Pure Gold

One of my oldest friends, Nancy Downey Bustamante, and her husband Carlos, were in town from Atlanta last week, and came out for dinner.  Nancy and I go way back—back to 1968, in fact, 46 years ago. I remember the day we met, in the parking lot of St. Jude’s Catholic Church in Sandy Springs, GA. My family had just moved to Atlanta from the NYC suburbs, and we knew no one. Nancy’s dad, Jack Downey, approached us with an outstretched hand, saying he and his family had been down South for several years, but that they hailed from Baltimore. Atlanta was an interesting place to break into, friendship-wise. The fabled Georgia hospitality largely consisted of EVERYONE saying “y’all come back now.” It took us awhile to realize that most of them didn’t really mean it. But the Downeys from Baltimore meant it, and so began an alliance of the two families that spanned decades, births, marriages, and deaths. 

 

Nancy at my wedding, 1977

Mom and Anne Downey were very close friends, and I vividly remember looking out the window as they returned from many a lunch-and-shopping outing. They’d continue gabbing in the driveway, sometimes for an hour or more.  The girls, Nancy and Molly, were primarily friends of my sisters Mo and C, respectively. It wasn’t till Mo’s death in 1981 that Nancy and I became really close. Molly and C were always peas in a pod, both sweet kids, both younger siblings, both gifted artists. 

Fast forward to 1984. Nancy and I were pregnant at the same time. Sheridan was born May 19th. Two weeks later, Nancy called me and described some symptoms she’d been having that I instantly recognized as labor. Sure enough, just hours later, along came Tripp. When Nancy lived for awhile in Fanwood, NJ, I’d often take my toddlers up to visit with her toddlers, Tripp and Nina. Back in Atlanta, Nancy had Jack, her third child, a mere three months after I had PJ, my fourth. As they grew, the children became friends too. Tripp performed at our Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre one year when he was in college. Jack and PJ had adventures—a trip to Hilton Head, SC; a sleepover when a tornado hit Nancy’s house and they had to go down to the basement.  

Tripp and Sher, age 3

 At dinner the other night, we shared so many memories.  There were eight of us around the table, but the ghosts of Anne, Jack, Mom and Dad were there too. And as we talked about them, they seemed close enough to touch. We aren’t family, the Downeys and the Cunninghams, but then again maybe we are. 

Who are your oldest friends? Who do you consider family? Are you lucky enough to have heart-connections that span much of your life?  As the Girl Scout song reminds us: “Make new friends, but keep the old/ one is silver and the other gold.” I truly hope that you have both.  

I treasure all my friends, silver and gold. Downeys, you are pure gold.

Funny Thing

“I haven't slept for ten days, because that would be too long.” --Mitch Hedberg

One of the most oft-listed attributes listed in online dating profiles? “Must have a sense of humor.”  But I ask you, what IS funny? The answers are as individual as we are. Do you find Three Stooges routines a riot, or boorish and sadistic?  How about George Carlin’s old standup acts, with their profanity and trenchant observations? Thumbs up or down? Are you more likely to tune in to Comedy Central or reruns of The Andy Griffith Show? And what tickles your fancy in the world around you? When someone slips on a banana peel, is your tendency to giggle? Or to just help them up?

I don’t recall growing up in the house of a million chuckles, though my mom and sisters appreciated humor and were themselves funny people. We just didn’t sit around and joke. One of the reasons was probably the presence of my dad, a strong, silent type who wouldn’t have recognized a quip if it bit him. In contrast, my uncles Jack and Gerry were hysterical, and could be counted upon to deliver rapid-fire family stories so comical that our stomachs would ache from laughing. Theirs was the humor of the Irish, a wee bit sarcastic and sardonic, finding the funny in decidedly un-funny situations.

I decided early on that my future spouse would have to have a quick wit, and was delighted to meet Steve. In addition to making me laugh on a regular basis, Steve shared my appreciation for the same comedians. One of our early dates was to see young Steve Martin and Martin Mull (“The Steve Martin Mull Show”) at the Great Southeast Music Hall in Atlanta.  And my Steve not only thought funny, he wrote funny plays—a bonus!

Our kids, who I find funny, also appreciate the humor of others. They introduced me to comedians ranging from Brian Regan, to Jim Gaffigan, to Louie C.K. Whenever they come home, they pull up videos on the computer of shows and standup routines that I find side-splitting.

