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There seems to be two camps when it comes to the annual Christmas letter. One camp is decorated with festive lights and Christmas music can be heard playing in the streets. The annual Christmas letter is welcomed with anticipation and joy in their hearts. The other camp is dark, cold, and only dim fires can be seen burning, barely bright enough to ebb the creeping grip of winter. Audible groans can be heard when a brightly colored card, covered in glitter, is opened and the dreaded Christmas letter falls out!

For most of the year our mailboxes are full of flyers and junk that go directly to the trash, sometimes before even making it inside our homes. With everyone going paperless, there aren’t even bills in there anymore. Christmastime is the last hope that when you check the mailbox there might be something good in there. We peer in, like Charlie Brown, hoping to find a Christmas card, something personal, a note from anyone that says, “I’m thinking of you”.

I love the “Christmas Letter”, and yes, I write one, because I love to get them. Yes, some of them are boring, perhaps even mine. Some detail every little event that happened during the year, but what it really says to me is that someone took the time to sit down, write a letter, even if it’s a type of form letter, had it copied, signed a card, placed the letter inside the card, and addressed it to me. “Me”, the one walking outside to look inside my mailbox, hoping there’s a card there for me to open. A card holding a letter, that I can sit down with a cup of coffee, and read about the things my friend found important in their life this year.

Facebook delivers the final death-blow to the Christmas letter. We share our lives 365 days a year on social media, sometimes in nauseating detail. Why do it again in a Christmas card? Why send a Christmas card at all? You can just deliver one “Merry Christmas” to your entire “Friends” list with a few swift keystrokes, and then move on. No cards to buy. No stamps to buy. No writer’s cramp from addressing envelopes. No time to waste writing a letter, or simply signing your name. Move on! “I’m just too busy!” That’s my favorite! Have you heard it? Have you used it? News Flash!!! We’re all busy!!!!

Did you see that four letter word I wrote earlier? “Time”. That’s what the Christmas letter is all about, time. So, I gladly read about Aunt Sally’s trip to New York, or the beets that were harvested from the garden, and how dreadfully hot this past summer was, because you took the “time” to tell “me”.

It’s not the stories. It’s what the words really say. They say, “I care enough about you, my friend, to give you my time”. Merry Christmas.

 

This morning we awoke to 49 degrees! Brrrr! We waited all summer, suffering through stifling heat and sultry humidity for the somewhat drier and cooler temperatures of fall and winter, and when it is finally upon us, what do we do? We reach for sweatpants, a sweater, and slippers! To be fair, we do throw open the doors for the novelty of it all, pulling the blanket up a little higher and tighter. It’s a refreshing feeling, but oh my do we live in a narrow band of comfortable!

The temperature in our home dropped to 68 this morning without the help of air conditioning! Being from Colorado we refuse to turn on the heat, but having spent the last two years in Florida I must say the thought of a little heat is tempting. That’s insane!!! I know, but it’s true what they say about your blood thinning, or at least it makes sense out of why my toes are cold and I’m searching the bottom of my drawers and the back of my closet for something warm to put on! The fact that I have to search tells you how often I need to wear it. Kim, on his way to work this morning, saw a woman walking her dog, wearing ear muffs and big fuzzy gloves. Floridians can lean a bit toward the dramatic when the mercury takes a dip, but I’m thinking, “Not an entirely inappropriate wardrobe choice. Now I know I have slippers in here somewhere!”

I jump in the shower and turn the temperature controls to hot. It’s the first time in a very long time that I’ve had a “hot” shower, and I must say I rather enjoyed it. I stood there for a very long time. Long enough to feel guilty that is, because though Florida is covered in water, little of it is fresh. Besides, it won’t be long before we are once again opening the doors to the hot, wet towel around your neck feel of our natural sauna, and I’ll be wondering, “Why did I waste a rare cold day in slippers?!”

 

 

I spent the weekend visiting my son and his family. He needed a lift Monday morning, to the airport in Orlando, to begin his work week. I volunteered to take him. I was going to head home anyway, and though out of my way, I was happy for the extra visit time, along with a road buddy for part of my journey.

