Everything was fine up to that point. Trader Joe's could have gotten themselves a steady, if modest, customer. But the final impression is the one that will follow me, and has lost them a customer. Was it worth it, Trader Joe's?
Let's start with the idea that I had never shopped there before. I had a completely open mind. As long as they had battery carts, I was willing to spend as much time there as needed to check them out. And the first impression was great: There were more than enough carts for the two of us.
Yes, Steve came along shopping. We had gotten a gift card to the store for X-mas. (Much appreciated, and a heartfelt thanks! I know you read this.) So, once the holiday rush passed, time to go check it out, see what we'd both like. We found some great looking avocados, Steve's favorite. The cheese selection was awesome, and we picked out varieties I hadn't seen in years, perhaps not at all, definitely not as good. (I will say the pepper jack has peppers you can actually taste! Yummm.) We found flavors of brats that are intriguing, breads to completely spoil us, and with the remaining balance on the card, found a pair of steaks that were the first things to please our palettes.
So what went wrong? They decided to get greedy.
We shopped carefully, keeping track as we went through the store of how much we were spending and the balance on the card. When it rang up, we had a few pennies left to spend, so we threw on a last impulse item to slightly overshoot the card. I dug a dollar out and handed it to the cashier along with the card.
I expected change back. Only 22c, but still: change. Wouldn't you? What happened instead actually shocked me. The clerk spent the dollar first, then took the balance off the card. So I now have a card to Trader Joe's with a whole 22c on it.
Big whoop.
I think they believe it will bring me back to their store to spend more money.
They are wrong.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Monday, January 4, 2016
Top Of The Mor.... Uh, Year To Ya
First, New Year's Resolutions:
Yup, you got it. But you probably made enough of them for both of us to break, right?
But there's lots of other things which need attention this time of year. For example, there's assembling and sorting financial paperwork for that upcoming inevitable tax filing. Or is it sorting and assembling? Anyway, as it clears out of the file box and goes in a folder crammed on top of a stack up on the top shelf, there's room for the current year's crap.
Among which paperwork, there's a notice that the garbage bill has gone up. And hey, I gotta call them to give them the new bank information for the automatic deduction. My debit card got renewed and they need to know the new expiration date. Oh, and make the price change in the spreadsheet that keeps track of how much money I don't have this year. Because, you know, different health insurance, new drug coverage, higher electric, higher gas, and way higher Rec Center fees. So far the water price stays the same as long as the usage does. Everything went up except Social Security, which they kept the same under the delusion that lower gasoline prices for folks who don't drive much anymore is an even trade-off.
Then there are the calls to change insurance information to two doctors (so far: the new Docs will get the info as I show up in their offices), my pharmacy, and just for the new year to make all those new appointments for exams and tests. It's called being retired. Now there's time for all that.
Most new years involve undecorating. That's not a biggie this year because we chose not to spend the energy on putting all the stuff up in the first place. There are, however, addresses to change so there's a hope next winter that the cards we send out will actually reach their intended targets. Said changes occur both in a digital and a paper address book as well as a digital list just of whom to send cards to. That tends to change each year. We're at the stage in life where people die on us. (Well, not literally on us, hopefully.) Somebody always moves and doesn't bother saying where. Some people's kids grow up and move away, or just get born so there are new names to add to the cards. Or, we can just keep putting "and family" on the envelope to hide our bewilderment and inability to keep up.
New years also tend to involve leftovers. Yes, I'm talking food. There likely will have been a pot luck or two, a turkey just for us, even a gift card that expands the pantry (and thanks, it was all yummy!). So lots of repacking, rewrapping, rebagging. That increased food supply, as it shrinks, will also supply us with a plethora of dirty dishes cluttering the counter and sinks. Again, some activity is called for. And waistbands need to be expanded, or perhaps shopping for a looser size done, just as soon as the hoards of returners of gifts have cleared the stores and aisles are again passable.
This of course has to be done in deliberate ignorance of the budgeting process that started the whole new year to-do list. That, or with a generous balance available on one's favorite piece of plastic. Deciding which is another item for the list.
Yup, you got it. But you probably made enough of them for both of us to break, right?
But there's lots of other things which need attention this time of year. For example, there's assembling and sorting financial paperwork for that upcoming inevitable tax filing. Or is it sorting and assembling? Anyway, as it clears out of the file box and goes in a folder crammed on top of a stack up on the top shelf, there's room for the current year's crap.
