Redux: Feel it in your rear

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We universally accept that 16-year-olds don’t know much about life, so why is it that we allow them to propel two-ton combustion engines over concrete at high speeds? After many months of pumping the phantom break and digging my fingernails into the armrests, our youngest daughter, Lilly, got her driver’s license this week.

And I breathed a sigh of relief.

I never understood my parents’ plight until I had to teach each of our three kids to drive. Now I feel their pain.

It was June 4, 1984, my birthday, and I was twirling the barrel of my curling iron through my bangs. I heard my mom’s voice calling from outside our brick ranch, “Sweet pea! Come here, would ya?”

I tsked loudly, rolled my eyes, and ignored.

“Honeybunch? C’mon, it’ll only take a sec!” she continued, eventually appearing at my bedroom door. In classic teenage style, I sassed at her, annoyed by what I saw as her rude interference with the crucial task of heightening my bangs.

Eventually, I succumbed to her pleas, but not without attitude. I appeared outside, slump-shouldered and eye-rolling, where the cause of the hubbub was revealed. On our lawn sat a pale blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle tied up with an enormous yellow bow.

I offered no apology for my embarrassing behavior. Instead, I screamed and ran to claim the gift, which I assumed I wholeheartedly deserved.

That day, I had to deliver pizzas with my Dad for a school fundraiser, and he thought it was the perfect opportunity for me to learn to use the Beetle’s manual stick shift.

My hair properly coiffed, I jumped excitedly into the driver’s seat and awaited my father’s instructions.

A gruff, ex-college football player, Dad was not delicate. He operated on pure instinct, street smarts, and gut feelings. I, on the other hand, had no innate abilities. Instead, I relied on conscious analysis. My father didn’t use maps, instructions or cookbooks. I relied heavily on them. He was not articulate, using facial expression and volume to communicate. I spoke in great detail to explain my thoughts.

So, when it came time for me to learn how to drive a stick, we were not exactly compatible.

After several stalls, I eventually got the Beetle onto the road. I made every first-timer mistake — revving the engine, sputtering and stalling, rolling back after stopping on an incline, riding the clutch, and lurching. Each time, Dad bellowed, “Easy, easy! No, not now! There, now! Shift! The clutch, the clutch! Feel it in your rear!”

I couldn’t process the words he was blasting in my ear, and I soon began to cry.

“Can’t you feel it in your rear? That’s how you know when to shift!” he shouted in frustration. I had no idea what he was talking about, and continued to grind, lurch, and stall.

I was able to hide my tears during the first few pizza deliveries, but after more yelling and a near-catastrophic stall downhill from a barreling coal truck, I was soon a blubbering, red-eyed, snotty mess.

“Hello (*sniff*) Ma’am (*snort*) I, I, I, (*rubbing nose with sleeve*) believe you ordered two (*hiccup*) pepperoni pizzas?” I managed to choke out after ringing doorbells.

“Oh, Sweetie, sure! Would you like to come inside and sit a while?” one customer offered upon seeing my pitiful condition.

I somehow managed finish the deliveries without anyone calling child protective services, but was devastated at my failure to understand my father’s instructions. Later, I took the Beetle out alone on the road in front of our house. Even though I still didn’t feel anything in my rear, I was surprised at how quickly I taught myself.

Decades later, I realize that riding in the car when my kids are driving is sometimes a huge pain in the butt. Perhaps that’s what my father was talking about.

Regardless, my experience taught me to hold my tongue when our teenagers are driving. My instinct may be to scream, “Holy Mother of God! Brake! Brake! Brake!” But I’ll sit quietly and let them think for themselves.

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Eee O Eleven, and Done

20170613_125117 (1)The day had finally come. Our eleventh, and last, military household goods move. The Navy’s final retirement gift after 28 years of active duty life.

The sun was up and burning bright when the trucks’ brakes hissed outside our new house. Despite the fact that daily temperatures in Rhode Island had averaged in the fifties all month, the forecast was calling for a hot, humid day.

I glanced around at our empty house. The hardwood floors were clean and unscratched. The recently steam-cleaned rugs were perky and smelled faintly of vanilla. Our freshly-painted walls and trim gleamed smooth and flawless.

After 23 years as a military spouse, I knew that, by the end of the day, our house would be transformed into a war zone. I took in one last breath of calm, disinfectant-scented air, and walked outside, hoping I had the stamina to make it through one more move in.