I travel all over Florida without much trouble, but I don’t spend much time in Orlando and I’m uneasy finding my way home from there. I often joke that the Florida peninsula is narrow. All I have to do, should I get lost, is drive into the setting sun. When I run into water, turn south. But I didn’t want to be lost, so to help me find my way home I enlisted the help of GPS. This is a technological tool I’m unfamiliar with and have a hard time putting faith in. I prefer a map. You know the kind, made of paper, impossible to fold back up the way you found it. You use to be able to pick one up at any gas station. Now you most likely have seen them in museums. GPS it is!

I practiced at Ben’s house with the app on my phone. I was assured, by the under 35 crowd, I had done everything correctly. I was nervously confident. Can you even be that?

I find that when I’m nervous there isn’t a restroom that I don’t think I desperately need. I passed the first rest stop on I-4, convincing myself it was just nerves. That was my first mistake! Nervous or not, if your body says you need a restroom, you do. Trust it not to lie to you!

I’ve taken this route home once before, but my husband, Kim, was with me. If we got lost, we were lost together. This time I was alone, so the stakes were higher. This pleasant, confident voice told me to exit I-4. “Really? I’m not sure this looks right”, but did as I was told. Things began to look familiar, and it wasn’t long before I knew for sure I was heading in the right direction, on the right road.

Now I was wishing I had stopped at that rest area, because I was in the middle of a whole lot of nothing. Not Texas sized nothing, but still nothing. That nice voice said something about following this road for 23 miles, so I figured I’d find something. Instead, what I found were directions to make another turn and drive for another 30 miles of nothing. I know what you’re thinking. “Florida is the 4th most populated state in the country! How could there be nothing?” Well, have you ever flown over Florida at night? There are lights outlining the coasts and in the middle of the state….nothing! That’s where I was! One small town after another, lucky to have a gas station that looked like it needed updating 30 years ago. Finally, a McDonald’s! An oasis in the middle of a desert! Lest I give you the wrong impression, this middle part of the state is actually quite beautiful with orange groves, sod farms, palm tree plantations, and cattle ranches, but public restrooms…barren!

Following a pit stop I was on the road again. One more tricky turn and I would know the rest of my way without GeoSync guidance. When I needed it most, though, the friendly voice on my phone calmly announced, “GPS signal lost”. “Are you kidding!!!??? Now? Seriously!?” I’m yelling at this unruffled, nameless woman, who can’t hear me, and from the tone of her casually repeated announcement, doesn’t really care! I pull over!

I attempt to re-establish my lost signal. At least the google map didn’t disappear, but the road I’m looking for is pretty small and doesn’t show up! I decide to continue driving, confident that the last time I came this way the GPS link was good, and would be again before it was too late. That would be my second mistake. You remember the first. When I got to Arcadia I knew I had gone a bit too far. Pulling over, I consult the map again. I was able to determine, the old-fashioned way, where I was in relationship to where I needed to be, then trace my steps backwards a couple of miles, make a course correction, and regain the appropriate road. As soon as I turned around that cheery voice showed up once again to tell me where to turn, as though she hadn’t bailed on me earlier! “Never mind! I’ll figure it out myself! Oh that’s right! I already did!” I was being snarky…with a phone app!

Ben is a pilot. When I asked him if he ever gets lost up there in the sky he said, “No. We have GPS.” I narrowed my eyes, “I hope you have a map to go with that, otherwise when you least expect it, and most need it, you’ll get a sweet voice that says, ‘GPS signal is lost’!”

 

 

A year ago I wrote a blog called Bonus Years, about celebrating my father-in-law’s 90th birthday, and how blessed we are to share the years that go beyond the norm. Bonus years.

My father-in-law, Lou, looked 15 years younger than his age and acted that much younger as well. He was very active and you would never know by looking at him just how old he was. He was a young 90, until suddenly he wasn’t. And just like that, he was gone.

Lou was of old Italian stock. Lost his dad when he was only nine. His mom, an Italian immigrant, spoke little English, and was left alone with three kids. Lou was the oldest. From the stories I’ve heard, he helped his mom as best he could, but he was just a kid, and a boy with a lot of energy. Barely a man he joined the Air Force (Army Air Corp) in WWII and became a tail gunner with the renowned Flying Tigers. Proud he was of that service, and we are too. Following that he worked on the railroad and told stories of firing coal, spewing black soot and ash when coming across fresh laundry hanging on any clothesline that dared to be near the tracks. He laughed, thought it was funny, all the while grinning like a mischievious teenager. Surely many women did not find him amusing.  He was no choir boy. Later he became a professor at Arizona State University, where he taught industrial technology. Love him or hate him, if you were in his class, you learned. He became a deacon in the Catholic Church. We watched him build a mission church in an area of Phoenix where residents found it difficult to find God anywhere. He made sure they had a place where they could, and enlisted their help, so there was neighborhood pride and ownership in what they had accomplished.