Among which paperwork, there's a notice that the garbage bill has gone up. And hey, I gotta call them to give them the new bank information for the automatic deduction. My debit card got renewed and they need to know the new expiration date. Oh, and make the price change in the spreadsheet that keeps track of how much money I don't have this year. Because, you know, different health insurance, new drug coverage, higher electric, higher gas, and way higher Rec Center fees. So far the water price stays the same as long as the usage does. Everything went up except Social Security, which they kept the same under the delusion that lower gasoline prices for folks who don't drive much anymore is an even trade-off.
Then there are the calls to change insurance information to two doctors (so far: the new Docs will get the info as I show up in their offices), my pharmacy, and just for the new year to make all those new appointments for exams and tests. It's called being retired. Now there's time for all that.
Most new years involve undecorating. That's not a biggie this year because we chose not to spend the energy on putting all the stuff up in the first place. There are, however, addresses to change so there's a hope next winter that the cards we send out will actually reach their intended targets. Said changes occur both in a digital and a paper address book as well as a digital list just of whom to send cards to. That tends to change each year. We're at the stage in life where people die on us. (Well, not literally on us, hopefully.) Somebody always moves and doesn't bother saying where. Some people's kids grow up and move away, or just get born so there are new names to add to the cards. Or, we can just keep putting "and family" on the envelope to hide our bewilderment and inability to keep up.
New years also tend to involve leftovers. Yes, I'm talking food. There likely will have been a pot luck or two, a turkey just for us, even a gift card that expands the pantry (and thanks, it was all yummy!). So lots of repacking, rewrapping, rebagging. That increased food supply, as it shrinks, will also supply us with a plethora of dirty dishes cluttering the counter and sinks. Again, some activity is called for. And waistbands need to be expanded, or perhaps shopping for a looser size done, just as soon as the hoards of returners of gifts have cleared the stores and aisles are again passable.
This of course has to be done in deliberate ignorance of the budgeting process that started the whole new year to-do list. That, or with a generous balance available on one's favorite piece of plastic. Deciding which is another item for the list.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Judgment
I find that sometimes I need to be exposed to an idea and think on it a bit before I can decide just what I think about it. Today I heard something in the restaurant conversation that didn't need any thought on my part before reacting. Lest you think I was reacting to my personal feelings towards the speaker, let me just clarify that she was simply repeating a comment by a third party that I have never and will never meet, and only know from one sentence uttered.
The speaker in the restaurant had run into someone from years ago, nearly overlooking him because he had changed so much in the interval she hadn't recognized him. The most dramatic change in his appearance was that he now had curly hair where before it was straight. The comment he had made about it to her was that the change in hair style was the best thing he had ever done.
I immediately realized that when someone comments that a change in hair style is the best thing they have ever done, I am perfectly willing to believe them.
On the contrary, if someone were to say that a hair style change was the worst thing they had ever done, scepticism would rear its head.
The speaker in the restaurant had run into someone from years ago, nearly overlooking him because he had changed so much in the interval she hadn't recognized him. The most dramatic change in his appearance was that he now had curly hair where before it was straight. The comment he had made about it to her was that the change in hair style was the best thing he had ever done.
I immediately realized that when someone comments that a change in hair style is the best thing they have ever done, I am perfectly willing to believe them.
On the contrary, if someone were to say that a hair style change was the worst thing they had ever done, scepticism would rear its head.
Unsubscribed
Somebody sold my email address.
Recently.
Suddenly my spam mailbox became full daily.
I have of course been getting the usual conglomeration of offers of millions of dollars from complete strangers who thought I might fall for their scam if they called me "Beloved". And crude sexual invitations which use enough symbols to escape the filters but not too many to obscure the message have arrived with great consistency for a long time. The product offers for something to increase the size of body parts I do not possess have pretty much dwindled away.
Just before Thanksgiving my inbox started getting flooded. Realtors want to sell my home for me. Auto companies want to sell me their cars. All kinds of products actually on the market were being shilled, though whether by their actual distributors, who can tell? The funny part, if there is one, is that the Black Friday sales offers still haven't stopped. The Christmas shopping offers are just beginning to blanket my mailbox.
