one page later

Imagine you have one of these desk calendars. You rip out a page each day and either toss it or keep it, maybe because you think the cartoon is funny. In November you make a note to yourself to get a replacement for 09.

And now you’re on the last page and it’s about to go out the way of the others. Is this a cause for celebration? Apparently. I learned today that it is the single biggest drinking night of the year. Worldwide. Imagine – the world gets drunk because we’re switching from one pack of pages to the next.

That would be the cynical view. And I know many who live by it. None of this frenzied minute counting until midnight!

But, that’s not me. I’m with the partying crowd on this night. Not so much the dancing and carousing type of party, but a celebration nonetheless. In my book, that means eating well and having a glass of champagne on hand at midnight.

[Drinking too much is not in the books. Over ingestion of anything has such unpleasant effects that at my age, you want to keep such indulgence to a minimum. But I do remember one year where the meal was too long and the wine flight too bountiful and standing straight was a challenge. I was younger then.]



We (not Ed; predictably, he turns his back on revelry of any kind) start New Year's Eve day with a meal out. Since we are staying in Andersonville, once regarded as Chicago’s Swedish enclave…





…we go to a place that serves Swedish pancakes. And these. Arguably Danish-like, but hey, why draw boundaries.





Then we starve ourselves for the meal ahead. It’s a challenge. Especially since, as each year, I stop by at Pasticceria Natalina to pick up a treat for the guy back home. How can one resist Natalina’s??





I reluctantly pass on the trays of pastries. Natalina says they need to be eaten by day’s end. Not possible. Or at least not advisable. But man oh man, sweet, charming Natalina, you are an amazing baker!





The rest of the day goes by quietly. You can hear the clock tick. Minutes, lived, tossed away, replaced by the next set and the next. Soon we’ll hail a cab and go down to Suzy Crofton’s place on Wells. Where we’ll eat well, make frantic calls to friends and loved ones at midnight and drink that glass of champagne.

Happy new stack of pages. Happy New Year.

one page later

Imagine you have one of these desk calendars. You rip out a page each day and either toss it or keep it, maybe because you think the cartoon is funny. In November you make a note to yourself to get a replacement for 09.

And now you’re on the last page and it’s about to go out the way of the others. Is this a cause for celebration? Apparently. I learned today that it is the single biggest drinking night of the year. Worldwide. Imagine – the world gets drunk because we’re switching from one pack of pages to the next.

That would be the cynical view. And I know many who live by it. None of this frenzied minute counting until midnight!

But, that’s not me. I’m with the partying crowd on this night. Not so much the dancing and carousing type of party, but a celebration nonetheless. In my book, that means eating well and having a glass of champagne on hand at midnight.

[Drinking too much is not in the books. Over ingestion of anything has such unpleasant effects that at my age, you want to keep such indulgence to a minimum. But I do remember one year where the meal was too long and the wine flight too bountiful and standing straight was a challenge. I was younger then.]



We (not Ed; predictably, he turns his back on revelry of any kind) start New Year's Eve day with a meal out. Since we are staying in Andersonville, once regarded as Chicago’s Swedish enclave…





…we go to a place that serves Swedish pancakes. And these. Arguably Danish-like, but hey, why draw boundaries.





Then we starve ourselves for the meal ahead. It’s a challenge. Especially since, as each year, I stop by at Pasticceria Natalina to pick up a treat for the guy back home. How can one resist Natalina’s??





I reluctantly pass on the trays of pastries. Natalina says they need to be eaten by day’s end. Not possible. Or at least not advisable. But man oh man, sweet, charming Natalina, you are an amazing baker!





The rest of the day goes by quietly. You can hear the clock tick. Minutes, lived, tossed away, replaced by the next set and the next. Soon we’ll hail a cab and go down to Suzy Crofton’s place on Wells. Where we’ll eat well, make frantic calls to friends and loved ones at midnight and drink that glass of champagne.

Happy new stack of pages. Happy New Year.

time

Rarely does it happen that I mix up the years of my life in the way that I, coincidentally, mixed them up today. Distant past, future, present, recent past -- intensely jumbled in the scope of an afternoon. Weird!

I drove to Chicago for our family New Year’s get together. Nothing strange about that. We have done this, through the low and high tides of family life, since, oh, since my family was newly formed.

As I pulled up, a daughter asked if I would give her a ride to Hyde Park (in south Chicago). Sure.


Hyde Park. I lived in Hyde Park after I graduated from college. My very first apartment was in Hyde Park. Some of the worst years of my life were in Hyde Park. (Before they got significantly better.)

After dropping her off at her meeting place, I reviewed my options. It was still light outside. There is a lot here that I would like to walk through again. And reconsider, now, thirty years later.

No. Let me delay that. Let me find Obama’s home first. I’m up on change. Yes, we can!


Hyde Park Boulevard merges into 51st... and suddenly I know exactly where he lives – here:





I park and walk around. I expected more patrol, but, he's not here today and anyway, I expect there are hidden cameras I’m not even aware of monitoring my movement. I pause by a cop car. May I take photos? Sure, unless you’re the enemy (he named the enemy; I prefer not to include their mention here).

So, how is it patrolling this part of Hyde Park? Better than my own district. Picking up kids that I know – that’s miserable.
It’s some house, isn’t it? You should see the one next to his – huge!
It’s cool that he’ll keep it as his own… Yeah, but they all do that, don’t they?
But keeping your home here – that’s so different than keeping your place in Crawford! Which, in the end, is not to be kept.

