It's a Kind of Magic

I don't think I am the only one who has experienced a little bit of Christmas magic in their lifetime.

I know that having had children in my life for the past 16 years, the holiday has been a source of great stress but also great joy. But even with kids of my own, my thoughts this time of year are of the best Christmases I ever had. The ones when I was a little girl waiting for Santa and hoping my little heart out that I had been good enough to get a few presents under the tree.

Of course I have memories of the great gifts I received over the years, as well as the great gift (a Cabbage Patch Kid) I didn't receive, but my favorite memory has nothing to do with a gift. It has to do with the year my brother and I hung out with Santa in our bedroom.

I was probably 5 or 6 at the time and my brother and I were just bursting with excitement. It was Christmas Eve and my mom was trying her best to get us to go to sleep. My brother and I had bedrooms in the attic and, if memory serves me correctly, we were sharing my room for the night. I remember finally being in bed too awake to even think about sleeping and I am sure my brother and I were whisper talking when we were interrupted by these sounds coming from the roof.

Thunk, thunk, thunk

We stopped talking to see if we could hear it again. Our minds were racing as we wondered if it could have been reindeer landing on the roof. What we heard next was a different sound. A much louder and recognizable sound.

"Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas!" Followed by the ring of sleigh bells.

Now we knew Santa had arrived and we raced out of our room to greet him. We were about to bound down the stairs for a first hand view of the man in red but were cut to the chase. He was actually coming up the stairs and each step was loud as his boot met the wood. By the time he got to the top of the staircase, my brother and I were jumping up and down.

I think my brother, with the more outgoing personality, was ready for a sit down with Santa but it was tight quarters upstairs. As we were getting the pleasantries out of the way I remember my brother saying, "Santa, let me put the light on."

Santa replied with a chuckle, "No, Ronnie that's ok." But before he could finish his sentence my brother had flipped the switch. What happened next I can visualize as if it happened yesterday. The light bulb in the fixture came on for a second and then flickered out. The bulb was dead.

Now don't think we were all fumbling in the dark, squinting to see Santa. There was a faint light on in the hallway, but my ever so curious brother wanted to see ol' Saint Nick clearly and fully illuminated. (Keep in mind, a brightly lit room could have revealed familiar traits that may have blown our guest's cover.)

The lack of light did not dim our conversation though. I really don't remember if I mustered up any courage to say one word during our special visit, but my brother had the chance to ask the burning question on his mind, "By the way, Santa, how's your wife?"

I remember the laughter and joy surrounding our intimate visit with Santa. It was brief but powerful. I don't even remember what special toy Santa left me that year, but the gift I received that night has outlived anything received as a child. (Although,  had I received a real Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas in '83 I bet I would still have her.)

The memory of the light bulb burning out in the lamp carried me through my years of Santa doubt. I know there might be a truly practical, scientific reason why at that moment the bulb gave its last glow, but I prefer the more magical explanation. Wherever you stand on the Santa story, you cannot deny the magic surrounding this time of year.

During the past couple weeks I have noticed people are a little more friendly, more generous, more loving. I had a conversation in Walmart with a stranger about elf slippers as if we were best friends. I received an unexpected gift from a friend that was absolutely perfect. I had a picnic dinner with my husband in an uncrowded PPG Wintergarden surrounded by gingerbread houses and Santas from around the world. Magic!

I hope whatever magic you find this Christmas season makes your heart happy and warms your soul.

Merry Christmas!

KB and Santa at the Governor's Mansion

Up On The Roof Top

Sometimes it takes 14 years to make a dream come true.

This weekend after a very long day, I returned home to see a beautiful lit Christmas wreath adorning my house. The wreath was complimented by our festive Christmas lights, wise men, Mary and Joseph.

My husband, like many other smart minded people, took advantage of temps in the 60's this past weekend to get the outdoor decorating done. I know some of you overachievers had your lights up after Thanksgiving, but after getting the inside of our house decorated, our gas tank was on E.

This wreath I speak of has been a dream of mine since we moved into our home 14 years ago. Our roof comes to a point above our front door and the triangle shape, in my opinion, made the perfect spot for a wreath. Of course slapping a wreath up there would not be easy. There would be drilling involved, borrowing a ladder, heights to be climbed. No, this was not for the faint of heart.

In my loving, wifely way, each year I would say, out loud, this year I am going to put my wreath up there - like it would be so easy with a wave of my wand "Poof!" there it is. Truthfully, I was a waiting for my husband to risk life and limb to make this happen. Believe me when I tell you, with kids and work, some years it was a feat just to get the tree up. (I am sure many of you can relate.)

I was never truly disappointed when a Christmas would come and go without the touch of green that could make our house snap with holiday sizzle. But, I would whisper to myself, like a sinister Elf on the bad side of the North Pole, "Next year, will be my year and I will be envy of everyone in Christmas town."

This past weekend paved the way for my husband to 'get er done' since I would be out of the house for most of Sunday. He bought the wreath, bought a special drill bit to drill through mortar and then borrowed a ladder from our next door neighbor. I wish I could have watched the scene unfold as the magic started to happen. I am sure, while on the ladder, the words coming out of my husband's mouth were not very magical, but he would never admit that.

One of our other neighbors assured my husband that he didn't need to drill through the roof to make way for Santa. "That is what the chimney is for," he joked. Yes, my husband was able to spread holiday cheer and humor throughout our neighborhood, trying to make my Christmas dream come true. When he explained his story and what he was actually trying to do after 14 years the same neighbor responded sympathetically , "Sometimes it takes that long."

My husband told me to inform him when I would be driving up our street so we could do light up night. This was a tradition from my childhood when after a day of detangling lights, hanging up strands of bulbs, and replacing burned out bulbs my mother would take us kids across the street so my dad could flip the switch for the first time to reveal our holiday house.

Some years it would be red lights. Some years it was multi-color, although my dad's signature shade was blue. I remember our exaggerated 'oohhhs'  and 'ahhhs' to make my dad feel good about a job well done.

The one year my dad was having some trouble getting the lights to come on after numerous attempts to flip the switch. He came outside to investigate the problem  and that is when our neighbor's adult son classically asked, "Hey Ron, you need a match?" My siblings and I wanted to laugh, but we did not dare. We feared our dad would not be able to keep his frustration in check and may take a swing at the guy. But luckily, my dad offered only a slightly sarcastic reply and minutes later was able to set the house aglow with the cool flicker of soft blue illumination.

Light up night this past weekend offered the usual glow of red, green and white lights on our home along with the nativity scene, but it was only after pulling in the driveway did I notice the wreath near the roof. I was so surprised and excited. Because the windows of our van were down, in an attempt to give my older children a better view, I am sure my neighbors could hear my big mouth yelling, "My wreath, my wreath, I finally got my wreath!"

I am not sure why this became the year of the wreath. Was it the weather? Was it that the stars were aligned? Was it my nagging? We probably will never know the true answer to this one but really, who cares? The wreath is up and I can take in it's glow every night when I pull into our garage after a long day. I am kind of thankful that it took more than a decade for this dream to come true because I am sure after the first year, fifth year or even tenth year that I mentioned it, it would not have been appreciated nearly as much as it is now.

Snoopy creator Charles Schulz is quoted as saying, "Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone.” It sure is nice to be that someone!

Santa, please....

You may have spotted a jolly man in a red suit if you did any shopping Black Friday weekend. My daughter and I were coming back from running errands on Saturday when we spotted Santa and it appeared he needed some chicken fries from a fast food restaurant.

We were so excited for our first sighting of the season. We were hooting and hollering in our van screaming, "It's Santa! It's Santa!"

My daughter did not know I decided to see where Santa was actually headed. Instead of going straight through the intersection, I turned right. I wanted to know where Santa was going and what was he up to. When away from the North Pole, did he super size his fries? Was he a beef or chicken guy? Coke or Pepsi? I wanted to know.

