I Can See Clearly Now..

Karma comes around pretty quickly for some. 

It sure did for me. You see, last year my husband got his first pair of progressive lenses.

If you are not in the 40+ crowd, a progressive lens is like a bifocal but better. It provides multi lens support; distance, intermediate and near all in one pair of glasses. Even better - there are no lines to alert people you are getting old and you can’t see so good up close. 

Even though my husband is younger than me, only a year younger than me, so you can put the cougar jokes away, he made the downhill vision slide before me. He was a little beat up about it so I did the only thing a loving wife should do. I hit the ground running with old man jokes and started calling him Ben Franklin. 

All the ribbing was done with love, really. I find the best way through hard times is with laughter and I did make him smile. I was a little worried about him getting used to the glasses because they tell you to be aware of possible headaches or balance issues. The doctor said the change would be so slight, my husband would hardly notice. To this day, he claims the lab messed up his glasses because he never really noticed any change in his lenses and never had anything to adjust to. 

Personally, I think it’s male self preservation thing and he didn’t want to admit his glasses improved his vision. I don’t think he is ready to admit he needs them and that is ok. 

But me on the other hand, days after my 100th Ben Franklin joke, I noticed I was reading food labels a little bit closer. I was reading the medicine bottles a little bit closer. One of my favorite insomniac hobbies, reading newspaper articles on my phone in bed, was becoming a challenge. 

I went through weeks of thinking my glasses were dirty or my phone screen was dirty or damaged. It didn’t occur to me from the start that I needed the progressives as well. But the reading at night was really bothering me and I wanted to fix the problem. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what was happening. For a minute, I wished I had been a little bit nicer to my hubby but deep down I knew this middle-age right of passage was coming for me no matter what.

It took months before I could get an appointment. Because of the pandemic, all five of us were behind on both dental and eye check-ups. By the time it was my turn, I learned it had been four years since my last pair of glasses. (When making multiple appointments for people I sometimes forget to make one for myself.)  No wonder I couldn’t see very well.

But my doctor was very sympathetic and explained to me that while my up close vision was worse, my far away vision had gotten a little better and in fact my new prescription would not be as strong. 

This did make me feel better. You see, I’ve been wearing my glasses since the second grade and it seems like my vision has only gotten worse with each check up. But when you space out appointments over four years, it makes it easier to deal with the bad news. Obviously, that wasn’t why I wasn’t more regular with my appointments and I’ve gotten used to having very poor vision but hearing about some slight improvement - that was nice.

I had to pick out new frames which is hard for someone like me. When you can’t see to begin with and you have to put frames on with no lens power you cannot really see what you look like.

It is a frustrating experience and I have to hold up my regular glasses over the potential new frames to get a slight inkling of what I'm working with. I feel like I never have a great idea if something will work for me so I end up just picking something and hoping for the best. 

I went with a purple leopard print frame which seemed to be calling out to me probably because my eyes were diluted. It took two weeks for them to arrive and to be honest I was excited to get them. Four years with the same glasses is way too long and I needed a change. 

When I arrived at the doctor’s office to pick up my frames, I announced to the staff, “I’m here to pick up my old people glasses.”

I was met with words of encouragement. “Awe, no Kristen. Your new frames are sexy. You are gonna look great.” 

I haven’t collected any new phone numbers lately but I can read better in bed and that is as sexy as it gets. 

My Museum Is Closed

Have you fallen into this trap?

Thinking you have a secure storage area only to find out sentimental items have disappeared, broke or were donated?

Ok. I admit it was naive of me to think my childhood bedroom would remain a shrine for life. To be honest, I should have done more to protect any items I had any attachment to. 

In my defense, I moved into my first apartment not long after I graduated from college. It was a studio apartment and there wasn’t a lot of room for my bed let alone mementos of years gone by.

The first thing to go was my snow globe collection. This was an accident. A mirror toppled over in my “former” bedroom breaking a few of my treasured items. At this point I don’t even remember what existed before the destruction so this isn’t that big of a deal. I have accumulated a pretty nice collection since then, mostly holiday related, alongside my wedding cake topper that has soothed the loss of any snow globes that came before. 

My prom dress - that was a big one. I am not sure how that ended up finding its way into a Goodwill donation bag but I continue to look for it when I go thrifting.

I think I had this notion that the Kristen Museum would be there forever to house the items that tell the story of my life. That is so not the case. Keep in mind I have two other siblings that probably feel the same way about their things. And a side note...all three of us spent many years living out of state. I am sure my parents wanted to de-clutter their house and create their empty nest love shack. 