Timely, eh? Who spends money to sell stuff with that kind of promptness? Or perhaps more to the point (not knowing exactly how it works) who pays somebody else to advertise for them well after the fact? Somebody is being scammed here, and I suspect it's not me.
The nice thing is that each product ad comes with an "unsubscribe" link. I click it. Yes, I know that some of those simply verify the correctness of the email address. However, the volume of crap is tapering off, although Ugg boots can't seem to get it right. Realtors, banks, and auto dealer ads are going away. I'm finally getting fewer Black Friday ads.
The sex requests are still holding steady, never fear. They don't come with an "unsubscribe" link, and even if they appeared to do so, I would not even give them that much attention.
Delete.
Recently.
Suddenly my spam mailbox became full daily.
I have of course been getting the usual conglomeration of offers of millions of dollars from complete strangers who thought I might fall for their scam if they called me "Beloved". And crude sexual invitations which use enough symbols to escape the filters but not too many to obscure the message have arrived with great consistency for a long time. The product offers for something to increase the size of body parts I do not possess have pretty much dwindled away.
Just before Thanksgiving my inbox started getting flooded. Realtors want to sell my home for me. Auto companies want to sell me their cars. All kinds of products actually on the market were being shilled, though whether by their actual distributors, who can tell? The funny part, if there is one, is that the Black Friday sales offers still haven't stopped. The Christmas shopping offers are just beginning to blanket my mailbox.
Timely, eh? Who spends money to sell stuff with that kind of promptness? Or perhaps more to the point (not knowing exactly how it works) who pays somebody else to advertise for them well after the fact? Somebody is being scammed here, and I suspect it's not me.
The nice thing is that each product ad comes with an "unsubscribe" link. I click it. Yes, I know that some of those simply verify the correctness of the email address. However, the volume of crap is tapering off, although Ugg boots can't seem to get it right. Realtors, banks, and auto dealer ads are going away. I'm finally getting fewer Black Friday ads.
The sex requests are still holding steady, never fear. They don't come with an "unsubscribe" link, and even if they appeared to do so, I would not even give them that much attention.
Delete.
Wrong Century?
I know a woman who reads books, especially Victorian novels, for enjoyment during her retirement. She also says that, reading them, she believes she was born in the wrong century.
She apparently is supremely, blissfully unaware of the irony of that.
Shall I count the ways? Of course! Else what's a posting for?
Let's break it down. She's a woman. In this century, she has human rights. She is not her husband's, father's, or brother's property, but can in fact own property herself. She can leave the house she lives in without a chaperon. She gets medical care, can practice birth control, expects not only to survive childbirth but also to have those children survive childhood, uses antibiotics and anesthesia, has never needed to worry about smallpox or plague, knows where to access relatively painless dental care and still has teeth. She was employed in a career of her choosing for most of her adult life. She did not have to work through her childhood.
She is retired. She has, firstly, survived to this age and can anticipate many years ahead of her. She does not need to work somehow until the day she dies. She has at least a modest level of income to support herself with, has had the option of saving money through her working life to make these final years better. Her long life has included decent nutrition from a varied diet from all over the world: locavore is more an ethical choice than an absolute necessity. Her shelter includes comfort, entertainment, music and beauty as well as plumbing, sanitation, and energy. Her retirement residency occurs in a state she has chosen for its mild winter climate, and she has access to easy travel to other parts of her country and the world, including the choice to reside part time in a milder climate to avoid the hot summers found here.
She reads. Books, even. So at some point she was taught how, even taking that education for granted as a female, as was not possible a couple centuries ago. She has had access to literature throughout her life, of many kinds and forms of her own choosing. She has had the leisure time throughout her life to indulge in the luxury of reading for long enough periods to get through not one book but many. She has lived with the permission of her society to exercise her imagination and to value it, though it may never have contributed to her physical survival. All known information is available to her: she can study other geography, other organisms, other cultures, other philosophies, other religious beliefs, other ages, other planets, other galaxies, things both real and unreal.
What on this earth is there to justify feeling wistful about living a few centuries earlier?
Or to put it a bit more bluntly: WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?
She apparently is supremely, blissfully unaware of the irony of that.
Shall I count the ways? Of course! Else what's a posting for?
