Homeward Bound

As I've mentioned before, I'm not quite sure where home is.  

Where I live now?  Where I grew up?  Where I'll end up?

Where my stuff is?  Where my heart is?

(If the latter, then home is fragmented into a million places.)

When your mom is sick, though, you throw theoretical questioning out the window.  In that moment, home is where she is, so you go to there.

(All pics above are of the Masonic Temple in Alexandria, VA, taken from the Metro, on my way home.)

Daddy-O

Guess what, Internet? It's my dad's birthday!  I recently came across this family photo and thought I should probably post it, in honor of dear ol' dad. 

It's making me all kinds of nostalgic for the early 80's.  Check out my dad's Selleck 'stache!  Check out the dark wood paneling and olive green / mustard yellow decor of our living room!

(If you're wondering who that Shirley Temple / Joey Lawrence love-child in the photo is, it's me!  It's me!)

(And yes, my mother is a weed-wacker.  Don't judge!  We may not be the typical American family, but we make it work.  Somehow, we make it work.  Plus, 10 bucks says our front lawn is neater than your front lawn. So there.)

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 3

(Source)

As I said before, I've never lived in Ohio but it's always seemed a sort of homeland to me.  My family's history is there.  Whenever I visit, I think I should be able to feel that history, feel the pull of ancestral roots, or some such thing.

I usually don't though.  Don't feel those roots like I think I should.  The Ohio homeland connection is in my mind; not in my gut.  Nevertheless, I still try to picture what it would be like if I were to live there.  Could I live there?  Could I do it?  It would be nice to be closer to family.  It would be sad to be so far from the ocean.

When I flew back to New York on Monday, my plane touched down at LaGuardia and a flight attendant announced over the intercom, "If New York is your home, let us be the first to welcome you home."

Is New York my home?  Right now it is.  But "home" has a connotation of something more permanent, less transient.  I still feel pretty transient; I still change my address every two years or so.

Virginia, though the land of my birth, my childhood, my education, is no longer home. Not really.  I still miss the Shenandoah mountains in the fall, but not enough to seriously consider returning to them.  Boston is home too, in certain ways.  But not in others.

So to sum up: 

Dear AirTran Flight Attendant,

Thanks for the warm welcome, but I don't know if New York is my home. I mean, it is, but it isn't, if you know what I mean.  Do you know what I mean?  What I mean is, what is "home" anyways?  It is a bigger concept than we could possibly unpack while waiting for that guy in Row 3 to get his stuff together and get out of the aisle so the rest of us can disembark the aircraft.  You know?

And so, AirTran Flight Attendant, I'll leave you with that epic quote from the movie "Garden State":

"You'll see one day when you move out it just sort of happens...You feel like you can never get it back. It's like you feel homesick for a place that doesn't even exist. Maybe it's like this rite of passage. You won't ever have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, for your kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I don't know, but I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people that miss the same imaginary place."

Thanks for the gourmet pretzels and ginger ale.

Sincerely,
Seat 21-E

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 2

My uncle wanted to know what my life looks like in New York. "Where do you get your food?  Are there grocery stores there?"

Yup.  They're small and cramped, but they exist.

"How do you get your groceries home?  You carry them six blocks?"

Yup.  I just buy less, more often.  And generally try to avoid purchasing more than 1-2 cans of anything on each trip; it's only six blocks, but canned goods make for a heavy haul.

Then my uncle told me about his first trip to The Big Apple.  He and my aunt came here on their honeymoon back in the early 1960's; he, being a jazz enthusiast, wanted to check out some of New York's famed jazz clubs.

One night, they took a cab down to Birdland on 52nd Street - it looked nothing like what he had expected, but the music was great.  He loves his jazz.  ("Honey," he said to me, "Remind me to tell you about the time your aunt and I saw Frank Sinatra, when he opened the Coliseum up at Richfield."  Knights-Of-Columbus!!, I swooned.)