To us, his family, he was a source of support, encouragement, and a little too opinionated! We all enjoyed the first two of these. Not so much that third one. He raised three sons, endured three daughter-in-laws, spoiled and teased seven grandchildren, and delighted in four great-grandchildren. He was proud of each one of us. Admired our individual gifts and talents, encouraged us to be the best that we could be, and offered his opinion when it wasn’t asked for, on just about every subject. He excelled at love and was married to my mother-in-law for 66 years. He was Italian! He was the Patriarch of a 21st century family. Not an easy task, but he’d had lots of practice. You see, he’d been the patriarch since he was nine. It was not his duty. It was his destiny.

When I think about the war stories he told and how many times I heard, “Did I tell you about the time…?” He had in fact, several times, but each time I would listen, maybe not so patiently. Now, I would give anything to hear those stories, just one more time. On Saturday Lou would have been 91. He had been with us for so long that we thought we would have him forever. Our patriarch has gone to the Kingdom, but we will carry on, because he taught us that together we are strong. Together we are family.

Arrivederci Lou, Dad , Nonno. See ya on the other side.

 

 

 

We spent this last weekend at one of my favorite places, the Kennedy Space Center. It’s been several years since my last visit, which was well before they retired all the space shuttle orbiters. After spending five years chasing a shuttle launch I finally caught the final launch of all, Atlantis, July 8, 2011. Atlantis is now at home at Kennedy and I was anxious to see her once again.

I had heard from my son, Ben, that the exhibit was excellent and quite moving, but even with that intro I wasn’t quite prepared for the emotional impact it had on me. I’m not sure why we get choked up about the things we do. They are different for everyone, and why something moves us and not another I don’t really know. Sometimes it’s linked to a memory from childhood, or a connection with a parent, perhaps a desire that has always burned within us to be a part of that something. It’s a mystery, but for me manned space exploration has carried me with it, even though my feet have never left the ground.

I am in awe of the men and women who are able to set aside personal fear, or perhaps driven by it, and not only voluntarily strap themselves to a rocket that hurls them toward the stars at 18,000 mph, but compete for the privilege to do so! The shuttle missions may be over, but it’s not the end. It is just the beginning. Orion is being born and it won’t be long till we are on our way again. I will be there. I will always be there.

My daughter-in-law, Becky, was anxious to see my reaction as we entered the building where Atlantis waited. If emotion is what she wanted, she would not be disappointed. The music sparked a catch in my throat, the blast off mural on the wall triggered tears, and we weren’t even to doors of the exhibit yet.

For those of you who have not yet seen it, but plan to, I will not be the one to spoil your experience with details here. Let it be enough for me to say that at every pause, my anticipation built, and along with it my excitement. I could feel it in my blood. It was as if electricity coursed through my veins! And then…there it was!

Atlantis! An old friend had come home! No…Becky was not disappointed. I cried!

 

 

 

We’ve had cats as members of our family for roughly 19 years, and yet it wasn’t until last year that I learned they shed their claws. How could I not know that? I discovered it one morning after my daughter’s dog and our cat decided to engage in a clash of the Titans. Cleo (bulldog) ended up with a scratch on her nose, while Patches (Manx cat) lost a claw on the foot of the bed. I figured Patches was really hurt, but there was no blood, no limping, no nothing. She’s a cat. You don’t go poking around. She pokes back. She didn’t seem any worse for the excitement, and rather disinterested in my attention.

Over the next few days I began to notice another claw on the floor and then another. What was going on? So, I looked it up. Who knew cats shed their claws? All news to me! Our cats had always had indoor/outdoor privileges. It wasn’t until we moved to an apartment in Florida that Patches became a bona fide “house cat”. I think in the past her and Sophie had either shed their claws while outside, or because our homes were in the country I didn’t notice every little thing on the floor.

