Wind

Have you ever really looked at the leaves on a tree?  There’s a beautiful Silver Maple Tree in my backyard, and over the last few weeks I have found myself staring at it more and more.  The leaves are all the same shape.  There are three branches coming off of the stem, and each branch flares out in several smaller branches and so on and so on.  Each leaf has the same basic shape and structure and function.

But the color...the green on the leaves...there are actually many colors...many different shades that make up this tree that I love so much.  From the deepest shades to those that are almost neon...to simply say that leaves are “green” is simply not the truth.  With my naked eye I can see at least 9 different shades of green that make up the leaves of the same tree, and I imagine that, if given a microscope, I would see several more shades of green if I could just look closer.  See more.

I see color.  Colors.  The shades of green that make up the leaves on the tree...the deep maroon that gradually fades to the palest pink on the petals of flowers...the streaks of brown that make up the grains on the wooden boards of our deck, the fence, and the pieces of my daughter’s playset.  Our world is filled with color, and I am so grateful that I am able to see these amazing tones that God put into our world.

The same God that put an infinite number of shades into the leaves on my tree put an infinite number of shades into the skin of the people that make up this world.  The tree in my yard needs all of the greens to make the tree what it is meant to be.  Our society needs all of its amazing skin tones to us what we are meant to be. 

Sitting here lost in my thoughts I noticed something that has previously escaped me.

When the wind blows, the tree sways and moves with each gust.  The leaves on the outer branches feel the force of the wind and move the most.  Leaves closer to the trunk of the tree move a little less, but still they move.  Some leaves face and confront the wind whether they choose to or not.  The wind pushes these leaves simply because of where they grow on the tree.  But some leaves...some leaves never feel the wind.  They are sheltered and protected by other leaves.  They aren’t smaller or shaped differently or part of a different tree...but they don’t feel the wind because other leaves are blocking the path.  

For most of my life, I have been like the sheltered leaves.  The winds of hatred and racism push and pull around me, but I have been sheltered.  I have been spared from the force of the wind. The color of my skin prevents me from bearing the brunt of the hatred that flies so freely for others whose skin color is a shade darker than mine. I can not imagine the walk you walk, and I will not pretend to know what that feels like.  But I have a mouth that speaks and legs that walk and hands that hold.  I have a mind that knows that I don’t know and the willingness to educate myself and those around me.  So that is where I start.   I will educate myself and those around me and pledge to do better.  To be better.  

A wonderful Yogi I am blessed to know ends her yoga session with, “The love and light in me recognizes and sees the amazing love and light in each of you.”  I hope she won't mind if I make a slight revision.

To my friends of color:  The love and light in me recognizes and sees the amazing love and light and color in each of you.  I see you.  I hear you.  Tell me how to do better.  How to be better. How to raise my daughter to be stronger and braver than her mom. 

Reluctant Mom

“I can’t wait to be a mom!”

“My dream is to have a house full of kids!”

“Feeling my baby move in my belly is just magical!”

“As soon as I saw my little one’s face, I knew my life was complete.”

“I have baby fever.”

“I’m so ready to have another baby.”

Nope...none of those have ever applied to me.  I’ve heard these phrases (and zillions more

like them) my entire life.  But no...this was never my dream. I didn’t grow up waiting for the
day I became a mom. I didn’t dream of having a little one look at me and say, “Mommy!” I
don’t miss feeling a baby move around in my belly.  

Please don’t misunderstand...I love being Hannah’s mom.  I love my little girl with all my

heart and then some. She is amazing.  And I absolutely cannot imagine life without her
precious face, unmistakable laugh, the way she dances to the theme song of “The Big
Bang Theory,” how she claps her hands when anyone near her (or on tv) claps, how she
walks on wobbly legs, her squishy nose when she smiles, her baby babbles as she learns
to talk, introducing her to new foods, and even cleaning avocado out of her hair.  I adore her.
And I can’t believe I get to to be her mom.

I am in awe of women who know in their very soul that they are meant to be a mom.  And

my heart breaks for the amazing women who want so badly to be a mom but (for whatever
reason) can’t.  Or at least can’t yet. I hope and pray that mommy-hood finds you. And soon.

