Small Traditions

I think that the traditions that mean the most to me are the small ones - the ones that never even register as traditions.

I think of a story I heard a long time ago about a family trying to make memories for their daughter.  The dad worked.  The mom worked.  The family worked and had a nice little routine.  The mom and the dad saved and saved and saved until they could spend a weekend with their daughter making the memories that would stay with her forever.  They went out to breakfast, they went to an amusement park - you know, the one with the ears, they went out to dinner and then on Sunday they spent the day at the beach.  As they were heading home on Sunday evening, the dad said something about going to bed because the next day was a school day.

To his shock, the little girl started crying.  He asked why and she said that the weekend COULDN'T be over.  He tried to reason with her, saying that he knew it had been a wonderful weekend but that all good things had to come to an end.  She just kept crying, saying that the weekend couldn't be over.

The dad finally asked, "Why?" and the little girl responded, "Because we haven't been to the dump."

THAT was her best weekend memory - getting to go to the dump every weekend with her daddy after they finished the yard work.

So - what reminded me of this story?  This:

This is the sprinkler that my dad favored.  This is the sprinkler that I have in my backyard.  This is, I was laughingly told when she visited the other day, the sprinkler that my daughter has in her backyard.

Let's hear it for spontaneous memories and small traditions.

Mother's Day for the rest of us

The fuschias and hummingbird on the previous post were reminders of my mom.  This is for the rest of us...Happy Mother's Day, all you mothers!                                 

Happy Mother's Day

Reverence

I went, yesterday, to Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.  I try very hard to focus on His brilliance, to still my mind, to let my soul be refreshed.  I often fail miserably.  My mind goes a hundred miles an hour worrying about things yet to be and fretting about things already past.  I was thinking yesterday about First Holy Communion gifts.  Two of the girls in my Wednesday night class made their First Holy Communion last Saturday and I got them each a small book as a keepsake.

I remember the white children's Missal I got when I made my First Holy Communion.  It had a snap closure and a zipper pouch on the back for my rosary beads, also white of course.  Only the boys had black.  Back in the day, those were the two options for First Holy Communion gifts.  I took my Missal to Mass with me every Sunday after that until I was old enough, at Confirmation, to have a St. Joseph's Daily Missal like my mom's.  I wanted one for the longest time and often begged to borrow hers.  This was a request rarely granted.  Finally, I got one of my own.

I knew how special this Missal, and the words contained therein, were because of my mom's Missal.

The top middle drawer of my mom and dad's dresser was a small drawer.  All the middle column of drawers were small, flanked on either side by large drawers, one side my mom's and the other side my dad's.  In the top middle drawer were my mother's handkerchiefs, either embroidered or lace-edged, a lace mantilla from the pre-Vatican II days, her good scarves that my sister, Mary, gave her, her gloves and, on top of all of these Sunday treasures, her Missal.  Her rosary beads she kept in her purse, always.

The Missal was covered in black leather with gold-edged, tissue paper thin pages.  There was a red satin ribbon to mark your place.  Mom's Missal also contained a lot of holy cards - some prayer cards, some funeral cards, some that were gifts from us kids; remembrances of family, known and unknown, who had gone before.

My mom treated her Missal and the family Bible with such reverence that I remember it still.

I treat all books carefully.  It's how I was raised.  I think, though, that I need to find some of the reverence again.

Somewhere there's coke and fries

My grandson spent a few days with me last week and I put him to work! I was moving (finally) and another set of hands are always welcome. We unloaded, packed, put stuff in the pickup, drove to the new house, unloaded, put away, went back to the old house, packed, put stuff in the pickup, drove to the new house and, on the way, he said "Somewhere there's coke and fries", unloaded, put away and went and found sustenance.

This saying, which does not necessarily pertain to either coke or fries, began with my nephew.

When my nephew was 2, his dad was establishing a transmission shop in southern California and his mom would often run parts for the store. My nephew KNEW that he was not allowed to ask for things and that asking was the surest way to get a "No". One day, his mom was very busy running parts and, to be honest, I think she sort of forgot he was in the back seat and had been there for a very long time, especially for a two year old.

Suddenly, inspired, he said "Somewhere there's coke and fries". Coke and fries is what he called all foods from a fast-food restaurant, much the same way all vegetables were "ho-hos".

Kindly note, he did not ask and yes, he did get some nourishment quickly.

It just warms my heart to know that these tidbits are not forgotten.

Out of the mouths of babes

Moose and Shorty and I were at Mass tonight. Several rows ahead of us was a youngish couple with 2 little stepping stones...I would guess 2 and 3 years old. They were cute little boys but they were 2 and 3. The littlest one got more and more rambunctious the longer Mass went on and somewhere around the Gospel, hit his head on the pew. He cried, his dad carried him out and every parent in the vicinity, including us, smiled.

We smiled because our kids (or grandkids) were older.

We smiled because we have all been there.

We smiled because we could all empathize.

The dad came back and all was well until just before Communion when the same little guy hit his head on the missalette holder. He screamed, he wailed, his dad carried him out and every parent in the vicinity, including us, smiled. I leaned over to Moose and explained that we were all smiling not because we are mean but because we had all been there before and were actually thanking God that our kids had outgrown that stage.

He nodded and then said, "If it was a dog that hurt itself, you wouldn't smile".

and God help me, he was right.

Feeling Froggy

I have neglected my blog for several reasons. One, my life has been pretty depressing lately and I like to wallow alone. Two, some of the reasons my life has been depressing lately are stories that are not just mine and I don't share other people's stuff if I can help it. Three, I am a lazy procrastinator.

However, I was just over on facebook (reason #four) and remembered my profile picture. When my mom died, my daughter sent me a picture of a frog. I resurrected a blog from 2008 when I explained why we celebrate with frogs. This frog? A very special frog. Want to know why?

It's a Grenada frog.

My mother always drove Fords - big Fords with big 350 v8 engines that would fly. In 1976, in the middle of October, my mother deviated from this tradition and bought a Ford Granada. Ford no longer makes Granadas. We should all give thanks.

We lovingly referred to this car, this boring grey car, as the gutless wonder. I am sure it was economical and I am sure that the gas prices of the 70s influenced her choice but it was a gutless wonder. That car could not get out of it's own way.

If you want to know why Granadas and Grenadas will always be special to Juls and to me, the story is here.