Half Life

Peter pardons some pine cone turkeys: Thanksgiving 2020

Our local meat market came up with an ingenious idea, when their huge turkeys were languishing un-purchased due to the smaller Thanksgiving celebrations this year. The butcher cut them in half, and they sold like crazy! This seemed to me the perfect image for our current, really weird holiday season (and don’t kid yourselves, my friends, Christmas will be very similar). I pictured sad, sawed apart poultry being eaten by half the usual revelers, accompanied perhaps by a half can of cranberry sauce and a mini pumpkin pie. Even the NYC Macy’s parade shrunk to a mere block in length! 

Logistical challenge: transport my scallop puffs to Rose in Brooklyn (sadly, I couldn't)

We were missing four of our five children, and Zoom proved a poor substitute for their companionship around the festive table. Even our traditional after-dinner charades tournament had a distinctly different vibe, as two of the main participants were ages 4 and 6. I must say it was rather restful—usually we play for keeps, arguing over 14-word-long titles of obscure Bollywood movies and the like. But last evening we just played “animal charades” so it was one of the six of us crawling around on the floor, the others wildly guessing, “Elephant? Monkey? Horseshoe crab?” If a winner could be determined, my vote was for Peter, whose turns were a kind of strange interpretive dance (joyful if incomprehensible). 

As we near the nine month mark of Pandemic Life, I realize some people have managed to carry babies from conception to full term during this stretch! What do I have to show for March-November 2020? I haven’t even moved the suitcase I’d carried down from the attic for the European trip that was cancelled eons ago! My theory: eventually I WILL use the suitcase, so why on earth put it back in the meantime? Steve yesterday confessed to feeling some anger (not about the dust-covered suitcase in our room, though he’d have every right to be irked). No, he was angry that almost a year of full living had been taken away from him, from all of us. At 71, he told me, he didn’t have any time to waste, and keenly felt the stalling of the children’s theatre company he’s worked so hard to build for 40 years. 

I read an article about people living what could be called half-lives, lives in a kind of limbo: folks on the international space station, at a remote science outpost in Antarctica. While productive, they nevertheless are missing out on vital things like daylight, time with family and friends, etc. Their consensus for maintaining mental health? Change (lower) expectations! Don’t expect a night on Broadway right now; be happy when a colony of Emperor penguins waddles by your hut, so to speak. 

I can look at it my half-life this year as still full: full of love, of small achievements,  of laughter. Coronavirus doesn’t have to rob of me all that makes existence sweet.  

After all, not everyone gets to see Peter acting like a cheetah. Or was it… an Emperor penguin?

Blog-a-Versary

Searching the old journals!

As a former journal keeper, I have fully embraced blogging, for several reasons. For one, accountability! Knowing other people are reading forces me to be a) somewhat coherent, b) sometimes clever and c) occasionally heartfelt. When I scribbled for my eyes only, I really didn’t care about grammar or syntax or legibility, much less enthralling content. Another plus for the blog column: my written history is right at my fingertips! When I want to recount a cute saying from one of my toddlers, I have to haul out my old handwritten journals and re-read EVERY entry until I find the gem I seek (only to discover, often, that it ain’t quite as gem-like as I remembered). 

On the minus side: I realize that I am at the mercy of my platform (the inventively named “Blogger”) and that at any moment, with a gentle “poof”, the whole shebang could disappear. I do keep copies of my posts on my computer, but still…it would be a ton of work to re-do the entries with the accompanying photos, audio files, etc. and, knowing me, I might not bother. What a loss that would be for my biographer someday!!

At any rate, we are nearing the ninth anniversary of my first post. When I wrote Take a Hike about an after-Thanksgiving outing with the fam, I truly expected it to be a flash-in-the-pan, like so many of my other ventures. At some point, though, it took on a life of its own, and now I wouldn’t quit blogging any more than I’d decide to quit brushing my teeth. I average three or four posts per month (rest assured, I brush my teeth rather more frequently). Once a year, I rev up the engine and crank out 30 entries in a row (usually in November), after which I subside, exhausted, with nouns and verbs scattered on the floor all around me. 

