Can You Keep a Secret?

I certainly can’t, or at least, it’s hard for me. I have no problem keeping the tough stuff, the stuff people deserve to keep to themselves, secret. But it’s the good stuff that gets me every time. Engagements, admissions to college, new jobs—I know I need to take my cue from the people whose news it actually is, but it kills me to wait. I want the world to know…preferably, know it from me first!

But I realize not everyone is like this. Some people don’t share as much of their own lives as I do. Some people don’t feel the need to announce their ALL their insecurities, stupid mistakes, mental health issues, etc. the way I do. Some people can sit on glad tidings for days! Even weeks! It baffles me!

Some people are just much more private than I am. Take my father, for example. Dad told his family

Dad in his Navy days! Never heard a word about them!

next to nothing about himself, ever. I remember a homework assignment from one of the nuns in school, asking us to interview our parents about their lives. Mom Joanie readily complied, filling pages with her personal stories. When it was Dad’s turn to be questioned by me, he said (and I quote), “Tell Sister Brendan that it’s none of her damn business.” Then he left the room. I think I ended up telling Sister that Dad was out of town that week.

As a result, I only heard some of the colorful tales of Dad’s life second-hand…such as those of his own father, Pop Cunningham. Pop, as an 8th grader in 1913, used to leave for school in the morning, and end up instead at the horse stables in Central Park, smoking cigars and drinking sarsaparilla. Pop

Little Me and the Notorious Pop

grew up to have some rather shady “associates” in his trucking business. Once he left the state for a few years and laid low in Chicago (I believe evading income taxes). Pop had his kneecaps broken one night by a couple of goons he had crossed. He would proudly point out the huge gilt-edged mirror hanging in Luchow’s Restaurant—and the bullet hole in the frame, courtesy of him, during a wild party there. What a character!!! The budding writer in me could NOT understand keeping him a secret, but my dad was totally mum.

So I came to equate “keeping secrets” with selfishly hoarding important information, and was determined to be an open book. Everyone knew when I was pregnant by the third day after conception. Everyone knew all my mothering and acting bloopers. And, alas, everyone knew some things about my kids that I’m sure they’d have much preferred they didn’t.

Over time, I’ve learned to curb the blabbing somewhat, but it’s an ongoing issue with me. You can trust me to the grave with your sad secrets, but don’t let me hear about your award, your new career, or other personal triumph. It may be your news to share, not mine, but that hasn’t stopped me yet!

Photo Doggies for Me

My sister C's (admittedly beautiful) dog Murphy

I don’t know how in the world it happened, but suddenly one day on Facebook I started getting posts from something called “Photo Doggies for Anthony.” It is pretty much just what it says—photos of dogs, for a guy named Anthony. Specifically, Anthony is a teenager who it seems is very ill, and indicated that puppy pix would cheer him up. What started out small, has grown into the St. Bernard of FB pages…every day I am treated to literally dozens of pictures and captions: dogs snoozing under a tree, dogs dressed up with scarves and hats, happy dogs, sad dogs, etc. etc.

Which would all be fine, except for one thing: I am not a huge dog fan, and am sure I was added to this list by accident.  So why don’t I opt out? I think it’s my combo of laziness and curiosity…what does a dog lover post? Everyone talks about their “fur babies” and their “forever homes.” I get it; some people are batty about their pooches—and that’s great. But sometimes someone will post a simple request like “How can I get myself off this list?” You would think they had expressed a desire to commit murder! The responses often sound like: “Why don’t you delete yourself? What’s the matter with you?? You are a despicable person and on top of that, you’re full of negative energy!! Long live Photo Doggies!!!”

Seriously? No one is allowed to disagree with you without being raked over the comment coals? I wonder what poor Anthony thinks about the venom dripping from some of these folks. If I started a page called “Photo Babies for Elise,” I would NEVER blame anyone for unsubscribing to it—not everyone thinks miniature humans are all that cute. And I certainly wouldn’t insult and berate them if they decided against an endless parade of toddlers in their news feed. So yeah, I should remove myself from Anthony’s A List, and I will…one of these days.