On the porch, I heard a hacking cough followed by the crew leader, Bill. While the others finished morning smokes and busted chops in the street, Bill went over a huge stack of inventory sheets with me. He gave me the kind of glare that said, “You have way too much stuff, lady.”

The rest of the crew was a ragtag bunch. Stanley, Frank, Jose, Lou, and a 22-year-old rookie they called Smarley. Over the course of the long day, I would get to know them all very well.

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I spread the inventory sheets out on a folding table like a deck of cards, as the movers started hauling in boxes and yelling out inventory numbers from little orange stickers.

Frank was the talkative one, but ironically, the hardest to understand thanks to his thick Italian-Portuguese-Rhode Island accent. He mumbled something about music, and I soon heard Sinatra blaring from his portable speakers, “These little town blues, are melting away!”

The music was a pacemaker, electrifying the process, keeping the rhythm of boxes pumping steadily in and out of our house. As the morning temperatures reached into the eighties, everyone followed the pace of Frank’s Rat Pack mixtape and fell into a sweaty routine.

Bill made me feel culpable with every look, as Sinatra belted, “That’s Amore!”

Stanley, a tall Nigerian immigrant, smiled cheerfully as Martin quipped, “Aint that a kick in the head!”

Jose worked tirelessly in silence, as “I did it my way!” wailed.

Lou performed playful imitations of his coworkers, as “I’ve got you, under my skin!” hummed.

Frank mumbled unintelligibly, as “Hey, mambo, mambo Italiano!” boomed.

Smarley tried to avoid working, as “Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars!” echoed in the eaves.

Mid-day, Francis arrived with lunch. As the crew munched deli sandwiches on our porch and swapped stories about slipped disks and reconstructed joints, Francis made a scene of carrying two cases of water from our minivan — huffing, puffing and heaving dramatically as the crew looked on. “Nice work if you can get it, and you can get it if you try!” blared.

In the afternoon, the sun hid mercifully behind a cloud, and a playlist of Pavarotti soothed. The respite gave the moving crew the energy they needed to haul our huge armoire up through a second story window. We all hoped that the miserable work would soon end.

And it did, just after 6:00pm. Each room of our house was piled high with little cityscapes of cardboard skyscrapers. The formerly pristine walls and floors were scuffed and scattered with scraps of paper. I tried to not think about the endless unpacking to come, as I sat with Bill on the porch to sign the final paperwork.

Sammy Davis, Jr. channeled my thoughts through Frank’s speakers, and crooned one last encouraging tune into the humid evening air.

“Yes, I can, suddenly, yes, I can,” he sang, right on cue.

Heartbreak Fridge

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The summer military moving season is upon us, which means it’s probably time to say good-bye to some very good friends. There will be farewell fire pits, hugs on the driveway, and even a few tears.

But moving requires cleaning out the pantry and refrigerator, so this otherwise sad occasion may also come with parting gifts.

Admit it, you have a bottle of mustard, a can of cooking spray, a block of creamed cheese, or some other food item in your kitchen that you did not purchase. We know you didn’t pay for that jar of Spanish olives, did you?

I’m not accusing anyone of being a thief. To the contrary, I’m merely pointing out a unique aspect of military spouse culture: It’s all about giving.

You make friends at each duty station, and even if friendships are brief, each friend bequeaths to you fond memories of afternoons chatting on the patio during deployments, of the time she took care of your dog when you visited your parents, of the night you brought her wine and Dove Bars because she was crying over her husband’s new orders.

But her final gift to you is something that, even though it will last for many months to come, seems so thoughtless, perfunctory and random: that bottle of cocktail sauce that was on the door of her refrigerator.

What gives?

Receiving a bag of turkey meatballs may seem like an insult, but this simple gesture between spouses is actually quite poignant.

You certainly don’t need her half-used tub of margarine, but it’s a lasting symbol of her appreciation for your support and friendship. She gave these things to you because that’s what we do — we share travel tips and power tools, hairdressers and babysitters, laughter and tears, the challenges and rewards of military life.

And, we share leftover Shake’N Bake.

Your military spouse friend didn’t mean to offend you with that jar of capers. In fact, she tried very hard to salvage the food in her kitchen by concocting strange casseroles and feeding them to her family. She layered them with melted cheese and cracker crumbs to disguise the can of French-style green beans, that pack of hot dogs with freezer burn, and that bag of stiffened mini-marshmallows.