My aunt and uncle stayed at Birdland for several sets; it was late when they left the club.  They had realized on the cab ride down that their hotel wasn't actually very far away, so they decided to walk back.  They got about a half a block when they heard a weird clanking sound.

It sounded like it was coming from around the corner.  The mysterious clanking was getting closer and closer, and then suddenly appeared before them -

A man, covered head to toe in a full suit of armor.  (Knights-Of-Columbus, indeed!!)

The suit of armor clanked by them without word or explanation.  My aunt and uncle, suitably startled and confused, had a good laugh and decided to take a cab home after all.  This was one strange town.

And it still is.

New York has lost a lot of it's grit in past decades.  But you still never know just what might come clanking around a corner.

To Ohio, With Love -
Part 1

(Source)

I spent the weekend visiting family in Ohio.  My family has been Ohioneers Ohiosters Ohioans for generations and generations, almost since arriving in this country.  Almost, I say, because we apparently started up in Michigan.

"How'd we get from Michigan down to Ohio?" my mom asked my uncle.

"Chased," he said.

Probably.

I've never lived in Ohio myself.  I just grew up thinking of it as the homeland, visiting family there once a year, and always making Buckeyes for Christmas.  Chocolate & peanut butter: it's my heritage.

This weekend there was a community event in the town where my uncle lives.  On Saturday night we all trooped to the downtown traffic circle, and watched as local firetrucks led a parade of floats around and around.

The highschool marching band was there, playing cadences and their fight song.  The highschool cheerleaders were there, too; they were in uniform and crammed on the back of a small flatbed truck like cattle.  There was a more spacious float, carrying the members of the town's city council.  An older gentleman, resembling Santa Claus, drove a make-shift pioneer wagon.

There were floats constructed by local businesses (a beauty salon, a plumber, the A&W).  There was a pipsqueak-sized color guard, twirling orange flags.  PNC Bank passed out tote bags, a couple of churches were there to pass out candy (definitely the highlight of the evening for my little cousins).

After the parade passed us by, we wandered around the rest of the fair and purchased kettle corn and heard a local cover band perform a (semi-decent) rendition of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing."  Then it was time for the fire works; we stood - necks craned back - watching them explode in the sky above the white townhall building.

It was sweet and lovely.

I generally think of New York as a city that has it all.  But one thing it doesn't have? 

Small town charms like I soaked up last Saturday night.

In Which I Am Old and No Fun

Last year's Mad Hot Ballroom Competition, World Financial Center

My little cousin is 14.  I don't know how that happened, because I'm fairly certain he was 7 just last week.  But a quick glance at his Facebook page confirmed it - pictures of him playing junior varsity football, teasing messages to/from girls in his class, frequent use of abbreviations such as "idk" and "ur" and "lol," multiple status updates about being bored.  Yup - he's a teenager.

I scrolled through the Facebook pages that Lil Cuz has indicated he is a fan of, to educate myself on this now-teenager. Who is he?  Who are teenagers today, in general?  I don't get to interact with them frequently, so I wondered, "What are they like? What are they thinking?" and perhaps more personally pressing, "Can I still relate?"

I think the answer to that last question is, sadly, no. Below is a sampling of said pages, along with my questions and comments and general nit-picking.

I love walking past a class, see a friend, walk backwards then walk away :)

(I’ll have to take your word for it. I guess that could be fun, though.)

one of the hardest decisions ever is what to get out of the vending machine

(You are 14. This is probably still a true statement. Enjoy it!)

i HATE how girls think gym is a joke!! its some serious
stuff

(You are totes right, man. Gym is serious. I confess I did not take it very seriously myself, but I don't know idk maybe that’s because I once had a gym teacher who made our class play Ping-Pong every day for three months.) (PS – you know what else is some serious stuff? Knowing when to use “its” versus “it’s.” Just saying.)

5th grade flirting was such a joke.

(Let me guess – high school flirting is some serious stuff?)

Your Ugly...Stop Trying to Flirt With Me.

(Harsh! Don’t forget that beauty is subjective. Also don’t forget what is really ugly: bad grammar. “Your” vs “You’re,” kiddo.)