Rose’s one request for her October birthday was money to take a comedy sketch writing course in New York City. Rose is known for writing short but hilarious Facebook posts, and I have no doubt she is capable of being an excellent comedy writer. She is stretching herself in a wonderful new direction.

My funny lady

Everyone can’t be funny. But everyone has the ability to appreciate the funny side of things. That is one of my prime resolutions for the new year: to laugh more often, and I think it’s a great resolution for all of us. It really doesn’t matter if you prefer the madcap movies of the Marx Brothers, or the rollicking, veddy veddy British stories of P.G. Wodehouse. What matters is tapping back in to the lighter side, wherever you find it.

So may 2015 be a year filled with joy and fun and lots of belly-laughs too. Life is too short to take seriously.

Groucho and Chico Marx--from "Horsefeathers"

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

Christmas Eve 2004

For the past 12 years, Christmas Eve has been marked by the 4 PM Christmas pageant at church. I am the Cecil B. DeMille of this spectacle, featuring a cast of young performers ages 4 and up. We run on one rehearsal. The only speaking parts are narrations. Mary, Joe and the gang emote silently as they traipse down the "road" to the manger.

From time to time, we’ve had a bit of backstage drama, mostly in the form of a mis-matched Holy Couple. I have photographic evidence that Jill Stevens and Devin Griffin would NOT have fared well playing The Newlywed Game. Those forced smiles through gritted teeth! That undercurrent of "I'm not rocking the baby, YOU rock the baby!" In real life, young Jesus would have ended up on a therapist's couch.

The tradition is to have a "live" Baby Jesus. Many young moms have been prescient enough to deliver in October, the optimum age for our tiny Star of the Show: not yet crawling, yet sturdy enough not to cause cardiac arrest (mine) when carried to the cradle by a 6th grade Head Angel. One year Jesus was Eliza Russell, at 4 months old a bit long in the tooth (she could only be quieted by being given a bulletin, which she proceeded to wave back and forth for the duration of the pageant). One year we were gifted with twins, Rileigh and Austin Smith. That was awesome, knowing we had an understudy in the wings in the event of infant meltdown.

This year, little Daniel Adebayo will be carried by Head Angel Jillian Jacoby, and I have every confidence in her ability to ferry Baby J. safely from Point A to Point B (don't wear heels, Jillian!) The supporting cast should do fine, especially since their teachers will sit in the back of the church with them to cue their entrances.

As I watch my 12th pageant unfold, I know I will be struck by the passage of time. 6th grade Mary, Jill Stevens, is getting married in June. Baby Jesus, Eliza Russell, is in 5th grade now. Where did the years go? I mean, I still FEEL 46. But I am almost 58 now. And all of my much-loved little ones are growing up, way too fast.

It makes me wonder: what does God think of this? Is He amused and touched by the children's worship? Does He, like me, marvel as they age over the years? I know that He is eternal, beyond the boundaries of time and space, but I still believe He has a soft spot for His kids on Earth, and marks their growth with pride and even a little pang. After all, He is their Abba (Daddy), and Daddies love their children in such a special way.

Christmas Eve 2008

So, Christmas Eve: bobby-pins flying (darn those halos!), earnest young pianists cranking out the prelude music (and yes, we'll take Jingle Bell Rock.) Once more, Christ is born. Let all the world rejoice.

Whaddayaknow?

The Family Seyfried (Aiden got a pass at speaking this year)

Written Saturday night:

As of today we have a new Seyfried post-Thanksgiving activity .  A few weeks ago, we all got an email from Evan, suggesting we each prepare a 5-10 minute talk explaining something to present to the clan this evening. Now, Evan is an encyclopedia of info on everything from nuclear fission to Russian literature to artisanal breadmaking, so no doubt his talk will be fascinating. Everyone else in the fam knows a lot, about a great many things, as well; for them it will just be a matter of selecting from a variety of topics.

And me? What, exactly, am I an expert on? Alas, nothing springs to mind. I know zero about how anything works, nor am I particularly curious to find out. My proudest production (my children) was the result of much trial and error and MUCH good fortune. Otherwise? I am a decent cook (but entirely recipe-bound), an OK church worker (though totally untrained), a so-so actress (ditto) and a good-enough writer (maybe). Aaaand that’s about it.

