jolly tights, elfin shoes and hats.

As I waxed and tore tickets and rescued kiddies freaked out midway down the peppermint spiral, the elves greeted guests with smiles and squeaky voices and frolicked festively about the grounds of the North Pole.

On breaks, I'd enter the cafeteria alone, eat alone, leave alone, while pairs and trios and more of the happy little elves nibbled their nosh together, complaining about their hard work of playing happy all day long.

The elves went home smelling like the candle shops or candy shops or whatever jolly joint they'd been assigned. I went home smelling like sweat from sitting outside the spiral slide in the sun all day long. Or like ponies.

I once was bitter. Today, though, I am bitter no more.

Bubby, Baby Mac and Megan are visiting next week, and today I added to the schedule of Fun To Be Had while they are here a visit to the North Pole. Bubby is the perfect age for hanging with the real Santa in his real off-season digs. For marveling at the reindeer roaming the place. For riding the Ferris Wheel, the Christmas Tree ride, for sliding down the Candy Cane Slide. And for giggling about all the elves happily helping out here, there, and everywhere throughout the North Pole.

When we visit, I will tell Bubby all about Gramma working there. About waxing the slide to make it as slick as can be, then getting to be the very first one to go down it each and every day, savoring the slickness no one else would know. He'll think that's pretty darn cool, I'm sure.

Bubby would not think it's cool, I'm sure, if I told him I were once an elf at the North Pole. For if I once were an elf, why would I no longer be an elf? Slide operators grow up, move on, become Grammas who no longer live at the North Pole. But elves? Once an elf, always an elf. Or that's how it should be. What disgrace would I possibly have brought upon myself to be kicked out of the elf kingdom and made to live in a regular house as regular folk instead of with Santa?

Sharing news I once was an elf surely would get my oh-so-bright Bubby wondering how that could be. Gramma's not an elf now, so how could she ever have been? Is it all just made up? Is the whole Santa story simply a sham? Like I said, Bubby's at the perfect age for marveling at the magic, for visions of sugarplums and candy canes and dancing reindeer and all things great about the story of Santa, the North Pole. I would hate to be the one to ruin that for him.

So if having once been an elf might ruin the magic for Bubby, I'm all for proudly owning up to having been a north ride operator instead. A ticket taker, a slide slicker. There's no shame in that...and may even hold an "ooh" or an "aah" at the nifty job Gramma once had.

So, yeah, I wasn't an elf. Today I've decided that's okay. Today I've come face to face yet again with proof that things—regardless of the disgruntlement they may cause at the time—really do happen for a reason.

Preserving the magic for Bubby is reason enough for me.

Today's question:

What summer jobs did you have as a teen?

Time is on our side

Cousins

Nearly 20 years ago, I tried to steal my sister's son. Well, steal isn't quite the word. More accurately, I tried to save my sister's son, my nephew.

Nearly 20 years ago, my youngest sister was young, divorced, and had two sons—the youngest lived with her; the oldest, with his dad in the Pacific Northwest. Her life was, to put it mildly, a mess. She was in a drug-fueled relationship with an abusive maniac who thought nothing of beating the hell out of her, of shooting a gun right next to her head as he held her against a wall and threatened to kill her if she considered leaving him.

Which she didn't consider because, as such stories go, she loved him.

She loved her son, too, though, and knew the situation was a dangerous one for the little boy to be in, to witness. So she often asked me to babysit him. Which I did. Often. Little J stayed many a night at my house, ate many a meal with my family, was a welcome part of my family.

One particularly bad time, my sister asked me to have J stay at my house for the night, as Wacko Boyfriend was wackier than ever. She also asked that if she didn't call me at regular intervals through the night, that I come check on her. She wouldn't not go home for fear her boyfriend would come after her, so I had no choice but to agree.

My sister called once, then twice, as she was supposed to. Then no more calls. As my fear and panic became unbearable, I asked Jim to stay with the kids while I went to see if my sister was still alive.

When I arrived, the door of her apartment was slightly ajar. I knocked, I called out, I begged for my sister to answer. Which she didn't. I was scared to go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. I was scared to not go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. Or worse.

I couldn't bring myself to go in alone, though. So I knocked on the door of a neighboring apartment. An enormous black man who looked much like the linebackers I'd seen on TV answered. Inside were a few of his friends, also similarly large and scary-looking to this silly white girl begging for help in rescuing her sister. After a few fearful glances at one another, the big burly guys agreed to accompany me to my sister's apartment.