Since Turkey Day is tomorrow, I thought I’d “peep” (or  “gobble” to imitate the appropriate bird) at Posts of Thanksgivings Past…

2012: Surprise! Another after-holiday outdoor family activity, which included the first (and only) time I successfully threw a frisbee AND made a basket at the neighborhood courts. Like many a savvy athlete, I quickly retired, resting on my laurel.

2013: It’s The Thought That Counts?: Focusing on my friend Mary Ellen’s VERY thoughtful present that year (tickets to a taping of The Rachael Ray Show in NYC). 

2014: Whaddayaknow?: The Thanksgiving Evan had us all deliver five minute presentations about subjects we knew well. Conclusion: I guess I don’t know much well.

2015: What Not to Wear: Binging a TV “comfort” show with my girls 

2016: Attention Black Friday Shoppers!: Savvy holiday bargain hunters…versus me

2017: Curve Balls: The swell day the furnace chimney collapsed.

2018: Our Brooklyn Thanksgiving:  Fun at Julie and Gil’s.

2019: NaBloPoMo--NoMo?: Of blog-a-thons and trying new dessert recipes.

Nine years hence, will I still be blogging? Who knows?

But I plan on sticking around to find out.

Telling the Bees

"The Bee Friend"  by Hans Thoma

My Grandma Berrigan used to describe a chatterbox as someone who “could talk the hind legs off a donkey,” using an old Irish phrase. It seems donkeys rarely sit down on their behinds; therefore, talking on and on to one would cause the poor standing donkey to collapse. When an acquaintance of limited means came into money and began acting snooty, Grandma remarked, “Put a beggar on horseback and watch him ride!” When an annoying person left a gathering, she would say “glad to see the back of her!” Now that I think of it, most of Grandma's colorful idioms were pretty critical, but that’s the Irish for you.

I recently heard someone mention “telling the bees,” and I was intrigued. For someone who is a real “donkey-hind-legs-talker-off-er” type myself, it has never occurred to me to chat up this particular member of the animal kingdom. In fact, I go out of my way to avoid bees completely. While I acknowledge their vital role in the food chain (which is why the decline of honeybees is so alarming), I always assume any encounter with them will end with a nasty sting. Maybe it’s the memory of yellow jacket swarms that used to attack me on the soccer field as I prepped the orange slices for the boys’ team snack, but I just don’t trust ‘em.

Apparently, bee-telling is an ancient custom, still observed in some parts of Europe. It may have originated in a belief that bees provided a bridge to the afterlife. When a household member died, you had to go out to the hives and inform the bees (in a low, mournful tone). You would say something reassuring like, “The master’s dead but don’t you go; your mistress will be a good mistress to you.” Failure to do so would guarantee that the bees would scram, and the family fortunes would soon decline. These buzzing buddies were also to be let in on the news of marriages and births, and in some places hives were even placed indoors for the celebrations. Talk about social butterflies! I mean bees!

While this superstition sounds quaint, and even silly, it’s long been part of the fabric of life, and has set minds at ease for centuries. The concept of inviting bees to a wedding may seem ridiculous to me, but I’m the first to leap into action when someone puts their hat on a bed (Bad bad luck!! Another Irish gem!!) So, really, which idea is sillier? 

The world is spinning rather more out of control than usual these days. Maybe things would improve if we kept the bees in the loop? Life would certainly be sweeter (sorry). And a little harmless ritual or two might be very reassuring to us stressed-out, anxious people. 

My friends the Uehlings keep bees. I think I will I send them a message to pass along to their tiny hive-dwellers: “Things are tough, but please stick around. We all need each other.” 

Couldn’t hurt.

Reflections on the Twinkie

Boo! Hiss! (Really?)

I recently watched Eating Twinkies with God, a delightful video about a child who travels into New York City in search of The Almighty. He finds an older homeless woman sitting on a bench, and they chat. The boy has packed Hostess Twinkies in his satchel, and offers his new friend a cake. I have to say one plot element bothered me. And it was NOT an eight year old riding the subway all by himself. I was far more disturbed by the Twinkies. I mean, it’s one thing to send your kid off alone into a major city on public transportation, but to make those nutritional nightmares readily available to him? What kind of parent DOES that? 