(I look around my own house after 18-years of child raising - I have redecorating dreams too.)

I recently told the story of my piano, in a state of disrepair,  that I gave the green light to have removed. While my father was working on taking it apart, my husband mentioned (unbeknownst to me) that he would like the bench. He thought I would appreciate having a memento of my childhood piano and he planned on refinishing it to make it look like new. The bench held 8 years' worth of instructional books and sheet music I had accumulated. 

When anyone other than me would open the bench, it probably looked like a lot of clutter and random papers. But among the books and papers, a treasure was hidden. 

When I first started taking piano lessons, back in the early 80's, my dad’s father went to the music store and bought me a book of old standards, some of his favorites, including "Goodnight Irene" and "Let Me Call You Sweetheart" plus he picked up the sheet music for "The Sound of Music". 

For a kiddo just starting out on the keys, these songs were challenging. It would be a while before I could ever attempt them. To be honest, the songs always remained challenging. I wasn’t that good at reading music. But I held out hope that one day, I would be able to play them for him. My grandfather passed away before that day came.

This has been a regret I carry with me but again I have always had hope for a future recital. That hope came to a crashing halt when my husband and I went to pick up the piano bench from my parents’ garage. The first thing I did was lift the lid and I almost lost my breath. It was empty. 

“Hey, Dad,” I nervously called out. “Where's all the stuff?” 

I began to look around the garage frantically. There was no sign of a catalog worth of piano books. My dad promised he did not throw anything away, but I had my doubts. He did not understand the relationship I had with those items or the future concert I was planning on performing. 

A few days later, my mom took pity on me, probably because of the prom dress debacle, and let me know when they would not be home. I was able to go over when the house was empty and look for my books. Luckily, it didn’t take long for me to discover the very items I thought were gone forever. They were in the garage, in a tote, underneath a bunch of photo albums and knickknacks. 

Those items mean more to me now than they ever did when I was younger. My grandfather died when I was 12 and I really don’t have much to remember him by. This music was such a personal gift and it offers insight into a complicated man who I really never got to know. 

I believe I inherited his love of music and the two of us probably had more in common than we had the opportunity to realize. Maybe that is the true gift?

Finding Your Happy

365 days….

It seems much longer than 365 days. It seems like years - decades.

On March 13th, 2020, I left the school where, only three months prior, I had been hired. The students would not return until 10 months later. No one saw that coming.

I am still trying to make sense of a year that had so many ups and downs. I am sure we all can agree, our lives will never be the same. 

Ten months later, we still walk around wearing masks at work, at the store, in church. I keep my distance from people when speaking to them and I refrain from any hugging or touching - for the most part. Occasionally, my mom will come in for the sneak attack hug. She has the philosophy that if it's her time it's her time. But as a rule, I only hug my immediate family. 

At my school, the students started coming back a few weeks ago. The return was staggered to allow students and staff to get adjusted to the new social-distanced learning. Two weeks ago, marked the return of the students I worked with before the world stopped. These kids are now 1st graders and while not all of them have chosen to come back in person there are quite a few familiar faces. 

I had only worked with them for a few months so for the most part these kids see me now and while there is a slight glimmer of recognition we didn’t have a lot of time to build a relationship. There were a few kids I worked with on a regular basis and those I have not yet seen. But last week, when I walked into the cafeteria for my assigned lunch duty I was spotted by someone who was genuinely happy to see me. 

I think we saw each other at the same time. But it was her arms waving frantically in the air that really got my attention. I was so happy to see this little girl  again and I immediately went over to say hello. This kid is one of those people who smiles with her whole face and since it was lunchtime, when the kids can take their masks off, I got the full experience.

Her joy is contagious and I missed that. With all the gloom and sadness of the past year, it was nice to see someone genuinely HAPPY. Happy to be in school. Happy to be at lunch. Happy to be with her friends. Just a whole bunch of happy!

After we caught up, I realized I recognized a few of her classmates. I said hello and they were more guarded than “Little Miss Sunshine'' but that was ok too. One little boy said, “I know you” then gobbled up another bite of lunch. 

I went back to my corner of the cafeteria. My eyes kept finding their way over to her table. Seeing her made me realize just how different things are this year. A table, which used to seat nine kiddos, now accommodates only two. There are stickers on the seats, spaced six feet apart, where kids can sit and there is a lot of leaning in order to communicate with fellow classmates.

The once chaotic environment is much more subdued and the kids are encouraged to stay in their seats after getting their meal. The garbage cans are brought to them once their meals are finished. 