This seems absurd that a 44 year old woman would be this interested in getting to the bottom of Santa's food preferences, but what can I say? Inquiring minds want to know.

As I pulled into the parking lot, our eyes were peeled to see if Santa was in the food line or already seated. But in the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of red. As I pulled focus I noticed red items balled up in the back of a pick up truck. As I took in the entire scene, I saw a man with red pants around his ankles standing near the side of a truck. Santa was taking his pants off in the parking lot.

"Cover your eyes!" I warned my daughter as I drove away as fast as I could. Don't get me wrong. Santa wasn't exposing anything. He did have layers on, but my fantasy world was extinguished pretty quickly.

I kept replaying the scene and shaking my head. It was not right to have a Santa disrobing in a parking lot. Don't these guys so to Santa school? Isn't there an etiquette code these "Helpers" have to follow?

The next day I went to a nearby store and once again a Santa sighting. I was with all three of my kids and yet again the response was the same "There's Santa!" Now my little guy is 7 so I would imagine his excitement is more heightened than someone in their fourth decade. But before you could say ho ho ho, he was yelling at a motorist driving though the parking lot to hurry up so he could cross.

"Come on, come on," he uttered gruffly as my kids and I took a step back. This Santa was grumpy and we didn't want any part of that.

Now it isn't even December and these guys are already disgruntled. What is going on?

I have to admit that I am not too keen on seeing another Santa anytime soon. I don't know what I am going to get. My Christmas spirit was at an all time high until I saw the remake of Bad Santa come to life.

Not for one minute do I believe that being a retail or restaurant Santa is easy. I know what some kids are like and if you aren't used to being around little ones it can be taxing. But if you are in costume, whether you are grabbing a quick bite or going to the loo, these guys should keep in mind someone could be watching. Actions speak louder than words and I am sure Santa did not change in front of the elves or yell at reindeer who got in his way.

So please, dear people who this time of year make a few bucks taking on the role of Santa, remember this is more than just a job. It is a passing of the torch if you will. A spark of magic that can last a lifetime. Please don't yell at people while in costume and please keep your drawers on until you are out of sight!

  

Ho Ho No

I did something last week I have never done. Ok. I don't know if never is the right word but for the first time in at least 16 years I started listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving.

Two of my kids came home from school to observe candles lit on the dining room table, muffins on a Christmas tree tray and 'Is Zat You Santa Claus' blaring from the living room.

"Mom, what is going on?" my daughter shouted. "Please turn it off."

Yes, I admit even for me it was weird. Deep down, I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. I was like Superman and my kryptonite had arrived - about an inch of snow on November 16. It made everything look a lot like Christmas and I wanted to bask in it. The snow wore down my defenses and I was not up for a fight.

Funny thing is I didn't wake up that way. In fact, an hour before the holiday spirit took over my body I was buying up what was left of 70% off Halloween decorations at the local dollar store. I had a basket full of spiders, window cling skeletons and webbing I planed to pack away to surprise myself when I unpack the tote next October. But the Thanksgiving stuff was bookended around the Halloween stuff. Then the Christmas stuff was just across the aisle. I was...defenseless.

Although I managed to get out of there without any tinsel, the seed was planted. When I got home, I baked muffins and made a pot of potato soup. The view from my kitchen window was hard to ignore - the shed, trees and bushes lined with snow. (Blades of green grass could still be detected as the snow wasn't deep enough to make it a true Norman Rockwell scene.)  The wind was howling adding a chill to the air and, for me, the only blanket big enough and warm enough to drive away the winter blues was to embrace the only thing I like about winter, Christmas.

I have been a staunch believer that Christmas music is for after Thanksgiving. There were even years I made my family wait until December 1 to start listening to anything ho, ho, ho and fa, la, la. Before you report me to the Grinch Patrol, I have since seen the error in my ways. Now, after I have consumed my second plate of stuffing and sampled every pumpkin dessert,  it is time for Bing, Dean and The Beach Boys. To be fair, I just wanted to be sure as a family, we could devote time to be thankful for our blessings before diving headfirst into the consumerism that Christmas often brings.

There are mixed opinions out there about Christmas music being played before Thanksgiving. Last Friday, for Light Up Night in the city, some local radio stations started their 24/7 holiday music through December 25. You may not know this, but being the first station in the city to go all carols is kind of a big deal. I was lucky a few years back to be working in radio and experience the weird excitement surrounding "flipping the switch". High fives, hugs, cheers, the only thing missing was Buddy the Elf telling everyone "You did it. Great job everybody!"

Now I am stuck. I started something I don't think I can finish but luckily there are only a few hours left before I can, without guilt, immerse myself in the songs of the season. Maybe we need musicians to start recording Thanksgiving hits for people to enjoy, in lieu of carols, until Black Friday? I already have a few titles picked out, The Little Drumstick Joy, I'll Be Home For Leftovers, Carol of The Belch. Now, I've gone too far.

Bring on the carols 2016

A Tour To Remember

 My father asked my brother and I this question at lunch on Monday.

"Did you think your 'ol dad would make it to 72?"

My response: "Yes!" Without a doubt. Yes.

Kids, er I mean, adults who are kids at heart, do not want to entertain the notion that our parents are mortal. Even when my dad was in the thick of it this year with his cancer surgery, then chemo treatments, it was Bish strong all the way.

Don't get me wrong. There were days that were scary and days when my siblings and I reassured each other it was going to be ok, but not making it to his birthday did not cross my mind. So after all that he had been through this year, dad's birthday celebration had to be very special.

On a crisp November morning, seven people packed in my van and off we went. Destination - PNC Park. We were scheduled for a tour at 12:00 p.m. on the dot.

For my dad, being a life-long baseball fan, one who even tried out for the Pirates, this was the perfect way to spend an afternoon. Our tour guide, Jim, took us on a journey that seemed to last only minutes and started just beyond the turnstiles. We looked at memorabilia collected through the years from old bats, to jerseys to photos. We toured the underground city where players and staff work hard to create the magic that is a game day experience at PNC Park.

An appreciation for baseball is something I've inherited although not lovingly nurtured. I do not actively follow the Pirates or any Major League team. I do not go to many games, other than my son's coach pitch match-ups, and I don't talk ball with friends. But I did truly enjoy the afternoon at the ball park.

I don't want to take away from Jim's tour presentation but I learned a lot from the almost two hours we spent there. I learned I should take my allergy meds before attending a game, the field is straight up Kentucky Bluegrass, my nostrils' nemesis, and I also learned that Forbes Field was the model for PNC Park in many ways.

Although many of us know this fact from simply sitting in stands, it was confirmed on a grand scale while sitting in the press box (part of our tour). Our baseball park has a breathtaking view -one that an Impressionist painter could not recreate even on his best day. I hope to one day be able to sit there and watch a game and be expected to only write about the sensory experience that a Sunday afternoon at PNC Park can be.

I have fond childhood memories of Pirates games with my family at Three Rivers Stadium. I remember parking at Station Square and taking the boat. I remember trying to keep stats in the program book and being entertained by the always hilarious Pirate Parrot. I also remember my dad taking me to the concourse to cool off and get some shade when the afternoon sun got to be too much. Don't get me started on the best hot dogs I've ever eaten in my life.

I also have the memory of watching Three Rivers implode. Seventeen years ago, my family huddled on the banks of the Allegheny River on a cold February morning with a thermos of hot cocoa to see this iconic structure come tumbling down. Nothing could be better than Three Rivers I thought. Boy, was I wrong.

