traditions | whiskey and mud

Posts Tagged ‘traditions’

11
Jan
2018

me: a work in progress

Well, we all knew it would happen eventually. California gets everyone. It claims even the most pessimistic, meat-loving, vitamin-hating, trend-avoiding among us. It has claimed me. How do I know I’ve been transported to the light side?

I like tea. That is, in fact, an understatement. I LOVE tea. I drink it every. single. day. This is not a joke. I literally drink tea every day. With freaking coconut milk! And locally-sourced honey! Oh, god. It’s too late for me. I don’t know how or when it happened. But now, there’s no going back. I crave it, I buy special large mugs for it. Only black–for now. But, who knows. At this rate I’ll be sipping Yerba mate out of a coconut shell with one of those stupid metal straws. I mock it now but I’ll be singing it’s praises in six month’s time. Mark my words. California has made a mockery of my entire personality.

Second piece of evidence: as if the tea weren’t enough. I take vitamins. Yes, vitamins. Supplements. I buy them at the hippie co-op where it always smells like sweat, even in the winter. And they have to put up a special sign that says, “No bathing suits allowed.” Because, somehow people need the specific and explicit instruction. That’s right, they need a separate sign (in addition to the classic one about the shirt and shoes) that stipulates that you also may NOT wear just a bathing suit into the store. Here’s the thing, this is not a beach town. And, this store is nowhere near a body of water. How is this something that needs to be spelled out for people? Anyway, I take supplements now. Because I guess I’m old and my body needs extra help. But, shit, I still hate them.

Third piece of evidence: I stopped eating gluten. Among other things, I have a “diet” now. Like, a diet that isn’t, “eat whatever you want, whenever you want it.” I don’t always adhere to it’s strict guidelines but when I do, I feel miraculous. Damn it to hell. It’s true. Turns out with all my medical issues, a dietary change was part of the puzzle. Recommended and initiated by my doctor. But still, now I buy goat yogurt and read ingredients on packages. I hate those people.

So, it’s official. I have fully acclimated to California life. It took ten years to be considered a New Yorker. Even after fifteen I felt sheepish referring to myself as “from” New York. It took less than two years to become a Californian. There ya have it.

26
Nov
2015

gratitude

categories: me

I am thankful for…more things than I can possibly list. Here are a few from today:

husbandhead–who continues to love me even when i’m a total nightmare
my brilliant and hilarious kid–i don’t know where you came from but i’m so glad you’re mine
my sisters–i could not be in this world without them
my totally rad in-laws–lucked out there
my ridiculously, incredible, loving, supportive friends–the family i chose
great food
red wine and whiskey
pecan pie
candlelight
my (mostly) good health
fall
a great cheese platter
warm and loving people who make me feel warm and loved
perspective

25
Aug
2015

on grief

categories: commune, family

The funny thing about missing someone is that the sadness creeps in when you least expect it.

Last night I scoured the iTunes rentals for a fun Sunday night movie. On the hunt for a cheesy rom-com, as always. I love a good preview, so even after finding a few promising candidates, I continued to browse. About ten seconds into the preview for Salt I found myself tearing up. What is wrong with me? I thought. The Chris Farley documentary certainly, and rightfully, had tugged at the heart strings. But, an action film with some appalling rotten tomato score?

“We have to rent this,” I told my husband. “This is exactly what I want to watch tonight.”

My mom loved action films. And, that affection has definitely been passed down to me. Car chases can feel a little snoozy to me but otherwise, I am all in. I love the good guys beating the bad guys. I love a really well-delivered, cheesy one-liner. I love the exceptionally planned, choreographed fight scenes. The cinematography, the beautiful women, the exotic locations. I love the way vengeance is always a huge part of the plot line and how there’s always some super messed up character who’s flaws both get them into trouble but also, inevitably, help get them out of it.

I love the predictable arc, the (mostly) bad acting, the explosions and the being on the edge of my seat. I love the plot twists and the inevitable happy ending. I’m telling you, action films are really the best genre out there. They’ve got it all: mystery, romance, adventure. You cry, you laugh, you can experience every emotion in the course of two hours.

My mom and I used to stay up late watching Lethal Weapon, Die Hard and Beverly Hills Cop over and over again. The originals and all subsequent sequels. We’d re-watch all the Bond films and the variety of actors who played him over the course of the decades. Speed, Terminator, Total Recall, Enemy of the State, Bad Boys, Air Force One…she’d have loved the Bourne trilogy. Oh man, that would have been really fun to watch with her.

I don’t quite understand what it was that drew my uber-intelligent, sophisticated mom to the genre. Perhaps it was for all the same reasons I like it. Whatever the case, it was our special thing. Something we could do and enjoy together. Just the two of us.