I seem to be losing ground as I get older, too. Forget attaining wisdom with age for me! I have completely lost my ability to speak a foreign language, to drive a car with a manual transmission, to swim (not that I was ever particularly buoyant, but time was when I could at least do one lap in the pool without my lungs exploding). Fast-forward 10 years and I will probably be hard-pressed to remember how to dress myself.

Which brings me to tonight. While I would love to just sit back and listen to my offspring instruct us all, I know I will be expected to make some sort of contribution. I guess I can do it (it’s only five minutes, right?), so I’d better stop blogging and think about what to say. Stay tuned for an update!

LATER

So here’s how it went down…

PJ was working and unable to participate:-(

I went first and talked about the art of writing and delivering a children’s sermon.

Steve shared fascinating tidbits from his study of the Reformation (and the run-up to).

Evan schooled us in why some billionaires with a social reform agenda still can’t effect governmental change the way you’d think they could, and how companies buy back their own stock and drive up demand.

Rose gave us the lowdown on dialogue sound editing in film (tedious, meticulous, who forgot to unplug the refrigerator in the restaurant kitchen scene?)

Yaj gave us a great breakdown on the dos and don’t of recycling (inspired by the critical importance of such in her island nation of Taiwan).

Julie discussed her widely varied work experiences, what she’s learning in college about business, and why she plans to defer her bed-and-breakfast owning dream.

Sheridan showed us why he is a gifted teacher, waxing both eloquent and enthusiastic about patterns and deviations in pop and classical music.

For me, this intellectual exercise beat any hike we could have taken today. Thank you, family!!

Drive My Car

PJ's new, very blue car

 Hallelujah!! PJ has a car!! He’d been the owner of a 1983 (yup) buggy which gave out awhile back. Since then, he has been begging and borrowing—thankfully, not stealing—rides everywhere he needed to go. His plan for this post-graduation year was to substitute teach at various schools in the area, most of which are not accessible by public transportation. So he’s been on the hunt for wheels for months.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, he found a 2005 Elantra. Low mileage! Reputable dealer! Alas! The dealer was an hour north of here. I hightailed it up with Pieg to seal the deal, expecting we could quickly part company and he could tool off in his new car. But no! The dealer had to power wash the Elantra first; it wouldn’t be ready for hours. Finally, we really did part company, and PJ drove home to his apartment. En route, however, the “check engine” light went on. Drat!! Back to the far-flung dealership the next morning, to discover that the power washing had left water in the spark plugs, causing a misfire. Happy ending: quickly fixed and PJ is in business. Whew!

I totally get the ease and convenience of autos. Indeed, looking back I marvel at my relatively car-less childhood. It was all well and good when we lived in NYC, but as soon as we hit the suburbs it was a different story. By the time we moved to Atlanta, we were truly stuck all week (Dad was a traveling

Ah, Pumpkin memories! Thanks to Michael Baran for sending this along!

salesman, Mom didn’t drive). It was a happy day in the   
Cunningham house when we bought the Gremlin (a “sporty” bright orange number we dubbed The Great Pumpkin), and sister Mo and I could take over weekday driving duty.

Nowadays, while I can’t say I drive for the fun of it, I can’t imagine NOT driving, and dread the day to come when I’ll have to relinquish my keys. My Grandma Berrigan was almost 90 when The Moment of Truth arrived (she’d remarked to my uncle, “How strange, lovey. People are planting trees in their driveways!”) Grandma clearly had to stop driving, but it was painful. Driving is a Declaration of Independence, and who wants to give that up? Ours is a nation of highways, and Lord help you if you can’t navigate them. So on we motor, guzzling our gas and racking up the miles in our Volvos and Chevys and Toyotas.

Watching PJ drive away, I said a little prayer:

Dear Lord, May we remember how lucky we are to be able to get so easily from Point A to Point B in a car. May we also remember to slow down sometimes, turn off our ignitions and enjoy being right where we are. Life is going fast enough, and there are many pleasures to be had at walking distance. As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, with its massive traffic jams, I pray for safe travels for all, and many happy reunions. Amen.

Joyful Noise

Today we’re headed downtown for a concert, and I can’t wait. It’s going to be performed by the Pennsylvania Girlchoir (Ya-Jhu is pianist, my goddaughter Abbey is one of the singers). One of the pieces, “When I Am Woman” was written by the very talented composer Andrea Clearfield. Andrea has a special place in my heart because she was so encouraging to Sheridan when he was younger (his pieces were performed at her monthly Salon quite a few times when he was in his late teens).  Looking forward to a great musical experience!