At the end of this school day, a day that is two hours shorter than last year, I was standing in the hall as dismissal began. I watched as the first graders came down to board their buses. And once again, there was Little Miss Sunshine. This time she was all bundled up with a furry hood framing her face. Her electric smile was concealed by a mask but her eyes said it all. 

Her “happy” made me happy and for that I was truly grateful. We, as adults, can get bogged down with the weight of it all but we have to find our “happy”. Things are so different from how they once were but there are plenty of reasons to be happy and sometimes we just need a little reminder to smile.

Thank You For The Music

I didn’t think it would hit me this hard. 

I haven’t sat down and played it for decades. But earlier this week, I gave my dad the green light to part with it. I just didn’t think the process would happen so quickly.

When I was around 9-years-old, I started taking piano lessons. I don’t remember what initiated this other than my mom wanting me to do it. I was happy to start this adventure as I already had a deep love of music early on. 

My parents were cautious. It is one thing to start lessons and pay the $12 a week for instruction but it is another to invest hundreds of dollars into an instrument, as big as a piece of furniture, which could end up gathering dust in the corner once the novelty of the lessons wore off. 

I started off with an electric organ. It had about half of the keys of a piano but to start it got the job done. Eventually though, as my lessons progressed, my piano teacher told my mom it was time to upgrade or I couldn’t advance.

My parents didn’t have a lot of spare cash at the time and the expense of a new piano was not in the budget. My mom has always had a frugal nature and so she immediately started looking into other options. She saw an ad in the paper for an auction at a home in North Versailles and a piano was on the docket. Upon arriving at the event, she learned that the 100 year old piano had been used in the home for teaching private lessons.

She had never been to an auction before and probably could have gotten the piano for a cheaper price had she not been paddle happy but with a pound of the gavel, “Sold” to the lady in the back for $300 - a price my grandmother offered to pay. 

I vaguely remember the piano arriving. It was on wheels but still a challenge to maneuver this heavy box into our game room - a room it would occupy for nearly 40 years. Not long after the piano arrived, a tuner came to our house to get the century year old instrument in tip top shape. This past week when my father began taking the piano apart, we found the tuner’s name and date written behind the upper panel - February 1, 1984.

I took lessons through my freshman year of high school. Once I set my sights on participating in marching band, I moved to the clarinet. It was an easy transition due to my piano experience. (With the piano, your hands are doing two different things. On the clarinet, your hands are working together.) But the piano remained, and, from time to time, I would get my old lesson books out and play. 

Even if you are not a musician, a piano is a nice compliment to any home. Even though no one was playing mine on a regular basis, it was a wonderful compliment to “Grammy and Pappy’s” and, over the years, each grandkid had their chance to tickle the ivories. A couple non-published works were composed by a few of the kids even though there were a few keys missing and the instrument was badly out of tune.

This past October, my parents ordered new carpeting and furniture for their game room. My piano was moved into the garage in order for the work to be completed. It never found its way back. 

Looking at it the other day, taking up so much space that my parents are unable to put their car in the garage, I knew it was time to say goodbye. A large investment of time and money would be needed to return this piano to play-worthy condition - more money than was spent on purchasing it 36 years ago. Surprisingly, when I brought the subject up to my mother, there was no push back. She knew it was time too. 

A few years back, a neighbor generously gifted my family her piano when she moved to California. Because of that, I knew I couldn’t attempt to make room for my ol’ upright.  I looked up ways to repurpose a piano but the outdoor fountain/ garden/ wine bar was out of our wheelhouse. I had to let it go. In the shape the instrument is in and because of its age, I knew no local agency would take it as a donation either. 

My dad who loves to tinker in his garage and was waiting years to say goodbye to the piano wasted no time taking it apart. Yes, for me, this has been very sad and I cried seeing it in pieces the other day but I know it is what needed to be done. The ol’ gal gave us her best and for the sound of music that emanated from her hammers and strings, I’ll always be grateful.

“Life is like a piano, the white keys are happy days, and the black keys are sad ones. Just remember that you need both to make music.” 

- anonymous

Finisher 2020

It is an impressive piece of hardware.

Not just because you could probably knock someone out with it but to me, the most striking part is what it says -

Finisher 2020

During the summer, my husband enrolled in the virtual Richard S. Caliguiri City of Pittsburgh Great Race. I almost forgot I was part of the original plan to participate in the event. The idea came to us after my uncle passed away back on January 1. I wanted to honor his memory by competing in the Great Race as he did some 30 years ago. 

There was a photo on my grandparents’ television of my uncle crossing the finish line. I was always so proud of this photo and, as a kid, I would look at it in awe. That photo remains etched in my mind now that I completely comprehend how much preparation it took for him to be ready for the 6.21 miles. 

