Sew and Sew

Rose's handsewn mask--the height of coronafashion!

Like so many life skills I lack, I never really understood why anyone enjoyed sewing. I made one brief and catastrophic venture into the world of Butterick and McCall’s patterns in a class in high school. I made a pair of hideous plaid pants that I’d never choose to wear (and, it turns out, never could wear anyway, as I had sewed them backwards and inside out.) I could spot a homemade dress or blouse a mile away (or assumed I could), and frankly they never looked worth the effort I know went into them. We do not dwell in the Little House on the Prairie people!! There are oodles of wonderful garments available for sale everywhere, fully assembled!!

I have several crafty friends, most of whom learned to sew at their mothers' or grandmothers' knees. Their daughters’ American Girl dolls therefore sported entire handmade wardrobes, just as some of my childhood playmates had owned original Barbie clothes. For me, clumsily putting endless tiny snaps on tiny outfits would be a punishment suitable for Dante’s Eighth Circle of Hell. I contented myself with store bought everything, and felt not a twinge of guilt.

So I was surprised when Rose began showing keen interest in this pastime. Our neighbor Sally Will gifted her with a Singer machine of a certain age, which was ideal for her getting started. Over time, her busy life circumstances relegated sewing to a back burner. But during the past few years, Rose has once again become Suzy Homemaker, at least in this area. She sews for fun, and challenges herself to make complicated stuff, just for the heck of it. Why, she made herself a gorgeous tote bag, from scratch! It took her quite a while, and many many ripped out stitches, as she is a perfectionist. But the finished product is a wow, and Rose is justifiably proud of her handiwork. To my daughter, this is not torture, but instead a delightful activity, and I have to ask myself—was she switched at birth? You’d have to go back quite a few branches on the Family Tree to find a dedicated seamstress –at least on my side.

Totebag by Rose

However, Steve CAN sew, specializing in buttons and hems, and I take full advantage of his skills. He can often be found sitting on the sofa, working on a costume for our theatre (though he hires out for anything complicated). His sewing kit is a refitted tackle box, and is kept near his cheery orange toolbox. I am no more comfortable with the needles and pincushions in the one, than with the Allen wrenches and screwdrivers in the other. Indeed, the only creative implements I enjoy using are ballpoint pens and whisks.

Someday, when I am on my way out, and my loving family gathers around my bedside, they will talk about practical lessons learned from good old Mom. It will be a brief conversation, and it will NOT involve teaching them to sew.

Sew sorry, kids!

A Good Friday Reflection

The Crucifixion is a tough topic for young children. When I give children’s messages around Holy Week, I’m tempted to gloss over what actually happened on Calvary. It’s easier to skip from the celebration of Palm Sunday straight to the triumph of Easter, without that scary stuff in between. 

For years, we used a Vacation Bible School curriculum from a publishing house that insisted on using Jesus’ death as the subject of the Thursday activities that week. You could feel the combination of puzzlement and upset among the 4’s and 5’s in the room, as we’d have one of the teen helpers trudging up a make-believe hill carrying a cross. Finally we switched to another company that selects more “appropriate” Bible stories. 

But I think back to my childhood, and the fact that Catholics did not do much to downplay the Good Friday story. We attended the Stations of the Cross; we said the Sorrowful Mysteries on our rosaries. Between 12 noon and 3 PM that day, we were supposed to be thinking and praying about the hours of his suffering. I don’t remember being scared, just sad for Jesus. It seemed so unfair, and I hated to think about someone so good, hurting so badly. I realized that sometimes bad things happen to wonderful people, and that people die, and I don’t think it scarred me for life. On the contrary. Easter morning, when it came, meant much more to me, because I was aware of what came before. 

We are in an almost Biblical time, with this modern-day plague spreading across the world. And because we are used to vaccines and cures, we feel nowadays more like the ancients, who had neither when tragedy struck. It has been a solemn Lenten season, extra meaningful to me even though I haven’t set foot in a church for over a month. And I yearn for Easter and what it promises more than ever: healing. New life. Joy in the morning. 

