Hand Me Down, Hand Me Up, Hand Me Anything

The Little Jumper That Could

I was definitely a girl ahead of my time.  Long before “vintage” became trendy and someone coined the term “re-purposed,” I served as the poster child for sustainable, responsible consumerism.  That sounds high-principled, but it really just means I wore a lot of hand-me-downs. As the fifth of six children, much of my wardrobe and other stuff had previously belonged to one or more of my siblings. The undisputed Queen of Hand-Me-Downs, I took other people’s cast-offs with unembarrassed glee.

Living at the end of the distribution chain had its joys. Think about Christmas.  Not only did I get to open my own presents, I could watch my two older sisters open their gifts and savor the certainty that the keyless shoe skates would eventually make their way to me.  Time was on my side—that blue and white checked maxi dress would be mine.  All good things came (only slightly worse for the wear) to those who waited.

My family’s total mastery of the hand-me-down concept is embodied in the holy relic I fondly think of as The Little  Jumper That Could. If you look at each of our 1^st grade school photos you’ll see what I mean. There it is, the LJTC gracing my smiling oldest sister on picture day –purple corduroy, sweet floral ribbon trim and tiny round white buttons. Four years later it crops up in another school picture, this time on sister #2.  But wait, how did I luck out? I wore the Little Jumper That Could in TWO school pictures: first grade and second. By 1969, when the above photo was taken the jumper had faded to a weary lavender color and the ribbon had curled at the edges.

Sadly, the system sort of broke down when I hit adolescence. My feet would not stop growing. Tagged “gun boat feet” by my brothers, they quickly overtook my sisters’ dainty shoe sizes and threatened to take over the planet. No more hand-me-down shoes.  Oh, and then I got tall—taller than my oldest sister almost overnight.  Passing clothes down the line became senseless.

But I never outgrew my love for hand-me-downs. I still pick up interesting items from assorted family members. Most of my inherited attire these days actually comes from my daughters, Hand-Me-Ups   I love my Grandpa’s plaid Pendleton jacket. My Dad’s big gray sweater has become my writing attire—it’s keeping me warm right now.  Dad wore it so often that putting it on feels like summoning him to act as my muse. Sometimes it just feels like one of his hugs.  No trendy new sweater from H&M can do that. I like clothes with a little history, a little piece of someone I love, a couple of stories to tell. I like my hand-me-downs.

Where do you fall on the hand-me-down continuum? Rather die than wear used? Or do hand-me-downs make you happy?


This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks.
http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/03/hand-me-down-hand-me-up-hand-me-anything/

Built-In BFF's

I grew up in a big family. A big loud, chaotic, close, loving, happy family. A unique family culture developed over the years, shaped by the influence of my parents and the six distinct individuals that they spawned.   OK, you are correct . . . "unique family culture" pretty much translates "serious weirdness." But it  sounds better, right? A few weeks ago four of the six siblings gathered with our mom and various spouses to celebrate my sister's fiftieth birthday. (My older sister, mind you.) As always, we laughed a lot and ate a lot and the conversation whirled at a dizzying speed.

At one point I sat back and tried to listen to the banter as it must have sounded to our waitress or to the slightly intoxicated people at the neighboring table. A peculiar lexicon evolves among siblings, based on shared experience and a common way of processing life. We spring along easily with one another's jumps in logic, follow each other's verbal shorthand fluidly. So much Sandholtz-specific vocabulary flew that a random passer-by would have no idea what we were talking about. It made me smile. Few things in life make me any happier than sitting around with my siblings. My life came fully equipped with built-in best friends.

I don't know how my mom did it. No doubt she occasionally longed to trade some or all of us to a passing camel train. Or she could have run off with the caravan and returned after we had all finished high school and become reasonably civilized human beings. But no, she and Dad stuck it out without killing or maiming any of us--even through our most annoying or obnoxious phases. (Mine stretched for more than a decade. The 1970's must have felt like a century to my parents.) And they liked us. No really, they liked us and so we liked each other. Still do. No gift mom and dad gave me even touches the gift of siblings--not even my Burgundy Cherry Schwinn three-speed or the Barbie Beauty Center.