For a family of five, the PNC Park experience is a little more expensive than an afternoon at Three Rivers 30 years ago. I am not sure what my kids will remember about the few times we've gone to game when they look back on their childhood. But I do hope they remember their grandfather's 72nd birthday tour, posing for photos in the dugout, their uncle telling stories of the night fans flooded the streets during a playoff run, and being enveloped by the best view on the planet.

Remember Me

I did something this week I never would have done if it wasn't for a cartoon.

A little backstory on me. I have a strong affinity for animated entertainment. I saw Aladdin four times in a movie theater back in the 90's. I watched Blues Clues before I had kids. I have a Beaker plush doll on my dresser. I am not sure what my problem is, or even if it is a problem but...that's me.

Having kids has given me a pass to see all the latest animated flicks. During the summer, my family saw the Incredibles sequel, Hotel Transylvania 3 and the Winnie the Pooh movie. These were high priority viewings. My husband and I used to stay up to date on the movies in the running for an Oscar so we could vote among ourselves. Now the only category we recognize any movies in is Best Animated Feature.

This past year, I somehow missed the Coco train. This Disney Pixar movie came out in October of 2017 and the storyline dealt with the Day of the Dead celebration in Mexico. (I think all the animated skeletons in the previews may have put me off. As many of you may remember, I don't like scary things.) My interest was piqued though after a tune from the movie won Best Original Song during the 90th Academy Awards telecast in March. The movie itself was deemed Best Animated Feature Film.

When it appeared on Netflix in the spring, my youngest and I decided to watch it. I did not know what I was in for. It was the best animated movie I've seen in a while and I hold it to a high standard. Finding Nemo is probably my favorite movie of all time. Coco is right up there, really.

I didn't know much about the Mexican Day of the Dead celebration. I had seen news stories and photos and again it just seemed like a lot of skeletons and hanging out at cemeteries and because it was foreign to me, I thought it was a little strange. The movie does a lot to explain the whys of the celebration and how the Mexican people honor and remember their deceased loved ones at the end of October beginning of November each year.

The movie was also emotional for me. Yes, I seem to always cry during Disney movies. (You know it's bad when your kids watch you during sad parts of movies to see the tears start to flow almost on cue. At least my youngest will bring me a tissue.) I won't bore you with the details or spoil the movie for you, but there is a scene that was similar to something that happened to me with my grandfather when I was a little girl. Once the movie was over and I cleaned myself up I decided - we're doing it. This year we would have our own Day of the Dead.

Now I know I'm not Mexican and at first I think my family was like, "What?" But, I simply wanted to honor our family members who had passed on and teach my kids about those who came before them. I thought this tradition was a wonderful way to accomplish my desire. In the hectic day to day, we don't always have the time to share stories about grandparents or great grandparents who, in some cases, the kids never got to meet or were too little to remember, but our Day of the Dead would be a time to rectify that.

For us, we made a traditional 'ofrenda' or altar in our living room decorated with photos, flowers and special memorabilia of things our loved ones enjoyed in life. We had a bag of my mother-in-law's favorite snack, a small motorcycle in honor of my cousin, Jason, a record to celebrate my Pap Pap Bishop's love of music and a small Steelers jersey for my cousin Joe.

My husband and I took turns telling personal stories about each of our loved ones and our kids were able to ask questions. For dinner, we enjoyed Day of the Dead cinnamon bread and chicken soft tacos. We also listened to the Day of the Dead internet music station which made the dinner lively hearing upbeat Mexican mariachi music.

During the past couple weeks, it was nice to connect with out of town family members who helped me obtain the photos for our ofrenda. It was also nice to talk about our deceased loved ones in a happy setting, not dwelling on the loss, but focusing on their footprint on our lives. Because of the positive experience, my family has decided to make this an annual celebration. (I'm sure the tacos had something to do with this.)

My 'ofrenda'

Reeling From A Distance

It is hard not to be sad right now.

It is hard to not want to pack up all of my family's belongings and move away, somewhere safe.

But where? Nowhere is safe apparently.

This prospect might not be as scary if I didn't have children. Yes, of course I worry for myself and for my husband, but I really worry for them. The young, the innocent, the ones who have yet to drive, vote, to see the world. Yes, I am scared for them.

In this age of shootings at just about any place imaginable, I don't like my role as a parent. I don't like that I have to say things to them that I am not confident of - that no, a shooting won't happen at your school. No, a shooting would never happen at the mall. And the one that hits home now, no, a shooting would never happen where you go to pray in a neighborhood we drive through just about every weekend.

Yes, I hate the lies that I find myself telling anymore.

The sad thing is, I think my lies comfort them. I don't want them to worry everyday. I do that enough for all five of us.  The safeguards in place are not fail proof. If someone wants to hurt people, they will hurt people.

I heard commentary this morning about Saturday's synagogue shooting and how an armed guard might have impacted the situation. One of the speakers said having one wouldn't have made much difference and probably would have added to the fatalities. How about a side of reality with your coffee?

If they haven't left yet, we probably only have a day remaining of the national news crews hunkering down in the 'Burgh. Let's face it, Pittsburgh will become like Aurora, Las Vegas and Sandy Hook once the next big story breaks and it will. But those of us who live here are left to pick up the pieces. I am only one degree away from people who knew someone who was killed or wounded Saturday. I have friends who have been touched personally by this tragedy.  I am only reeling from a distance.

A musical performance my son was supposed to participate in near Squirrel Hill was cancelled this weekend out of respect for the victims' families. He received an email about the cancellation and since we were not together at the time of him receiving it he texted me right away.

"Did you hear about the shooting?"

We exchanged a few quick texts and he wrote, "It makes me sad." I have to realize having a sixteen year old, I can no longer shield him from tragedy and sadness. Now I have to be in help mode - teaching him how to process and move on.

I told him not to dwell on it. Great advice, right? But days later it seems my thoughts find their way back to the eleven killed and the others who were injured. How can we change this cycle of hate? How can we prevent this from happening again? My heart is heavy. My head hurts.

But I have seen images of acts of kindness happening in the wake of Saturday's tragedy. People leaving flowers on cars, kids making cookies for police officers, schools sending messages of hope to those who are grieving. My oldest asked me, "What can we do right now?" He seemed interested in donating money to help.

But my answer was simple.

Spread kindness throughout your day and just be nice to others.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

Elijah Matthews, a student at Rankin Promise School, with a sign he made this week.

They're Coming To Get You, Barbara

Halloween is not my favorite holiday. Yes, I know some people really get into it with the scary decorations and the skeletons and the ghosts and the well, you get the point. I never really liked being scared, unlike my husband, who has seen every scary movie ever made.

When we first started dating and into the early years of our marriage, I tried to be accommodating. Once or twice a year I would agree to watch something he wanted to watch. I guess people need a break from romcoms. (I don't know why?)

We started out slow. I can do the black and white Bela Lugosi movies and of course, if you're from Pittsburgh, you have to have Night of the Living Dead on your 'Have Seen' list. I am proud to say I know one of the zombies from the film, he was a co-worker of my husband, and I worked with the legendary Bill Cardille (Chilly Billy), who played the news reporter. I could not brag about these unless I saw the movie.

As scared as I was to watch the film, the part that came after made seeing the movie even more memorable. My husband, despite loving a good horror flick, can be easy to scare. As we laid in bed, in the dark, about to fall asleep, I uttered, in the most chilling voice I could mutter, one of the classic lines from the film, "They're coming to get you, Barbara." He jumped out of bed so quick. My roaring laughter for the next 15 minutes made the whole night worthwhile.

When I was little, I remember one Halloween when our neighbor decided to get into the spirit of the holiday. He was an older gentleman and didn't mean any harm, but he was able to scare the pants off of the young family next door. A short time after trick or treating was over, he snuck onto our front porch with a skeleton head with glowing eyes. I guess he had the head attached to something he could move up and down because the head went from the front window to the three diamond shaped windows on the top of our front door.