But her family eventually got fed up with her magical mystery meals, and that’s when she thought of you.

Funnily enough, I can’t remember the countless duds and delights I gave to neighbors and friends before our last eleven military moves. The stress of each move has a way of blurring those details. In my haste, if I gave away old bottles of Worcestershire or moldy blocks of cheese, my sincerest apologies.

Ironically, I have an uncanny memory of the many kitchen items given to me in my 23 years as a military spouse. I never did manage to find a use for them, but I was nonetheless grateful for the cocktail onions my friend Natalie gave me. I was touched by the frozen chicken tenders from Eileen, the maple syrup from Michelle, the grapeseed oil from Bud, and the homemade spaghetti sauce from Mercedes.

Useful or not, I recognized each item given and received for what it was: A tiny memento of our friendship.

So, when you see that bottle of Catalina dressing on your refrigerator door that no one in your family likes, don’t be annoyed. Instead, remember that in our military community, when you give understanding, camaraderie, and support, that is exactly what you will get back.

Well, that, and a jar of horseradish.

Sure, watching your friend’s toddler while she goes to her prenatal appointments can be a pain. Yes, the monthly potlucks can sometimes be a bore. No doubt, getting a phone call from a worried squadron wife right in the middle of the Bachelorette can be really annoying.

But think of it like this: She may have given you a lousy that bottle of ketchup that only cost about a buck-seventy-five, but the unspoken understanding and support your fellow military spouse offered when you were in need was nothing short of priceless.

The Poetry of ‘Taps’

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One evening in 1981 while I was at summer camp, I took a deep breath, and blew a little too hard on the bugle’s mouthpiece.

The counselor who played “Taps” each night to signal “lights out” to the campers had agreed to let me be the substitute bugler that evening. Using only one semester of French horn lessons, I blasted the first note, temporarily silencing the cacophony of crickets and frogs rising from the lake.

I relaxed my diaphragm to soften the sound and continued, measure by measure. Just before the high G, I squeezed my eyelids shut and thinned out my lips. Would I make the note?

Those whose loved ones died in war while serving in the US military know the sound of that high G all too well. In fact, they probably remember every one of the song’s 24 notes, because it is the somber bugle call played at all military funerals.

But many don’t realize that “Taps” didn’t start as a military burial tradition. The refrain we know today was created in 1862, on the back of an envelope at a weary Civil War encampment along the James River in Virginia.

After seven hard days of fighting, Union Army Brigadier General Daniel Butterfield decided he didn’t like the formal French bugle call (Napoleon’s favorite) known in Army manuals as “Extinguish Lights.” He felt the rat-a-tat tune needed to be more melodic, so after his aide translated Butterfield’s inspiration into notes scribbled on the back of an envelope, he enlisted the help of the brigade bugler Private Oliver Wilcox Norton to play it at camp that night and each night thereafter.

Nearby infantries heard the resulting melody, which some called “Butterfield’s Lullaby.” Soon, this new version of “Taps” spread throughout the Union Army, and eventually, to the Confederate soldiers as well. Shortly thereafter, commands began using the bugle call while burying fallen Civil War soldiers, instead of the traditional three volleys of rifle fire, because they worried that the sound of gunfire might be mistaken for an enemy attack.

In 1891, Army infantry regulations officially included “Taps” in military funeral ceremonies.

Another lesser-known fact is that “Taps” has lyrics. Although several authors have been attributed to the simple poetry, the true author of the words is officially unknown.

General Butterfield may not have envisioned that the bedtime melody he hummed to his aide along the James River on that steamy summer night in 1862 would be associated with the tragedy of death. However, the words that accompany “Taps” marry sleep with death in a beautiful metaphor that must offer some comfort to the grief-stricken families of fallen heroes.

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake, from the skies.
All is well, safely rest,
God is nigh.

Go to sleep, peaceful sleep,
May the soldier, or sailor, God keep.
On the land, or the deep,
Safe in sleep.

Love, good night, Must thou go,
When the day, and the night, need thee so?
All is well. Speedeth all
To their rest.

Fades the light; and afar, 
Goeth day, and the stars, shineth bright.
Fare thee well; day has gone,
Night is on.

