It's March; It's Minnesota

Last weekend it was in the mid-forties, temp-wise. On Monday it started raining and the temps started dropping. It started snowing on Tuesday and the wind kicked up that night.

On Tuesday night the wind howled. That's not unusual in March. It's Minnesota. By Wednesday morning the temps were about 15 degrees below zero. The winds died down on Thursday and by Monday we're supposed to hit 60 degrees.

That's a 75-degree change in temperature. In some months, and in some places, this would be fodder for months of speculation. Not so here, though. It's March and it's Minnesota. These things happen.

That's just one reason March is my favorite month of the year. On Wednesday morning I had to drive kid #2 to band practice. A full moon hung low on the horizon, huge and bright. All the moisture in the air lent a glowing aura to the orb and with the winds howling, it felt surreal... especially as I turned off the main road onto my block. You could still see that eerie moon peeking between the homes of the suburban landscape, and it was one freaky juxtaposition!

I doubt many other people noticed or commented on it, though. It's March, and it's Minnesota. These things just happen here, don'cha know?

Teaching New Tricks to Madd Dogs

Once a long time ago I was driving down a local street and I noticed an old man on the sidewalk angrily shaking his fist at me.

I was confused, since there wasn't much traffic and the guy didn't seem interested in trying to cross. I thought he was mouthing the words "Slow down!" but I wasn't speeding, which only confused me more.

For some reason, that angry old man shaking his fist has stayed in my head for years. It's hard to accept that a stranger is angry at you for a reason you can't understand or control. You can tell yourself that the problem is his, not yours, but it's still hard to accept that you unknowingly did something to upset someone so much.

I don't resent the man's anger. In fact, I've romanticized it over time and created many "maybe" stories about that incident. Maybe the man didn't like the speed limit in the neighborhood and this was his public protest. Maybe all the cars were going by much too quickly for his aging reflexes. Maybe God put that man there to remind me to tap on those metaphysical brakes once in awhile. Slow down. A more leisurely speed is safer, and more enjoyable.

Maybe someday I'll be an old woman standing along a street on which all the cars are going too fast. Will I be angry that I can no longer keep up? Will I feel compelled to warn them that life is wasted in the fast lane? Will I want to remind them to slow down?

I've realized that I don't want to become that person. Anger might be a memorable emotion but not a productive one in the end. If I want slower traffic, I'll post a fake road sign at midnight and laugh.

So who will you be when you grow up, and how fast will you go to get there?

My holiday letter

I'm lousy about keeping in touch with friends and family. I love hearing news about the daily lives of people I care about, so I try to encourage that by sending out an annual holiday letter. It usually goes out the day before or the day after Christmas but it's the THOUGHT that counts, darn it!

So here's my holiday letter for you. Here's hoping your 2008 had more highs than lows and you continue to enjoy great highs in 2009.
- Karen

“Holy holidays, Batman – it’s Christmas time again! How can that be?”
“Well, Robin, either the Joker figured out a way to send us into the future, or we were too busy fighting crime to notice the time flying by.”

Sigh… we don’t have any crimefighting excuses or villains to blame for last-minute holiday greetings. Life just gets busy, even for us ordinary folks. Our kids would LOVE it if they caught their ‘rents kicking some bad guy tail once in awhile, though. They’d even take a tiny bat cave. (Sorry kids, but we have to do a mind wipe each time you find it…)

Wow, this letter is off to a juvenile start. Blame it on having an 8-year-old boy in the house who’s fixated on superheroes and other typical boy things. Freddy is in third grade and his big change this year was getting “blueberry Pez” glasses. The new specs must help in the ballpark, because his dad coached Freddy’s baseball team to a first place finish this summer.

Freddy also plays sweet music with the violin. The cat likes to sing along whenever he plays, so we’ve been treated to some interesting concerts. Freddy loves playing games and has a devious young mind. So if he ever challenges you to a game of Stratego or Battleship… watch out!

Elizabeth, age 12, is in 7th grade now. Her sport is softball and her team got fourth place this year. (She got the Most Improved Player award.) Lizzy’s instrument is the saxophone, and she’s working on the Pachebel Canon with her brother. Dad backs them up on the guitar, and it’s an unusual-sounding trio. Sometimes the cat joins in and it’s a quartet.

Elizabeth is a typical middle-school kid. Boys are stupid and parents are clueless about life in the 21st century. “Every child NEEDS a cell phone, mom!” (Nope, not buying it.)

Alta is a high school Sophomore this year. She’s taking Japanese and wants to go there someday. I jokingly asked her where the Sea of Japan was located, and discovered she knows a LOT about that nation’s geography. Coming from a kid who can’t find her way to the grocery store unless I drive her… it’s a little freaky. If she’s this single-minded in other pursuits, watch out for this girl.

Alta has started working a few hours a week for her dad’s business, and she teaches Sunday School with her mom. Despite her busy schedule she’s always willing to spend time at home with family…as long as our firewall doesn’t block her favorite websites.