On our first date, my now-husband and I talked about important topics.  Our journey to find

each other taught us both that, if you can’t find common ground on the BIG things in life,
there’s no point in talking about the small things.  So we jumped right into it. When the
topic of “kids” came up, I told him that if he wanted to have kids, I couldn’t promise him
anything. “I’m not saying ‘no,’ I’m just not saying ‘yes.’”  I told him that I would never keep
him from being a father, but didn’t see myself as a mom...and I was ok with that. It was my
truth. He told me that he understood...and even agreed. He didn’t see little ones in his
future, either.  “Jackpot!” I thought.

We were married about 17 months later, and all seemed right in the world.
And then it happened...after a few too many drinks one night, he looked at me with his

blue-gray eyes, and I knew.

“You’re going to have to say it,” I told him.  “I need you to say it.”

“I want to have a baby.  And I know what we said on our first date and I don’t want to
pressure you...but...I want to have a baby.”

“Ok.  I hear you,” I said.  “I’ll think about it. Don’t ask me about it...just give me some time
and let me wrap my head around it.”  

After several months of thinking and praying and praying and praying…”Let’s just live life
and see what God has planned.”

And Hannah made her debut in January 2018.

Am I different now?  Of course...how could I not be different.  Being Hannah’s Mom is
one of my greatest achievements in life and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  In no way
do I regret making the decision to “just see what happens.” And I would never EVER want
my sweet girl to think otherwise.

Would my life be different if she wasn’t here?  Absolutely. But that doesn’t mean my life
would be less than it is now.  I would still be living life...having good days and bad days...
and everything in between. Life would still be an adventure. It wouldn’t just be a different
adventure. I would be different...but it wouldn't be less.

“Don’t you want another baby?”

Nope...not in the way you mean it.  So stop asking.

Will I have another baby?  I hope so...when the time is right. I want Hannah to have a
sibling.  I want her to have a brother or sister who will be there in ways my siblings have
always been there for me. And when, God willing, that little one comes along, I will love
him/her in ways I can’t imagine. And that little one will bless me in ways I don’t know I
need.  And even though it doesn’t feel like anything is missing now...we will feel like a
missing piece has arrived. I won’t be able to imagine life any other way.

I didn’t want to be a mom...didn’t dream of having kids...didn’t long for the day when i
would hear that first cry in the hospital...I didn’t look into my future and see playdates...
and I definitely didn’t think I would hope against hope that I would change a poopy
diaper (it’s funny the things you wish for whenyou have a little one)...I didn’t see any of it
in my future.  That’s part of my story. But contrary to popular belief...that never made me
broken.

“Oh, you’ll change your mind when the time comes.”  

“Every woman wants to be a mom.”

Nope...not even close.  I didn’t change my mind...I didn’t suddenly decide I wanted to be
a mom.  I didn’t hear my biological clock ticking...and I for sure didn’t dream of the pitter-
patter of little feet.  

What really happened was this...I decided I loved my husband enough take the chance.  He
was made to be a dad. He deserved the chance to be a dad. We have a baby because he
needed to be a dad.  And I knew that any child lucky enough to have him for a dad would be
the most loved and adored kiddo on the planet.  I also knew that he was “Dad enough” to make
up for whatever screw ups I would have as a Mom. I knew that I had (have) amazing women in
my life who would teach and guide me along the way.  Mommin’ aint easy! We gotta stick \
together!

We have to stop judging women who, for whatever reason, don’t see themselves walking this
road.  It’s ok to not want to be a mom.

Cooking for the Man

Giving this a whirl...going to try the "Slice of Life" challenge on twowritingteachers.wordpress.com... just sharing ordinary moments with the world

"Do you have any plans for dinner?"
"Eat."
"Other than that?"
"Eat food."
"What kind of food?"
"Edible food."

Yep.  We are THAT couple.  The gag goes on as long as possible until one of us cracks.  Today it was me.  I gave in.