Thanks and praise, for our days,
'Neath the sun, ‘neath the stars, 'neath the sky,
As we go, this we know,
God is nigh.

That night in 1981, after two flat misfires echoed from my bugle into the dusk, I finally made the high G note. As I finished the song, I felt as if I might cry. Unsure if it was selfish pride or something else, the melancholy tune tugged dolefully at my heart.

At age 15, I didn’t know that “Taps” had accompanied the burial of countless fallen American military heroes. But undeniably, the notes conveyed a sense of something simple, yet complex. Something ceasing, yet eternal. Something comforting, yet sorrowful.

The tragic yet peaceful call of “lights out.”

Five Reasons I’d Never Win Survivor

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I could claim that I have fencing lessons, or that I have tickets to La Boheme, or that I’m attending a lecture on the sustainability of agricultural practices in Machu Pichu. But I’d rather admit what I’m really doing on Wednesday night.

On May 24th, I’ll be watching the two-hour season finale of Survivor. Our family has seen every season since the show premiered on May 21, 2000. While stationed in Germany, we tuned in on Armed Forces Network. And today, we still pile on the couch to watch every week.

During commercials, we fantasize about winning the million-dollar prize and never emptying our own dishwasher again. As for me, I could subsist for days on the fat stored under my chin, so you’d think I’d be a perfect Survivor contestant. However, I’d never win and here’s why:

First, I never shut up.

Put me on a bus, in a waiting room, in a check out line, and I’ll strike up a conversation with anyone. I’ll tell long anecdotes and add unnecessary details. Before you know it, people are trying desperately to get away from me.

Picture this: After building a water-tight shed for my tribe, I start a roaring bonfire and cook the fish that I caught for everyone. Feeling confident, I tell a story about the time my car broke down in Cincinnati.

An hour later, I’m describing the mechanic’s coveralls, while one of the cast mates stands behind me, silently mouthing to the others, “She’s outta here” as he scrapes the last bites of fish from his coconut shell.

Second, I’m a slave to my digestive tract.

Without the comfort of my morning routine, which includes coffee and time to stare out the kitchen window, my digestive tract shuts down while traveling. There’s no escape, if you know what I mean.

Picture this: On day six, I can’t take it anymore. I’m found beached at the water’s edge like a whale, weakly chewing palm fronds for fiber, mumbling something about needing coffee. My tribe mates, put off by my deliriousness and suspicious of my growing paunch, vote me out that night.

Third, conflict makes me cry.

With an emotional range limited to happy and sad, I react to anger with an embarrassing chin quiver, blotchy neck, and blubbering tears.

Picture this: While my tribe mates are tanning on the beach, I begin to tell them about a blind date I had with a guy named Jethro. Hangry, the tribe bully snaps, “Nobody cares about your boring life, old lady!” My alliance waits for me to defend myself, but I can only muster an ugly cry face. Sensing weakness, they blindside me at tribal council.

Fourth, I am a scavenger.

When I go to the beach, I am compelled to scan the horizon for shells, sea glass, flotsam and jetsam. If it washes up, I’m determined to find it, take it home, and put it in a jar.

Picture this: Two tribe mates find me gullible enough for an alliance. They search for me to make plans, but I am miles away, engrossed in a pile of smelly seaweed. We go to tribal council before they’ve had a chance to find me, and I am voted out.

Lastly, my two-piece days are over.

Wobbling flesh started and ended with “Naked Guy” Richard Hatch in Season One. Nowadays, you could bounce a quarter off most Survivor contestants’ stomachs. Birthing three large babies has turned my figure into something of an old deflated inner tube. If you tossed a quarter at me, it would disappear into one of many rolls.

Picture this: Jeff Probst announces the start of a challenge, and we all start running. My tribe mates are propelled by lean sinewy muscle, but I am hindered by jiggling body parts. Crawling under a set of barriers, my bathing suit top is ripped off. The cameras zoom in on what looks like two fried eggs and a stack of pancakes. That night, the vote to cast me out is unanimous, and the director instructs that the footage be cut from the scene as not suitable for viewing.

That said, I’d better go empty the dishwasher.

50 Shades of Mattress Shopping

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I stepped out of our car and squinted up at the sleek, tall building. It seemed more like a tech company, or a global banking institution, or the corporate headquarters of something really important.

Not a furniture store.