My mom called my dad, who was working night turn, and explained what had happened, basically looking for comfort. At the time, she had two kids under 7 plus a baby and was pretty worked up. The next day my dad got to the bottom of it and let's just say this neighbor kept his tricks to himself in the future.

But being scared has never been part of our family Halloween celebration. It is about carving the cute pumpkins, smiley ghost decorations and tame costumes. I think the scariest character my kids have chosen to be for Trick or Treat is Dracula. That was one of my favorite costumes because my oldest was young enough to want to still dress like his dad. The two were a fang-tastic team which made singing and acting out the following lines from the Monster Mash even more meaningful: "The zombies were having fun. The party had just begun. The guests included Wolf Man, Dracula and his son."

My youngest still has Halloween parties at  school and I continue to dig out the token witch costume I've worn three years in a row. It has cute green and black stripey tights, pointy hat and black dress. What lady over 40 turns down the chance to wear a slimming black dress? I choose not to show off the grey strands of hair that are attached to the hat. I have natural grays baby. I don't need any help in that department.

I do dress up to hand out candy on Halloween night. My husband takes our kids around the neighborhood and I mingle with the Trick or Treaters. I have had my sights on a family costume theme, but this has never seemed to work out. We did come close years ago when we did characters from the Cartoon Channel show Adventure Time. We had a baby Jake the dog, Beemo, Marceline, The Vampire Princess, and I was the Flame Princess. My husband, who was supposed to be Finn, worked downtown and had to navigate through rush hour traffic. By the time he arrived on the scene, Trick or Treat hours were almost over and meltdowns were in full effect.

Ever since, I have tried to get everyone on board but now that my oldest is 16, he does not want any part of it. My daughter has approached me to see if we can team up and I am considering it. I think she feels sorry for me not getting my wish, but I guess I'll take what I can get. With only a few days left to come up with a costume, the clock is ticking. Her initial idea was Ursula and Ariel from The Little Mermaid. I think with a red wig, green pants and construction paper sea shells across my chest, I might be able to pull this off.

Hey Nineteen

My husband and I recently celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. The day was a low key affair (gearing up to the 20th) as we both had to work and the kids had to be taken to their nightly designated activity, but at least we were able to go out for dinner just the two of us.

The celebration got me thinking about how so many things have changed in 19 years, but some remain the same. One thing that happens like clockwork is the annual placing of the Biederlack blanket on our bed when the weather gets cold. My youngest calls it the mommy blanket. (He has a special blanket of his own so he knows the importance of such an item.)

We received the blanket as a wedding gift 19 years ago. I don't exactly remember opening this gift to be honest. We didn't register at any department stores and I didn't have a wish list at all. Any presents on the gift table were a complete surprise. I wanted people to select a gift they thought would come in handy for a newlywed couple. I have to admit, the blanket did not get much use during our first couple years of wedded bliss. Living near Virginia Beach, the winters were a little less harsh than they are in western PA.

I had never heard of a Biederlack blanket. Doing research for this column, I discovered they were once manufactured and distributed in Cumberland, Maryland. This brings the gift into perfect focus now as my friend, who gifted the blanket, grew up there and I would imagine people from Cumberland had great pride for this well made, once locally produced item.

According to Wikipedia, in 2009, the Biederlack company ceased its North America manufacturing operations. I had no idea, years ago, that this warm, soft, white blanket, made in Cumberland, according to the tag which is worn but can still be read, would make the almost two decade journey down life's bumpy road.

I still have quite a few wedding gifts that have lasted almost two decades including: a wall grandfather clock, a 50 cup coffee maker, a roasting pan, a few other kitchen gadgets, and the angel that sits on my Christmas tree. I am happy that I still have a lot of these items. Personally, I think they mean more to me than things my husband and I would have chosen on a registry.

There are things, like the 50 cup coffee maker, that I never would have selected at age 25, not knowing how often it would come in handy at many a church or reception type function. Also, the roaster, I did not envision making a turkey dinner when I first got hitched. My husband and I lived on Hamburger Helper in the beginning, no joke. But now, the roaster has been instrumental in not only turkey dinners, but cooking the Easter ham and racks of baby back ribs.

It is nice to look at these items from time to time and recall the person or persons who brought them into our journey. I have a lovely crystal serving dish and bowl from my cousin who now lives in Iowa. Life has a way of moving people around and it is nice to remember how on a rainy October day, our closest friends and family were together to see us take the first of many steps as husband and wife.

Luckily, we received some pretty wonderful wedding gifts because my husband and I have not been big gift givers on our anniversary. Looking back, I wish we would have observed the traditional gifts for each year. It would have been nice to have a collection of 19 things to look back on from each milestone year. We did assemble a collection of three kids, the gifts that keep giving and taking.

According to the internet, the gift for #19 is jade. My husband and I both missed the memo on the that but apparently, according to Hallmark's official wedding anniversary website, Chinese take-out from Jade Palace would have fulfilled that particular anniversary celebration. I could have served it on my cousin's crystal serving dish. I wonder what our fortune cookies would have said?

Oven mits received at my bridal shower. Yeah, she is missing a nose but after 19 years who hasn't lost a thing or two?

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Red River Regret

 A couple Christmases ago, I put together a scrapbook about my paternal grandfather's service in World War II. All I had to work with was a box filled with papers and a few photos. I tried to put everything in order the best that I could, but I had no one to ask for help. Both he and his wife, my grandmother, were deceased. I had lots of questions especially when I found out he helped work on radios making sure communications were transmitted smoothly.

It was interesting to me that my grandfather had this particular job in the service. Even though he died when I was only 12, one thing I knew for certain is that he loved music. He had quite the set up in his home - his very own music room consisting of two turntables, a reel to reel player and shelves upon shelves of records.

I bet being in the service, far away from home and his own record collection of big band, jazz and country western hits, a radio was probably the next best thing. As a cash-starved teenager, I also had a deep appreciation for my radio. Before the days of digital music abundantly at our fingertips, waiting by the radio to hear the Top 8 at 8 was crucial. Hearing a favorite song come on just in time to hit record on the portable cassette player, priceless.

When I started taking piano lessons, my grandfather went out and bought a bunch of sheet music to some of his favorite songs so I could learn to play them. The songs were too hard for me, as a beginner, who was not naturally endowed with sight reading ability. So they sat in my piano bench waiting for my talent to mature.

While we were waiting for that to happen a song he liked came around in my piano lesson book number 2. Good old Red River Valley. I think my dad really wanted me to play that song for him which is why I had to bring that book with me to a gathering at my aunt and uncle's house. Bad news though, they did not have a piano with 88 keys. They had an organ - a multiple keyboard organ. Not the same at all.

I dreaded playing this song because I knew I would screw it up. I probably could have muddled through it, but I wanted it to be perfect. I didn't like to make mistakes and I was scared silly to play in front of people in the first place, even with familiar equipment. So I ended up making some excuse and not playing it at all.

Regret is a tough pill to swallow even at the age of 12. I never did get to play that song for my grandfather because he passed away a few weeks after that family gathering.  I would be lying if I said hearing that song, to this day, doesn't make me feel bad. I still have all the sheet music he bought me years ago, but since my piano career fizzled, learning how to play those songs did too.

There have been a lot of tears shed during the past two months each time I've watched my children perform with the the East Allegheny Marching Band. The show takes the audience back in time to the famous Birdland jazz club in New York City where people like Count Basie, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and Miles Davis performed.

The music is brass and bass heavy with a show stopping drum solo. I think my grandfather would have enjoyed seeing his great-grandson slappin' the upright bass, wearing a tuxedo no less, like the great Walter Page of the Count Basie Orchestra.