Let's break it down. She's a woman. In this century, she has human rights. She is not her husband's, father's, or brother's property, but can in fact own property herself. She can leave the house she lives in without a chaperon. She gets medical care, can practice birth control, expects not only to survive childbirth but also to have those children survive childhood, uses antibiotics and anesthesia, has never needed to worry about smallpox or plague, knows where to access relatively painless dental care and still has teeth. She was employed in a career of her choosing for most of her adult life. She did not have to work through her childhood.
She is retired. She has, firstly, survived to this age and can anticipate many years ahead of her. She does not need to work somehow until the day she dies. She has at least a modest level of income to support herself with, has had the option of saving money through her working life to make these final years better. Her long life has included decent nutrition from a varied diet from all over the world: locavore is more an ethical choice than an absolute necessity. Her shelter includes comfort, entertainment, music and beauty as well as plumbing, sanitation, and energy. Her retirement residency occurs in a state she has chosen for its mild winter climate, and she has access to easy travel to other parts of her country and the world, including the choice to reside part time in a milder climate to avoid the hot summers found here.
She reads. Books, even. So at some point she was taught how, even taking that education for granted as a female, as was not possible a couple centuries ago. She has had access to literature throughout her life, of many kinds and forms of her own choosing. She has had the leisure time throughout her life to indulge in the luxury of reading for long enough periods to get through not one book but many. She has lived with the permission of her society to exercise her imagination and to value it, though it may never have contributed to her physical survival. All known information is available to her: she can study other geography, other organisms, other cultures, other philosophies, other religious beliefs, other ages, other planets, other galaxies, things both real and unreal.
What on this earth is there to justify feeling wistful about living a few centuries earlier?
Or to put it a bit more bluntly: WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Consumer Gripe
Same song, many verses. It boils down to this: every time I find something I really like, it becomes unavailable.
Let's start in the grocery store. There was a brand of little boxed Chinese entrees in the freezer section several years ago. After trying all of them, I settled on three as my favorites. Best flavor, best quality, a little heat in the seasonings, and meat that didn't disappear in the breading. Guess which varieties they quit stocking? Guess who doesn't buy any of them any more?
My favorite brand of hot dogs disappeared, the one and only one that was both inexpensive and tasty. They discontinued the best pumpernickel rye. Can't find blue cheese more than once a quarter or so, except in the gourmet $ection, and the extra hot jalapeno pepperjack is gone, the only one where you can actually taste the peppers and not just see green flecks. I found a brand of pre-cooked grilled hamburger patties with onions, just nuke for one minute. Yum. First they moved them to the top shelf in the freezer case so I have to ask for help every time I want some. Now they're no longer stocked, though the other varieties are still up on the top... way back.
It's not just food. I find some pajamas I like, or socks I like... it's like the kiss of death. Vitamins quit being offered in the dosage I prefer. I have a favorite baby powder, but they discontinued the larger more convenient size. The tiny one is still offered but either I have to pay double in a store I never otherwise shop at, or order online. Need I say I order by the double case? Just like I do with Sap Sago cheese, going back to food for a moment.
I should have known my life was going to be like this. Before I got married way back in the 60s, we picked out a china pattern, a crystal pattern, a flatware pattern. Every one was discontinued within a couple years, so whatever I didn't already have, forget it. My Betty Crocker coupons got me a lovely stainless pattern, very high quality and for everyday use, but... well, you know by now what happened there too. There actually isn't another pattern I can stand our there, and I've been looking for decades. They are ugly, flimsey, too thin and sharply cornered so they hurt my hands when I actually use them. Now I can, if I want, go on eBay and fill in the blank spots in my pattern for, say, $25 per single dinner fork!
Uh huh. Sure. Soon as I win that lottery.
Colors I like to decorate the house with, and didn't quite buy enough towels or whatever in, gone. Maybe they'll be back in fashion in 30 years or so.
Maybe not.
The type of stainless mixing bowl I love, in sizes and shapes I like and use most, that don't have those narrow bottoms that make them tippy, and do have a small loop/handle on the side for klutzes like me to hold on to them with... maybe in a thrift store, donated after some other long ago purchaser died. Same for the kind of measuring cups I prefer, the cereal bowls I like, the shoes that fit and support my arches properly.
Kaput.