To be honest, I knew I had a lot of work to do to get ready for an event of this magnitude. My longest run had only been a 5k and that took everything I could give. But when you make a plan in January for something that would take place eight months later, you figure you have plenty of time to prepare.

No one knew what would happen just three months after the ball dropped on 2019. 

When I look back on our original Great Race plan it seems like decades ago. I had completely planned on getting myself in running shape and proudly crossing the finish line wearing a tee shirt showcasing the bib number from my uncle’s race. 

So as with most things that were planned for 2020 - the Great Race became a virtual event. That sealed the deal for me in terms of participation. I didn’t want to honor my uncle virtually. It was back in May when organizers decided to make it a more pandemic friendly event and by that time, I had already made the switch to cycling. (My family and I started taking frequent bike rides to pass the time when we were in lockdown.)

My husband decided to still go through with the race. I was proud of him for entering his 10K time of 50 minutes and 14 seconds which he earned running around the former Eastland Mall site. Once he submitted his information, he was mailed the typical race swag - event t-shirt and medal. 

Again, the medal is an impressive piece of hardware, with the event name and date on it framed by the city skyline and autumn leaves. But I particularly like the way the word “finisher” and the year “2020” come together in the left-hand corner. Looking at the medal, really examining it, I thought we all deserve a medal for getting through this year. God knows it wasn’t easy. 

These past 360 days seem more like 1,080 days and even looking back to this past January seems like a completely different year. We’ve all had obstacles and disappointments to overcome but we’ve made it. We all deserve a pat on the back and definitely a medal!

Yes, I realize that moving from December 31, 2020 to January 1, 2021 won’t make a big difference. There is no magic fairy that is coming down to “poof” all the bad away, but putting the past 365 days in the rear-view mirror and looking ahead to a fresh clean slate does add a little spring to my step. 

There are so many things to look forward to in the year ahead - covid-19 cases decreasing, restrictions being lifted, socially UN-distant family gatherings, please add your wishes and desires to the list. 

I would like to thank each of you for being a part of my 2020 therapy. Writing these blogs and often getting feedback has been one of my comforts during these past 12 months. I hope we continue to stick together through the upcoming year ahead. I wish everyone a hopeful and healthy 2021.

Flippin' Crazy

It all happened so fast. 

In the blink of an eye I was laying face down in the snow thinking one thought and one thought only.

I'm dead. I'm dead. I've died. I'm dead. 

Ok. That sounds a bit weird to be thinking of a line from the movie Finding Nemo (the scene when Dory and Marlin think they have been eaten by the anglerfish) right after you've heard every bone in your neck crack, but that is where I was at.

Let’s rewind. The other day, I decided to take my kids sled riding where I used to go as a child. After we received eight inches of snow and our superintendent declared a snow day, I felt like I didn’t have a choice. The fates were pushing me in the direction of fun. 

We have been very fortunate to have a small hill in our backyard that has provided an avenue for sledding for the past 16 years. Our neighbors have been gracious enough to let my kiddos ride the powder highway into their yard for almost two decades. While that is nice to have, it is also nice to take it to another thrill level and that was my mission.

There is a large hill, a.k.a. “The Mound”, in McKeesport. It not only was the best place for winter recreation but in the summer, it was a great place to watch the July 4th fireworks. It was close enough to our house that my brother and I could walk there if we had to, probably a ten minute trek, armed with sleds and a dream.

There was a little dip at the bottom of the hill that if you hit it with enough speed your sled would go flying into the road so it was important to always have a spotter in case a car would come by. I called the dip the “backbreaker”. 

I had taken my kids to The Mound before but it has been a while since we’ve had a significant snow. I could only entice two of the three kids to go but nonetheless we packed up our sleds in the van and made the 7 minute drive. 

Once there, the kids and I hiked to the top of the hill. I forgot how hard it was to trudge uphill through ten inches of snow. I was surprised to see there weren’t many sled tracks visible. Usually, The Mound is a pretty popular place for kids to go. But this just meant my kids would have to go down a few times before really getting the full speed effect. 

My youngest was frustrated by this and using his saucer sled made things a bit more difficult. (You have very little steering ability with these types of sleds.) So I had to keep providing encouragement. My daughter though, was having the time of her life on her orange toboggan type sled - speeding down the hill. 

At first, I was just an observer and car spotter, but my daughter’s enthusiasm was contagious. I wanted to try too! So I made a couple runs down the hill, channeling my inner kiddo -yelling all the way down. I guess I got carried away and decided to give the saucer a go as well. 