I hope to one day have the time to devote to the sheet music my grandfather selected for me decades ago. I would love to learn how to play those songs just for the closure and peace it would finally provide. But until then, I'll be tapping my foot through the tears in Birdland and hoping in Heaven the music is in stereo not mono.

A couple albums I saved from Grandpap's collection.

Lagom

If you don't know what the word lagom means, that's ok.

I didn't know either until a few weeks ago. It is the Swedish word for not too much not too little, in moderation, just enough.

My daughter brought a book home from the library about the art of living lagom. I didn't see the book until it was 3 weeks overdue and I received an email about the fines that were accumulating. (Not very lagom ironically.) I went through her room trying to find this particular publication. Upon retrieval, I noticed its mere appearance was appealing; a soft blue color with comforting drawings of flowers, fish, a teapot and a bicycle. I was curious. I started to read.

As I paged curiously through this book about living moderately, the wheels of revolution started turning in my head. "The time for change is now" were the words I was hearing in my head and I was ready to stand up for all things lagom, on a much smaller scale.

I have had an affinity for Scandinavian things since I was young. The name Kristen has Scandinavian origin. The fifth largest city in Norway is Kristiansand. (Spelling close enough to my name.)  My family celebrates the feast of St. Lucia each year on December 13, the day that kicks off the Christmas season in Scandinavia, when the oldest daughter in the family dresses in white with a crown of candles and delivers cinnamon rolls to her loved ones. (I am not sure if this one isn't more about the cinnamon rolls than the Scandinavian connection.)

I have always wanted to visit the Nordic countries. Of course, not during January when in Stockholm, Sweden, the sun rises at 8:47 a.m. and sets at 2.55 p.m. As a Leo, this girl needs her sun. But my chances of getting there any time soon is slim. My daughter's book made it seem like a little piece of Scandinavia could be hiding away in my home. In my very own bedroom.

It was 13 years ago when, I, along with my husband and two of our children, moved into our current house. In the decade plus that we've lived there, every room, excluding the paneled basement, has been painted. Every room except one - our master bedroom.

Obviously you focus on keeping high traffic areas nice. The kitchen, living room, dining room - the places people gather during family gatherings. As the kids have gotten older, their rooms have gone through a couple color changes. The room I sleep in has stayed white. Plain old white.

We came real close to eliminating that white two Aprils ago when we actually bought paint for the room, but never got to the painting part. Although, when you already have paint on hand it is pretty good incentive for when the motivation finally strikes, and strike it did this past weekend. But before the painting could happen, the purging had to happen. Remember, not too much, just enough.

I found baby socks, decades old bills and a few dust bunnies the size of a small rodent in this room. It appears our bedroom became a storage area of sorts. A place were things go to die. Don't misunderstand. This is not hoarder level I'm talking about just well maintained clutter.

But being lagom is great for helping decide what should stay and what should go. What do you think happened to the dust bunnies? You guessed it. Gone! Unmatched socks? Gone! Phone bill from two years ago when we still had a landline? Gone! I have nine things sitting on top of my dresser right now, paired down from what once looked like Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory.

What can I say? Life and kids got in the way but I finally took control of my Viking ship and after a paint job and the purchase of new curtains, the first phase of my lagom revolution was complete. Caution: waiting almost two years to use a can of paint might cause color to not be what was originally chosen. In my case, it was a happy ending. Our ginger peach turned into a sunflower yellow and sunflowers are my favorite.

 I, along with my family's help, created a space of solace, my escape, my home within my home. For this I am bursting with gratitude. Some closets and dresser drawers are also bursting, with items I couldn't part with just yet, but that is a lagom project for another day.

I Need A Hero

I know this sounds silly, especially in terms of a Sunday afternoon watching football, but that is simply what it takes for me. If I am going to sit down, devote 4 hours of my day putting on the pounds, eating cheese, meats, crackers and dips, it better be worth it.

Yes, I need a hero.

So what exactly is my point, you might be asking yourself. I am not a huge football fan. I have shared this fact before and although many who hear this might say, "What? A girl from Pittsburgh, not a football fan? Show her the video of the Immaculate Reception stat!!!"

I get it. Football is so ingrained in the fabric of our lives here, having such a proud dynasty of successful Super Bowl runs, but for me it is more about, as Martin Luther King said, the content of their character. If I am going to root for you, I want to root for you, on and off the field. I don't want to hear about Twitter rants, womanizings, blunt rollings or DUI's when you are not scoring touchdowns.

That is why I liked Landry Jones. He was real folk to me. Just a God fearing guy who once in a while got a chance to rally his team and take them to the endzone. I was sad to see him go, although I knew the writing was on the wall. In fact, once the team picked up Mason Rudolph, I knew 'Having A Black and Gold Christmas' was not the carol Landry would be singing in December.

Then comes the saga of Le'Veon Bell. I know he is talented. He is one of the Killer B's but when you don't show up for training camp, or practice or games because your $14.5 million franchise tag is  considered an insult because of what other guys are making, shame on you. I can't fathom that amount of money and to me, anything over $1 million I wouldn't sneeze at.

A local sports writer a few weeks back tried to defend Bell in an article he wrote and I, Little Miss Non-Sports, read it. I went into it with an open mind hoping to get some kind of clarity on the subject of his absenteeism, but the staggering figure, the amount of money we are talking about, I could not get past.

I am a team player and I want my team to have team players. Bell may be taking a stand but I don't think, and tell me if I am wrong, I can support his position as he hangs his team out to dry.

It has been a rough couple of years for me because I am passionate about my players on and off the field. My husband on the other hand greets every game with the enthusiasm of a Super Bowl and doesn't care what a player did last week, last month or ten years ago. But much like Santa, I've got a list and I'm checkin' it twice and on game day I remember and my cheers are selective.

I know that my living room protest means nothing in the grand scheme of things. It may seem silly to some and that is ok because now I have a hero. I have number 30, James Conner. I was rooting for him against the Browns and I was rooting for him against the Chiefs. Watching his one handed catch blew my mind and he earned my support ten fold.

Conner's story is one only Dickens could top. Conner's enthusiasm, talent and spirit is something inspirational, and is something I can feel good about my seven-year-old looking up to.

I know it is a lot to ask for athletes to be people we can admire, but I am total package kind of gal. I am not expecting a bunch of saints on the field. I get it, we are all human. No one is perfect. But for $14.5 million dollars, I expect a little more and for $578,000, (Conner's salary according to Wikipedia) it appears Steelers' management might have gotten a lot more bang for way less bucks.

Drawing Nolan made during summer vacation.

Living The Dream, Again

One of the greatest joys of being a parent is watching my kids participate in something I enjoyed as a child. I tried my hand at a few things while growing up including, but not limited to: gymnastics, ballet, Slovak dance group, piano lessons, cheerleading, clarinet lessons and finally marching band.

That is quite an impressive resume if I do say so myself but, before you get the impression that I was a child phenom, let me present the reality. Gymnastics lasted a few classes until the teacher said to my mother, "Get that thing off the balance bar." I'm guessing not because I was so talented I didn't need further practice.

 Ballet lasted a few classes until the teacher quit and cheerleading, well that was a two year deal in Catholic middle school when there was nothing else to participate in so, despite rockin'  the tight perm, large glasses and the braces, I gave it a go. I was so totally not cheerleading material and probably concussed myself a few times doing somersaults on the hardwood floor.

We were supposed to tuck our heads and roll, but my head always seemed to make contact with the floor before each of my vertebrate followed suit. The best part of cheerleading were the awesome black and white saddle shoes I sometimes got to wear. Fashion first, you know.

My kids do participate in a Tamburitzan group but their involvement was completely coincidental. (No influence or coercion on my part wanting Slovak dreams of yore to come true.) We happened to attend a tea at a nearby church when my daughter was about 6 and the entertainment was of the ethnic variety. Once she saw the group perform she said,  "I want to do that." This lead to a seven year adventure for two of my three kids.