 Answer: Me.

 Or at least, I did once in a while, back in the day. I had grown up on an abysmal diet where prepackaged sweets and TV dinners were the norm, so my food pendulum swung in the totally opposite direction when it came to raising my own brood. However, the exhausting reality of having 5 kids under age 10 set in soon enough, and with it many a dinner of fish sticks and that weird day-glo boxed mac and cheese. But I always felt appropriately guilty when I slipped up. For every Yodel they gobbled, I made sure there was an apple or banana chaser, hoping the Healthy Food Group would neutralize those empty calories. 

These days, Aiden and Peter are being raised totally Twinkie-free, a decision I applaud. For them, their multigrain fig bars are THE snack time treat, and when they occasionally eat chocolate it’s usually the good stuff. But I’m trying to stop being judgmental about those who don’t have ready access to/can’t afford what Whole Foods has to offer. I think of the little ones living in urban “food deserts,” where the local bodega has zero fresh veggies. I recall my time on the Rosebud Sioux Reservation in South Dakota, where the feeding program depended on the largesse of companies like Walmart to fill tummies. All too often, the big trucks would unload two liter bottles of whatever nasty soda flavor wasn’t selling—and people would line up for it! 

All around the world, cultures have food traditions. Some, like the Japanese, live extra-long lives with their fish and seafood, and Greeks, with their olives and greens. Others, often by necessity, succumb to the lure of cheap, preservative-laden food, and their health suffers accordingly. 

The Twinkie is not inherently evil. What’s needed is the concept of balance--but that assumes there are attainable wholesome choices that can be made. In this Land of Plenty, during this season of Thanksgiving, maybe we can focus on ways to level the playing field for everyone. Let’s work on turning those food deserts into food gardens, and restore the health of our brothers and sisters in poverty. And maybe someday, junk food will take its small, rightful place in the world’s diet. 

And all of God’s children will eat well.

                                                               "Eating Twinkies with God"

Shadow Elephant

 

Mo, not that long before her death 

I’m not so good at sitting quietly with grief—mine or anyone else’s. Patty Problem Solver wants everything to be better, quickly—and if I personally can MAKE it better, bonus points! This was true in the mourning periods of my life:  following the deaths of my sister and parents, after my miscarriages, during my bouts of manic depression. I would pour my sorrow onto the page, I would jabber on to anyone who would listen—all in the hopes of speeding the recovery process. I was so vocal in my misery that I now feel terrible for the poor souls who had to endure me at my saddest. 

In recent years, there have been more losses: two friends to suicide, friends close to my own age. Another friend just lost her husband, much too soon. I have assisted at funerals at church. And as I look at the grieving, standing in their pews with their red-rimmed eyes, my fervent prayer is for them to feel happiness again, soon. I know from experience that it is a long and painful journey back to hope and joy, and I truly wish they didn’t have to walk down that road. So, when they talk to me, I tend to…talk right back to them. I share my story, however irrelevant it might be, ending with, “See? I came through and you will too!” I’m finally recognizing that this message may not be one they are ready to hear.

There is no magic wand to wave away the time it takes to deal with loss (I believe you never “recover”). Meanwhile, after floral arrangements wilt and casseroles are consumed, the endless weeks and months stretch ahead, living in a world empty of that special person. I do my best to check in regularly, to share my memories of the ones they lost (just hearing my sister Mo’s name spoken is still the sweetest music to me, 39 years later.) 

But I’m too eager to fill silences, I know. And our American culture is, as well. The stages of grief are to speed through, because otherwise we have to think of our mortality, and that’s just not acceptable. 

I just read a wonderful book—I hesitate to call it a children’s book, because its message is universal. It is called The Shadow Elephant, and is about an elephant who is sad (literally, blue in color). His animal friends frantically try to cheer him, but he only sinks deeper into sadness. Finally a tiny mouse arrives, and just sits silently with the elephant. They cry together, and, slowly, the shadow elephant begins to heal. 