We struggle with how much to say to Aiden about coronavirus. He knows more than we think, I’m sure--or at least that a lot of people are getting very sick, and that we have to stay home to protect ourselves and other people. We want to promise him that it will all be OK by a specific date, but we can’t honestly do that. We feel like Jesus’ family and followers, watching helplessly that terrible afternoon, praying for a miracle that isn’t arriving on schedule. 

But the lesson for me, and for Aiden, is: things will get better. Not as quickly as we hope, but this dark time will not last forever. And the day it ends, we will feel greater joy because we knew sorrow. It will be a time of healing and new life. It will be Easter, whatever day it is on the calendar. 

 So today I observe The Three Hours, by writing. By praying for the sick and dying. 

And by looking forward to resurrection.

You Gotta Believe

With Tug, our friend Connie, and toddler Sheridan

That was the name of famous Phillie Tug McGraw’s “feel good” segments on TV’s Action News, decades ago. McGraw was known for saying that phrase, and for his incredibly optimistic outlook on life. Steve and I were lucky enough to be interviewed by Tug early in our children’s theatre career. I don’t think we still have the video, but at least there’s a photograph. These mementos have greater personal value after the person in them has passed away (as Tug did, much too soon). I am no sports fan, but I vividly recall that long ago day (especially how thrilled Steve was to meet him). 

This morning, a dear friend posted a link to a remarkable article in the Philadelphia Inquirer. It told the story of a video clip from Kobe Bryant’s first freshman high school basketball game-- Lower Merion playing Upper Dublin (where we live and where our kids went to school). A young Upper Dublin player scored a three pointer in that game. His name was Bobby McIlvaine, and he was a scholar athlete who would go on to excel at Princeton and beyond. Bobby was at a meeting in the Twin Towers on 9/11, and was killed, just before his 27th birthday. 

After Kobe died this fall, through a serendipitous series of events, the short video clip made its way back to the McIlvaine family in Oreland. They were able to see their son and brother on film, after all these years. The piece is beautifully written, by an Inquirer writer who is also an Upper Dublin grad and friend of Bobby’s, and as I read it I immediately thought of my own miracle story, which I’ve shared here before. 35 years after my sister Maureen’s death, I was contacted out of the blue by someone who dated her back in the 1970’s. Besides being a terrific person, Michael is blessed with an phenomenal memory. When we reunited, he told stories about Mo that I’d never known. I “saw”my sister again through his words, and it was an amazing gift. 

“You gotta believe”? Well, many people read or hear these stories and are unconvinced that they are any more than total randomness. As for me, I gotta believe, because I feel certain that this is not our only reality. I am convinced here is a spiritual realm just beyond us, and that there are breaks in the veil between the heavenly and the earthly sometimes. If we’re lucky, we find ourselves experiencing one of those breaks, which in Celtic spirituality are called “the thin places.” And when we do, our perceptions change. We come to realize how much we never dreamed existed. We get a glimpse of a fuller life, an eternal life, that is ours now, and will be ours forever.

So this morning, I see a suburban high school gym, Kobe vs Bobby. I see my beloved sister. I see ebullient, charming Tug. 

They’re still around. And I’m thanking God for the thin places.

Inquirer article about Kobe and Bobby

Essential Workers

She made it! Aiden's a quarter richer! Thanks, Tooth Fairy!

I think about the workforce labeled "essential" a lot right now. I am struck by the sacrifices they are making to care for the sick, respond to police and fire emergencies, stock the grocery store shelves--at significant risk to their own health. Thanks to them, I can be assured that my family will not go hungry, that we are safe, and that if we do become ill with coronavirus, our hospitals will be staffed.  The debt of gratitude we as a nation owe these folks is enormous, and I pray we will remember that when the crisis has passed. We need to reassess the ranking of positions in our society, and compensate our minimum wage earners fairly going forward. 

I am NOT deemed an essential worker (at all). It seems the world keeps on turning without my physical presence in our church--which has taken me down a peg I admit (but don't they NEED a Spiritual Formation director on site at all times??) I am doing a lot from home online (Bible study, Family Table, etc.) but some things must wait, including the parts of my job that require in-person contact (hard to lead Preschool Chapel time without the preschoolers!)