There's something deep and durable about a friendship that develops between two people who share a bunk bed, or a tube tent on a backpacking trip, or the rear cargo area of a Plymouth station wagon on a cross-country road trip. Who called for help when I shoved a rock up my nostril while the parents were gone? Taught me how to cut open a golf ball on Dad's work bench?  How can I not feel devoted to a sister who walked me down the dark hall to the bathroom (all ten feet of it) every night for years because I was afraid of boogey men or a brother who let me climb on the back of his mo-ped and hitch a ride to Livermore High School? Who but a sibling would welcome me and my four kids to stay in his home for seven weeks so that I could attend the last term I needed to finish my bachelor's degree or farm her own children out to friends so that she could fly eight hundred miles to help me after an emergency surgery or take time to read an essay at midnight and give thoughtful feedback? My siblings make me laugh out loud and let me whine now and then and inspire me with their sheer goodness. We fit, like old jeans or broken in Vans--comfortable, familiar, easy. Our pasts are intertwined, our present and our futures as well. We are part of each other's eternity.
BFF's.

What do you love about having siblings? What's your favorite sibling memory?

Chaos Theory

Today is my day to post on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. Meet me there to be impressed by my mad organizational skills. http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/03/chaos-theory/

Unplugged/Tuned In

We spent the long weekend utterly unplugged. No iPod, no laptop, no internet to surf. Even my cell phone stayed in the car where it could vibrate all day and I would remain blissfully oblivious to its intrusions. Heaven. Honestly, it felt like heaven. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if I found out that Heaven actually resembled Sea Ranch on a long February weekend with good friends. Check your ear-buds at the door and forget wi-fi. The only way to hear this music is to unplug.

The playlist? Docile waves spill over sand in ceaseless rhythm then pull back with contented sighs. Seagulls state the obvious and small birds titter the morning news. Narrow freshwater rivulets gurgle down the bluffs and leap over the cliffs, laughing. Mighty surf pounds on black rock, crashing and roiling and then rushing back to mount again. Ocean music mesmerizes me. I never tire of listening. Sitting by the sea, eyes open or eyes shut, I am captivated.

Still, something odd happens when I spend a few days on the coast. When we first arrived at Sea Ranch and stepped out of the car, the sounds of the ocean washed over us. The beauty and power of the music almost overwhelmed me. That night I opened the window slightly and listened in the dark until I fell asleep. By the following afternoon, I had to remind myself to hear. In the midst of everything unfolding around me--good conversation, good food, a good book, a bad cold, a crummy hand of cards--the music faded into background noise that scarcely pierced my consciousness. Waves continued to crash, the ocean had neither moved nor shut down for the night. While my attention wandered,  the music remained constant. But unless I deliberately tuned in to the sounds of the sea, they became mute to me.

I notice the same tendency in myself when it comes to tuning into the eternal in day to day life. When I live mindfully--choose gratitude, look for the good, open my heart--a breathtaking song overwhelms me.  My soul knows the music and recognizes the voice of the Maker. But too often I get absorbed in the immediate, the daily, the hand of cards I hold at any given moment. Life distracts me and I miss Him. His voice becomes mute to me.  My attention may wander, but He remains constant. "Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep." (Psalm 121:4) Amazing what a long weekend at the ocean can do. This week I stop and deliberately listen for the Divine. The music sweeps me up in a dance that I have long known but am learning new. It captivates me, mesmerizes me. Unplugged. Tuned In.

Put Cupid Out of a Job . . . Fool Proof Valentine Recipe

You need a quick, classy, clever Valentine, right? Something unique and romantic that doesn't cost an arm and a leg? Easy. Write a love poem. No, really, write a poem for someone you love. Instant romance. Free. You can't beat that. Two dozen excuses for not writing a Valentines poem have just sprung to your mind. Nice try. You don't have to be a Nobel prize winning poet or an English major or anything like unto it. Go for a haiku. Haiku is lithe, elegant, and avoids the pitfalls of cheesily contrived rhyme. The format is simple: Three lines; five syllables then seven syllables then five syllables again; no rhyme required.  Five-Seven-Five. OK? Like, ummmm, this:

slice of morning sun
falls on your bright face and dims
by comparison

or

my heart still drums that
mad elated rhythm when
you walk in the door

or

you are my springtime
coaxing into bloom bright buds
that yield sweeter fruit

Try it. You'll get hooked. Write a haiku for someone you love or a haiku about anything. If you feel like sharing, include your haiku in a "Comment" and make my day. We'll call it our First Annual Valentines  Day Haiku Fest. I triple dog dare you. Happy Valentines  Day!

Nothing Says "I Love You" Like . . .

Grade school. Every February. The teacher handed out white paper lunch sacks and red construction paper and doilies. I got most excited about using the paste. It came in a tub with a plastic stick in the lid for spreading the sticky stuff (or for licking, in my case. The paste had a pleasing peppermint-ish taste that I couldn’t resist. What a great dual function school supply– an adhesive and a snack. Score!) Once I had made my sack as pink and red and heart-covered as possible (and cleaned the paste stick thoroughly with my tongue) I taped it on the front of my desk and the waiting began.