Then there’s my incredibly clogged email inbox. I save it all, and I do mean all. I do not exaggerate when I say my Yahoo account has 145,284 saved messages, dating back 13 years. I am glad for endless storage most of the time, because I often go back to my old emails to find things I need to refer to again, and people with whom I should reconnect. But that doesn’t mean I have to save my daily LOFT 40% off sale notices, does it? Knowing LOFT, the next 40% off sale is mere hours away (why don’t they just go ahead and price all their clothes 40% lower and be done with it?) No internet correspondence is too unimportant to hold onto, is my motto! One of these days I will get it together and streamline everything. But not today.

Now if you will excuse me, my exciting life online beckons. 10 new emails from Travelocity! Pictures of shelties with sunglasses on! There’s so much to see and save!!!

180 Degrees

PJ and Victory Crew (PJ is right behind Santa)

A few months ago, PJ told us that the restaurant where he cooks nights and weekends, Victory Brewing Company, is opening a food truck this spring. They have asked him to run the food truck. He is very excited about this opportunity. At first, all I could think of was his college training in Secondary Ed (history). He has been substitute teaching ever since he graduated from Millersville University, but over the past two years he has gradually shifted focus towards the restaurant business. PJ loves it, so, gradually, I am getting used to the possibility that his future may involve more cooking and fewer history classes. My dream for him has taken a 180 degree turn.

Evan fell in love with physics in high school, and the love affair continued through his years at the Naval Academy. His analytical mind enjoyed the discipline, the process of discovery. His years in the Navy as an officer on a nuclear sub seemed to cement his desire to work in physics after he left the service—teaching, research, etc. Yet, at some point last year, Evan changed course completely. He discovered that he was fascinated by economics, specifically public policy. Having never taken an economics course in his life, he was nevertheless accepted to several graduate programs in the US, and the University of Barcelona abroad. As I write this, he is midway through a rigorous one year Master’s program in Spain, and is looking ahead to a very different future than I had pictured for him…again, a 180 degree turn.

In their own ways, my other kids have taken turns away from what I would have predicted. Rose is a project manager for a company that creates interactive videos, not a full-time singer/songwriter. Sheridan is a music teacher and church music director, still composing, but not exclusively, as was his trajectory coming out of the Curtis Institute. Julie is declaring her college major next week, vacillating between accounting and business—and this is a girl who HATED math in elementary and high school.

We live in a world where people are supposed to make one choice (of career or opinion) and stick with it, no matter what. There is, to many, nothing worse than someone who changes his or her mind. Yet that is the path of growth as people—to learn more and more about ourselves, which sometimes calls for a change of course. I hope and pray we will stop demonizing one another for daring to evolve in our thinking. There is too much rigidity in our world today, and too many people who trap themselves in a life they have ceased to want.

So…Bon appetit, PJ! Felicidades, Evan! Good luck, Sher, Rose and Julie!  I would love you no matter what you did for a living, but I am especially proud of the thoughtful choices you are making. Even the 180 degree turns are exciting and wonderful, and part of what makes you each unique.

Hooray for open minds!

Rose's "Black on Gray"

Just a Drop in the Box

Happy Friday, everyone! I certainly hope your day is off to a better start than mine! I had planned to spend many hours happily and productively writing today, but so far it hasn’t panned out that way.

I have deadlines coming up for several projects. The biggest project is a series of plays I’m writing for a new company. They have found what I think is a great niche market—progressive Christian churches (with a grace-centered theology and more liberal views than fundamentalist churches.) There is certainly no shortage of material for the latter group. For instance, Vacation Bible School curriculum has been a real challenge over the years. One company we used for a while has catchy music, cool games and crafts. But we stopped using their stuff when the Bible skits included the plagues of Egypt, and the Crucifixion. Try explaining THAT to preschoolers!  Several parents told us their kids had nightmares, which is just what you love to hear about VBS.