I have been using a tube of Johnson & Johnson first aid cream for years. Occasionally it gets lost, like when I move, but eventually gets found again. It's nearly empty. I cut myself grating orange peels this afternoon and needed some. There might be one more bitty dose left. But there is NOWHERE another tube. Not even online. I've checked. Everybody thinks I want ointment instead, imbedded with whatever the latest fad in antibacterials may be. I don't. Ointments do not let the skin breathe while they are protecting it, so it won't heal as fast. I'm also not so keen on antibacterials as marketers think I should be. Anybody remember Phisohex? Everybody bought it by the half gallon jugful because it was what was used surgically, now wonderfully available to anyone, kills anything. I guess they were right. It turned out it caused nerve damage or something from skin contact. Oops.
That last tube of first aid cream with its last dollop is my treasure.
The heavy duty plastic cooking spoons that didn't scratch teflon and could really stir the thickest stews or whatever, even though lasting for 3 decades still broke. You know there's nothing like them out there any more. Not even the brand I like enough that I bought several family members some pieces (online after they too disappeared from the stores) are as sturdy as those original ones.
I have at least learned when I find socks I like, I buy a dozen pairs. Likewise undies, bras, whatevers. Shoes never come home in single pairs, nor do jeans. If it turns out I'm not so enchanted with them as I was in the store, it's a risk I take. This will be my one chance to get some.
Let's start in the grocery store. There was a brand of little boxed Chinese entrees in the freezer section several years ago. After trying all of them, I settled on three as my favorites. Best flavor, best quality, a little heat in the seasonings, and meat that didn't disappear in the breading. Guess which varieties they quit stocking? Guess who doesn't buy any of them any more?
My favorite brand of hot dogs disappeared, the one and only one that was both inexpensive and tasty. They discontinued the best pumpernickel rye. Can't find blue cheese more than once a quarter or so, except in the gourmet $ection, and the extra hot jalapeno pepperjack is gone, the only one where you can actually taste the peppers and not just see green flecks. I found a brand of pre-cooked grilled hamburger patties with onions, just nuke for one minute. Yum. First they moved them to the top shelf in the freezer case so I have to ask for help every time I want some. Now they're no longer stocked, though the other varieties are still up on the top... way back.
It's not just food. I find some pajamas I like, or socks I like... it's like the kiss of death. Vitamins quit being offered in the dosage I prefer. I have a favorite baby powder, but they discontinued the larger more convenient size. The tiny one is still offered but either I have to pay double in a store I never otherwise shop at, or order online. Need I say I order by the double case? Just like I do with Sap Sago cheese, going back to food for a moment.
I should have known my life was going to be like this. Before I got married way back in the 60s, we picked out a china pattern, a crystal pattern, a flatware pattern. Every one was discontinued within a couple years, so whatever I didn't already have, forget it. My Betty Crocker coupons got me a lovely stainless pattern, very high quality and for everyday use, but... well, you know by now what happened there too. There actually isn't another pattern I can stand our there, and I've been looking for decades. They are ugly, flimsey, too thin and sharply cornered so they hurt my hands when I actually use them. Now I can, if I want, go on eBay and fill in the blank spots in my pattern for, say, $25 per single dinner fork!
Uh huh. Sure. Soon as I win that lottery.
Colors I like to decorate the house with, and didn't quite buy enough towels or whatever in, gone. Maybe they'll be back in fashion in 30 years or so.
Maybe not.
The type of stainless mixing bowl I love, in sizes and shapes I like and use most, that don't have those narrow bottoms that make them tippy, and do have a small loop/handle on the side for klutzes like me to hold on to them with... maybe in a thrift store, donated after some other long ago purchaser died. Same for the kind of measuring cups I prefer, the cereal bowls I like, the shoes that fit and support my arches properly.
Kaput.
I have been using a tube of Johnson & Johnson first aid cream for years. Occasionally it gets lost, like when I move, but eventually gets found again. It's nearly empty. I cut myself grating orange peels this afternoon and needed some. There might be one more bitty dose left. But there is NOWHERE another tube. Not even online. I've checked. Everybody thinks I want ointment instead, imbedded with whatever the latest fad in antibacterials may be. I don't. Ointments do not let the skin breathe while they are protecting it, so it won't heal as fast. I'm also not so keen on antibacterials as marketers think I should be. Anybody remember Phisohex? Everybody bought it by the half gallon jugful because it was what was used surgically, now wonderfully available to anyone, kills anything. I guess they were right. It turned out it caused nerve damage or something from skin contact. Oops.