I became fascinated with this phenomenon. Patches would only let me see her claws when she was in a bad mood, and at those times I was only interested in getting outside of her reach, not making a scientific study of it. But, these sheds I could examine up close without any clear and present danger. I could identify which claw she shed by its size. They are all fascinating, but the big ones are impressive, and it’s these claws that brought me to this conclusion.

Dinosaurs! What happened to them? They turned into cats! That’s right, cat claws look like velociraptor claws! Don’t believe me? Look it up! And doesn’t it make more sense that the dinosaurs evolved into cats rather than birds? Cats stalk their prey, hiding in bushes, silently waiting, making a sneak attack. They are stealthy, lighting fast, and watching. Always watching. I saw the same thing in Jurassic Park! When was the last time you witnessed your parakeet do this? There may be an argument that pterodactyls are now pelicans. Definitely a resemblance,  but the big boys of the dinosaur age are definitely cats…if you believe in evolution between species, which I don’t, but if you did.

 

This morning I looked out my window to a parade! A parade of 45 ibises! When the rain stops they come out of the woodwork, or jungle, or swamp, or wherever they hang out. You always see a group of them around, but 45 exceeds a group. That’s an assembly! They like to eat small crustaceans, a frog or two, and the occasional snake. All the standing water left behind by Hurricane Hermine means the buffet is open, and the ibises are bellying up to the bar.

Ibises are plentiful in Florida and a beautiful bird, so the first time I heard them called Florida pigeons I was taken aback! My experience with pigeons goes back to my days at Arizona State University, and making a well-timed dash for the door of the life science building. The windows of that building were recessed. The perfect roosting place for pigeons! You could always hear them cooing, which meant they were there, and they were always there. I would look up, making sure I saw nothing but heads, no tails, and then bolt for the door, hoping nothing plopped on my head, my back, or my books.

A pigeon is roughly a foot tall and weighs in at 12 ounces. An ibis, on the other hand, is almost 2 feet tall, weighs in at 2-1/2 pounds, and has a wingspan of 3 feet! That means the bombing run it makes at you or your car has a significant impact. They walk tirelessly on the ground in search of food that they dig up with that long beak, but they roost in the trees. This is a beautiful sight, but could be the reason there are so many car washes in Florida.

Watching my ibis parade made me smile. The reward for suffering through a week of rain.

 

 

I have a few family members, and even fewer friends, who try to twist my arm, cajole, or shame me into eating sushi. Not happening! I consider sushi to be a food fad, popular amongst hipsters, and people who like to think they are “cool” for eating raw fish! They eat it like it’s a badge of honor and you’re just not one of the popular kids if you don’t tag along and join in. You know who eats raw fish? Other fish, bears, and eagles. There are more, but the point is, I’m not mentioned here. You know why I don’t eat raw fish? I have fire! Fire allows me to enjoy my fish grilled, fried, baked, smoked, even blackened.

I suggest that people who eat their fish raw are just being lazy! What, you don’t have 10 minutes to fire up the grill, or turn on the stove? “Nope, just pull that yellowfin out of the fridge and drop it on my plate. I’ll eat it raw. I’m just not in the mood to cook.”

I am really perplexed that they will happily pay a chef $15 for slapping a small piece of raw fish on their plate, adding a lime wedge and piece of parsley! Why? He didn’t do anything! There was no careful watching of the flame, no perfect timing in preparation, no marinating, no roasting, no nothing! But, hey, you’re cool! That’s what it’s about, right? It’s gotta be. I don’t like to cook either, but that is carrying things too far!

Most people feel that sushi puts them near enough to the top of the “coolness” pyramid that they can stop there with the raw meat, but a few continue on with the steak tartare. The ones who really want to separate themselves from the pack are those that eat oysters on the half shell. That’s a full-out 10+ on “yuck factor”. Oh, it sounds glamorous, but it’s not. Raw, slimy oysters. Not only is this “delicacy” uncooked, it’s also alive, though I’d imagine not for long, once they’ve been cut from the shell! What are we, barbarians?! Good grief! Some people have been watching too much “Walking Dead”. You’re also suppose to take great care not to lose the sea water that’s in the shell. Really? Just so we’re clear, I don’t think you’re suppose to drink sea water. I love oysters…smoked, served in olive oil, vinegar, and topped with sea salt. You see the difference here?