It was the scariest experience of my life. I was scared for my sister. Scared of the strangers I asked for help. Scared we'd all be ambushed by a freaking maniac if we went into the apartment.

We knocked. We slowly entered. We tentatively searched the apartment. We found no one.

Then, out the patio door, I saw my sister take off running and jump into a car with her boyfriend. I quickly thanked the linebackers, raced to my car, and took chase after my sister, believing she was being taken against her will.

When I finally caught up with them, my drugged-up sister pointed at me through the window and laughed as the car sped away. The joke was on me. A horrible, heartbreaking horror of a joke.

I returned home devastated, worried about what was happening to my sister. Most of all I was worried about what might eventually happen to my nephew. So when my sister called the next day, acting as if nothing had happened, as if she could just drop by and pick up her son, I told her I wasn't letting him go with her, that I was keeping him until she straightened her life out.

Surprisingly, there was no resistance from her.

Then, as Jim, my daughters, and I—along with my nephew—got ready for church, my sister pulled up in front of my house. With a cop. A cop who told me I had to give J to his mother. My sister wouldn't look at me, just stood by her car. The cop told me he understood how insane this was, but that legally I had to hand over my nephew. That his mother, as crazy as her situation—as she—apparently was, the boy was hers and I had no right to keep him. He knew it was wrong, the cop said, but it was the law.

I surrendered J to his mother. To my sister. Who had seemingly lost her mind.

Not long after that heartbreaking weekend, J's dad came to town to take custody of J. I honestly don't recall exactly how it all transpired, who had contacted him—such holes in my memory being the reason I could never write a memoir—but he came to save his son. Something I couldn't do. He had J's brother with him, kindly brought both boys to our house to tell us goodbye. Then he took them away.

We never saw either of the boys again.

Until yesterday.

My sister had thankfully pulled her life together several years after losing her boys. She got rid of the maniac boyfriend—after having three children with him. Three incredible children, all pretty much adults now, who are better off because their mom ran and hid and healed. Better off because, harsh as this sounds, their father died in a car accident before they knew the horrors of him.

My sister's contact with her two boys in the Pacific Northwest was sporadic and strained over the years, the pain and lies and misunderstandings too hard to overcome. Not long ago, though, they did overcome them. My sister finally visited, hugged, talked earnestly and honestly, offered apologies and explanations.

That was this past spring. This past weekend, the two boys came to visit their mom and half siblings. A party was held yesterday so as much extended family as could make it would also reconnect with the two boys. Two boys we hadn't seen in nearly twenty years. Two boys who had grown into bright, delightful, funny, interesting, and admirable young men.

I've not yet found the words to describe it. I won't even try.

I will, though, give thanks. Because although time—regardless of what anyone says—does not heal all wounds, it does lead to some level of forgiveness, some degree of grace, some appreciation for the time that is left.

I give thanks that forgiveness was offered. I give thanks for such grace. And, especially, I give thanks for the time that is left.

Today's question:

Who would you like to reconnect with in your extended (or immediate, even) family?

Itsy bitsy spider

I have several folders in file drawers hither and yon of letters, notes, cards, and more I saved from my girls throughout the years. Things such as letters to the Easter Bunny and Santa, report cards, love notes to me for being mommy dearest, apology notes to me because of their bad grades or missed curfews.

Scraps of life with daughters, unsystematically tucked away on the spur of the moment on the off chance I'd one day look back on them and smile.

Last night as I rifled through those folders searching for something I plan to soon write about, I came across the following saved scrap. And I did more than smile. In fact, I laughed out loud and soon had tears trickling down my cheeks.

The unexpected source of amusement was this note from teen-aged Megan, explaining why she'd left a book in the middle of the family room floor when she went to bed one night. The note had been, all those years ago, attached to the out-of-place book:

To think the goofy author of this note now lives with the daily threat of scorpions and serves as chief spider-squisher when Preston is away had me chuckling the rest of the night, considering the myriad ways my babies have indeed grown up.

I can only hope, though, that this one's grown up enough to no longer use precious books as her weapon of choice when it comes to squishing spiders ... or scorpions.

Today's question:

What is your weapon of choice when it comes to creepy crawly things?