Anyway, this new company wants me to write three short skits, one longer play and an Easter production—all completed by March 10th. As it is I will be hard-pressed to finish everything on time. But I have been battling technology all morning, and not one word has been written. The editor put all of my files and folders in something called Dropbox. I tried to open the template I need to write the scripts. First, I couldn’t figure out how to open it. Next, I couldn’t figure out how to save it somewhere else. Finally, once I thought I’d saved it, I had erased everything (and my good friend Dropbox informed me that “no previous version of this file is available”). Poof! Gone! Now what?

I am 99% sure that my children use Dropbox, and I should probably have asked them before making this techno-mess. And the editor seems like a very nice guy, and said I should get in touch if I had any questions, but I just don’t think he was envisioning the 30+ stupid questions I have. I guess question #1 would be: why can’t I just write everything and email it to you? Once upon a time that seemed like the modern, tech savvy way to work. Now, it sounds as antiquated as if I was asking if I could write my stuff on parchment with a quill pen, and send it by carrier pigeon. It’s ironic that my scribblings are for “progressive” houses of worship, as “regressive” as I am when it comes to much of the 21st century world.

Oh well, time to suck it up and get on with it. I do take comfort in the fact that the core message I will share is timeless: God is a God of infinite love and mercy and grace, for everyone. And maybe if I just work on communicating that today and give Dropbox a rest until I can talk to the experts, the day won’t be wasted after all.

Another Word for Winter

It’s official. The Blizzard of 2016 was the biggest snowstorm to hit our area in 20 years. Snow began falling Friday night at 7 PM, and when it was over we had 25 inches of the white stuff. Steve made a stab at clearing a path late yesterday morning, but his efforts were swiftly erased by the gusts and flurries that followed. We never lost power, so it was actually a nice, cozy day. Steve built a fire in the evening, and we sat in front of it going over his lines (he is understudying the lead in a new play in the city and has to be ready to go on at any time). The three church staff members in the family got the word that Sunday School and services were cancelled for this morning.  Again today, most of us are not going anywhere.

I thought back over a lifetime of winters yesterday. As a little girl, I remember building snowmen in Manhattan that quickly turned gray with soot, so that wasn’t much fun. Our time in Atlanta was notable for the ice storms that downed power lines and made travel impossible for days on end. Our one year in Boston was (surprise) freezing  and snowy, but by then I was much too old to go sledding, so it was more a nuisance than a thrill.

Aiden's Daddy and Uncle Evan Winter 1987

It was not till my kids were little that I found any happiness in winter. All five of them loved bundling up and heading outdoors after a snowfall.  While I still didn’t enjoy cold weather at all, I definitely enjoyed their enjoyment of it. The years went by; I bought larger and larger snow pants and boots for my brood. One by one, they outgrew snowball fights and snow forts, and then suddenly I was worrying about their safety as my new drivers first navigated slippery roads, heading to school or work.

There was a lull in our wintertime fun, and then along came Aiden. He adores being outside, in any weather. Yesterday was magical for my 20 month old grandson. He tried to catch snowflakes in his mittened hands, laughing, and “helped” Grandpa shovel. He didn’t stay out long as it was too windy and cold, so it was soon in for dry clothes and hot soup. But next year he will be ready to go down the big hill in the neighborhood, and play in the snow with his little buddies.

Aiden helping Grandpa clean off the car

They say the Inuit people of Northern Canada and Alaska have 50 words for snow in their vocabulary. Aiden doesn’t even have one yet, but if he did, it would have to convey his awesome experience of a glistening white and quiet and beautiful Oreland.  So, as I gaze out the window at the morning sunlight sparkling on the drifts, let me remember to look at the world through Aiden’s eyes. May I find a new word for winter, and learn to love whatever season of my life I am in.

Collectible

I am a collector. For years, I collected turtles--sculptures of all sizes and made of everything from glass to pottery. Gradually my focus shifted to frogs, and I amassed a boatload of frogs—frogs made of fabric, ceramic frogs, etc. And while I still love my inanimate amphibians (Ya-Jhu gave me an adorable frog candle

My latest collectible!

holder), the parade of new items has slowed to a crawl, and that’s probably a good thing. Because I have so many other collections to deal with. 