But my passion during my teen years was marching band. I remember attending a high school football game during my freshman year and seeing the band perform at half time. I turned to the friend I was with and, much like my daughter at the tea, said, "I want to do that." Funny thing, my friend said the same thing too. The following year she and I were both on the same field, me with my clarinet and my friend with her flag in the color guard.

Those years, as I have written about before, were so influential. At the time I had no clue how much my involvement in band would mean to me and how the lessons learned during those three years would resonate throughout the course of my life. I guess the biggest lesson is how hard work and dedication eventually pays off and how being a part of team is a gratifying experience. When all parts work together, something beautiful is created and I am proud of what we as a group,  and I as a player, accomplished during the late 80's and early 90's.

So when I had children of my own it was a dream of mine that maybe someday they too would participate in band. I spoke of this over the years, not often, and not like, 'When you are of age you will follow in my footsteps and you will make music on a football field, in a uniform, as I cheer and cry from the bleachers." Nope, that never happened.

What did happen was that last year my daughter had to choose between cheerleading and color guard. She asked my opinion on what she should do. I bit my tongue, not wanting to purposefully influence her to make my dream come true,  but desperately wanting to say, "Color guard, color guard, color guard!!" I wanted her to look at both activities objectively and make the right choice for her. She chose on her own and, whether or not my past played any role in her decision, I was happy to know there were years of marching band in my future.

What happened this year was not expected at all. I now have two kids on the field. My oldest son, as a junior, was asked to fill a void left vacant by a graduating senior who played the upright bass. Up until this point, my son had only been involved in orchestra with his cello. I gave up on having a playing member in the band, just happy to be there in any capacity as a guard mom. This new development has brought me great joy two fold and double the emotion while watching them perform. Although it is much harder to watch two kids than just one. (At least my son is stationary.)

I hope their band experience is as good if not better than mine. I have already seen both of them grow personally because of their experience. Becoming more responsible, practicing on their own, being a good team player, these are things that will translate well in the real world.

So much emphasis these days is placed on sports and the time and dedication behind the scenes - but there are similar skill sets needed to be a good performer. These kids work hard and are dedicated for sure. There are evening and weekend practices, Friday night football games and Saturday competitions. To watch their show progress from the start of the season until the end in November is like watching a caterpillar turn into a butterfly. Once their wings are ready, these kids can soar to the highest heights.

A Matter of Faith

The story is everywhere.

You cannot get away from it.

It is unfathomable. It is sickening.

As a Catholic, which I don't say out loud much these days, I cannot wrap my head around the recently released grand jury report. You've seen the news stories so I won't go into any details. Many of us are struggling. I know this because I've spoken with fellow Catholics, family and friends, and we just don't know where to go from here.

I am not a practicing Roman Catholic. I was baptized in the Byzantine Rite, which falls under the Catholic umbrella and puts us under the leadership of the Pope, but we have our own bishops and governing hierarchy. Our services are more Orthodox than Roman oriented. Since setting out on my own, I have been practicing the Byzantine faith steadily for about 20 years.

When I was little, my family would attend Roman Catholic services occasionally if we could not make it to our usual 11 a.m. Divine Liturgy. I never attended Roman services enough to become particularly close with any of the priests until college.

During my freshman year at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown, I often attended Sunday mass. It was comforting for my mom to know I was going to church while away at school and, even though there was not a Byzantine service in our non-denominational chapel, there was a Roman Catholic one each Sunday. My attendance each week led me to come to know the priest who celebrated mass, Fr. Joe, and I eventually joined the Newman Group, a club for young Catholics like myself.

This group was very important to me because I was living away from home for the first time and I needed to be a part of something familiar. I had a lot of questions and concerns and our meetings provided an opportunity to pray, discuss different topics and get a fresh perspective from a priest who felt like one of us.

He was down to earth, and easy to talk to. He was different from any priest I had encountered up to that point. He made me feel like a peer instead of a kid. Fr. Joe was someone I could go to and talk and I really needed that freshman year as my parents were going through a tough time back home. I needed security and the Newman Group provided that.

We even went on a weekend retreat to a local bed and breakfast. We made our own meals, ate tons of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups covered in whipped cream and had rap sessions at night. It was nice to talk candidly with a priest and be taken seriously. I felt like he answered our questions without the fire and brimstone answers we were used to getting. It made me feel good to know things weren't as black and white as they had always seemed growing up. I felt like I grew in my faith that year and that God seemed more approachable than ever before.

Three years ago, I saw Fr. Joe's picture in an online news story about a priest who had molested children at a homeless center in Honduras. I was in shock. I wanted to be sure it was my Fr. Joe and once I confirmed the last name and his affiliation with UPJ, there was no denying it was him.

Apparently, Joe would help raise money in the Altoona-Johnstown diocese to help support orphaned children in Central and South America and then make a couple of trips during the year to deliver money and supplies. His trips, unfortunately, were more than missions of charity. He is currently serving a 16 year, 8 month prison sentence and will face lifetime probation upon release.

I am not alone. Many people have stories about special priests who led a secret life. I have asked myself how could Joe have done this? How could this person, who helped me during a rough time in my life, also masquerade as a child predator - this man of God? I also wonder about the weekend retreats our Newman Group took back in college. Was someone in our group molested? Is he or she walking around with emotional scars that won't ever heal?

It is a hard time to be Catholic. It is a hard time to have faith but now is when we need it most. I am writing this not because I have the answers or any new insight on this horrible story. I am writing this because personally, I, need to find a way to move forward.

 A few years ago, Fr. Joe was just a priest I knew who was sick and had a serious problem. Now, he is one of hundreds across the state. My feelings are at the surface again, but I can't push them down this time. Where does the Catholic Church go from here? God help us.

Welcome Home

How many times have we heard that phrase? Welcome home. It is a nice little group of words that evoke a feeling of warmth and belonging to something familiar, home.

Imagine being far away from home. On a trip you didn't set out to take. In a place you didn't want to be. Doing things you didn't want to do for a period of time that probably felt like an eternity. It seems to me, in that situation, home would be constantly on your mind.

This scenario played out for my father almost 50 years ago. He was in a place called Vietnam after being drafted at age 18. I am sure at such a young age there were lots of things on his mind besides taking care of men who were wounded in a war that wasn't really understood. He was told he was fighting communism. That seems like a big fight for thousands of young American guys. Romantic even.

I have always been curious about my father's time in Vietnam. It was a subject that didn't come up much and when it did, the stories were benign - the R&R trips he took, the shots he had to administer, and the food he ate. There is one sad Christmas story I remember about being so homesick it was almost unbearable. There's that word again...home.

So if those were the stories I got, it made sense that I didn't get the full story about coming home. He didn't tell me how bad it was - the names he was called and how insensitively he and countless other veterans were treated across the country.

Recently, I had a co-worker tell me he took his uniform off on the plane during his flight home because, upon landing, he didn't want anyone at the airport to know he had served his country for fear of what someone might do or say. Not long after returning home, he eventually had to steer clear of mentioning his military service on a job application or resume, just so he could get a call back. Yes, welcome home indeed.

These stories make me sad and angry and I know I am not alone, but my dad's story is so personal to me for selfish reasons. I know despite his treatment when his tour was over, it beat the alternative of not coming home at all. Seeing the traveling Vietnam Wall that was recently in McKeesport, bearing 58,318 names, it became real that my dad could have easily been one of those lost but, his return paved the way for me and the life I have been able to enjoy.