Four of us girls had rooms in an upstairs space originally designed to be my father’s art studio. It had once been a giant, cavernous hall. When they built an entire barn (complete with a recording studio, library, three offices and a bright, open-plan painting space) to house my dad and his many obsessions, he graciously gave up his indoor studio so that five of us could move out of one room. The floor was divided into four tiny, strangely angular but glorious abodes. We got to choose which room we wanted based on age. I had third pick. I chose the “triangle room.” There was only one right angle in the entire space. And, it was full of small, unusable corners. It was amazing and I loved every inch of it.

There was a little lounge area — a living room of sorts — at the top of the stairs. It was probably about a 4×8 foot space. We’d squeeze in there, mom and I, squished up against each other on a beanbag on the floor, staring up at our small television screen perched (rather precariously) at the edge of the stairwell. There weren’t a lot of shared spaces amongst the kids and adults. This was a modest, carved-out space where we could just be. Together. Away from the chaos.

Inevitably, she would get called down for one reason or another throughout the course of the movie. Often, she would get into trouble because they couldn’t find her and no one thought to look up in the kids’ area until it was too late — dad had already lost his temper. She needed to (immediately) call so and so back about a painting sale, check the status of a bank account with her name on it, write a letter to my grandmother explaining why we needed more money, reach out to the local shops regarding donations, cold call the celebrity names (and numbers) we’d finagled out of a friend…there was always something that she needed to handle. Something only she could do. For whatever reason. And, someone was always in a rampage about it.

She would obediently head downstairs to put out the fire. Then, she’d sneak back upstairs, knock on my door and say, “Wanna watch a movie?” We’d put on a film — knowing she’d be called away half a dozen more times before the credits were rolling — and lay back, me eating a bowl of buttery popcorn and pretending, the both of us, that we were some normal family.

30
Jul
2015

a good man

categories: family

I never met my grandfather. He died twenty-four days after I was born.

He was loved by everyone who knew him. Not just loved. Admired, revered.

He was a pastor. And, I suspect a very good one. Given the way people still talk about him. He had a fascinating life, as far as I can tell. Working as a staff assistant under Eisenhower, traveling the world as a missionary, eventually landing his dream job at Princeton. His portrait still hangs in his Alma Mater — a huge, gold-framed portrait in the Firestone library. He his smiling and gripping the handlebars of his beloved bike — complete with a wicker basket filled with books.

My mom, even at the end, would sporadically exclaim, “I love my father. He is such a good man.” When she barely had the language capacity of a two-year-old she would still mumble about her dad. “I love you, Dad,” I’d hear her whisper before bed. “Where’s Dad?” she would ask upon waking. Like a child eagerly awaiting the return of a parent who’d been away on a business trip.

She used to tell me stories about him. He was smart. Very well-read and well-educated without being arrogant or aloof. And, funny. The guy could really tell a joke. Or so I’m told.

My mother and her family lived in DC in the late 1950’s when my grandfather was working for Ike. Apparently, my grandfather grew bored of the long commute. So, he invented this game where you never stop at a red light. Sounds dangerous, right? Here’s how it works: You pay really close attention to the traffic lights. You have to be looking multiple blocks ahead. You can’t drive too fast or it won’t work. You watch for yellow lights. When you see yellow, you slow down. And then you slow down even more. You creep. You move at the pace of a 95-year-old woman with a cane. Never coming to a complete stop. Inch by inch, you keep the car technically “moving” until the light changes back to green.

I’m not sure how this game would work in the modern, fast-paced world. It’s one thing on those sparsely inhabited streets of the 1950’s. The game may not be suitable for the 2000’s. Just a hunch.

I’m not in too many cars. But, I do ride my bike. And, I do really hate stopping at lights. So, I use my grandfather’s game. I have the added advantage of being able to see the crosswalk. I know as soon as the red hand starts flashing, I’ve either got to excel and get through the light or slow way down so that I can coast until the light changes back to green.

It’s great fun. Sometimes I get weird looks and sometimes I’m inching into crosswalks and a bit into traffic before the light technically turns. Most of the time, it provides endless entertainment and makes me feel like I’m moving the whole time I’m riding. Makes me think about my mom and her sisters riding in the car with my grandfather. Giggling and rolling around on the back seat in their pressed, white, lacey dresses. All dressed up to play in the rose gardens. Loving their father and loving his game. It was a good childhood, I think. My mom’s and her siblings. They were happy. They had parents who loved them and who managed to keep loving each other all the way to the end. He was a good man, my grandfather. My mom was right about that.