"How about pasta and veggies with rotisserie chicken?" I suggested.  "As long as you can stop and get a chicken on your way home."  (The last line delivered at a much quicker pace and slightly lower volume.)

I knew he was hooked before he actually spoke real words.  The oh so simple meal is one of his favorites.  And no matter how many times I say it, he never actually believes that it's probably the easiest meal in my cooking repertoire.  I mean...it's just zucchini and yellow squash sauteed with a little bit of olive oil, salt and pepper.  Toss in a few broccoli tops, some quartered mushroom caps, chopped chicken (that the grocery store so expertly cooked up for me), and you've got a meal.  Just in case that's not quite filling enough, toss in a little pasta, and dinner is served!

We love to cook together.  In fact, despite what I would have imagined, I actually like having him in the kitchen with me.  I like that he gets in my way when I'm moving from the sink to the refrigerator. His towering height comes in handy when I need a cup or dish from a high shelf.  And slowly but surly, I'm even learning to delegate the jobs that need to be done.

Tonight, however, the cooking was all on me.  "I'm going to try and stay out of your way until you need or ask for help."  Feeling a little bit like the 1950's housewife...I cooked dinner for my man.  Me.  The independent one who "don't need no man".  I cooked for him.  And I liked it.  My, how things change!

(And right now, he's cleaning up the kitchen. I did cook, after all.  This whole housewife thing only goes so far.)

The Most Precious Gift

I've spent the last few days focusing on the present...the here and how.  There’s a reason so many students (and quite a few adults) are easily confused by this word.  Language and vocabulary nerds (otherwise known as teachers) call this a “multiple meaning word.”  When you see the word “present,” does it mean a gift given to someone...a beautifully wrapped package with a special surprise or trinket for one’s birthday or Christmas?  Or does the word “present” refer to a verb tense that means something is happening right now?  

I've decided that it’s both...at the same time…all at once.

This great revelation came to the other night as I sat on the sofa with my giant.  We were watching "Longmire," a television show that he loves and I promised to watch.  (The good news is that it’s a great show, and one of my many missions for the summer is to catch up on the seasons on Netflix so we can watch the new season together this fall.)  As we watched, I noticed that he had his phone in his hand for most of the episode, and I kept picking up my iPad.  He was playing a game where his mission was to shoot tanks driving through the streets of Los Angeles, and my mission was to crush candy, feed cows and chickens, tell Mr. Burns to dump money on his gold mountain, and smash gems before Maleficent cast a spell on me.  OK..so I was playing multiple games while he only played one...but that just further goes to prove my point.  Here we were watching a show that could easily hold our attention, and yet we couldn't put our devices down.  How sad is that?!  The good news is that we both agreed that the night was one of those "real life" evenings we both long for...when you are so comfortable with the one you are with that you can relax and be yourself without trying to feel like you have to entertain anyone.

I spent the rest of that night and my coffee time the next day thinking about being present in the moment and how it really is a gift to be present in the moment.  To let your mind focus solely on just one task or topic.  To NOT multi-task all the time.  To focus on the small details of the moment.  The little things.  The important things.  How often have I let my mind wander too far from the task at hand?  (Ugh...that answer is frightening...I don’t want to think about that anymore.)  How much better would my work (and play) be when I focus on the task at hand and let my thoughts drift off to where I need to be next or how much money I can spend on shoes this month or what I might be having for dinner or what kind of house my giant and I might choose to make our first home together.  While all of these thoughts are important (especially the money for shoes), none of them are more important than what I’ve been called to do in any particular moment.

So here it is...my first commitment to making a better me...

Be present.  

Give myself the gift of time and dedication to the time at hand.  Allow my brain to focus on the truly great gift that is the here and now.

Lean on Me...January Facilitator Reflection

With their little bodies buzzing with excitement, our students filed into the cafeteria this morning for January's Mighty Mariner Assembly.  Parents sat eagerly at the back of the room waiting for their child's name to be called for whatever award would be handed their way.  I took my usual post...edge of the stage letting songs from the "Mariner Assemblies" playlist stream from my phone.  Feeling the need to change things up, I recently added "Lean on Me"  (the Club Nouveau version)...