We lost two important people in our lives this year. Fred’s dad passed away shortly before Thanksgiving. It was a sad occasion, but in true Italian style, the Alonzi clan celebrated a vibrant life and the release of a joyful spirit. My Uncle Glen passed away a few weeks earlier. Both men shared with us a love of games, music & storytelling, and a thirst for knowledge. This first Christmas without them will be hard. However, we’ll honor their memory this holiday season by celebrating the traditions we shared with them… and lives filled with warmth, laughter, stories, and love.

Peace and best wishes for the new year!

Another eulogy

My father-in-law passed away a couple days before Thanksgiving. It must be a seasonal thing, since my mom passed away 17 years ago a few days AFTER Thanksgiving.

Grampy was 89, the same age as my Uncle Glen who died last month. The coincidences may not impress you, but those of us in mourning seem to latch onto odd facts like this. I suppose it's an instinctive search for hidden meanings and purposes in death. (I'm not finding any, so don't read on if you're looking for those types of answers.)

This is NOT a time of sorrow for our family. Grampy had become a shell of the outgoing, vibrant man he once was and we've been mourning that loss for three years. Finally the body has let loose free his joyful spirit, and the entire family is celebrating.

The memorial service was lovely. Fred's dad was a twin and all of Fred's cousins flew in for the funeral. One cousin explained to the priest that since their fathers were genetically identical, they're technically half-siblings, not mere cousins. They had a private Italian meal at a local restaurant last night and took turns telling stories about their twin fathers and all the pranks, shenanigans, and heroic deeds they'd performed over the years.

The twins never locked the company safe. Instead there was a faded note on the cover that read, "We're out of cash so I'll stop at the bank on the way in tomorrow." That note was their anti-theft strategy for 20 years.

The stories about people confusing the twins were hilarious. Uncle Sam's future daughter-in-law once saw her boyfriend's supposed father in downtown Chicago, with a woman who was NOT her boyfriend's mother.

One of Uncle Sam's neighbors refused to talk to him for years. Evidently this neighbor had been elected to represent their block at a community meeting. Not only did Uncle Sam have the gall to also show up at said meeting, but he sat with the opposition and ignored him completely. Sam had no idea why the neighbor was so mad at him until years later. The neighbor saw the twins together, realized immediately what had happened, and apologized profusely.

The best story was when Sam was hospitalized and Fred came to visit. As he left, a nurse at the station tried to convince him to stay. He joked, "I can't... the food here is TERRIBLE." When he got off the elevator in the lobby, two big orderlies were waiting for him. He had to accompany them back to his brother's room before they believed his story and let him leave the hospital.

There were also stories about the famous "twin radar". The twins both got their first cash card at about the same time, and they both got to pick their own 4-digit PIN number. When comparing cards later, they realized they'd both picked the same number, 5683, because it spelled LOVE on the phone pad.

What a fun night of stories! It really was a great tribute to two men. May all the deaths in your life carry a similar amount of laughter and celebration to lessen the grief.

Catching Up

Hi everyone! Sorry for the long wait for my next post, but work and three kids make for a busy lifestyle.

Yeah, the economy is crashing. Life goes on in our household, as it must in every other across America. Despite the fears for the future, moms continue to visit the grocery store every week and nag our children to do homework and practice their lessons.

Want to hear our cat yowl? Ask my 8-year-old to start playing his violin. He's darned good for his age, but the occasional sour note leaks out before he adjusts his fingering. We've succeeded in convincing Freddy that the cat LIKES his music. Otherwise she'd just go and hide, right? The fact that she yowls and jumps on his pantleg when he's playing is her way of wanting to join in. I'm not sure he believes it, but he laughs at the cat with the rest of us. Ya gotta love that about him.

I'll challenge the girls to videotape the cat some time and post it on YouTube. If they do it, I'll be sure to let you know.

My uncle Glen died this past month. I didn't go to his funeral since I couldn't afford the flight ticket at the time. Instead, I had a mini-eulogy with my family around the kitchen table one night. Glen was an incredible man, and I truly loved him. He was a natural-born story teller, and he also had the foresight to record the more amazing of his life stories.

My great-uncle Hugh was a different sort of guy. I suspect he was autistic, although it was never diagnosed. Glen sat down with him 40 years ago at a piano, started a tape recorder, and asked Hugh to start playing. The tape is amazing. Hugh couldn't read a note, but he could play almost any song that Glen requested. Sometimes Hugh tried to sing along, but he seldom remembered the words. So he'd fill in with "dum de dum" or make up his own words. You can hear him sing the names of his friends and family and then mumble unintelligbly, all while banging away confidently and accurately on that old piano. Hugh died when I was only five, but he was legend in my family. I'm so glad Glen recorded a piece of Hugh for our generation.

There's so much more to Glen's stories. He was a guard at the Nuremburg trials in Germany after World War II. He asked some of the Germans to sign an autograph book for him. I remember holding that book and although I knew it was a piece of history, I wasn't nearly as impressed by their signatures as I was by his words. Glen kept a diary in which he jotted down his impressions of each of the Germans that he guarded. He watched their actions closely, speculating on what drove these men to participate in such atrocities. His untrained assessments sound dead on, when compared to later psychological studies done by experts.