Sorry, but 1 word text messages really dont contribute to the conversation.

(Wait - why are you attempting to have a conversation via text message in the first place? Suggestion - dial the number and have an actual conversation.) (Also, you forgot an apostrophe.)

Some poeple are like penny's, 2 faced and worthless ;)

(Haha, good one! Just a couple of minor points here – pennies are technically not worthless and people are never worthless. Also, please note in that last sentence how I spelled ‘people’ and ‘pennies.’)

If your name starts with A, B, C, D, E, J, K, L, M, S, T then you're cool!!

(I’m confused by your reasoning. But I applaud the correct usage of “you’re”!)

I Like Tutles

(This is a fan page for Nestle chocolate turtle eggs. 129 people have joined this fan page, apparently indifferent or blind to the spelling error. Thay must rilly jus lik tutles.)

When We Were Little We Wanted To Grow Up... What The Hell Were We Thinking.

(You’re 14, little friend. Trust me – it gets better.)

The Holidays Approacheth

The countdown has begun. One week until Thanksgiving and five weeks until Christmas. You know what that means - time to get cozy and jolly and thankful and...shopping.

And for my brother and me, it means it's time to get to trash-talking about who will score the more hideous gift for the other one. I enjoy participating in said trash-talking, but deep down I know I have no hope of besting my brother. He wins every time.

Here is a transcript of our recent Facebook chat/smackdown. This is gearing up to be a particularly frightening gift-giving season. Heaven help us. And Steve Buscemi.

* * *

Brother: Oh Sister Where Art Thou?

Sister: I emailed you last week and you didn't respond, so I figured we were feuding. If we were not feuding, then I apologize for all the slanderous remarks I have made recently regarding your character.

Brother: Has my honor been slandered by a foul-mouthed trollop? Feud is on!

Sister: Anyways. Do you have anything fun or interesting to tell me?

Brother: I got your Christmas present already.

Sister: Is it a Zebra-print Snuggie, or is it a surprise?

Brother: No Snuggie for you. Yours is something much, much bigger.

Sister: My apartment is the size of a walk-in closet. I have no room for something bigger. How big are we talking??

Brother: Bigger than a bread box.

Sister: NOOO!!! How much bigger than a bread box? Is it smaller or larger than a Miniature Schnauzer?

Brother: I'm not sure it will fit under a bus; we might have to Fed-Ex it home for you.

Sister: Is it an inflatable sofa? Does it make noise? Is it perishable? You gotta give me some hints.

Brother: It's not inflatable; it makes noise, and is perishable. Before I tell you, let me ask a question: have you ever considered Chinchilla farming as a career?

Sister: You can't Fed-Ex an animal. It's not an animal is it?? Is it a guitar made out of cheese?

Brother: Actually your gift is a gift of 7 parts - you might not see how they work together, but you have to have a little faith. Speaking of Christmas, the parents will be ok with having one more person over, right?

Sister: Are you talking about Steve Buscemi?

Brother: I meant my girlfriend, but do you really think we can get Steve Buscemi this year?

Sister: It never hurts to ask, right? I bet he doesn't get a lot of invites because people always assume "Oh, Steve Buscemi probably has other plans."

Brother: It must be lonely being Steve Buscemi.

The End.

Teach Your Children Well

Stoop Sitting on 42nd Street

Breaking News: Today is my Daddyo’s birthday. Happy Birthday to him!

And here’s a fun factoid for you, gentle readers: Former President William “Bill” Jefferson Clinton was also born on this day, the exact same day/year as my dad!

I always liked Prez Clint¹ – say what you will about his personal life (and admittedly/regrettably, there is a lot to say), the man passed a balanced budget. And fiscal responsibility scores big points with this registered voter.

But I digress; I didn’t come here to talk about politics and presidents, though I do intend to have something to say about the latter real soon, mostly because my brother keeps trash-talkin’ me about my favorite dead presidents and casting aspersions on their characters - aspersions that I am ill-equipped to defend against given my truly limited knowledge of the administrations of our country’s past executive office holders, which is something I hope to ameliorate via an upcoming presidential blogging project.