Lean on me

When you're not strong,

And I'll be your friend.

I'll help you carry on.

For it won't be long

'Til I'm gonna need

Somebody to lean on.

This has been a month of leaning on one another...of helping someone else carry on because, chances are, they have helped you to carry on.  And if you are a lucky one that has been strong, your turn is coming soon.  You are going to need someone to lean on. 

Some of us lean because we are struggling with our students. 

Some of us lean because we are struggling with our team.

Some of us lean because we are struggling with our classroom resources.

Some of us lean because we are afraid of PARCC.

Some of us lean because we are afraid of ITBS...especially that horrible vocabulary section.

Some of us lean because we have students who didn't meet their winter growth goal.

Some of us lean because our students need winter clothes.

Some of us lean because our students are hungry.

Some of us lean because our students need to feel loved and appreciated and valued for the beautiful people they are.

Some of us lean because we are struggling outside of school.

Some of us lean because we have stood straight for too long...and it's our turn to lean.

Whatever the reason (or reasons) we all need someone to lean on from time to time.  I am no different.  To those who have let me lean...thank you. 

I leaned on you

When I wasn't strong.

And you were my friend.

You helped me carry on.

If the time comes along

I'll be right there

For you to lean on.

And I smiled.

One of the amazing writing tools I learned from my time in the writing project was to just let your ideas flow…to let your words jump from one topic to the next and that sometimes this jumping would lead to a topic worthy or fleshing out.  Maybe even sharing.  While walking today I realized that letting my mind wander was a great way to pass the time.  Yes, the music was pumping and from time to time the mechanical voice on the Nike app would bust in and talk to me, but for the most part…I spent my walk letting my mind wander.  And I smiled.

With my keys tied tightly in the drawstring of my shorts, I set off down the track.  Red mud rocked my balance as I made my way from the parking lot to the trail.  A beautiful little storm passed through early this morning, and the ground had not yet soaked it all in.  Before I even opened my eyes this morning I heard the rain tapping against the window, the thunder rolling in the distance, and the wind dancing in the trees.  And I smiled.

The first big curve in the trail opened up to reveal the soccer fields.  My thoughts went to my Nike app friends.  One in particular.  Our 100 mile challenge doesn't start until tomorrow, but that’s not why I smiled.  As of yesterday (my first day on the app) I was just over seven miles behind B in miles walked this month.  Never one to back down from a challenge, she would see today's walk as…GET UP AND GO!  I CAN’T LET HER BEAT ME!  Again I smiled…not because I was closing the gap between us but because she would see my total go up and think I was chasing her.  My walk would ensure that she pushed herself a bit so that she remained the leader.  The champion.  Me?  I smiled because I knew that I was out walking on this day because 1) the air was cool after the morning rain, 2) I needed a way to work out the stiffness in my legs from yesterday’s walk, and 3) I’m trying very hard to establish a healthy walking habit.  My walk had nothing to do with catching up to her stats.  My friend, however, would see that I walked and 1) let me know that there was no way I was catching her, and 2) be proud of me for walking and yet push herself harder on her walk today to ensure that I say a safe distance behind her.  I thought of her power walking through her neighborhood to stay just a bit ahead.  And I smiled.

Which led my thoughts back to our challenge…100 miles before we go back on contract.  No problem…except for the week I’ll be at the beach.  Hmmm…beach walking can be fun and the sights are amazing and the wind and waves keep you from getting too hot while walking.  But Ft. Walton Beach isn't made for great walking.  The shoreline is too angled...too steep.  It makes my legs hurt, and not that good hurt that comes from exercising.  But there’s always the road…an early morning walk.  And then I realized that I won’t have to walk on my own.  S will be there.  And she’s in the challenge, too.  We can’t let B get too far ahead of us.  So we’ll walk together even though we will be on vacation.  Because that’s what friends do.  They challenge each other to be better and stronger and healthier.  And yes, we are competing to an extent, but we are friends first.  I thought of my friends, and I smiled.