Francis and I hiked across what seemed like acres of parking lot toward the enormous entrance with its gliding automatic doors and gleaming blue “Cardi’s Furniture” sign. We stopped inside and stared, mouths agape, at the massive lobby before us.

The ceiling soared five stories overhead. Outdoor furniture was everywhere – wicker, teak, canvas and cotton stripe. Ahead, criss-crossing escalators chugged hoards of shoppers up and down to floors filled with furniture displays.

“How can I help you?” a salesman said, appearing out of nowhere. He was balding and wore a lilac open-collared shirt, a silver pinky ring, and grey slacks. I avoid hard-sales pitches, but Francis can’t resist the opportunity to have someone’s undivided attention. He widened his stance, crossed his arms and began.

“Thanks for your help, uh,” he squinted at the name tag on the man’s lilac shirt, “Joe. My name is Francis, and I just retired after 28 years in the Navy. My wife Lisa and I are  …”

“Well, thank you for your service,” Joe schmoozed, glancing at both of us.

“I appreciate that, Joe. Truthfully, it was my honor. When I showed up for Aviation Officer Candidate’s School down in Pensacola back in 1988, I never imagined that I’d end up making military service a career. But I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Even my last deployment to …”

“Joe,” I interrupted, “do you have mattresses?”

Francis took the hint, and fast-forwarded his life story to the end. “Our last military move is next month, Joe, and we need a new bed.”

“Right this way,” Joe said. He led us to the elevator doors and said, “Press three.”

The third floor displayed mattresses as far as the eye could see. We didn’t know where to begin. For the first half of our marriage, we used low-budget mattresses from the military PX. Then, in 2011, we found a Sears clearance center in Jacksonville, Florida, where we bought a slightly scuffed, queen-sized pillow-top that was leaning against a wall between a scratch-and-dent refrigerator and a reconditioned lawn mower.

Classy.

“How can I help you today?” Another salesman appeared magically. This one was named Pete. He had comb-lines in his hair and wore a blue open-collared shirt, a gold pinky ring, and black slacks. Francis widened his stance and squinted at Pete’s name tag.

Here we go again.

After Francis finished his life story, Pete led us through the sea of quilted polyester. Like Vanna White, he motioned for us to lie down on the first luxurious king-sized bed.

“Which side do you prefer?” he asked me. It seemed odd, exposing my bedtime preferences to a complete stranger, but I took the left side, and Francis flopped onto my right, groaning loudly with pleasure.

“Oh, yeah, Pete, that’s what I’m talking about!”

Pete showed us three more models, each time hovering over us, asking intimate questions. “Do move around a lot? Do you get sweaty? Do you like to have your legs raised? Do you prefer soft or firm?”

I felt cheap and violated, but I noticed other couples testing mattresses too — bouncing around, spooning, and flopping from side to side. I decided I was being silly, and finally surrendered to the process.

Mind over mattress, I told myself.

“I like this one,” I announced, “so how much does it cost?”

Pete gestured to a felt flap over the end of the bed. Like Vanna revealing the Wheel of Fortune Bonus Puzzle, he flipped the cover to reveal the price.

I nearly choked on my uvula.

Pete tried to snap us out of our sticker shock by offering 60-month no-interest financing. This weekend only, of course. When this didn’t work, he led us directly to the economy section, where we spooned and flopped until we found a decent mattress in our price range.

I guess you could say, we slept our way to the bottom.

Never Say Never

Don’t knock it ’till you’ve tried it.

I swore I’d never do it.

But there I was on a gurney, begging my doctor to please, for the love of God, give me a flipping epidural right this minute. It was the birth of our third child, Lilly, and up until that point, I had insisted on enduring labor pains without medication.

Ridiculous, I know. Something a crunchy California nurse had said during my first prenatal classes had me believing that epidurals caused prolonged contractions and emergency C-sections. However, twelve hours into labor number three, I discarded my fears, scruples, and dignity, and begged the doctor to inject me with something — morphine, vodka, battery acid, anything! — to stop the pain.

Life is funny like that. One minute, we think we have it all figured out, and the next thing we know, we’ve changed our own rules. Milestones like marriage, childbirth, military service, teen parenting, and financial responsibility present us with new sets of circumstances requiring new standards.