That was a really long sentence. Moving on…

So, as I was saying, today is my dad's birthday. And that digression on balanced budgets wasn't entirely unrelated, as my dad is a budgeting champ. Growing up, he was an excellent example to me of personal fiscal responsibility. I credit him with instilling in me good budgeting & saving sensibilities. And I'm super grateful for that.

I also got my love of spreadsheets from my father. That man loves a good Excel document, and so do I. So do I. Is that strange? Or lovely? Yeah, I think it's lovely, too. Life is just so much sweeter and neater with an Excel spreadsheet, that's what I always say.²

I owe my sense of humor to my dad as well. Even if he doesn't always quite get me nowadays, he heavily influenced what I find funny by introducing my brother and I to movies like Airplane!, the Police Squad & Naked Gun series, and the old-school Peter Sellers' Pink Panther flicks. It's fun to hear him still laugh while watching these movies, or when we exchange favorite lines from them at the dinner table.

So, Happy Birthday, Daddyo! I love discovering more and more each day how I am my father's daughter. You set me a good example, and I'm good and thankful for it.


¹Don’t hate ‘cause I abbreviate.

²Actually I've never before said that, but I certainly aim to start.

Texted and Vex-ed

An underpass near Riverside Park

This weekend I received a text message from an unknown phone number. The following is a transcription of the textation that followed.

The Unknown, (571) xxx-xxxx: This is your brother’s new number FYI

KristyWes, (617) xxx-xxxx: How do I know that you are who you say you are?

(571) xxx-xxxx: Considering I never said who this is you can’t.

(617) xxx-xxxx: Uncle Stan?

(571) xxx-xxxx: You have no Uncle Stan

(617) xxx-xxxx: Aha! You called my bluff! It is Honkey Chateau!

(571) xxx-xxxx: It is I, the most honkey of all chateaus

[Editor's Note: A few Christmases ago I changed my brother's name to Honkey Chateau after finding an album by the same name in our parents' basement.]

(571) xxx-xxxx: But you can call me Reggie

[Editor's Note: A few Christmases before the Honkey Chateau incident, my bro visited me in Boston and while making our rounds to several holiday parties, he somehow came by the alias "Reggie."]

(617) xxx-xxxx: No way!! Funny that you should say that b/c I JUST got a card in the mail from Jolene, my Boston friend who called you Reggie. JUST now.

(571) xxx-xxxx: Me and her talk all the time.

(617) xxx-xxxx: Stop messing with me.

(571) xxx-xxxx: Never! Me and Jolene are b.f.f.

(617) xxx-xxxx: Did she tell you about James?

(571) xxx-xxxx: That ruffian

(617) xxx-xxxx: Aha! There is no James! I’ve caught you in a lie and exposed the true ruffian. (You)

(571) xxx-xxxx: I thought we were talking about James Buchanan, our worst president. Me and Jolene speak often of his administration

(617) xxx-xxxx: Dammit. Thought I had you. I guess you speak the truth. Although in my opinion, Polk was the worst prez by far.

(571) xxx-xxxx: James K. Polk was an American hero.

(617) xxx-xxxx: Agree to disagree.

(571) xxx-xxxx: No. You are wrong.

(617) xxx-xxxx: DID YOU JUST CALL ME FAT?!?

(571) xxx-xxxx: No, just ignorant of presidential legacies.

(617) xxx-xxxx: I can name all the presidents in order. Ignorant? I think not.

My brother (aka Honkey Chateau, aka Reggie) then proceeded to switch technologies and up the ante by joining a James K. Polk fan club on Facebook. Not to be outdone, I swiftly found a James Buchanan FB group to join.

Things are getting ugly, folks. Our sibling bickering could quickly escalate into an all-out civil war.

OR - we could succumb to our shared genetic wiring and not finish things that we start. Like wars. Books. Careers. Blog entries. Police Academy movie marathons. Etcetera.