That last tube of first aid cream with its last dollop is my treasure.
The heavy duty plastic cooking spoons that didn't scratch teflon and could really stir the thickest stews or whatever, even though lasting for 3 decades still broke. You know there's nothing like them out there any more. Not even the brand I like enough that I bought several family members some pieces (online after they too disappeared from the stores) are as sturdy as those original ones.
I have at least learned when I find socks I like, I buy a dozen pairs. Likewise undies, bras, whatevers. Shoes never come home in single pairs, nor do jeans. If it turns out I'm not so enchanted with them as I was in the store, it's a risk I take. This will be my one chance to get some.
Friday, December 25, 2015
Christmas Is For Memories
Steph just posted on her blog that Christmas is for stories. ( here ) I have a slightly different take on the holiday. To me it's all about the memories of Christmases past, what happened through the years, both as I grew up and watching my family grow up. Or not. It's the one time of year that many of the memories are tied to, when I can say "this is when it happened."
From the early years of childhood I can remember the ornaments on the tree, the lights back when they were huge, or better yet, bubblers, stringing popcorn or cranberries, painting and putting glitter on pine cones, hanging tinsel carefully from every branch. Bags of peanuts and candies, maybe a popcorn ball were given out to us kids after church. Presents tended to be modest on the family's post-WWII budget, like a chunk of modeling clay the size and shape of a quarter pound stick of butter. Perhaps a doll.
The biggest present, my most asked for, was an Easy Bake oven. The family tradition was always to delay present opening until Christmas morning, the timing to be determined by our parents who thought a good night's sleep was important. I couldn't wait that year, so in the very wee hours when the family was still sound asleep and the house totally dark, I slipped down without turning on any lights to give me away, and opened the wrapping paper as carefully as I could to see what that big box for me really was. The problem was that some of the letters in the name were black, and others red which meant that they were also black at night. So I still wasn't completely sure until the next morning, when I pretended the tape was still tightly affixed so nobody would suspect my nocturnal sneaking, that my present was the much hoped-for oven.
Music was always a big part of the holiday. There were the carols sung in church, heard over the radio, played on records, tapes, CDs, in stores or elevators, even sung once out caroling through a neighborhood with a group of other single adults needing something cheery for their holiday. Concerts were sung by different generations, some a bit more musical than others. New songs became popular, some tug the heart. I learned harmonies to some, long ago forgot lyrics to others. My one choir solo ever was in the youth church choir of a Mexican Christmas Carol, never to be heard anywhere again.
When it was time to form a family of my own, the memories changed. Some were good ones. Each year there was the selection of a new kind of ornament for the tree, building up a supply from none of our own to, finally, way too many to actually put on a tree. Once the kids came along, I worked on some new traditions, trying to make up for less than ideal conditions in the home. My favorite of these, one never in my own childhood, was The Nutcracker Ballet. I first took Steph, after buying and reading to her a book giving the story of the magic. She was two her (our) first time. While that was fun, something happened that year which made it really magical for us.
We were down in southern Minnesota at the in-laws family farm. Mostly I dreaded those visits, as alcohol played way too large a part in the social interactions. While the kids were too young - I deeply hoped - to understand what was happening, and in fact told me years later that they had no bad memories of those visits, they were ruined for me. That year I talked the family into watching the new baby for a bit and took Steph and the farm toboggan out for a walk and a badly needed getaway down the driveway and back. It had rained that day, turning everything into icicles: branches, fence wires, everything. The rain had finally ended, freeing us up to finally get out, but it was now dark and a thick fog had drifted in. Between ice, fog, and the traditional farm yard light, the world became a magical place, one that reminded us of the recently seen Nutcracker. Down at the end of the driveway the fog was so thick we couldn't see traffic on the highway, though a muffled noise and passing glow let us know when someone was crazy enough to be out driving.
Other years there were more Nutcracker ballets, all the kids going finally, but never one as beautifully etched in memory.