Before marriage, I rolled my eyes at those couples who I’d see canoodling in public. “They’re faking it,” I thought, and believed that people in real relationships didn’t give each other eyelash kisses and lick ice cream off each other’s noses. I thought I’d never be corny like them.

But then, I met my husband, Francis.

Within weeks, we became one of those annoying couples who couldn’t be in each other’s presence without fingers laced or limbs intertwined. We would stare into each other’s eyes, sniff each other’s hair (Francis had hair in those days), and pick little bits of lint and crumbs off of each other’s clothing.

Nauseating!

During pregnancy, I proclaimed numerous “I nevers” that were eventually abandoned. I said I would never nurse my baby in public, change his diaper while in an airplane seat, let him cry it out, strap him to a toddler leash, let him watch two Disney movies in a row, give his binky back after he dropped it in the dirt, or scream like a lunatic at his pee-wee soccer games. Oh, well!

Military spouses make rules to stay organized and deal with stress. Some proclaim they’ll never live on base, join spouses clubs, or let the kids eat Fruit Loops for dinner during deployments. But at some point, “I never” tends to turn into “Don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

Desperate to make new friends after moving overseas, I did something I never thought I’d do — I joined an Army spouses’ bowling league. A typical Navy wife, I thought bowling was just a cover for to chitchat, beer and pizza. Little did I know, Army wives were serious about their bowling. After one wife complained that I stepped into her lane and laughed too loudly, I straightened up. Ironically, my team, which we named “Great Balls of Fire,” came in second place at the end of the season, and I had made new friends after all.

Parenting teenagers crushed my edicts like walnuts. Despite my many prohibitions, I eventually gave in and let them use electronics in their rooms, watch R-rated movies, and wear jeans to church. And I’ll admit it — I often use my cell phone to call them for dinner, even when they’re in the same house.

Now that we feel the pinch of college tuition bills, I’ll push my Aldi cart a half mile across the parking lot in a torrential downpour just to get my quarter back. I’ll wait around at the commissary for a rotisserie chicken to be reduced to $3.99. And after going to the movies (using a military discount, of course) I’ve even found popcorn in my bra, and eaten it.

Reality drives us to do things we previously thought tacky, lazy, or negligent. But we must remember that life’s challenges and milestones can also reveal courage, strength and character we never thought we had.

So, whether pondering whether to eat a smoked turkey leg while wearing a bathing suit during a family outing to a water park, choosing between a minivan or a sports car, or deciding whether or not to stay in the military for twenty years, experience instills this simple life lesson: Never say never.

Birds, Bees and Brats: Exposure to culture breeds curiosity in military kids

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April 30th is Military Brat Appreciation Day!

“Time for gelato!” I blurted, pulling our kids away from a statue at the Vatican City Museum during a family trip to Rome. We had stopped on our way to the Sistine Chapel to take a closer look at the strange female sculpture that we initially thought was covered in some kind of fruit…were they mangoes?

The plaque on the adjacent wall explained that she was Artemis, the goddess of fertility, and she was adorned with severed bull testicles.

Ahem.

While stationed in Europe, my husband, Francis, and I tried to expose Hayden, Anna and Lilly to art, history and culture as much as possible. Typical military brats, they had no idea how fortunate they were to live a minivan ride away from Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Florence, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Prague, and other European cultural meccas. Sometimes to their chagrin, we took them to see paintings and sculptures in every city we visited.

And, as it is with art, many of the renderings were explicit, causing our children to giggle, gawk or grimace in embarrassment. We indulged them — they are kids, after all — and hoped that someday, when it mattered, they’d remember standing before the original works of Manet, Michelangelo, Klimt, Matisse, Botticelli, Cezanne, Donatello and other greats.

However, some pieces were so detailed, they caused our children’s mental wheels to spin. “Wait a minute … what is that, and what’s it for anyway?” their disturbed looks seemed to say.

After fielding many awkward questions, Francis and I got good at knowing which masterpieces we should breeze by quickly.

We shuffled the kids past explicit nudes in Paris’ Musee D’Orsay on our way to see classics like Monet’s Blue Water Lilies and Whistler’s Mother. We didn’t let the kids linger too long at the base of Giambologna’s The Rape of Sabines in Florence’s Galleria dell’Accademia, opting to find Michelangelo’s anatomically humongous but relatively benign David instead. And as soon as we found out that the Vatican City Museum’s statue of Artemis was not covered in mangoes after all, we used the oldest bait and switch in the book — ice cream.