Don’t even get me started on caviar! Who looked at that and said, “Let’s eat that?” Someone starving, that’s who!  That’s bait! You call it caviar and it costs up to $100 an ounce!!! I’m not kidding! Check out the fishing tackle aisle at Bass Pro. You can pick it up for a fraction. Same stuff, I’m sure of it!

Call me low brow, but I like my food cooked. This is the 21st century! I’m pretty sure we have all sorts of methods at our disposal to prepare food with heat! If you’re too busy to cook your meat before you consume it, I’m going to suggest you need to re-evaluate your schedule and your priorities. Slow down a little, have a glass of wine, enjoy good conversation while you chill out, and learn to grill for heaven’s sake!

Friday I was helping my daughter set up her home office space, which required us to build a fairly large desk that came compactly packaged in two boxes that were deceivingly heavier than they looked, and equally complicated to assemble. The instruction booklet lacked words, instead each step was marked by number and accompanied by a picture. Ancient pictographs were decidedly more detailed!

Turns out I do better with a combination of written instructions and pictures of what it’s suppose to look like. So, in this case, Mariah “read” the instructions, and my job was to hand her the proper piece of wood, if you can call particle board “wood”, along with the appropriate screws, followed by my expert opinion, “I don’t think it goes that way.”

One particular combination was giving us trouble. Mariah needed a better angle at which to see in order to solve the problem. I chose to hold the piece of wood on my head. That height was perfectly in her line of sight, but probably not my brightest idea of the day. The problem arose when she decided she needed to adjust the wooden peg with a hammer! Before I realized what she was doing she tapped that peg, and without warning I had a headache! “Whoops! That was a bad idea. Sorry!” You think!?

I asked Mariah what step we were on? “Three”, she said. “How many steps are there?” “Looks like 18.” Heavy sigh. This was taking forever! I looked around the room as she figured out what goes where and how, when I spied another sleeve of screws and fasteners. “No, no Mariah. There are 27 steps!” and us on step 3. I settled in. It’s going to be awhile.

We’d been at it for hours. I had lost track of how many. It seemed like days. Mariah resolutely continued onward, when I pointed out that she failed to place the bottom of the drawer in position before attaching the sides. “Dagnabbit!” I burst out laughing! “What, you’ve never heard that word before?” Sure I have. When I was eight! I don’t think I’ve heard that word in 50 years. When compared to any other colorful sentiment of frustration, it bore the need to vent irritation with the refreshing power of laughter. As an alternative curse word it was so much more satisfying than those of the four letter variety for both of us.

We celebrated Step 27. We finished! It’s a fine-looking desk and will serve her well. I placed those pictorial directions in the bottom drawer, and hope to the stars and back that I never see them again!

I was slogging to my car with a basket full of groceries, having just stepped out of a well air-conditioned grocery store. Why did I park so far away? I actually didn’t, it only felt that way! The news had reported that it was 91 degrees, feels like 102! Feels like? Where do they get this “feels like”? How do they know it feels like 102? Is there a special “feels like” thermometer? I’ve never seen one. Is the “feels like” temperature taken in the sun, or the shade, at the airport, or right here in the parking lot of this grocery store, because I think it feels like 110! I should know. I grew up in Phoenix! Well, Tempe, but now you’re just splitting hairs when it comes to temperature. Suffice to say, I know hot!

Turns out there is a complicated formula for figuring out “feels like” temperature. It has something to do with the actual temperature, the humidity, the angle of the sun, the wind, and an average of what George and Charlie say it feels like to them. Any wonder I struggled through algebra? They are making this stuff up!

Bottom line, here in Florida you can almost count on the “feels like” temperature being about 10 degrees warmer than the “real” temperature. Back in Phoenix when they say it’s 110 they mean it really is 110, and it feels like 110! No George and Charlie in the Arizona sunshine comparing notes on how they feel.

I’ve come to count on that “feels like” temperature though. Mostly because I’ve been fooled by the heavy hitting Florida humidity factor before. The temperature is 75 degrees! Awesome! I throw open the doors and windows only to be blasted by the hot wet towel around the neck feeling of entering a sauna! Did anybody bother to check with George and Charlie on what it “feels like” out here?