New England Mamas

Dance, Grandma... Dance!

This morning, Audrey and her little family came to Grandma and Pop-up’s (that's what they call Grandpa) for breakfast.

And there are many “rules” to breakfast with three little guys, a pregnant mama and one hungry daddy. 

First, the bacon must be already sizzling when they arrive.  Audrey loves the sounds and aromas of bacon.  It reminds her of going to her Nana Flo’s house for breakfast when she was a little girl.  Nana Flo had the not-so-secret-anymore recipe of mixing bacon grease (I can’t believe I’m sharing this compete-and-total saturated fat secret) with her pancake batter to create the most delectably crunchy pancakes imaginable, and Pop-up has mastered the art. And oh yeah, Audrey has craved bacon this entire pregnancy with her little Henry!

Second, and very important… the coffee must be ready.  Not brewing.  Ready.   

Third, Pop-up better not have already mixed the pancake batter.  3-year old William loves to help Pop-up measure and combine the eggs, milk and batter into the smooth and creamy mix.  And he loves to chat with Pop-up about the entire process.

Next, it is a pretty good idea for me to have 11-month old Benjamin’s oatmeal cereal and bananas ready.  Benjamin has to be the easiest baby I have ever met, but the little guy loves his morning meal!   

Last, I should have 2-year old Alexander’s counter space pretty clear.  He must climb by himself onto his stool at the counter where he can color with his crayons ‘til the “pancanks” are served.

And everything went as expected… except for Ally.  He sauntered into our house holding his Little Tykes boom box.  Without taking off his coat or hat, he pressed a couple of buttons on his boom box and said to me, “Dance, Grandma.”

“Okay, Honey.”  This is what Grandmas do. 

So I moved my arms a little while simultaneously helping Audrey with coats, hats and mittens.  This is what Moms do.

“DANCE, Grandma!” was Ally’s response to my “dancing.”

A couple more buttons.  Another little tune.  “Okay.”  Now I move my arms a little more rhythmically and add leg movement.

Well, not rhythmically enough.

“DANCE, Grandma… DANCE,” was Ally’s response to my obviously pathetic attempt at breakfast disco.

So I danced.  Arms.  Legs.  Spins.  Dips.  Twist.  Freakin’ Limbo. 

I danced to Little Tykes with wild abandon. 

Let me just say here that I cocktail waitressed my way through college (one very long stint where my “uniform” was a red tie-up-the-center corset with white ruffled panties… yes), and I was often on-duty for morning/breakfast business meetings where pillars of society asked me if I “danced.”  Well, no.  But that was the early 70’s. 

And anyway, I guess all that waitressing and hey-she-looks-like-a-dancer prepared me in great measure for my darling little grandson asking his Grandma to get her groove on.   

Hey, at least he didn’t toss me a quarter.

That’s a lesson for another breakfast.

Thanks, Little Ally… you made my day!

- Sharon

Me and the Tedster

OK… I am a New England Patriots FANatic, as are most of us New England Mamas.

And the two weeks since the not-so-Super Bowl for us New Englanders have begun to heal (a tiny bit) what reason cannot.

Don’t get me wrong.  I still wake up mornings with that sense of disbelief and, well, broken-heartedness that is our human lot when our hopes and great expectations become promises for perhaps another day, another year.

Oh, and it doesn’t help that one of our very close friends, who is (or was?) a die-hard Steelers fan, now works for the Giants organization and has sent me a little reminder of our loss in about 300 photos, from arriving in Arizona through the New York City parade and everything in-between (yes, he was there for it all).  Yes, Doug… it has always been great fun for us to kick Steelers ass, but my wounds are still raw in a Giant sort of way.

I truly miss seeing my favorite guys in red, white and blue and rooting for them on Sunday afternoons and evenings during the fall and long New England winters. Guys like Tedy Bruschi.  I love this guy.  I love his story.  I love his enthusiasm for the game of football.  And I love his love of family.   

But anyway.  Football season is over.  Red Sox pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training.  And the Providence College men’s basketball team is still hanging on… OK, by a thread, but my husband* and I are fans anyway.  Go Friars!

(*my husband Barry grew up listening to the Friars’ games on the radio back in the early ‘60s when his idols like Lenny Wilkens, Johnny Egan and Ray Flynn were playing, and he has lived Friars Basketball ever since… so to now have 2 seats on the floor of The Dunk is more than a dream-come-true.  He is kinda like Jack Nicholson at Lakers’ games!)

I love sports so much because it is a great equalizer.  Sure, to be great at tennis or golf or perhaps polo, your parents just may have had a few bucks.  But I still believe in my heart and soul that most sports greats are guys and girls with a lot of talent and more determination and let’s just say it… sometimes balls, than most others. 

This is why I love Tedy Bruschi so much.  He is that perfect combination of quiet certainty and heroic humility.  I can see why he is an idol to so many New Englanders, as attested by the thousands of fans who wear his jersey. 