Our country is grieving right now. We mourn the toll of this devastating pandemic. We mourn a way of life that won’t soon return: travel, big celebrations, human touch. There are so many conflicting voices rising up as we struggle to cope. So much noise.

I propose, for starters, a moment of silence. Then let us weep together. And start to heal.

Rehoboth Beach 2019 and 2020-what a difference a year makes

Author Central

 

Ya-Jhu just placed an online order. This is no shock, as Yaj--just like her mother-in-law--LOVES to shop on the internet.This order, however, was for a case of copy paper for our household’s favorite author: Aiden Jacob Seyfried. Aiden whips through the writing and illustrating process at the rate of 2-3 finished volumes per day (Mama staples multiple sheets of paper together for the books.) The way we’re going, the case will be finished up in no time, and we are thrilled. 

Aiden’s main characters are a duck, a skeleton, and a guy named Ted. Mo Willems is Aiden’s literary hero, so the Pigeon frequently appears in the pages as well. We follow their adventures with bated breath, in A Very Ghosty Halloween, Ted in Taiwan, Duck Finds Friends, etc. It’s easy to figure out the inspiration for some of these tomes, but sometimes there’s a stumper. Recently he wrote Ted and the Deed Secret. Deed Secret? Turns out he’d noticed on our bookshelf a copy of Wilkie Collins’ classic The Dead Secret, and slightly mis-read the title. Honestly? I’ll take The Deed Secret any day, if only for the accompanying drawings. And speaking of, I recently reminded Aiden that his Nana was a published author too, and proudly showed him my four books. Aiden looked through one, then handed it back, shaking his head regretfully. “No pictures!” Deflated, I had to agree that my output was definitely sub-par. 

Like all good writers, Aiden possesses a great imagination—but he’s also keenly observant of his surroundings, including every detail. This was borne out the other day when I was reading his exciting new book Driving. When I turned to the back cover, I saw that he had drawn pictures of 14 (!) of his previous books. He added this “Also by Aiden” feature after noticing the back covers of other writers' books. 

Not to be outdone, four year old Peter is getting into the act. Peter’s masterpieces are wordless, and his drawings are mostly scribbles at the moment. But he is so delighted with himself to be “writing books” just like his sibling. There are times when Steve is in his office polishing a script for Family Stages, I am penning a new essay in my office, and the Brothers Seyfried are writing stories at the dining room table, all at once. It feels like a harmonious writer’s retreat house! Until one writer has a fit when his magic marker dries up! (No, not Steve).

What will the future hold for our young authors? Maybe they’ll keep at it professionally, like Nana and Pa. Maybe writing will become an enjoyable side pursuit, as it is for Evan and Rose. Whatever they end up doing, my little guys are experiencing the joy of creating something brand new, something they can share. And I believe that special kind of joy will stay with them forever.

We are taking advance reservations for MANY upcoming Ted books! Check us out on Amazon!

Aiden's Collected Works! Quality AND Quantity!

Dining Out

Restaurant breakfast with dear friends-those were the days!

Goodness, have I missed sugar packets.

And menus.

And the hustle-bustle of diners and waitstaff.

It’s been well over eight months since I have set foot in a restaurant of any kind. The last time I ate out was the evening of March 3, a birthday dinner with my friend Holly at a delightful Italian bistro in the East Falls section of Philadelphia. Little did I dream, as I polished off my tiramisu, that I wouldn’t even be going to Wawa for a hoagie in the foreseeable future. 

I have never been a regular diner-out. In childhood, my clearest memory of such excursions was our annual dinner at the Normandy Inn in Normandy Beach, NJ. My Nana Cunningham would treat, and as I recall the “house dessert” was—wait for it--The Sailboat, an obviously labor-intensive creation consisting of an ice cream sandwich stuck with a lollipop sporting a construction paper “sail.” Later, as parents, between our limited budget and our seemingly unlimited number of children, Seyfried restaurant meals were rare celebrations. It got to the point that I actually looked forward to treks to McDonald's for Happy Meals with the kiddos, which at least provided a change of scene (mind you, that changed scene was Mickey D’s “ball room” filled with screeching toddlers). 