I do have to say I've been quite concerned about two particular workers in recent days, both of whose jobs involve visits to multiple homes. One is gearing up for his (her?) Big Day on Sunday, and the other is required to be on duty almost every night. I'm speaking of course about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. So it was with great relief that I read New Zealand's wonderful prime minister, Jacinda Ardern, has confirmed their status as "essential workers." And I know legions of children join me in saying, "Whew!"

Where would we be without the delightful characters of our young imaginations? Santa's Christmas Eve arrival may recede from our consciousness once we grow up, but St. Nick comes roaring back just as soon as little ones enter our lives again. And while we have a more mature understanding, we still grasp the importance of what these figures symbolize: Hope. Joy. Generosity. Our kids scramble to collect jelly bean-filled eggs and find baskets of chocolate, and are reminded that Spring is here to celebrate--and that a mysterious Someone loves them enough to leave them treats. They trustingly tuck baby teeth under pillows, and are delighted by the magic of the tooth/coin exchange in the night. Again, they believe there is a Loving Presence literally counting (and valuing) every tooth in their heads.

What’s essential in this life is not always “real” by the world’s standards. Right now, the intangibles—kindness, loving, giving—are inspiring the actions that are saving us, all of us. And while some actions are heroic, small things count too: making little eyes sparkle and gap-toothed kids smile. Keeping the wonder of childhood alive in hard times. And those things, our dear, fanciful, essential workers, are doing, so very well.

Seyfried Easter Basket circa 1996

Plan B

We'll get there! Someday!

One week from today, we were going to be in Germany, the first leg of our grand European adventure. In the days that followed, we’d be touring Austria, Hungary and the Czech Republic.

Instead, we are looking forward to a whole lotta nothing for the immediate future.

But I’m determined not to be glum!! After a mere four hours on hold with the airlines, I was able to rebook our flights for September, so hopefully we’ll be able to enjoy our trip then.

Meanwhile, here’s the upside:

I have five whole months to lose the fifteen pounds I swore I’d jettison before we left on our vacation. Of course, sheltering in place is not the most conducive atmosphere for weight loss. So perhaps, my amended resolution is not to gain fifteen additional pounds! Attainable goal!!

I have time to sock more writing money away to pay for all those beers and schnitzels. Of course, most publishing outlets aren’t buying anything not laser-focused on coronavirus right now, and I’m sick and tired of thinking about this pesky bug, much less writing about it. Maybe by summer I can sell my humorous essay about the macarena! Evergreen topic!

Autumn in Europe will probably be lovely, weather wise. Of course, Spring would have been too, so scratch that upside.

We’ll have more time to practice our German, Hungarian and Czech! Or the people of those lands will have more time to perfect their English (I vote for the latter)!

Our passports will surely turn up between now and then! Right?

Additionally, I can use my fertile imagination to virtually experience what we’re missing out on! Here we go:

Munich: Bike tour of the scenic city for Steve, café and people watching time for me.

Oreland: Bike tour of the not-so-scenic neighborhood for Steve. I will take my coffee to the living room window and watch for someone to walk by.

Salzburg: Hallein Salt Mine

Oreland: Iodized? Kosher? Sea? My pantry salt choices are numerous!! And they’re all “mine”!

Vienna: Mahler symphony concert by Vienna Philharmonic followed by romantic dinner for two

Oreland: Play CD of Mahler symphony, followed by mediocre meatloaf dinner for six. Sehr gut!!!

Budapest: Enjoying the public baths

Oreland: Enjoying a private shower (after removing all the toys from the tub)

Prague: Medieval Astronomical Clock in Old Town Square

Oreland: 2010 Microwave Clock in Old Seyfried Kitchen

Other highlights, like our planned visit to Kutna Hora (historic church filled with sculptures made of human bones), and a goulash dinner in a fine Budapest restaurant, can’t be as easily duplicated. I guess I could build something out of Legos and open a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, but it won’t be quite the same.

To complete our fantasy, we’ll spend the first and last evenings sitting upright for eight hours, while Peter kicks the backs of our chairs. And we’ll sleep in a different uncomfortable bed every night a la Airbnb.

Only 152 days to go!! But who’s counting?

Me.