A beautiful opening ceremony was held in Renzie Park last Thursday, to kick off a four day period during which The Wall That Heals could be viewed. The ceremony was thoughtfully crafted and really brought the audience full circle with the Vietnam experience. Although the focus of the Wall is to honor the dead, local elected officials also had the opportunity to recognize the living Vietnam veterans who never received a proper homecoming.  The names of 80 men were read, most of whom came forward, and they were presented with a commemorative pin and a Vietnam Veteran hat.

I can honestly say, I have never been more proud of my dad then when I watched him approach the podium to be recognized. It seemed like time went in slow motion as his hand went up to greet state Senator Jim Brewster, who was a classmate of his at McKeesport High School. Their embrace did me in and the waterworks began in earnest. Watching him stand along the wall with others who had served as the audience erupted in applause is a moment I will never forget.

Leaving Renzie Park that night, although overwhelmed with pride, I felt sad because it took that long for my dad and other veterans to get properly recognized for their service and sacrifice. But I came to the conclusion that for my dad, the wait provided 11 people with an opportunity to see something they would have missed had it happened 50 years ago.

When my dad returned to his seat in the audience, he was met by a storm of hugs and kisses from his family - three children, five grandchildren, sons-in law and, last but not least, his wife of 45 years.  If that isn't a proper homecoming, I don't know what is and I am thankful I was lucky enough to be a part of it.

Welcome home, dad.

They Say Its Your Birth Month

Even though I am almost 44, I still get excited as August approaches.

It seems very silly at this point, but one internet meme I've seen pretty much sums it up. It shows a young lady getting a tiara placed on her head with the words, 'Me on the first day of my birth month.' And that about sums it up, until the day after my birthday when the "party" is over.

In a perfect world I would do a bunch of celebratory things to commemorate my birth - polo matches, yacht races, wine tastings. Yes, the princess would like another please. But as an adult and parent, it is even harder to have the perfect day when you have that pesky responsibility of taking care of other people and the world does not, even for one day, revolve around you. Many a year my sister and I have consoled each other after a not so perfect birthday, knowing if we were still kids, the day would have rocked.

I blame my parents for this. Birthdays were very special in our house growing up. There was always breakfast in bed, a party and a big deal made over another trip around the sun. But the celebrations for me started right out of the gate, the very first day I began my earthly journey, which I don't remember very clearly, or at all for that matter, but I hear some rules were broken. My dad bought the biggest stuffed animals he could find from Bloom's Cut Rate in McKeesport and brought them to the hospital. As my mom's room was filling up with these large creatures, a nurse angrily commented to my mom, "You tell your husband this is not a zoo."

My mom, still dazed and confused, as she was completely sedated for my arrival, probably thought the animals were family and friends and probably had been chatting them up thinking she was at a party. (Just kidding mom, I know you gave that nurse what for - telling her, "Its his baby and he can do what he wants to.")

From my understanding, each of my siblings also got a large stuffed animal but none of them was as big or had the longevity of mine. My bear was so big, I could sit on its lap. I could put his arms around me. And I could cry on him when I was feeling sad. I don't think I ever gave him a name, I probably just called him 'Bear',  but he seemed to always be there in times of trouble. (Paul had Mother Mary and I had Bear.)

As I got older, 'Bear' did too. The little white, probably toxic, asbestos pellets (circa 1970's)  that gave him his girth, started finding escape routes, through small holes in his mouth, through his arms and through his feet. As a young teen, I would have to vacuum the carpet in my room (yes, he was still in my room at that point) to collect the pellets.

I am not exactly sure when 'Bear' made his final exit, but I am sure there was quite the clean up.

As you can see, from the beginning, birthdays were very special occasions. But as I got older, the birthday excitement translated to my children while my own birthday lacked the pomp and circumstance a build up that begins the first day of August would dictate. (Although over the years, I have received plenty of homemade cards with large colorful numbers featured prominently on the front or on the inside so I would not forget the number of years gone by.)

Last year I tried something different. I had each of my kids pick out something special they wanted to do with me, just one on one. This meant they were forced to put some thought into what they wanted to do, and it proved to be a day I will treasure. My youngest and I went to the trampoline park and played video games, my oldest treated me to lunch at Panera and my daughter and I got a pedicure. By the time the day was winding down, there was barely enough time to squeeze in dinner with the hubby and have my parents join us for cake.

Not sure what the plan is to commemorate my 44th loop around the sun. But I have about two weeks to walk around wearing my imaginary tiara, with visions of a decadent chocolate cake dancing in my head.

The Stewart twins helped break in 'Bear' at my baptism party. As you can see, Bear was huge.

Batter Up

Baseball has always been a part of my life...whether I liked it or not.

As a child of a man who once tried out for the Pirates, it was inevitable.

My first recollection of baseball is hearing We Are Family by Sister Sledge, when our Buccos were unstoppable for the final time...when they won the World Series back in 1979. Now I don't remember any games or plays. (I was all of 5 years old), but I do remember the excitement and the names of the players. John Candelaria, Ed Ott, Kent Tekulve, Manny Sanguillen and who can forget Willie Stargell? These guys were in my brother's baseball card collection and in some ways actually seemed like family. The way people page through old photo albums of loved ones from days of yore, we would look through stacks of Topps baseball cards.

I'm embarrassed to say that I recognize more names from the 1979 team than from today's current Pirates roster. But that is partially because I've got a new team I've been following -the EA Wildcats.

Yes, my 7 year old is playing baseball for the third year in a row, but something happened this season to make this go around a little bit different. I have been a reluctant fan all my life because I was kinda forced into the baseball scene. I had to go to my younger brother's games and while I really enjoyed the Happy Meals after a win, (one of his teams was sponsored by McDonalds) I wasn't so much into the game. I liked when he got a hit and made it on base but the rest was bore -ing.

My oldest son tried baseball for a season and that was just painful. He ended up hating it, but because he had made a commitment we made him finish it out. Our favorite memory was when he played catcher and hid from the ball. I guess if you put it in perspective - it is scary to have a fast object coming at your face and your job is to stop it and you are all of 3 ft. 10 inches tall.

While my three children are talented in their own ways, my youngest is Mr. Sporty. He is in constant motion and has not met a sport he doesn't like. From hockey to football to frisbee, he can do it all. Prior to this year, he played baseball, but I don't remember being that into the games. The ball was still being hit off of a tee and my son was still a little immature and liked playing in the dirt and had separation issues, so the games were a bit of a hassle. But this year the games were good.

Don't get me wrong. The season started slow, but with each game I started to see the kids' potential. A good play here, a good hit there, glimmers of hope kept coming and the kids were showing they were understanding the game. By the end of the season, the team had really gelled.

Last year, I would do anything to get out of a game. This year, I wouldn't miss a game for anything and I never regretted juggling my schedule to make that happen. (Except that one game when it was really cold early in April and I ran out of hot tea.  It was a night game and I was tired and cranky.)

I have tried to pin down what made this season so special. Was it because the kids are getting older and understand what they are supposed to be doing? Was it because the kids are older and want to be better? Was the coaching staff a cohesive unit that worked well together thus were able to get the kids to do better?

I'm thinking it was a combination of all three. But I do have to hand it to our coaches. These guys work hard and truly care about teaching these kids the fundamentals of baseball. They work all day at their regular job and then a couple days a week have to report to a game or practice. There were plenty of weekend games too, but they always seemed to enjoy what they were doing and took their role seriously.

I admire people who coach because, it is not easy. It is time away from family, dealing with parents and sometimes watching kids make a mistake after you have told them 100 times not to watch the ball when they get a hit, not to slow down when they are running to first base and not to swing at bad pitches. I'm sure there are frustrating times when these guys asked themselves why they still do it, but then there are times when a kid makes a good catch, gets their first in the park home run or slides safely into second. Yes, those are good days.