But I’ve always adored being served a lovely meal, in a civilized setting, where I did not have to care about the number of plates needing to be washed afterward. And in recent years Steve and I did have more opportunities to sample the cuisine at quite a few fine dining spots in Philly, New York and even Paris, Barcelona and Rome. 

Well, it all came to a crashing halt in mid-March, and I have really missed having the option of restaurant dining. We’ve gotten some takeout from time to time, but have been very leery of entering an actual eatery while the virus is still raging. Our Patrick doesn’t have the luxury of avoiding Victory Brewing Company, being the chef and all, and I worry about his safety every single day. I take my cues from wise Dr. Fauci, who wouldn’t dream of eating at an indoor establishment right now. 

But as the months grind on, I do regret not availing ourselves of chances to sit outdoors at a restaurant last summer, when the weather was still balmy. We’re heading into the season where sidewalk dining would involve eating with mittens on. So it is with joyful anticipation that I await this coming Sunday, when I will join three friends for lunch (outdoors) at a local café. The temps should be in the mid-60s, with plenty of sunshine. Protocols will be very different I hear--disposable cutlery, no printed menus, socially distanced tables. I am deciding on which face mask will best complement my outfit, and polishing up the old credit card. It feels like Party Time (2020 version at least)!

Post-COVID, remind me never to take life’s little pleasures for granted again. 

Even Happy Meals.

Awaiting a fabulous dinner in Venice 2018

Workshoppin'

With Fairy Godmother Steve-closest I ever got to having a tiara

Last week I experienced my first Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop. This biennial event is a biggie for humor writers, three days of stellar speakers and writing sessions. Usually this all takes place in Dayton, Ohio. Besides the fact that conference plus travel was never in my budget, the EBWW was just about impossible to register FOR. Beginning at 12:01 AM on the first sign-up date, the website would be inundated with applicants. The workshop always sold out within a couple of hours. I never tried; even if I made it to the front of the queue I knew my internet would fail, or my credit card would be rejected, or God would appear to me and whisper, softly, “They are looking for HUMOR writers, honey.” 

But it’s 2020 and everything is topsy-turvy, and I did snag a spot for the online version of the festivities. Several pluses: I could attend from home, the cost was very reasonable, and I wouldn’t have to deal with what I call the Conference Cliques. These are the groups of (usually) gals who bond like squealing sisters within minutes of meeting and form an impenetrable tribe for the duration of the event. This is especially galling when I go to an event alone. Never have I ever been welcomed to join a table of retreat revelers, and it feels like the cafeteria at Epiphany Catholic School all over again. 

This time I wasn’t shunned, though a version of the Conference Clique did play out in the chat section of the screen. I’d try to focus on the speaker, but all I could see was that someone was typing, “Joanne, you are HILARIOUS!” Then, “Yes she is! I want to buy her book!” Then, “Oh, she doesn’t have a book? You need to write one, Joanne, because you are HILARIOUS!” Veterans of EBWW would comment that they were wearing their tiaras (yes) and drinking wine from their Erma wineglasses. I lacked both, but in my house no one could see my bare head and unlabeled glassware. 

Anyway, some of the sessions were hit-or-miss. The good part was everything was recorded, and you could just leave a session at any point, log into a different one, and no one would notice. Titles didn’t always tip me off about the value of the content. The hands-down best one for me, I almost skipped, because the title had 28 words, ending with “… Without Losing Your Mind.” I pictured a daffy dame riffing on Self-Marketing 101 stuff, but she was awesome and I learned a great deal, including the importance of being more active on certain social media, and coming up with a color scheme and font that matches across my whole platform (website, blog) so Elise Seyfried Writer has a recognizable “look.” 

Add in the keynote speeches by several comedians I admire, and in the end it was well worth the cost.

 Will I shoot for EBWW live in ’22? 

 Only if I can locate my tiara.