I collect spatulas. I have, no joke, 10 spatulas of various sizes, and Lord only knows where most of them came from. I don’t remember buying any of them. They are gathered in a large Quaker Oats box on my kitchen counter, and I stand ready to enter any pancake flipping contest, anywhere. Also on the culinary front, I have a collection of seasonal decorative cheese spreaders adorned with tiny Nutcrackers and seashells and bunches of grapes. We don’t entertain much, so my spreaders usually sit in a drawer—but again, the next time a giant wheel of

Cheese Spreaders on Parade

Brie comes a calling, I’m all set!

Moving on to my bedroom, I collect outdated (therefore useless) writer’s books and magazines: Writer’s Market 2010 shares shelf space with the Christian Writer’s Guide from 2011. Stacks of Writer’s Digest magazines feature contests that closed long, long ago.  Mind you, I always buy the newest versions of these publications, but never pitch the old ones, so my collection is getting pretty big. I also have a vast collection of high heeled shoes dating from my episodes of bipolar mania in 2006. I no longer wear heels, so my colorful assortment just gathers dust. Keeping them all, though, because—well, you never know!

In the bathroom, I am an avid collector of hair ties, bobby pins and toothbrushes (at last count there were 14 toothbrushes in our sink-side cup—and there are only 4 adult sets of teeth in the house). I also collect vintage perfumes and colognes, because surely there will come a day when my (now rancid) bottle of Esteé is back in vogue. My bathroom gallery is rounded out with an array of expired medications from now-forgotten illnesses, and bottles of mostly-empty shampoo.

I haven’t even touched on my collection of vases. Sheridan shamed me into putting many blossom-holders out on the curb with a sign marked “free” but I still have enough to set up shop as a florist. And let’s not even get into the miniature porcelain pitchers (yeah, I checked on e-Bay, they ain’t worth much) I inherited from the grandmother.

Every summer when we live in our rather spare beach rental, I swear I will start living a different life, with many fewer collections. But then we return to Oreland, and it’s back to collecting, collecting. So I guess that’s just me, and I should probably quit fighting it.

If you’re wondering what to get me for my birthday, I could really use another spatula.

Auld Lang Syne

Yep! That was us!

We got a Christmas card this year from my sister-in-law Jean Marie. In it, was a yellowed clipping she had saved—an interview Steve and I did with a Valdosta, Georgia newspaper when we were on our theatre tour waaaaaay back in 1979. It was pretty weird to read comments from my 23 year old self.  We told tales of crazy tour happenings (we performed in hundreds of schools in five states during 1 ½ years on the road—believe me, there were crazy stories aplenty). I showed the clipping to my kids, and they were predictably amused.  Julie looked at the photo and said, “Mom, you were pretty back then!” and, diplomat that she is, she immediately followed up with, “Not that you aren’t still pretty!” (Good try, Jules!) It was fun to go down memory lane, and got me thinking of all the years, and especially the New Years, that have transpired since then.

Long ago, we’d observe New Year’s Eve with our dear friend John Carter in Atlanta. John would prepare a fabulous dinner, we would have a champagne toast (we were never big NYE partiers) and call it a night. After our children started arriving, it was all we could do to stay conscious until the televised Times Square ball drop. But as the family grew, we still had some memorable midnights together. I recall the arrival of the new millennium, for example. Like so many others, we (mostly I) feared a massive computer crash as we hit the year 2000. To prepare, I had purchased several gallons of bottled water and, for some reason—a sale, perhaps?—an ungodly quantity of canned beets (never on our regular menu). We huddled anxiously in the family room, preparing for the worst (the worst being a future of canned beets). At 12:01 AM, we ascertained that all was well with the power grid, hit the hay, and the next week all the beets were donated to a food pantry.

Then my five were suddenly grown up, and usually not home to ring in the new year with us. But Steve and I remained exhausted homebodies. We’d take a stab at a romantic dinner à deux, and then conk out halfway through Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Wild times!

And now here we are, on the verge of 2016, light years from that silly 1979 interview.  Our youngest will soon be the age I was when I gabbed with that Valdosta reporter. And then, in the blink of an eye, little Aiden will be 23 too.