The top of my head itched a bit so I reached up to scratch it and I felt the part for my two pathetic little pony tails.  My hair is too short for one but too long to not pull back when exercising.  Two teeny pony tails at the back of my head is my only option.  While home for Nana’s funeral and Easter, I asked Haley to get me a couple of pony tail holders.  She came back with two for me…and two already in her hair.  While on my errand she decided to pull her hair back just like she knew I would be pulling mine.  My Haley Girl.  This silly amazing funny sweet sparkling big dreaming little piece of sunshine.  God knew what he was doing when he sent her to us.  She had pulled her hair up like mine.  And I smiled. 

The rain left puddles on the trail.  Some big and some small.  In some places the water still ran in search of a final pond, puddle, creek, or a hidden dry place waiting for a little water to ease its pain.  Water flows into the ditch at the corner of Parnell Road and Carol Street.  When the fire hydrant was opened on that same corner the water flooded both streets before disappearing down the drains and culverts.  As neighborhood kids, we lived for those days.  We stomped and splashed and kicked water at one another until we were kicking the street itself because the flood had finally ceased.  I reached the small puddle on the track and walked through it instead of around it.  The coolness splashed up onto the backs of my legs as I stomped through the puddle and kicked water at the dry-ish space in front of me.  And I smiled.

After ducking under one of my favorite side roads, the path climbed up a bit.  At the top of the hill I realized that Britt Nicole as singing “You’re worth more than gold.”  Such a great phrase.  My sister tells her girls that she loves them “more than a rainbow.”  Aunt Diane’s phrase of choice was always “I love you to the moon and back.”  That simple and yet powerful phrase seemed to belong only to her before she left us.  Now, you can’t walk into a place selling home decorations or a gift shop without those words dancing across a canvas, a pillow, or a painted piece of driftwood.  It’s amazing how much the world changes after a loved one passes.  Sadness is inevitable, but sometimes you get happy little reminders sent straight from heaven.  I thought about her hugs and lipstick-y kisses.  And I smiled.

The mechanical app voice told me that I had walked a mile.  She told me how long I had been walking.  Little slower than yesterday, but no reason to feel discouraged.  I knew I was moving slightly slower than yesterday.  I felt it in my calves.  And then Pharrell was singing and telling me to clap along if I felt like a room without a roof.  I didn't want to clap along.  I did, however, want to dance.  I wanted to dance like Kevin Bacon in Footloose.  I wanted jump around with my hands above my head.  I wanted to close my eyes and swing my head and pump my fists in the air.  I didn't do any of those things.  My calves were burning and I was a little winded and I was walking along a stretch of the trail visible to passing cars.  Instead...I felt that song in my head and in my heart.  Eventually I WILL dance and sing while walking the trail and listening to that song.  I thought of the day that I really won't care who sees me because I will be so fit that I actually can jump around like Kevin Bacon and pump my fists in the air because my calves are burning and I'm not winded.  I thought of that day that's coming.  And I smiled.

After turning around on the trail and heading back to the car, I spotted the bench.  M and I once stopped our bike ride at that bench.  We were, sad to say, exhausted after riding our bikes for the first time in months.  We huffed and puffed down the trail believing that we were really covering ground only to reach the bench and discover that we hadn't even completed one mile.  While she sat on the bench, I laid on the ground with my feet propped up.  I was tired.  My feet had gone to sleep.  Little kids and moms pushing strollers and grandpas running…they all passed us by.  In an attempt to hide our lack of physical fitness, we pretended to look for shapes in the clouds.  We laughed at each other.  We laughed at ourselves.  I thought of that ride.  And I smiled. 

The path ran through a small grove of trees.  Just as I entered the shade a happy little breeze passed through the trees.  A lot of people think the “Happy Little Trees” painter coined that phrase, but they are wrong.  “Happy Little…” belongs to Nana.  Especially when it’s a happy little breeze.  Whether sitting on the beach or out on the patio or in the gazebo or just watching a ballgame…the wind would begin to blow and Nana would smile and say, “Oh…that’s a happy little breeze.”  I raised my hands above my head and thanked Nana for sending the breeze to cool me off.  I thought of her wobbly walk and her big booming laugh and her funky sense of style.  I thought of her.  And I smiled.