Salt (Mine)

On the (Tiger) Beat

Julie, her friend Laura, and some Beanie Babies

“Tyger, tyger burning bright

In the forests of the night…”

                                                   --William Blake

As desperate as I am for diversion these days from the current state of affairs, I’m not desperate enough to watch Tiger King. Even my daughters, whose tastes are considerably broader and edgier than my own, and who often tout this or that film, TV show or book to me, have warned that it’s not my kind of entertainment (and I agree, from what I’ve heard). If I want to experience tiger-themed stuff, I don’t need to put myself through the bizarre and troubling antics of Joe Exotic and his big cats. There are so many other, “tamer” options!!

Let’s start with the #1 fan mag of my youth, which I’m delighted to report is still around: Tiger Beat. I started reading it (though “reading” is a generous term for my perusals of the glossy pix and breathless prose) when I was about 10. I soon became a walking encyclopedia of Fan Girl gossip about Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy, and Davy Jones. I knew their fave colors, flavors of ice cream, dream dates, etc. Nowadays it’s Chase Hudson, the Dolan twins and Shawn Mendes, but the non-threatening look hasn’t changed: preteen girls want to crush on boys who look rather like—preteen girls.

Then there’s my favorite cartoon sidekick, from Bill Watterson’s classic strip Calvin and Hobbes. The genius of the idea: a stuffed tiger who only comes to life for his little owner, as a sarcastic, philosophical yet loving sidekick. My kids had very active imaginations, and there were many happy hours spent with Beanie Babies (Julie would ransack the linen closet for washcloth “blankets” for her menagerie), but I don’t think they engaged in that elevated level of colloquy with any of them. I may be wrong.

“Tiger Mothers” refers to a certain type of Asian parent. I met quite a few of those before I learned the term: the Chinese and Korean moms whose kids all scored perfect 1600s on their SATs, played first violin in the All State Orchestra, AND led the school robotics team to a national championship, all before breakfast. For a Tiger Mother, that was just what the kid was expected to do (A minuses were punishable failures). For their children, playdates and sleepovers were rare occurrences, because the pursuit of excellence never took a holiday. I myself was more of a "Monkey Mother" (noisy and nosy and hyperactive).

And finally we come to Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. I really identify with Tigger (see "Monkey Mother", above), who is forever bouncing around boisterously, nattering on and oversharing with his friends. Though often annoyingly enthusiastic, this tiger is 100% harmless. Bounce on, Tigger!

So there you have it: the only kinds of tigers that interest me are not really tigers at all (which is my honest feeling about most of the animal kingdom, I confess).  

I guess this means I am uninvited to your Tanzanian safari, but that’s OK.

Bengal tiger (photo Mike Marrah)

The New Normal

May they grow up in the New Normal

There’s a phrase much bandied about these days: “this is the new normal”; “When this is over, there will be a new normal.” But that begs the question: what IS normal? And when does/will the “old” normal change? As for my family, I venture to say that we are, emphatically, NOT normal by any regular measure. We are a quirky lot, musicians and actors and writers. 

But generally? If “normal” is an Ozzie and Harriet world, where Father Knows Best and we can Leave it to Beaver, then no, America has never really been normal like that. In the ‘60s it was “normal” to be a hippie (or look like one). What was the “normal” of the 1970s? Disco? and 1980s? How on earth did we ever think those shoulder pads were “normal”? The ‘90s and ‘00s went by in a blur (or maybe it was just that, with five kids, I wasn’t sleeping much) but I recall the past several decades as pretty selfish times in the USA, when we seemed to have lost sight of what’s important.

Which brings us to the present day. Do you remember life pre-isolation, carefree trips to Shop N Bag without looking like the hazmat-suited characters in E.T.? Now, we compulsively wash our hands and the groceries when they (the groceries) enter the house, and also the doorknobs we touched on the way to entering that house, and…well, you get the drift. 

With things so topsy-turvy, I think this is a golden opportunity to reshape reality going forward. I hereby declare 2021 the Year of The New Normal! 

 And what might this N.N. look like? 

Well, for one thing, we’ll have made our peace with queuing up, with waiting our turn. 

We’ll be conscious of others, in a whole new way. We’ll pray for each other in tough times, and rejoice at good news about each other when it comes. In other words: we’ll finally act like a loving family. 