When Rose was a young teenager, she sang with the Temple University Children’s Choir. Again, I always loved attending their concerts, because the songs were beautifully written and performed.  There’s something about good vocal music that really speaks to me. Every week I look forward to hearing our church choir sing, and I am aware of how lucky our congregation is to have such a terrific group. I also love going to the opera, infrequent as these opportunities are.  Last December, Sher and Yaj gave us, as a Christmas gift, tickets to The Magic Flute at the Met in NYC. Delightful.

So with this background of intense music appreciation, why don’t I like to sing?

Part of it surely is my lack of training. I can only take a stab at reading music (and the wound is usually fatal). I have zero breath control, too; by the end of the first verse of “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” on a Sunday morning, I am panting as if I’ve just run a 5K. The other, honestly, is intimidation. I am surrounded at home by so many solid musicians that I really hesitate to open my mouth. Indeed, the only times I remember being comfortable crooning were when I sang silly made-up songs to my babies (“PJ Sparkles” and “Julie Boolie” were big hits). 

The kids have been very sweet at their last few Christmas concerts, and given me small singing parts. Luckily, teamed up with them, my shaky warbling faded into the background for the most part. I am already stressing about Holiday Concert 2014, and think I would be rather relieved if I just sat in the audience instead.

I believe it’s a mind-over-matter thing with me, this vocal phobia, and I’m determined to conquer it.  Who cares if I don’t sound fabulous? At least I have decent pitch (or so I’ve been told) so my solos have never been complete train wrecks. So what if Rose brought down the house in 7th grade singing “Your Daddy’s Son” from Ragtime, while I didn’t even make the cut at the 1973 St. Pius High Talent Show (remember “Killing Me Softly”? My killing, alas, was not so soft). I need to lighten up! I too can make a joyful noise!

There’s a wonderful children’s song that says “All God’s Critters Got a Place in the Choir.” I need to remember that, and let this critter take her place.

"All God's Critters"

"Company" Revisited

Several years ago, I wrote an essay about my manic party preparations. I described the Extreme Home Makeover that I attempted every single time someone was invited over. I meant it to be funny, but alas it was all true. I did indeed become the Maid from Hell; I was indeed always too pooped to enjoy my company.

Some of my attitude stems from my childhood. Both Mom and Dad were pretty messy people, from the ashtrays always full of cigarette butts, to the dishes piled in the sink, to the laundry that never got put away. I grew up in this chaos, and never learned anything about keeping house. I still remember the panic I'd feel whenever the doorbell rang, as I'd frantically kick all sorts of random stuff under the sofa or into the closet on my way to answer. We never, as far as I can recall, had anyone over for dinner (if we had, they would, like us, have had to plop in front of the TV set with a plate of fish sticks.) I knew most of my friends did not live like this.  Their furniture was dusted!  Their moms were always whipping up homemade breads and soups! There was no random stuff to kick out of sight when company came!!

Wedding day with Joanie and Tom

When Steve entered my life, I'm sure it must have been a shock for him. His own parents were total neatniks (even while raising five kids).  Leona ironed the sheets! Phil catalogued all of their photos and home movies and souvenirs of every family trip! And here was Steve, about to marry a woman who wouldn't know a floor mop if she fell over one!!

Wedding day with Leona and Phil

Aiden invites you to join him!

 Over the years, my cleaning habits improved markedly (even while raising my own five kids). We divied up the chores, and by and large it all got done. But at some point, "clean-ish" was not enough for me, especially when entertaining. I remember trying to converse with a very interesting guest, all the while staring, horror struck, at a major cobweb I'd missed earlier. It was all I could think about, and I was sure he was registering the web-festooned corner with utter disgust.

Now we have Yaj and Sher and Aiden living with us, and my point of view has gradually been changing. They are ever-gracious hosts, and invite their friends to dinner on a frequent basis—and I don’t notice them having heart attacks beforehand. And me? I still make a sweep for cobwebs, and do my best to tidy up on a daily basis, but I am no longer hesitant to invite friends to the house on short notice. So what if the dining room features boxes of Evan's rice, pasta and spices from his old apartment? Does it really matter that baby Aiden's play mat is out on the family room floor in full view? 

I’ve missed out on the fun part of company for too many years. So…It's party time, and you're all invited!!!