Last Saturday, my son's team played in a tournament. They got clobbered the first game but the second was full of excitement and just plain good baseball. There was even a controversial call at second when a kid forgot to call time out when he tried to stand after sliding into the base. He was tagged out and I watched as the coaches tried to argue their case. The umpire made a good call but was it fair in game filled with 7 and 8 year olds?  Yes, it was frustrating and that call in the end may have cost us the game (we lost by 1 run) but the staff used the play as a teaching tool and celebrated the kids performance in what was probably the best game of the season.

I am starting to love baseball not because I have to or because it is in my DNA, but because I love watching kids get it. I love when a little guy throws the ball to first with only a second to spare to get that out. I love watching kids run with all they've got to get to make it safely to first base. Who knows, the next Tim Foli or Omar Moreno may be on deck. Sister Sledge better be working on a sequel.

Ooo La La

I always thought Millvale was on the other side of the world.

Growing up in McKeesport, my family stuck to an area within a ten mile radius. When I was little, downtown meant downtown McKeesport. We didn't go to Oakmont or Allison Park or Etna. In fact, I didn't know anything about Munhall until I was in college and I started dating a guy whose mom happened to live there.

My first trip to Millvale was shortly after we moved back to Pittsburgh 2006ish. I went there to buy pastries at the French bakery on North Street for Mother's Day. I had heard over the years about the flooding those poor people have had to endure. The worst came when Hurricane Ivan struck back in 2004. (Since then the Army Corp. of Engineers dredged Girty's Run in the hopes of removing built up sedimentation to prevent serious flooding from happening again.) The town was nice, but kind of out of the way for someone who lives in North Versailles.

That was the last time I was there, until last Friday.

On the 4th of July, I was talking to a friend of mine about recent flooding in the North Hills. The summer storms were not discriminating anymore and instead of just plaguing the South Hills area it was now affecting the northern streets of McKnight Road and Babcock Boulevard. During our conversation, I said, "You don't hear much about flooding in Millvale anymore since they took care of Girty's Run." Then the morning of July 5th happened and the town was back in the news. Quickly water rose, due to a slow moving storm, creating a river in the streets. Many homes and businesses were flooded.

The water reached the doorway of the French bakery on North Street overtaking the couple steps leading into the establishment, but then suddenly, the water began to recede. The proprietor posted video on Facebook saying that a miracle had happened and his business was spared. That is when I decided it was time to go back to Millvale. It took nearly a week to get the town cleaned up from the flooding, but on July 10, Jean-Marc Chatellier's French Bakery was open for business.

In honor of Bastille Day, July 14, a national day of celebration in France, similar to our Independence Day, we made the trip along with my mom.  She was very excited to see Millvale, a place she had never been. (You can take the girl out of the 'Port but you cannot take the 'Port out of the girl.) It was a scorcher, but we were determined to do it up right.

We put our tourist hats on as I parallel parked smack dab in front of the bakery. (It only took three tries, thank you.) I would liken our experience to a scene from a movie that apparently only my sister and I have watched from the 80's called Baby Boom where these rich tourists walked into a country store and started buying up all the gourmet baby food. (Bran, that reference is for you.) That pretty much was us, but without the rich part or the baby food.

My mom wanted six of these, one of those, a handful of these and, God bless us, we tried to pronounce the French names. We stood in the bakery and took photos like total tourons (tourist + moron)  and I just went with it and rode my mom's wave. She asked if I wanted some of their coffee and I said, "Heck, yeah" knowing it would rock my world once we got outside in the 90+ degree day with 110% humidity, but it was part of the experience and well worth it.

The people who worked there were good sports for sure and were probably a little sad (wink wink) to see us go when we made our way to the quaint tables and chairs outside. But seriously, once we got out there, for a brief moment, I experienced what it must be like in actual France, paying no attention to the folding chair I got out of my car since we were shy one seat. (Baseball parents, always with the chairs, am I right?) As I sat eating my chocolate croissant watching my youngest eat his macaron, we were 'oh la la' and 'oui, oui-ing' it up like champs...Elysees. (Sorry, a little French humor.) Looking at the Eiffel Tower replica in the window, I savored every last bite.

My oldest was born on Bastille Day and although we are not French, I've always admired French culture and even studied the language for six years. That really came in handy while in Epcot Center in Florida a few years back where I was able to order a chocolate croissant in a complete French sentence. I always thought he could have a France themed birthday party with French Toast and French Fries - the total carb experience but... I was never given the green light. Last Friday's pre-Bastille Day celebration was as close as I will ever come.

Yesterday I ate the last of the French shortbread and oooh it was so good. Looks like I might be headed back to Millvale sooner than I thought.

Is It Almost Over?

I have been celebrating the 4th of July since June 16.

Why June 16th, you ask? Well, that is the day my neighbors started shooting off fireworks in my neighborhood. Now don't get me wrong. I love America. I am red, white and blue through and through but seriously, three weeks of boom booms is three too many.

I have never been a big fan of fireworks. Being the oldest of three, I was cautious, fearful. My brother was the one who had a lighter and would ignite the little black snakes on the sidewalk. He was also the one who got in trouble for having his own stash of pyrotechnics. I am not sure if it is a guy thing, but I never had an interest in lighting things on fire especially after seeing those 4th of July PSA's where the dummy was ablaze after a firework went wrong.

 My dad's shirt caught fire one year at the annual July 4th party my family would attend. He was not one to ever play with fireworks, ever, but this particular day, after a few drinks, he became incredibly adventurous. For my siblings and I, this was exciting. Our Daddy was about to do something we had never seen him do before. We were jumping up and down waiting for the little plane, with a wick, to take off and explode.

 My dad lit the wick and instead of the plane flying away from him, it flew toward him. The burning hot firework went the wrong way and ricocheted off of my dad's chest. It was dark outside as we watched our overly excited dad running toward and jumping in a swimming pool. When he got out,  we saw a huge hole in his shirt. Luckily, he did not get burned, but it looked like he did his best Incredible Hulk impression and had become very angry.

That incident may be a contributing factor to my standoffishness toward fireworks. But this year, their sheer proximity to my home was more than I could handle. We have always had neighbors set off fireworks. The ones set off a few houses down from us are nice enough for us to stand on our porch and admire. This family usually gets in on the act as soon as the fireworks tents go up at area shopping centers, and they even set aside a few for other random occasions like a Thursday in August.

But this year, another neighbor got into the act. His fireworks were exploding above my house and the sound was so loud you could not stand on the porch to view them or even look out the window in my bedroom, the closest room facing the stage of ignition. It was so loud I could possibly imagine what it might be like in a war zone. Plus, the sound reverberated off of a nearby brick building, which only intensified the volume. Maybe it is because my ears are 43 now, but I prefer quiet peaceful sounds like birds chirping, water running, air conditioners whirring, and even silence.

I told myself things would probably be their worst on July 4 and until 12:15 a.m. it was pretty darn loud. Luckily, most of the other nights, the neighborhood boom booms wrapped up by 10. Not last Sunday though, it was almost 10:30.

Again, I get it. Fireworks are pretty and possibly the most popular pastime associated with the 4th of July and I am a fun person but...is this really what Thomas Jefferson and the boys envisioned for future generations celebrating this most important day of our country's history?

In a letter to his wife Abigail, John Adams wrote Independence Day should be celebrated, "with Pomp and Parade, with Shews (shows), Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one end of this continent to the other from this time forward forever more." But if I am interpreting this correctly, he meant on the 4th not the 9th or the 1st and I'm sure he wasn't talking about any days in June.

So, tonight this ol' gal is sitting in her side porch oasis. I'm hearing my favorite sounds - breeze blowing, birds chirping. My pursuit of happiness is going pretty well. Will the bombs bursting in air soon cause a freedom ring in my ears? Oh John Adams, look what you started.