One of my favorite stories involves a time preceding the trials when Glen was a soldier overseas and was hospitalized with jaundice. I don't remember all the details of the story, but once he was released from the hospital, he and another man set out alone to rejoin their unit. There was a delay or some mix-up and by nightfall, they still hadn't caught up with their unit.

Imagine these two young boys, just released from hospital, all alone walking down a dusty road as the day fades away. They were exhausted, with no food or water or place to sleep. Oh yeah, they were in a foreign country during a WAR. Glen never said it outright, but I know it was one of the lowest points in his life.

In the fading light, Glen saw the outline of an old abandoned barn up ahead. At least they'd have a place to sleep for the night! And once they got in the barn, they noticed an old jar of cherries sitting on the windowsill. The two men speculated on how the jar had ended up in this barn and how long they'd been sitting on that ledge. Glen suddenly said, "I'm going to eat those cherries."

His companion let Glen take the first bite, but he eventually joined in. Once their stomachs were full, they went to sleep. The next morning they woke up and began walking again. They eventually caught up with their unit and life went on.

I think my Uncle Glen went into that barn on that night as a boy, and came out a man. No one was there to tell him whether those cherries were good to eat, or if a barn is a safe place to sleep for a night. Glen had to make those decisions on his own, and he survived.

Years later, someone gave Glen a book of photos from World War II. He found a shot of his old unit, encamped along a familiar road, with a familiar barn in the background. And there, faintly, in the window of the barn, you could see glass reflecting and a bit of red...a jar of cherries.

Annoying Pets

I work from home, and the cat that the kids brought home from the shelter last year really annoys me.

I'll be having a conversation with a customer when she strolls in, yowling for attention. If I ignore her, she'll use my chair as a scratching post. I had to move my InBasket up on a shelf because she'd climb in the top basket and use it as a sleeping station. (Yes, she DID break the basket and she now sleeps in the spot on my desk where the basket used to sit.)

Imagine yourself on a stressful business day when you have loads to do, then imagine a cat snoozing right in front of you, waking up only to lick, stretch, and dump a load of cat hair on your computer. Anyone would want to punt the kitty out the door, right?

I've never done it, but it's tempting on the bad days. The only thing that holds me back is the knowledge that I'm the dumb cat's #1 person. The kids may fawn all over her, but I'm the one she shadows. I overheard my daughter telling a friend this weekend, "Don't pick the cat up. She only likes it when my mom does it."

I had a cat before this one. Mouser ignored everyone in the house but me. He was 8 years old when I got him, and we called him the "invisible cat" because he only appeared at night after the kids went to bed. As Mouser got older and slower, he became more visible, and even let our kids touch him from time to time. After 8-9 years, he developed a tumor on his side and I had to put him to sleep. I stroked and petted him as the doctor inserted the needle, and watched the light die from his eyes.

I'll never forget the love and trust in those eyes as he went. No human is worthy of that adoration, especially me. I try, though. Even though I can't remember this new cat's name half the time, I try to be patient with it for Mouser's sake.

There's a saying about how all men should strive to be half as good as their dog thinks they are. I guess that covers women and dead cats, too.

Retirement speech

I just finished my fifth year as the service unit manager for our local Girl Scout organization. I voluntarily oversaw about 30 GS troops in our city. Basically, that means I told the leaders when their treasury reports were due, nagged them to get training and follow standard safety precautions, spread the word about fun GS events, and so on.

Sounds pretty straight forward, right? Not so much.

I'd originally planned to share the job with another woman. We agreed in the spring that we'd take over the job come fall. This woman was a cancer survivor and during the summer, her illness came out of remission with a vengeance. She lasted a handful of weeks, and died the week before our first meeting. She'd been determined up until the end that she WAS going to do this job, and the value she placed on this organization was what got me through the first year.

I had to field other situations when leaders called, wondering what to do when a girl's parent or sibling died. I had one leader call with an "incident" after a meeting between a girl and a school janitor. Another leader (who I still stand by as being innocent) was accused of molesting a neighbor. Even though all charges were dropped, he will never again have full custody of his daughter and can never again be a Girl Scout volunteer.

What did I find out as a volunteer Service Unit Manager? Life isn't always fair.

I often laughed at the irony that I was a volunteer. I had no training in counseling, and wasn't paid to deal with these heartaches. In retrospect, I would have gone nuts trying to "fix" these situations if I'd been a paid counselor. After five years I know now that some family issues can't be fixed. It doesn't stop me from worrying about if I could have done more, but at least I did okay.

Here's one final irony... I'm going to miss this job. The service unit benefitted from my technical prowess and communication skills. I got to help people, meet some terrific people -- both adults AND girls, and watch them grow. I'm definitely ready to move on to other things, but I'll always look back on what I did as a Service Unit Manager with pride.

That's enough for me.