I was almost back to the car when I thought about today being Father’s Day.  While this wasn't the first time today I thought about it (I was on Facebook this morning…it’s kinda hard to miss), this was the first time along my walk that I thought about the significant role that my dad has played in my life.  He’s a role model.  A coach.  A cheerleader.  A die-hard Razorback fan.  A Pawpaw.  A grill-master.  A puller of skiers.  A fixer.  A beach bum.  A listener.  A giver of expert advice.  A prayer warrior.  A believer.  A tough guy.  A teddy bear.  An ice cream eater.  A cookie thief.  A friend.  A father.  A dad.  I thought of him.  And I smiled.  

I like to think...

It was small…red…and had the perfect phrase painted on the side… “Going to Grandma’s”…and I wanted one.  I can remember friends talking about their summer vacations and spring breaks and long weekends. 

“What did you do during your vacation?” teachers would ask.

“I spent a week with my grandma,” the students replied.

As a kid, I felt cheated in a way.  I can remember actually WISHING that my grandparents lived far away just so I could go visit them.  It just didn’t seem right that I was denied what my childhood brain decided was the way life should be.  I should have had at least one grandmother that lived far, far away.  But no.  My grandmothers lived in my town.  Instead of riding for hours and hours in the car, Mawmaw lived (and still lives) half-way across town.  Visiting her was as simple as stopping by Dad’s shop after school.  Nana lived on the same street.  Visiting her was as simple as riding my bike to the other end of the street…a simple bike ride that took no more than five minutes.  And that was only because over half of the trip was uphill.

As kids, we didn’t need a holiday or special occasion to have dinner with the grandparents.  All we needed was dinner time.  It happened all the time.  Weekday…weekend…Saturday lunch…it didn't matter when.  The majority of my childhood memories contain not only my parents and siblings but also grandparents…aunts…uncles…cousins…or some combination of all of the above.  As a child I felt cheated out of some rite of passage because my family all lived in the same town as me.  As an adult, I now know

that I was blessed beyond measure. 

Blessings come in many shapes and sizes.  One such blessing looked like Nana.  Little bit short…little bit round...a slight waddle to her walk.  She could cook like an Italian master…bring a dying plant back to life…and her Christmas tree was a sight to behold.  Light seemed to follow her wherever she went.  She loved to laugh…wore crazy shoes…and believed that faith could cure most ailments. 

In the good old days, Nana spent DAYS AND DAYS decorating her Christmas tree.  She started with a simple, artificial tree decked out in white lights.  The topper came next…always an angel (eventually one that moved) with stiff strings of crystals and greenery adding a glow that seemed to come, not from the lights, but from heaven itself.  Next came the clear or crystal balls that she hung near the trunk of the tree.  “To add an extra sparkle,” she said.  Nana made ornaments out of Styrofoam, sequins, beads, ribbons, and straight pins.  Spheres…cones…boxes…even a small house…she had an eye for all things artistic, sparkly, and shiny.  She finished the tree with a smattering of handmade, store-bought, and gifted ornaments.  Front and center was always an orange, clay cat…T.C. was his name…meant to be a replica of their own fluffy, orange cat.  (Side note…I absolutely blame T.C. for my allergy to cats.  I wasn’t allergic to cats until after he died, and we have the pictures to prove it.  I’m pretty sure he’s haunting me.)  Nana was very particular about her tree, and she would only let us help her decorate when she was almost finished.  She had to have everything “just so.”  And it was always beautiful…gorgeous…inviting.  I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana when it comes to Christmas trees.

Most Christian homes have a cross or two hanging on the wall.  Most Catholic homes have a crucifix or two hanging on the wall.  My nana’s house always had both…a LOT of both.  She had a few sprinkled around the house in some of the obvious places…bedrooms, kitchen, even in the hallway.  But she also had a lot of crosses gathered on an otherwise blank space.  She was never quite finished with it, either.  There was always a little more room…a beautiful little gem of a thing…some that seemed to be a special reminder of someone or something.  Some, she would say, she bought “just because she wanted a prize.”  While my collection is nothing like hers, there are several crosses decorating the walls in my own home.  I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana when it comes to crosses on the wall.