It is rather unlikely I will see January 1, 2050 myself, but even before that, 2015 will seem like a yellowed clipping from far in the past.  That’s the way life goes. So may I try to live my remaining years to the fullest, and welcome 2016 with an open and optimistic heart.  For I truly believe there are still some wonderful adventures ahead for me…and for you, too.

Christmas 2015 (we managed to stay up past Aiden's bedtime!)

Happy New Year.

A Very KonMari Christmas

This is what happens when you read Marie Kondo’s bestselling book on the Japanese art of tidying up, two weeks before Christmas…

Sheridan on Santa's lap 1987

Dear Santa,

I have been very good this year as I am sure you know. I have not gotten a speeding ticket, or a parking ticket, nor have I had a winning lottery ticket, but that’s beside the point.  I pick up my clothes (generally) and do the dishes (from time to time). I don’t take out the garbage, rake leaves or mow the lawn, of course, as that is men’s work. My language, while occasionally salty, is still rated PG for the most part. I haven’t coveted my neighbor’s oxen. No wait, that’s the Ten Commandments. But you get the idea.

I don’t wait in line to sit in your lap because that would be super creepy, but I still have a few requests for Christmas morning.

I would really love your sleigh to arrive at my door, to cart away everything that does not bring me joy. That would include my leather pants from 2004 (what WAS I thinking?), my collection of mismatched socks, and my winter jacket from a time when I was small enough for it to actually zip up (see 2004). I would love Rudolph to take a huge passel of books back to the North Pole, because, honestly, the odds of my re-reading The Thorn Birds are slim to none. I am ready to relinquish my juicer, my ice cream maker and three of my springform pans (I have been anticipating the call for a trio of cheesecakes, in vain). Do your reindeer operate in reverse, dear Santa? Because I have a dumpster full of unwanted stuff, and I’d much rather empty out than fill up at this point in my life.

What else does not bring me joy? Junk mail! Why, in the age of the internet, do people keep sending me flyers for their pizzerias and their car washes? In the spirit of KonMari, it’s all going straight to recycling anyway, so spirit it all away, Santa! Speaking of the world wide web, I’ve about had it with spam that eludes the folder. If “Brittany” wants to meet me for a good time, she can help me load up your sleigh.

As my home is decluttered and becomes pristine, I expect to attain an exhilaration I never knew when I was knee-deep in Lego blocks and Barbies. I’d tell you to deliver this bounty to other houses, but honestly? I’d be happier knowing that other people are living in vast, vacant spaces like me. Empty closets, empty shelves. No need for storage bins. Bliss!

But Santa, don’t expect me to part with the 350 drawings of a sunset by 3 year old Sheridan. Not gonna happen. Or Rose’s baby teeth. So if I’m keeping those, I may as well ask for a flat-screen TV. And, while you’re at it, a screened porch.

Thanks, big guy. You’re the best.

Love, Elise

What Not To Wear

I know it was the 60s, but what the heck was I wearing?

Rose and Julie are home for Thanksgiving, which can mean only one thing: a marathon viewing of TLC’s epic “What Not to Wear.” For the uninitiated, WNTW style mavens Stacy and Clinton stage interventions involving hopelessly frumpy/sloppy/trashy-looking women. Their sad wardrobes are examined as S and C hold their collective nose, and, mostly, thrown away. Then the unfortunately attired subjects are handed $5000 and coached through a shopping spree. At the end of the show, after being more suitably clad, plus having hair and makeup transformations, the Lucky Ladies parade in front of their applauding friends.

 My favorite episode from yesterday starred Denise, a flight attendant given to wearing a big blonde bouffant hairdo, eensy-weensy skirts, most with sequins or frills, and enough makeup to stock a branch of Sephora. Denise thought she looked “super cute,” and wondered why she wasn’t attracting the right kind of attention. Denise almost burst into tears as her glitzy costumes were flung in the trash can, her hair extensions were discarded, and her huge globs of foundation and eye shadow were wiped off.  When she appeared as the “new” Denise, you could just tell that she would revert to spike heels and big bows in her hair within the week.