Other traditions were developed. Pictures with Santa, homemade ornaments for the tree, homemade decorated felt stockings for each of us. But if the holiday sounded idyllic, it also became the worst holiday. Living down in Georgia for a few years (where I was astounded to watch the neighbor mow the lawn on Christmas Eve!), Paul and I were divorcing, and at my request we postponed the announcement and separation until after the holiday that year. Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite as planned. Paul couldn't wait to get out of the house, and the very second the presents were opened he gave us his final one. He left. Steph in particular was hard hit by that. I was furious at his timing but for the most part it truly was his best gift. The alcohol and the craziness became a rapidly diminishing part of our lives and mostly ended completely in a couple years.
Many years blurred together after that, though one stands out, and just remembering it made me cry for years after - still can. I had returned to Minnesota with the kids, and Paul had remarried and was living in Oklahoma. There was no contact. In fact, there was none again until his mother died after the kids were grown. This particular year the child support was faltering, and we were about to find out that it was not going to be paid again. My job then was low paying, the kids were growing fast, the application for food stamps had been denied because one very last child support check showed up with just the wrong timing. I didn't know how on earth we were going to have either a Christmas dinner or any presents for the kids.
The neighbor across the street found out what was going on, and her place of employment, a local hospital, "adopted" a family each year to give a Christmas to. We were that family. Food and clothing poured in, toys were provided, and we had one of our best holidays ever. I sent the hospital a thank you note, but I doubt I was ever able to express just how much that kindness meant. Then or still now.
Once our family economics improved, a new tradition developed of shopping for the metro Toys for Tots drive each year. Other kids needed help with their merry Christmas.
The worst years were when there was a missing family member, when drugs and life on the streets took over, and the rest of us tried to celebrate as a family while not knowing even whether our missing member was warm, healthy, or even alive and not the subject of the latest news reports of "there was a body found...." Fortunately those days are behind us, and we are only separated geographically.
Most recent years the traditions shrank down to presents and turkey dinner for whomever of the extended family could attend. Now that we are in Arizona, it involves a tree some years, always with bubbler lights if one goes up, turkey dinner with few trimmings, a box or two of wrapped things sent north, and the annual Christmas card. Each year, at some point in the year, I look at my pictures and know just which of them is going to be the one on the card that year, some times even as I take it. Other than after our wedding, the cards have all been something I shot, not the usual family portrait on the card. There was a time I could chose my own wording to go with the picture, but for the last several years the choices have been limited to the couple dozen offerings the stores have programmed into their machines. Each year the offerings are different, and each year the machines are also a bit different. There has not yet been a year when I could put together my desired card without help from some store employee, and some years like this one, not even then. (If you've seen my card, the picture was cropped too closely and one of the quail's heads was chopped short. The machine refused to zoom out no matter how many times either of us tried to do so. )
I guess it'll just have to become the special memory from this year. That, and maybe all the wonderful chocolates.
From the early years of childhood I can remember the ornaments on the tree, the lights back when they were huge, or better yet, bubblers, stringing popcorn or cranberries, painting and putting glitter on pine cones, hanging tinsel carefully from every branch. Bags of peanuts and candies, maybe a popcorn ball were given out to us kids after church. Presents tended to be modest on the family's post-WWII budget, like a chunk of modeling clay the size and shape of a quarter pound stick of butter. Perhaps a doll.
The biggest present, my most asked for, was an Easy Bake oven. The family tradition was always to delay present opening until Christmas morning, the timing to be determined by our parents who thought a good night's sleep was important. I couldn't wait that year, so in the very wee hours when the family was still sound asleep and the house totally dark, I slipped down without turning on any lights to give me away, and opened the wrapping paper as carefully as I could to see what that big box for me really was. The problem was that some of the letters in the name were black, and others red which meant that they were also black at night. So I still wasn't completely sure until the next morning, when I pretended the tape was still tightly affixed so nobody would suspect my nocturnal sneaking, that my present was the much hoped-for oven.
Music was always a big part of the holiday. There were the carols sung in church, heard over the radio, played on records, tapes, CDs, in stores or elevators, even sung once out caroling through a neighborhood with a group of other single adults needing something cheery for their holiday. Concerts were sung by different generations, some a bit more musical than others. New songs became popular, some tug the heart. I learned harmonies to some, long ago forgot lyrics to others. My one choir solo ever was in the youth church choir of a Mexican Christmas Carol, never to be heard anywhere again.