When we’re at last able to stroll around freely, we’ll cherish our planet Earth, and do what we can to keep it clean. 

We’ll stay home when we feel sick, and give others grace when they do the same. 

We’ll stop taking for granted restaurant dinners, shopping at the mall, concerts, plays, and ball games. Going to the beach. Hugging our friends. 

We’ll stop taking for granted: touching our faces. 

We’ll realize at last that we’ve been taking way too much for granted. 

I pray that the New Normal will not involve heightened suspicion or fear or hate or division. Haven’t we all had enough of this? 

May the New Normal provide a safety net for our brothers and sisters in need, because we’ve learned what need feels like. 

May the New Normal usher in a time of kindness and caring, across the board.

And after we’ve experienced this New Normal for a while, may we, and our children, forget that things were ever any different. 

 I can’t wait for the New Normal.

Keeping Track

What are these characters up to? Only the baby knows, and he's not telling.

I belong to a Facebook group--OK, “several” Facebook groups. Some are church related (ELCA Youth Ministry Network), some pertain to my writing career (the infamous Binders groups-my favorite being the useful, but awkwardly titled, “Binders Full of Editors Seeking Their Freelance Writers and Vice-Versa”). One group I really should exit at this point is Grown and Flown Parents. This is a group for parents of teens and young adults; most of my offspring are aging out of the “young adult” category-and I haven’t had a teen in eons. This group (150,000 strong—you read that right) HAS OPINIONS, on everything from going to bat for your 18 year old with the principal (uh, no) to Spring Break treks to Florida in the time of coronavirus (uh, double no), and so on. Some of these earnest moms and dads are helicopter or lawn mower parents (they hover, or they make the path ahead clear for their darlings). Since many posts garner hundreds of comments, it would take hours a day to do this group justice, so I don’t. 

But one tidbit I did pick up: it is a thing to track your children. There is something called Life360, which apparently can pinpoint their location, even many miles away. So if you’re not interested in Colbert’s monologue tonight, you can tune in instead to the college town’s dive bar, where Junior is hanging out when he should be snug in his dorm. I’m hazy on some of the details (perhaps not as hazy as Junior after several hours at the bar), but I think both parent and child have to have this device for it to work, right? And kids who don’t want to be tailed can just turn it off? Ah, but then they face The Grand Inquisition by Mom Who Was Worried Sick, so I think most of them keep it on. I’m told it is for “peace of mind” but honestly? When my kids were in college, my peace of mind came from NOT knowing exactly what they were up to. I could then fall into a sound sleep, imagining them all snug in their various dorms.

When I am curious about their comings and goings, I have a couple of options. One is Venmo, another puzzling piece of technology. All I know is that I can see every pizza, movie and Lyft ride Rose and Julie borrowed money from each other for. For a while it seemed they were just trading the same $10 back and forth. Another is pix posted on Instagram (by my girls at least) of this birthday bash or that concert. But for the most part I can plead ignorance of their agendas, and that’s fine by me. 

I have enough to worry about keeping track of my own life, without playing dime store detective with my kids. I don’t suspect criminal activity among the Seyfried sibs (but if you see something, say something!) so this mom’s helicopter has landed. Sweet dreams!

Every Breath You Take

Just Because

Rose to Julie: "Make sure you say 'why' a lot. Mom will love it!"

I never panicked about four letter words in our house. Except for a regrettable stretch 14 years ago when I swore pretty much non-stop (thank you, undiagnosed bipolar disorder!), our family has never been big on cursing. Steve tends to save his choice utterances for the privacy of his office, directed at malfunctioning technology mostly. While I’m sure there were casual obscenities exchanged with their friends, the kids seemed to know what was and was not OK to say around Mom and Dad.

However, there’s a THREE letter word that, to my mind, was much worse than profanity during my progeny’s childhoods and teen years. This little word, spoken so very often, inspired annoyance, and even dread, in me. When it began a sentence, I just knew I was in for either a pointless argument, or a stumper I couldn’t solve.

The word? “Why.”

Category #1: Pointless arguments

“Why can’t I…stay up till midnight? Eat ice cream before dinner? See that R-rated movie? Drive my friends around with my learner’s permit?, etc. etc.” These queries would always be delivered in a very aggrieved tone, often followed by what they (vainly) hoped would be the clincher: “But everybody ELSE is allowed to do it!!!”