It's anyone's guess what happens next. One thing I do know, for certain: James Buchanan rules all.

Mi Madre

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that - even with Google at my constant disposal - I still don't know what Cinco de Mayo is actually all about. I'm sure there must be more to this holiday than half-price drink specials, but the historicity of it escapes me. So let's just agree that it has something to do with the great Tequila rebellion of 1843, Mexico, freedom, and an epic duel between Juan Valdez and Pancho Villa. (You buying that?)

But look - I didn't come here today to talk about Cinco de Mayo. I came here to sing praises of my mom, in advance of Mother's Day this weekend (that's right friends, get those Hallmark cards in the mail, ASAP!)

My mom is kind of adorable. Today I received a little care package she sent - such an unexpected bright spot on this rainy Tuesday morning! Especially this morning, when I would have preferred to be with the rest of the family in Pennsylvania.

There are a few staple components to my Mom's care packages: I can usually count on there being some clipped coupons* (I got my saving skillz from my mom!), some Clinique sample cast-offs (I haven't bought lipstick in years, thanks to her!), and some kind of sweet treat (I'm now in possession of a box of Do-si-dos Girl Scout cookies - danger!)

The variables in today's care package included an article, cut out from the Washington Post and carefully preserved in a Ziplock bag, about the dangers of Guatemala. (For some reason, my mom just isn't thrilled with my day-dream of dropping out of society and moving to Central America. I'm not sure why...)

Mommy dearest also included a pack of guitar strings! I'm not sure where/how she came by these strings, but it's nice to know that she supports my new guitar-playing hobby. (Although I bet what she really supports is the fact that I took my brother's guitar out of my parents' basement and brought it to NYC with me. Clearing stuff out of the basement scores big points with my mom, indeed.)

So there you have it - the contents of my hug-in-a-cardboard-box, sent my way by my mom, who I am really quite thankful for, proud of, and strengthened by. And now I'm off to purchase a Mother's Day card for the little lady, for which I just hope I can summon words to write that will sum up my gratitude just right.

*Once she sent me a coupon for Fixodent, mixed in with a mess of coup's for Crest toothpaste, Garden Burgers, and Scrubbing Bubbles. She later denied any knowledge of the Fixodent incident, saying she must have sent it by accident and it certainly wasn't meant to be a low-blow to my insecurities about aging. But I wonder, sometimes...I wonder...

For Aunt Violet
(the Last of my 'Greats')

I remember her as I saw her last - last October -
when the sky was grey over Pittsburgh and we
gathered to say goodbye to my Great Uncle.

She, who was his life-line for those last thirty-some years, his
dutiful and devoted care-giver, she
wore a navy suit and her comfortable shoes, apologizing for
them as though we could be offended by her footwear.

Still talking a steady stream, leaving little unsaid
my funny Aunt Violet -
small and fragile and feather-light, with
years of worry told in soft folds on her sweet face.

I dreamed dreams for her then - her nursing days done -
hoping for laughter and little adventures, good things she
so goodly deserved; relaxation and overdue rest.

Six months down what perhaps was so
lonesome a road, she made it to her eternal rest.
And now I say goodbye to her, too, and wish her well, the dear soul.
And now I ache for adventures that should have been hers here.
And now I hope for a peace that may be hers always.

On the Twenty-Fifth Day of Christmas...


...my little brother gave to me: a bread-box sized wire-and-mesh replica of the White House. Suggestions as to what I am supposed to do with said present are much appreciated.

On the Twenty-Fourth Day of Christmas

Here we are folks, Christmas Eve. My favorite! So far it's been a good day of breakfasting with college friends, last-minute shopping, cookie sampling, visiting with neighbors, piano playing, eating our family's traditional Taiwanese/ Polish fusion Christmas Eve dinner, and catching up with a childhood friend over prosecco. Still on deck: some present-wrapping, church-going and maybe a little more of the holiday movie marathon.