However, on our final trip in Europe before moving back to the States, it became clear that I could no longer avoid the curiosity of our youngest child, Lilly.

It was the end of our three-year tour. Francis had already moved to his next duty station at Naval Station Mayport, Florida, and I stayed behind so the kids could finish out the school year. Regretting that we’d never had the chance to visit Greece and Croatia, I booked a last-minute cruise with port calls in Venice, Bari, Corfu and Dubrovnik.

“Perfect!” I thought, looking forward to checking the rest of the boxes on my family’s travel wish list.

But of course, things were not perfect.

Lilly, Anna and I got seasick after departing Venice. After a long night of tag-teaming in our state room’s tiny bathroom and rationing the remaining scraps of toilet paper, we wandered around Bari the following morning, dazed and queazy. In my weakened state, I didn’t have the energy to censor what the kids were seeing. All I could do was sip shakily from a cappuccino while they gawked at nude statues and giggled at paintings.

I could tell that Lilly’s head was spinning with questions.

Later, while Anna and Hayden visited the arcade, I took Lilly for a mother-daughter dinner at the ship’s buffet. Even though my parental judgment was still somewhat impaired from lingering seasickness, I decided to seize the opportunity to enlighten my daughter.

Sitting there in a booth on that Italian cruise ship, using breadsticks and rigatoni noodles as my visual aids, I told Lilly all about the birds and the bees.

Too stunned to finish her pasta, Lilly just sat there, her brown eyes wide. It was as if she was trying to process all that she had seen during our three years in Europe. Whether this bombshell made things easier or more difficult for her to comprehend, I couldn’t say.

All I knew was, if Lilly asked me any follow up questions, I was armed with the perfect answer – “Let’s get some ice cream!”

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Artemis, Goddess of Fertility

Late Blooming

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A few days ago, I made my usual school drop off, then took our two-year-old lab Moby on his regular morning walk. While we trudged around the local reservoir, I listened to my latest audio book and focused my eyes on the path, dodging the many goose deposits.

At some point, I managed to lift my head and look out toward the sea. The sight stopped me in my tracks.

While the rest of the hemisphere had been raving for weeks about balmy temps, sprouting buds, and baby animals, here in New England I’ve been straight-jacketed into a ridiculous full-length down coat since last October. The kind I swore I’d never buy because it makes me look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow man.

Moby stood dripping, patiently waiting for me to throw his raggedy tennis ball into the water again, while I paused to take in the scene before me.

It was finally, undoubtedly, splendidly … spring.

Although the grass seemed a little greener that morning, there had been no obvious signs. No happy tulips, no ducklings beating to stay in line with their mothers, no tender chartreuse shoots on the trees. The air was still a chilly 44 degrees, and despite Moby’s willingness to swim in it, the water was frigid. Beyond the path, the tall reeds between the reservoir and the beach appeared pale, brittle and lifeless. And, there was no foliage on the prickly rose hips lining the coastline.

But I saw that just beyond the dunes, the ocean was glimmering. Juxtaposed against the pale morning sky and the seemingly dormant landscape, the sea was a beautiful blanket of flashing silver sequins.

Suddenly, the day seemed fresh and full of promise. Even Moby’s slimy tennis ball appeared a brighter shade of yellow, as I tossed it into the clear, cold water.

I continued down the path with a new spring in my step, as I remembered the long winter our family had endured. It had been particularly challenging, because my husband Francis had just retired from the Navy after 28 years and was transitioning to a civilian career.

Based upon the positive responses Francis received from various hiring managers, we thought he’d get a job before his terminal leave was over on November 1st. But come winter, we realized that the transition would take longer than we had expected.

Not wanting to give up on his dream of working in corporate global security, Francis continued to beat the pavement, networking relentlessly and applying for a wide range of positions in his field. In the meantime, we rearranged our finances to adapt to military retirement pay.

That winter, as I tromped, the icy local dog walking paths each morning with Moby, bundled in my down coat, I pushed away fears of long-term unemployment and prayed for good news. The bright civilian future we had imagined appeared dim and foggy.

“You’re overqualified,” Francis heard from two companies. “We need someone with corporate experience,” others said. All those years of military service, working on missions that made a real difference in the world … was it all coming down to this?