At this point my son had made a good path and I followed it for the most part.  I did veer to the left in an uncharted section of snow which stopped me in my tracks. I started to walk back up the hill and my daughter decided to go warm up in the car. I told my son three more runs and we would go home. 

He was now using the orange sled which was way better for this type of snow and I was demoted to the blue saucer. My next run was the fateful venture that resulted in the saucer spinning around and, as I was traveling backwards down the hill,  pretty fast I might add - I hit something that booted me from the saucer and propelled my legs to go completely over the top of my head. 

My son watched the whole thing in amazement and was totally unaware of the potential for serious injury. He exclaimed, “Wow, Mom you completely flipped!” 

As I got up, somewhat in shock, I realized if I could walk and move my head things must be ok. I also told myself if I had broken something I would be in pain. I told my youngest to wrap it up. It was time to go home. 

It has been a few days since the sledding incident and I am happy to report I am ok. I am still a little sore but I think my shoulder area bore the brunt of the flip which is probably why I am not writing this in a full head/neck harness. 

My take away?  I am not sure. I mean I don’t want to think I am too old to go sled riding but maybe I’m too old to go sled riding? Although next time, I could pad it up like the Steelers do before they take the field. I can get some nice shoulder pads and a padded helmet and make a real statement when I hit the slopes in the ‘Port.

Who knows? But for now the only saucer I’ll be coming in contact with is the one that goes underneath my coffee cup. 

Merry Christmas everyone! 

 

St. Nick Reboot

Now that we have jumped head first into the Christmas season, there is a lot of talk about Santa Claus' alias - St. Nick. Growing up Byzantine Catholic, looking at ornate icons of the saints during liturgy each Sunday, I could never quite understand how the man we know as Santa evolved from St. Nick but as long as there were presents involved, who was I to question it.

St. Nicholas Day (December 6) was celebrated each year when I was little by putting our shoes by the door the night before in hopes of receiving small treats and money. There was nothing extravagant about St. Nick Day but I remember fondly the chocolates, coins and sometimes dollar bills that would be waiting in the morning. (Tradition has it that St. Nicholas once secretly threw bags of dowry money into the window of a poor family to save the daughters from being sold into slavery which morphed into the shoe custom of today.)

As a young girl I attended a Catholic school in McKeesport which was named for St. Nicholas. December 6 was celebrated first by going to liturgy, then special lunch in the cafeteria with a visit by the saint himself. I am not sure who had the honor of dressing up in the bishop's vestments (appropriate for Nicholas who during his lifetime served as a bishop in a town in Turkey) but once he arrived we would stand and sing the Hymn to St. Nicholas in both English and Church Slavonic. 

I was a painfully shy child and I did not like it very much when I was called to "perform" in front of people. Once I began piano lessons, I became the reluctant Liberace whenever someone came to visit. "Kris, play that new one you just learned. You know that one I like with the da-da-da and bab-bab-baaa." Yes, my parents were proud just to hear me play but I was so nervous I could hardly read the notes. I tried to get through as quickly as possible so I could be done. 

One day when I was six we went to visit my grandpap Nick in the nursing home and I was once again called to perform. This time I was asked to sing the Church Slavonic version of the St. Nick hymn. Obviously, I did not want to do this. I could muster my way ok enough through the English but seriously, another language? Plus, my grandfather was suffering with Alzheimer's disease and did not recognize anyone in the room that day. Not my mom, not his wife and certainly not me. 'So why did I have to sing,' I thought?

I did not want to disappoint my mom even though I was troubled by selfish thoughts. It did not occur to me at the time how painful it must have been for her to be there with her father who was not present - or so I thought. 

I began singing and after the first few words, I had accompaniment. My grandfather joined me without missing a beat. He did not remember his family but he remembered the words to a song he probably sang countless times on his name saint's feast day. As you can imagine the tears flowed freely from the eyes of my mother and her mother, once again catching a glimpse of the man they knew. 

At the tender age of six, I was not able to fully comprehend the moment and could only wonder why these ladies, who had asked me to sing in the first place, were now obviously upset. Six-year-olds do not know how to recognize tears of joy.

Now decades after that beautiful memory, I have my own Nicholas, named after his great-grandfather. He has a special meal each year on his feast day and even though he is in his twenties, he did engage with me this week when I asked him what he would like us to prepare. And yes, he and his brother put out their shoes last night.

At church on Sunday I will hear the words that gave my grandfather a voice in the silence of his disease. Centuries ago, St. Nicholas may have secretly brought gifts of money to the poor but in the 80's he gave my family the sweetest gift when two unlikely voices joined in his name, bringing joy to our world that Christmas season.