Tomorrow I will get to the bottom of this mysterious, misshapen, poorly wrapped gift that is waiting for me under the tree. It is from my brother, Honkey Chateau. For the past two years, he has given me hideous lamps. Can't wait to find out what's in store for me this year! If it is minimally offensive and not indecent, perhaps the (unwrapped) gift will be my daily photo for tomorrow. Stay tuned...


...and Merry Christmas!

Remembering Helen

She had four older siblings (one of which was my grandmother) and four younger siblings – the very middle of a set of nine. They grew up during the Depression – nine mouths to feed when food was scarce – raised alone by their mother, after their father ran off to do whatever it was men ran off to do at that time.

Her oldest brother left, too, years later, when my mom was a baby; he went west after the war and never returned east. She lost her sisters: some too young and some in later years, late in life. Then her younger brothers passed, and Helen – the middler – remained, alone of the nine.

She had red hair – whether by genetics or by choice, I’m not sure, but as far back as I can remember it was red, and she kept it red until recently, though pushing ninety years old.

The closest I’ve come to seeing a ghost was when I saw Helen at a family wedding. It was a year or two after my grandmother passed away, and suddenly there she was - my grandmother - standing in front of me. After a moment of shock, I registered the red hair and realized that no, this was Helen – she shared my Mimi’s face, but the signature hair color was all her own.

My mom would call her “a special lady” with fondness and a smile; my uncle would describe her as “a tough old bird” and he meant it with respect. He got a kick out of her. When he visited her in the hospital last year, following serious surgery, he asked if he could get her anything and she replied, “Yeah, get me a beer.”

Come to think of it, the last time I saw Helen she was sitting across from me at the kitchen table that had once belonged to my grandmother, drinking a beer.

Are these, then, my only salient memories of this woman, my great-aunt? It unnerves me a little, to think that I am carrying forward not 88 years worth of remembered struggles and successes, not knowledge of her character or disposition, not stories of what she did during the war or what she thought of Elvis & Kennedy, but rather only…the image of a beer-drinking red-head.

I was about to get all dramatic, bemoaning memories lost to time and the fleeting, transient nature of our personal experiences in the annals of human history and all that jazz. Those lamentations probably stem as much from fear that memories of my own life will one day be lost, as from my uneasiness over missing memories of Helen. But while it’s true that our lives on earth are fleeting, our memories & the minutiae of our lives are not really ever lost, are they?

I may have only been given the beer-drinking red-head image of my aunt to carry forward, but another niece may know a story of Helen’s first job and first car, and her son knows what kind of mother she was, and someone else somewhere else remembers her sense of humor. Certain pieces of our lives – some big, some small – are deposited in the minds of those around us to carry forward. Perhaps a bigger comfort, though, comes in knowing that not one detail of our life is ever lost, but is instead collected, in a treasured sum total, in the loving mind of God.

Once Upon A Time...

In the days of yore, back back way back in the days of my youth, on St. Patrick's Day my mom would make corned beef and put green food coloring in my brother's and my milk. Green milk! We thought it was the coolest. Now the thought makes me gag. But it's a fond kind of gagging. Ah, sweet memories of youth.

On a related note, don't you think all grocery stores should have a mandatory sale on Lucky Charms for St. Patrick's Day? 'Cause I do. And I'm pretty sure St. Pat would agree with me. Dreaming of those magically delicious marshmallows...

By the way, I changed my name to Trixie Catherine O'Lowski (for today only) in hopes that Sean Connery would show up and sing me this song. No such luck (o' the Irish). Maybe next year!

Comments-received-whilst-reuniting-with-the-family-over-the-weekend-in-Ohio-for-a-cousin's-wedding

Dad to Kristy: "Your sense of humor is...intriguing."

Uncle to Kristy: "I want you to marry an attorney with Steelers season tickets. The attorney part is optional."

Aunt-in-law to Kristy, after several vodka martinis: "Being nice never gets you anywhere, trust me. You need to go after the power. Make a difference in this world. You got the brains and the beauty. Nail a senator! (some expletives) Kristy, why are you blushing?"