Category #2: Unsolvables (by me, at least without checking a reference book)

“Why is the sky blue? Why are there twelve months in a year? Why didn’t the dinosaurs come back? Why do people get sick?” Aiden’s reading is taking off right now, which is wonderful, but which has also spawned a whole new sub-category of whys: “Why do you write ‘forgotten’ with two t’s but ‘forgetful’ with just one?” “If the ‘e’ is silent, why do you need it?” “Why is Wednesday spelled like that?” I’m usually the one he asks, as the resident writer, which is galling because I rarely can explain this or that strange grammar rule.

When I do know the answer to a “why” question in category #2, I am guilty of over-explaining to a ridiculous degree. Prime example: one day Sheridan, age 4, asked me why his Grandpa, my father, was bald. I launched into the lengthy true tale: it happened in Dad's early twenties, when he was in the Army. He had volunteered to test some lotion or potion or other (for extra pay) and the side effect was the permanent loss of most of his hair. Sher waited patiently for me to finish talking, then he said, “When I asked Grandpa, he told me the wind blew it away!” and off he skipped, much more satisfied with my Dad’s story than mine.

Who knows? Maybe the wind DID blow it away

I realize that “why” is invaluable to seekers of knowledge, and I’m not proposing we stop asking the question entirely. But I’d really love it if we could pull back on it some, and embrace the mystery that is other children’s later bedtimes, or the current lack of pterodactyls in Oreland.

Meanwhile, when you ask me “why?” “just because” is my answer, and I’m sticking to it!

Our Great Big, Teeny Tiny Universe

Sher and Aiden's hand-drawn map of East Oreland

During these past few weeks, we have all experienced our individual worlds dwindling down to their essence. House, nuclear family. Only going outdoors within specific parameters: back yard, driveway, perhaps the local park at off-hours. This has been a painful winnowing. I personally had already been shrinking my space for several years, thanks to my worsening eyesight and increasing fear of the darkness, so not going out after sunset is truly no biggie for me. 

But still I yearn for glimpses of the Great Beyond, and a sense of my place in the vast universe. We humans are determined to make our mark, some of us on a grand scale, some of us in a quiet corner. Sheridan has always been Mister Maps. When he was in Sunday School, he would amuse himself with pencil sketches of the streets in our neighborhood, all drawn in the margins of our church bulletin to scale, and amazingly accurate; we chalked it up to his equally precise musical notation.

Becoming a parent has revived Sher’s penchant for map making, now that his son Aiden is such a rapt audience. They have trekked daily routes, from one side of East Oreland to the other, and little brother Peter has gamely pedaled his trike along to keep up. Today I accompanied them on their journey, and it was a revelation. There was “the desert” (a brown lawn that clearly needed reseeding). There was a lineup of three old cars, bright yellow, bright green, shiny black, along one short stretch of road. Did one household possess them all? Aiden and Peter rode slightly ahead of us walkers, making loops as they waited for us at the intersections.

Home again, looking at Aiden and Baba’s map, I feel grounded. I live at this corner, my neighbors are here. But, alongside my yearning to be specifically pinpointed, there is my thrilled awareness of my, of our, small place in the vast universe. 

I recently discovered the music of Eric Whitacre. He is a Juilliard grad, and has championed the concept of the Virtual Choir, where thousands of voices unite online for a single piece of music. A few years ago, Eric came up with Deep Field, where he paired a series of stunning pictures from the Hubble telescope with ethereal music. My favorite part of this wonderful video is when the camera zooms down to Earth, and many thousands of tiny images of people pop up, only to recede into the vastness of eternity. 

So how do we orient ourselves? I propose that we do both: draw our micro-maps, and at the same time wonder at the ineffable beauty of what lies beyond us. We are, indeed, the people who stroll down Garden Road on this early spring afternoon. But we are also denizens of a place so very much more vast and incredible. I challenge us to embrace both realities. We are so big; we are so small. 

 We are. And that is truly remarkable. 

Yay, us.

Deep Field-Music Inspired by the Hubble Telescope.