So how exactly does Tedy Bruschi fit into my conversation of the Providence College Friars?  As my husband and I ran to our seats at The Dunk yesterday to watch Providence College (or so we hoped!) redefine Rick Pitino’s day, we were not immediately allowed to get to our seats.  Instead, we had to enter from another direction.  As we ducked our way along, a fellow season ticket holder and now friend stopped us to introduce us to his guest at the game.  As I extended my hand, I realized that Tedy Bruschi was at the other end of it.

Tedy Bruschi.  Tedy Bruschi sitting right there next to my husband. 

Now, let me just say here that I am not a bothersome fan.  I admire from the sidelines, from our section 9 season seats at Fenway Park, from the bleachers if I need to, from the floor of The Dunk, from box seats when I can get them, and/or sitting at a bar or in my family room.

I admire what it takes to become a great athlete.  My husband’s childhood dream was to play for the Friars… he ate, walked and slept basketball.  But he took a different journey.  You know, a few little wise-guy moments that got his grades and his sports dreams all messed up.  And my journey was different too.  I played basketball and softball as a kid, but ended up cocktail waitressing and jewelry-piece-working my way through college.

By the time we found each other and sparks flew like fireworks, we were both teaching inner-city kids.  We knew then that these kids needed dreams and ways to accomplish them… and that became our focus.  But we still loved our sports teams.  As our own kids came along, we literally saved pennies to take them to Fenway.  Or the former Providence Civic Center… now The Dunk.  To Boston Garden.  To Foxboro Stadium. And all the Halls of Fame.  Our sons loved basketball and football, and our daughters excelled in swimming and running. 

But back to Tedy Bruschi.  So gracious under the scrutiny of thousands of fans.  So enthusiastic about the Friars.  And sitting right next to us, talking to my husband like he is just another basketball fan.

Then the phone calls.  The first one was from a friend.  Then my husband’s brother.  Then our granddaughter, Taylor.  “Wow, Grandpa.  I just saw you and Grandma on television sitting next to Tedy Bruschi!”  And text messages.  It seems that ESPN was covering the game nationwide, and my husband and I got in the frame as Tedy was being filmed. 

Too fun!

And then last night everyone asked, “Did you get a photograph with Tedy?”

“Well, no,” we explained.  “It didn’t seem appropriate.  After all, Tedy was a guest of a friend.  That would have been a little tacky of us.”

“Oh, no!” Our five-year old grandson, Andrew, was so horrified that we had no photo that we thought he may never speak to us again.

“Sorry, Little Buddy.” 

Then this morning, the phone calls started coming again.  “Hey, Sharon.  Is that you next to Tedy Bruschi at the PC game?” 

And yes, it is!  Right there in the sports section of the Providence Sunday Journal.  Me and Tedy.

 

Ah, ha!  Not only do I have a coveted photo of one of my all-time favorite sports guys, I can show it to my 2 granddaughters and 5 grandsons (with 2 more on the way!). 

So what more of a hero can I be? 

None!

I love it.

Thanks, Mike, for bringing Tedy to the game!

- Sharon

(photo credit: The Providence Journal / Gretchen Ertl)

Watching my language

It's been awhile since I've had to watch my language around children.

That's not to say I'm adverse to swearing... in fact, my husband and I always encouraged in our children the art of seeing humor in colorful language - in the appropriate context, of course.

But with my grandkids at the age now that they're veritable sponges in terms of everything their little ears hear, I must remember be more careful.

Case in point... today Jane and I were driving to lunch with Audrey's oldest, 3-year-old William.

As we were pulling into the restaurant parking lot, some a-hole cut me off.

Not really thinking the situation through, I blurted out, "You (insert choice word here)!"

If it had just been me and Jane, it would have been left at that.

But it wasn't just us. And from the backseat, William's little voice exclaimed: "Grandma! Did you just call me a (insert said choice word) or some other guy?"

Jane and I looked at each other wide-eyed, suddenly re-aware of the little sponge back there. It was damage control time.

"Of course not, honey!" I told him. "Grandma would never, ever call you that! I was talking about that man who cut me off, but I shouldn't have used that bad word. I'm very sorry."

William thought about it for a second.  Then he reassured me in his own cute little way: "It's OK, Grandma. Only monsters scare me, not silly words."

And there you go. I'll just have to be sure to refrain from saying those silly words around him from now on.

At least until he's old enough for me to teach him how to flick people off.

- Sharon

The Christmas Angel

Christmas memories are oftentimes so clear.  So powerful.  So immense.

These memories quicken our senses.

And if it is true that to be able to enjoy one’s memories is to live twice, then my Christmas Angel has allowed me to live over and over again… and again.

Each Christmas, when I unwrap my Angel, swirls of colors and voices and heavenly vibrations enter my head and my home.

It is quite magical. 

This is her story.