During the week leading up to Valentine’s Day the doily-enhanced “mailbox” filled up with cards and treats from my classmates. The torture became acute as I wondered who put the box of conversation hearts in my sack. A BOY?!? Finally February 14th arrived along with a room mother in cat’s-eye glasses bearing a tray of pink frosted sugar cookies. We tore into our mailboxes and began the process of analyzing the cards, reading them carefully for each delicate nuance. The conversation hearts came from suck-up Andrea. What a let-down. Most of the boys gave out dumb Hot Wheels and Batman Valentines with messages like “You’re on track, Valentine” or “Biff, Pow, Zap—you knock me out.”L-A-M-E. But Bobby T. gave me a Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp Valentine that said “I go bananas for you.” That can only mean one thing. Nothing says “I love you” like a chimpanzee in a three-piece suit with a briefcase in one hand and a banana in the other, right? Aah, romance.

These days, I confess, Valentine’s Day does nothing for me. Don’t get me wrong, I consider myself a true romantic. I just don’t pine for diamonds or long-stemmed roses or perfume. (A little high quality dark chocolate always sits well, though.) Those things seem trifling, flimsy even, next to the year-round-real-life-doily-free Valentines that Bob fills my life with. I recognize them for what they are– “I go bananas for you” materialized. Like Bob buckling my ski boots when my left hand refuses to cooperate then taking the blue square runs instead of the black diamonds so that he can warm my hands on the lift and ski just behind me to rescue me when my Parkinson’s wins and I fall. Or when he stands at the kitchen sink during “crunch time” for a dinner party, washing dishes in the wake of hurricane Jerie, wiping the counters clean just as the doorbell rings. Dancing with me in the living room. Laughing with me late at night or just letting me cry. Back scratches and checking the air in my tires and taking down the Christmas tree. Nothing says I love you like work and compromise and playing Scrabble three nights in row and cleaning up after four kids who have stomach flu. Romance indeed. No Valentine that money can buy could top it. Unless maybe Bob could find a tub of that paste . . .

In your world “Nothing says I love you like . . .”? What would your ideal Valentine be?

This post originally appeared on The Peanut Gallery Speaks. You can follow the comment thread there.

http://www.peanutgalleryspeaks.com/2011/02/nothing-says-i-love-you-like/

Seeing With My Other Eyes

Lydia stood up in front of hundreds of complete strangers and sang her heart out with earnest blue eyes. She had somehow managed to find clean tights and Sunday shoes among boxes stacked three deep in the house she had just moved into. After the first song she walked bravely to the pulpit that dwarfed her pixie-like frame and spoke clearly into the microphone, prompted by a woman she had met only moments before.

Lydia is four years old and that Sunday marked her first week in a new church congregation. The children  presented the program at the service that day. I sat on the back row of the chapel and wept because I knew that my grand-daughter hadn't wanted to move in the first place and that reserve often overtakes her in new situations or among strangers. But not that day. She raised her eyes and lifted her voice and I saw her. I saw her ancient, magnificent soul filling the space above the pulpit, not a bit like a pixie. I sensed the towering being she has always been and will become more completely on her life's journey--ablaze with pure light, her hair lightly brushing the vaulted ceiling above her, blown by an unseen wind. Then my eyes came back into focus on the small girl in the pink sailor dress with the ponytail. An intense wish filled me, a desire to take Lydia's hand and walk with her, to lead her and to follow her.  And I resolved to always see her with those other eyes, and to treat her as the luminous eternal creature that she truly is.

Several questions have lingered in my heart since that cold Sunday morning. What if we went through life with our other eyes wide open? Would it change our responses and interactions day by day if we worked to see in one another the divine, the majestic, the essential? Could we more readily extend respect or patience or compassion to our fellow travelers if we tried to see others as God sees them? How did Lydia tap into her bigger self to rally the courage and confidence to stand and deliver in a new and unfamiliar place? I suspect children have an easier time believing the words they sing at Primary on Sundays,"I am a child of God, and He has sent me here . . ." When we truly understand that simple yet profound truth we can do anything. Our understanding of our own worth and the worth of every single human being we encounter enables us to respond with generous hearts and to stand like Lydia in frightening situations and sing our hearts out.

I've heard of rose-tinted glasses, and I suppose that they could cast a certain lovely softness around our view of the world. But at some point the glasses will come off, or get scratched or stepped on and my view of life would go suddenly gray. I would rather keep my soul-eyes open instead and discern the beautiful and true selves of God's children who cross my path. So don't be surprised if you feel familiar to me when we meet as strangers along the way. I may not know your name, but I know your Father. And when I look at you with my other eyes I can see the resemblance.