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.