When it was time to form a family of my own, the memories changed. Some were good ones. Each year there was the selection of a new kind of ornament for the tree, building up a supply from none of our own to, finally, way too many to actually put on a tree. Once the kids came along, I worked on some new traditions, trying to make up for less than ideal conditions in the home. My favorite of these, one never in my own childhood, was The Nutcracker Ballet. I first took Steph, after buying and reading to her a book giving the story of the magic. She was two her (our) first time. While that was fun, something happened that year which made it really magical for us.
We were down in southern Minnesota at the in-laws family farm. Mostly I dreaded those visits, as alcohol played way too large a part in the social interactions. While the kids were too young - I deeply hoped - to understand what was happening, and in fact told me years later that they had no bad memories of those visits, they were ruined for me. That year I talked the family into watching the new baby for a bit and took Steph and the farm toboggan out for a walk and a badly needed getaway down the driveway and back. It had rained that day, turning everything into icicles: branches, fence wires, everything. The rain had finally ended, freeing us up to finally get out, but it was now dark and a thick fog had drifted in. Between ice, fog, and the traditional farm yard light, the world became a magical place, one that reminded us of the recently seen Nutcracker. Down at the end of the driveway the fog was so thick we couldn't see traffic on the highway, though a muffled noise and passing glow let us know when someone was crazy enough to be out driving.
Other years there were more Nutcracker ballets, all the kids going finally, but never one as beautifully etched in memory.
Other traditions were developed. Pictures with Santa, homemade ornaments for the tree, homemade decorated felt stockings for each of us. But if the holiday sounded idyllic, it also became the worst holiday. Living down in Georgia for a few years (where I was astounded to watch the neighbor mow the lawn on Christmas Eve!), Paul and I were divorcing, and at my request we postponed the announcement and separation until after the holiday that year. Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite as planned. Paul couldn't wait to get out of the house, and the very second the presents were opened he gave us his final one. He left. Steph in particular was hard hit by that. I was furious at his timing but for the most part it truly was his best gift. The alcohol and the craziness became a rapidly diminishing part of our lives and mostly ended completely in a couple years.
Many years blurred together after that, though one stands out, and just remembering it made me cry for years after - still can. I had returned to Minnesota with the kids, and Paul had remarried and was living in Oklahoma. There was no contact. In fact, there was none again until his mother died after the kids were grown. This particular year the child support was faltering, and we were about to find out that it was not going to be paid again. My job then was low paying, the kids were growing fast, the application for food stamps had been denied because one very last child support check showed up with just the wrong timing. I didn't know how on earth we were going to have either a Christmas dinner or any presents for the kids.
The neighbor across the street found out what was going on, and her place of employment, a local hospital, "adopted" a family each year to give a Christmas to. We were that family. Food and clothing poured in, toys were provided, and we had one of our best holidays ever. I sent the hospital a thank you note, but I doubt I was ever able to express just how much that kindness meant. Then or still now.
Once our family economics improved, a new tradition developed of shopping for the metro Toys for Tots drive each year. Other kids needed help with their merry Christmas.
The worst years were when there was a missing family member, when drugs and life on the streets took over, and the rest of us tried to celebrate as a family while not knowing even whether our missing member was warm, healthy, or even alive and not the subject of the latest news reports of "there was a body found...." Fortunately those days are behind us, and we are only separated geographically.
Most recent years the traditions shrank down to presents and turkey dinner for whomever of the extended family could attend. Now that we are in Arizona, it involves a tree some years, always with bubbler lights if one goes up, turkey dinner with few trimmings, a box or two of wrapped things sent north, and the annual Christmas card. Each year, at some point in the year, I look at my pictures and know just which of them is going to be the one on the card that year, some times even as I take it. Other than after our wedding, the cards have all been something I shot, not the usual family portrait on the card. There was a time I could chose my own wording to go with the picture, but for the last several years the choices have been limited to the couple dozen offerings the stores have programmed into their machines. Each year the offerings are different, and each year the machines are also a bit different. There has not yet been a year when I could put together my desired card without help from some store employee, and some years like this one, not even then. (If you've seen my card, the picture was cropped too closely and one of the quail's heads was chopped short. The machine refused to zoom out no matter how many times either of us tried to do so. )
I guess it'll just have to become the special memory from this year. That, and maybe all the wonderful chocolates.
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