“Every company wants to help the military, until you ask them to help the military” one mentor astutely pointed out.

Finally, after many months of networking, phone calls, meetings and interviews, Francis landed the corporate job he was looking for all along, but it is located out of state and requires us to live apart while our daughter Lilly finishes high school. As a military family accustomed to the “geobachelor” lifestyle, we’ve simply adapted to this new routine.

It hasn’t been easy, but we realize that our transition is not complete — we are still cultivating our future. Just like spring in New England, the transition from military to civilian life cannot be rushed.

Even if we can’t yet see them, the buds of our new life are there, growing invisibly under the surface. Like the persistent little snowdrop that I noticed flowering beside the reservoir path that chilly spring morning, the seeds we are sowing will bloom brightly in due time.

As long as we keep our sights focused on the hopeful, glimmering horizon.

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The Relevance of Jellybeans

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When holidays like Easter and Passover roll around each year, I can’t help but compare my childhood to our fast-paced modern life. My memories pass before me like an 8mm film, with a jumpy picture and the clicking sound of spinning reels.

On Easter morning, 1972, I was peering over the balcony’s banister at the congregation below. I was wearing a white dress and hat that my aunt crocheted for me, with a label inside that read, “Made especially for you by Aunt Char.”

She even made me a matching purse, using the bottom half of a white Ivory dish soap bottle with a crocheted draw-string top. When I pulled the top down over the soap bottle like a skirt, a doll’s torso was revealed, turning the purse into a tiny replica of me.

I sat ever-so-patiently in the church pew, playing with my doll purse and jingling the charms on my mother’s bracelet. After the final hymn, I tried to avoid scuffing my patent leather shoes as my older brother and I weaved our way through the crowds to our station wagon.

The vehicle hadn’t come to a complete stop in our driveway before my brother pushed the enormous, simulated-wood-paneled door open, and leapt out like an escaped inmate. I tried to follow, but the giant door nearly knocked me over on the rebound.

It no longer mattered whether my hat stayed bobby-pinned in place, because the egg hunt was on. I didn’t stop to wonder how the Easter Bunny had broken into our refrigerator to hide the eggs we had dyed with food coloring and vinegar the night before. I just ran like hell.

My brother didn’t particularly like hard-boiled eggs, but the competitive nature of an egg hunt always sent him on a wild rampage. He whizzed past me in his miniaturized polyester suit, swooping right and left. When all the eggs had been found, my mother lead us to hidden baskets laden with jelly beans, marshmallow peeps, and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs. 

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My parents allowed us to gobble our spoils, provided we would eat an obligatory slice of ham and plop of scalloped potatoes at supper. However, I always squirreled my treats away, rationing them one by one until some went stale. In retrospect, I wish I had feasted, because a few years later during my chunky phase, the Easter Bunny inexplicably filled my basket with sugarless gum, icky raisins, and sunflower seeds.

At supper, we said a blessing that began, “For food and health and happy days, accept our gratitude and praise.” My brother and I toasted with our milk in fancy pressed glass goblets. After dessert, we gathered in front of the console TV to watch the annual broadcast of Cecil B. DeMille’s “The Ten Commandments” with Charlton Heston and Yul Brynner.

There, in our avocado and gold living room, I was truly content.

Nowadays, I wonder, has our hectic 21st Century lifestyle obscured the meaning of holidays?

According to a Pew Research Center 2014 U.S. Religious Landscape Study, fewer Americans today attend religious services regularly. Even though 77% of American adults are still affiliated with some faith tradition, only about half attend religious services.

I’ll admit, sometimes weeks go by without our church-going family seeing a pew. I haven’t bothered with the messy process of dying Easter eggs since the kids were little. Simple jellybeans no longer reign supreme – the kids reject those candy dinosaurs, preferring flashy foil-packaged miniatures in every brand. And frankly, I’m afraid to force “The Ten Commandments” on my family, because the kids will probably balk at the 1950s special effects that allowed Moses to part the Red Sea.

As the 8mm reel of my memories slows to a film-flapping stop, I realize that the meaning of a holiday is not in the traditions, but the principals observed. As long as we honor the tenets of Easter, Passover and other holidays in our own way, it doesn’t really matter whether we dye eggs, wear itchy dresses, or eat jellybeans.

(But just in case, “The Ten Commandments” is airing on April 15th at 7:00 pm on ABC.)

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