My Dad was a guy who loved to fix things. He was good at it. He had lots of tools… not too organized, but he knew where everything was. I especially remember the old, heavy metal cases that he had rescued from work at the Navy base, and sometimes even from the side of the road. These cases became storage for his wealth, his tools.

I did a lot of puttering around with my Dad. Interestingly enough, my two brothers didn’t. They loved my Dad as much as I did, but the rescuing and fixing gene was lost on them. Ah yes, they loved to HAVE things fixed for them… like my Mom (yes Mom, you know it’s true!).

So one Christmas season, a few days before Christmas, my Dad needed something or other from our local Benny’s, the place we went to get all kinds of fixing things back in the late 60’s. You know, before Home Depot and Lowe’s. I guess I should give a little shout out to Benny’s here, because we still have our good old Benny’s stores here in Rhode Island. Ah, Benny’s… the place where my precious Christmas Angel memory was born.

With me tagging along, my Dad found what he was looking for. And then he spotted, on one of those innocuous discount tables, a beautiful little angel. She was dressed in a lovely white tulle skirt that had brilliant gold sequins sewn across the bottom. Her wings were the same white tulle, with two sparkling gold sequins sewn high on each side. Her center was a small golden globe. And her arms were white pipe cleaners with lights on the ends that folded toward heaven. Her neck was wrapped with a golden tinsel-type wrap.

But I think it was her face that captured my Dad’s heart. She was so petite. So innocent. Her beautiful blue eyes were looking to the left. Her cheeks were bowls of cherries. And in her blonde hair was a golden bow.

And even though she was plastic… she was exquisite. 

But her lights didn’t work. Neither the light in her center, nor the lights at her hands. Hence, her place at the discount table.

Well, my Dad picked her up and said, “I’m going to take her home and fix her lights.”

I was pretty much like, “OK, Dad.” Never knowing or imagining that the moment at hand would permanently be imprinted on my life. In my heart. In my soul.

Well, we bought her. I think she cost less than a dollar. We brought her home. My Dad rewired her. Fixed her. Lit her up like the angel she was destined to be. Then we placed her on top of our Christmas tree.

And she sat atop our tree for many years. Each year as we unpacked her, I thought about how my Dad fixed things. How careful he was. How caring and wonderful.

And then my Dad passed away suddenly in August of 1975. 

That first Christmas brought lots of tears as I unpacked the Christmas Angel. The reminiscence was almost too much to bear. But as my Mom watched, I placed our Christmas Angel ever so carefully atop our tree that year.

By the next Christmas, I was married and living in a home of my own. I must note here that my Dad never met the man who would become my husband. But my dad had heard me talk of this man “Barry” during my visits to see him in the hospital after his major heart attack. In this sense, I know for sure that my Dad had given his seal of approval to this wonderful man in my life.

My Mom had also sold her home.  And all I needed and wanted were the Christmas decorations. 

And this is how I came to have the Christmas Angel.

And on each of the past 31 Christmases, since my Dad passed away, I have placed the Christmas Angel atop my tree. Each time, I see my Dad’s face… his strong and caring hands… his easy manner and beautiful smile.

And although her lights have not worked for some time now, my Christmas Angel still dazzles the room with the brilliant light that comes from that place where memories are born.

Was the memory born at Benny’s?  Perhaps. 

But I know that my cherub becomes brighter and brighter each time I tell the story of the Christmas Angel. And how my Dad rescuing her allows her to bring him home to us each and every Christmas.

Yes, it is magic.  Heavenly magic.

- Sharon

The Festival of Christmas Lights at La Salette Shrine

On Saturday night we went to La Salette Shrine in Attleboro, MA to take in its Christmas Festival of Lights.

This amazing display of more than 300,000 lights  has been a tradition for over 50 years at La Salette.

It truly is spectacular... there are seemingly endless illuminated Christmas displays  on over 10 acres of land.

Our little group consisted of me and my husband Steve, my parents, Audrey and her three boys, and my 13-year-old cousin (what a trooper - he pushed Alex's stroller the whole time, despite his fingertips being nearly frostbitten... but 13-year-olds are too cool for jackets, you know!).

We arrived at La Salette at 4:30 PM, just as daytime turned to dusk. It was perfect because we were able to see all the lights turn on at 5 PM, to the cheers and delight of the entire crowd.

In fact, if you take the trip to La Salette for the Christmas Festival of Lights, I would highly recommend you arrive before 5 because as we left at 5:30, the line of cars to get in was well over a mile long!

One of the reasons that the Christmas Festival of Lights is such a popular destination - aside from its tradition and beauty - is that parking and admission is... are you ready for this?

FREE!

You really can't do better for an outdoor winter activity with the family that happens to celebrate the season.

There is also an area where you can light a candle for $3, which Steve and I did, in honor of our incredibly loved and missed dog, Bismarck. Here's Steve lighting the candle (see his reflection in the glass?):

I'm just glad I was appropriately dressed:

(Sorry, had to include the sign...)

- Jane

Testing

Just to test the categories.