Which got me thinking. What kind of attention am I attracting with my appearance? My wardrobe is chock-full of items from LOFT, a relatively stylish store. My hair is regularly colored and cut. I am already a makeup minimalist (lipstick is reserved for special occasions). So why do I feel certain I would not pass muster with Stacy and Clinton?

I think it’s my laziness at play, for the most part. My hair only really looks good during the 24 hours immediately following my appointment, because flat ironing my tresses makes my arm hurt. My clothes only attract the attention of spots and stains, which leap onto me as soon as I exit my bedroom (a situation only made worse since the arrival of baby Aiden, who regularly baptizes me with smushed banana and goldfish cracker crumbs), and it’s too much bother to change. And speaking of change, I haven’t replaced my mascara since 2013 (I think you are supposed to pitch it every couple of months).  I like to think I exude insouciance and a certain bohemian flair, but I fear I most resemble someone who does not own a mirror.

It’s so easy to laugh at the hapless Denise and the other misfits on “What Not to Wear.” It’s harder to think of myself as one of their ilk. The odds of my snagging a reality TV show and five grand in mad money are slim to none, so I’m going to need to go DIY and stage my own intervention. Starting tonight. Out go the ancient blush and ink-spotted jeans.  I pledge to fuss with the hair again and wear lipstick on a more regular basis. No one may recognize me, but I will be proud of myself for a change.

Some of the more stylish Seyfrieds!

Playgroup Redux

CLC Playgroup makes pine cone birdfeeders

Yesterday morning, at age 58, I hosted a playgroup at church. My grandson Aiden accompanied me (which gave me a little street cred). We had five families with a total of seven kids under age five. To say it brought back memories would be an understatement. Why, I felt practically 28 again! Except for the part where I could hardly get up off the floor after building with blocks! And took a nap immediately afterward! 

For the uninitiated, “playgroup” is a lifeline for young parents who fear their vocabularies have shrunk to whatever is the letter of the week on Sesame Street. Ideally, the adults chat while the kiddos interact. Doesn’t always work out that way, but everyone tries.  I remember loving just getting out of the house, whose walls were, horror-movie style, rapidly closing  in on me.

Back in the day, we were mostly stay-at-home moms. Over coffee and calorie-laden pastries (a boon for those of us aspiring to lose those pesky extra pregnancy pounds), we swapped childrearing tips and generally solved the problems of the world. I made several lifelong friends from playgroup, and have enjoyed seeing their little ones become terrific young adults. But there were some challenging mornings in East Oreland for sure.

Alone, the kids were each a total delight. En masse, not always so much. Hair was pulled, dolls were swiped, and the tears would flow. There were a few sturdy toddlers we steered clear of (mine were on the small side), lest the wee Seyfrieds be mowed over on the quest for more Duplo blocks. The first-time mom tended to hover, and be totally distracted by any hint of unhappiness from her little precious. The fifth (or sixth) time mom tended to keep on gabbing through epic battles over Tonka trucks and My Little Ponies. I was somewhere in the middle, not 100% obsessive about playground dramas, but acutely aware of my kids’ behavior in public (not always stellar).

Rare PJ playgroup pic--"Driving" a tractor at Merrymead Farm

Random playgroup memories include Sheridan, who contentedly pushed a toy car around all morning, oblivious to the others. Then there was Evan my escape artist, who always added excitement to any field trip to pumpkin patch or zoo. Rose was notable for snubbing the other children altogether, in favor of sitting up at the mom’s table “chatting.” By the time PJ and Julie came along, I felt I was aging out of playgroup, and gravitating more towards the elementary school parents.  It was with a pang that I one day realized my playgroup days were over.

Until yesterday. It was a joy to return to playgroup after such a long absence. While their issues are different (many more moms work full time), we are at heart the same, trying to do our best to raise the next generation. I loved being with my younger counterparts, and felt very encouraged about the future. This new crop of youngsters is in great hands.

So bring on next month! Save me some coffeecake— and help me up!