Little Bro, Honkey Chateau

Living in NY apart from my family means that I don't often get to play the role of Older Sister in my daily life. When I was home over Christmas, however, I made up for lost time and dove into the role with gusto: I gave my brother unsolicited advice, sat on him, changed his name to "Honkey Chateau" for no discernible reason, made him smell my breath after eating pickles, frequently ordered him to bring me snacks from the kitchen, and just generally exercised all the rights and privileges that come with being the oldest sibling.

Honkey Chateau, to his credit, bore my sisterly treatment with much patience. He even got me this thoughtful and tasteful gift:

That's right - it's a Buddha statue/lamp. The lamp's instructions promise "a frenzied display of ever-changing arcs of lightning" and boy, does it deliver! Buddha also came with instructions specifying that he should not be placed within 3 feet of electrical appliances - not an easy feat in my tiny New York apartment. However I did manage to find an appliance-free spot for him in front of a window. Something this lovely should shine for all the world to see; it would be wrong to keep his light for myself only, so I choose to inflict my Buddha lamp on my neighbors as well.

In exchange for this generous gift, I agreed to make my brother this:

Yes, it's a large cross-stitch wall hanging of Pope John Paul II. Just what every twenty-something guy wants! I just hope Honkey Chateau still wants it three years from now, because it is going to take me that long to finish sewing it.

I haven't cross-stitched since I was 9 years old, but I figured "How difficult can it be?" I began the project last night. After one hour & fifteen minutes of solid work, I had managed only to separate the string by color and put it all into the thread sorter. There were 40 strands of Burnt Red #13013- colored string alone! Too tired at that point to continue, I packed it all up again and put it away for later.

Tonight I soldiered on, and made my first stitches! However, progress slowed dramatically when I somehow got the thread badly caught in my hair. It was a little embarassing and required my roommate's assistance to get me untangled. I'm not off to an auspicious start.

I will keep you posted on the progress of Cross-Stitch John Paul II in the days/weeks/years to come. Meanwhile I will stitch away at this gift for Honkey Chateau, probably going blind, but nevertheless pleased to have an activity that lets me be Older Sister for a little while each day.

Turkey Reunification

My brother and I realized that this was the first Thanksgiving we have spent together since 1999, as travel, finances, friends' weddings, military duty, etc. have kept one or both of us away from home for the past 6 holidays.

The picture above was taken slightly earlier than 1999; I seem to have stolen Shirley Temple's dress and Dorothy Hamill's hair. Nonetheless, are we stinkin' cute or what?

Mine Came Back

The past four years have been some of my most difficult: my brother joined the Army in January, 2002. In January, 2003 he was deployed to Kuwait/Iraq for the first 7 months of the war. In July, 2003, when I didn't think I could take one more day of crippling anxiety, he came home. In January, 2005, he deployed again to Iraq. In January, 2006, he came home again. If all goes according to plan, he should be getting out of the army in the next 90 days. No more trips to Iraq (!?!?)

Throughout these past years I made a habit of scanning CNN articles to make sure the casualties mentioned couldn't be my brother. I cringed when the phone rang; worried it was my parents calling with bad news. I sat at a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert, biting my tongue to keep from sobbing through "Where Have All the Flowers Gone." And I have stiffled and choked on rage at the President for getting us all into this mess.

I made a pattern out of the following 3 emotions: fear, relief, guilt. Afraid for my brother's safety, then relieved when he was ok, then guilt when I remembered that someone's brother was not ok. That casualty mentioned on CNN wasn't my brother, but it was someone's brother, someone's son, someone's husband.

The NY Times today reports U.S. casualties in Iraq at 2,207 thus far. (And let us always remember and grieve the untold numbers of Iraqi civilian deaths.) Thank You, God, that my brother came back safely. Father, please bless the soldiers who haven't come back yet, and give comfort to their families who are still waiting.

Where have all the young men gone? Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone? Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone? Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone? Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone? Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone? Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone? Long time ago
Where have all the graveyards gone? Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?