Nana's canisters live in my kitchen.

Like all truly southern families, food was always present when family and friends gathered together…and my southern family was no exception.  Add Nana’s Italian heritage on top of southern hospitality and you get meals that leave your taste buds in bliss and exhaustion as you roll yourself away from the table.  Nana cooked her spaghetti sauce for days.  Literally.  Yes, she had a quick version that she could whip up in a few hours, but her REAL sauce…sauce planned for in advance…began its journey roughly 36 hours before dinner time.  Her magical concoction of tomatoes and spices brewed and simmered in the massive steel pot. At some point, large pieces of lamb were added to the pot along with the most amazing meatballs ever rolled and browned before taking a swim in the tomato-y goodness.  As family and friends began to gather for the feast, Nana carefully lifted the meat from the spaghetti sauce and separated it into two bowls.  Noodle of choice?  Rotini…also known as “drills” to my baby brother.  Lewis would stab a couple of needles with his fork, pop them into his mouth, and immediately act as if a drill was going mad inside his mouth.  When I go to the grocery store for pasta, I instinctively reach for rotini.  My sauce rarely takes days to cook, but my meatball recipe gets better and better each time I cook them.  I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana when it comes to cooking for family and friends.

Laughter is the best medicine.  Always.  And Nana was no stranger to laughter.  She loved television shows and movies that others considered weird.  “Are You Being Served?” was a ridiculous British comedy that came on at 10:00 on PBS, and it was always one of her favorite shows.  “Don’t you want to watch the news?” people would ask.  After all, most adults watch the news.  Nana didn’t watch the news.  “The news is depressing,” she’d say.  “This makes me laugh.  I’d much rather laugh than be depressed.”  I hate watching the news; the news is depressing.  I’d much rather laugh than be depressed.  I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana when it comes to watching the news.

The addition of the Turner Classic Movies channel was both a blessing and curse for my childhood.  The curse part came first.  Nana was OBSESSED with that silly channel.  More often than not you would find a black and white movie playing on her television when you walked into her house.  Spencer Tracey, Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Davis, Vivien Leigh, and, of course, Shirley Temple were regulars in her house.  We spent hours and hours watching movies together.  She taught me to love “The Little Princess” and “Heidi” and “Boys Town” and “National Velvet” and countless others.  “They just don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” she’d say.  At the time I thought, “Yep.  Now they make movies in color.”  Now I think, “They just don’t make movies like that anymore.  Those were the good old days.”  People always ask why “Gone with the Wind” and “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” are two of my absolute favorite movies.  I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana when it comes to movies.

“Eat your carrots…they are good for your yeyes.”

“I’m going to get you on your goolie!”

“I love you…a bushel and a peck…”

“Miss Lizzie had a baby…”

“Jeepers…creepers…where’d you get those peepers?”

“Round and round a ballie…”

“I’m going to bock ya, bock ya!”

“I love you.  I love you.  I love you.”

Nana had a way with words.  If you didn’t know her, you often had no idea what she was talking about.  She had her own language…some crazy mixture of her Sicilian parents, her Bronx upbringing, and her many years in the south…and her general “Nana-ness.”  The woman knew how to turn a phrase.  But the last quote will always be my favorite.  “I love you.  I love you.  I love you.”  Spoken slow and deliberate…those are the last words my nana said to me.  As I was leaving her house in February, she hugged me close, and ever so softly told me that she loved me.  “I love you, too, Nana,” I told her.  And I meant it.  I still do.  My Nana was an amazing woman.  And she left an amazing legacy.  I can’t garden like she could.  My pasta sauce will never taste like hers.  And my Christmas tree will never shine quite as brightly as hers once did.  But I love to laugh.  And I decorate my house with crosses.  And having old movies in the house is more important than bread and milk when the snow starts to roll in.  Sometimes people tell me that I have a way with words, and I love my family and friends with my whole heart.

I like to think I’m a little bit like Nana.