We looked at the house together, the two cops and I. This is Hyde Park as I remember it. A block of big mansions, ten blocks of scruffy housing, some more modern high rise apartments, and rows of very undistinguished townhouses.

Why did I hate it here so? Back in the seventies?

The University. At least once a week (this is so true), I have nightmares about this place (thirty years later!). And my inability to fit in. And my distractedness. And my losing hold. In real, non-dream life, I pulled myself up and out of that rat hole eventually. When I met my future husband and he and I paired up.

We got married here:





A university chapel. Small, intimate. And for a while, it all made sense – why I should be here, why I should reside in this part of the world.


I walk into the Social Science building, the “tea room” where my ex and I first met. Locked now. It’s winter break. All around the quad, in fact, it's winter beak.





I drive down toward the lake. Eventually, we would bring our daughters here. The museum, sure, and then here – to the Piccolo Mondo Restaurant.





I want to pause for a drink, but it’s a meals only place and so I move on. To my former grocery store. Co-op. Used to be Co-op. I hear Obama shops here now. Or, he used to shop here. Me, I once bought cartons of ice cream and links of Polish sausage. Disgusting? No, dinner.


I pick up my daughter and we drive back to the northside. We comment on Chicago’s virtues. There are many. I did not see them thirty years ago. Or twenty years ago. And maybe it’s not the place for me. But I’m pleased that I once lived here. I had a yes we can attitude then. Maybe even more then than now.

In the evening, I call Ed and apologize for all that I threw his way just a few hours back. Eh, woman's stuff. He tells me. He has a very matter of fact approach to life.

Woman's stuff. Maybe. Maybe. More likely, my stuff.

time

Rarely does it happen that I mix up the years of my life in the way that I, coincidentally, mixed them up today. Distant past, future, present, recent past -- intensely jumbled in the scope of an afternoon. Weird!

I drove to Chicago for our family New Year’s get together. Nothing strange about that. We have done this, through the low and high tides of family life, since, oh, since my family was newly formed.

As I pulled up, a daughter asked if I would give her a ride to Hyde Park (in south Chicago). Sure.


Hyde Park. I lived in Hyde Park after I graduated from college. My very first apartment was in Hyde Park. Some of the worst years of my life were in Hyde Park. (Before they got significantly better.)

After dropping her off at her meeting place, I reviewed my options. It was still light outside. There is a lot here that I would like to walk through again. And reconsider, now, thirty years later.

No. Let me delay that. Let me find Obama’s home first. I’m up on change. Yes, we can!


Hyde Park Boulevard merges into 51st... and suddenly I know exactly where he lives – here:





I park and walk around. I expected more patrol, but, he's not here today and anyway, I expect there are hidden cameras I’m not even aware of monitoring my movement. I pause by a cop car. May I take photos? Sure, unless you’re the enemy (he named the enemy; I prefer not to include their mention here).

So, how is it patrolling this part of Hyde Park? Better than my own district. Picking up kids that I know – that’s miserable.
It’s some house, isn’t it? You should see the one next to his – huge!
It’s cool that he’ll keep it as his own… Yeah, but they all do that, don’t they?
But keeping your home here – that’s so different than keeping your place in Crawford! Which, in the end, is not to be kept.

We looked at the house together, the two cops and I. This is Hyde Park as I remember it. A block of big mansions, ten blocks of scruffy housing, some more modern high rise apartments, and rows of very undistinguished townhouses.

Why did I hate it here so? Back in the seventies?

The University. At least once a week (this is so true), I have nightmares about this place (thirty years later!). And my inability to fit in. And my distractedness. And my losing hold. In real, non-dream life, I pulled myself up and out of that rat hole eventually. When I met my future husband and he and I paired up.

We got married here:





A university chapel. Small, intimate. And for a while, it all made sense – why I should be here, why I should reside in this part of the world.


I walk into the Social Science building, the “tea room” where my ex and I first met. Locked now. It’s winter break. All around the quad, in fact, it's winter beak.





I drive down toward the lake. Eventually, we would bring our daughters here. The museum, sure, and then here – to the Piccolo Mondo Restaurant.





I want to pause for a drink, but it’s a meals only place and so I move on. To my former grocery store. Co-op. Used to be Co-op. I hear Obama shops here now. Or, he used to shop here. Me, I once bought cartons of ice cream and links of Polish sausage. Disgusting? No, dinner.


I pick up my daughter and we drive back to the northside. We comment on Chicago’s virtues. There are many. I did not see them thirty years ago. Or twenty years ago. And maybe it’s not the place for me. But I’m pleased that I once lived here. I had a yes we can attitude then. Maybe even more then than now.

In the evening, I call Ed and apologize for all that I threw his way just a few hours back. Eh, woman's stuff. He tells me. He has a very matter of fact approach to life.

Woman's stuff. Maybe. Maybe. More likely, my stuff.

house and home

Late last night, she put together her gingerbread house. We watched her, and we watched a movie, running in the background, and occasionally we picked stories and anecdotes from the Net – to toss around the room, to anyone who was not yet dozing.

This morning, they left me the gingerbread house.





I looked at it all day long. (Soon, I’ll place it in a woodsy place, so that birds and beasts can get their share of holiday sweet stuff. I hope they’ll love it as much as I have loved it.)


And then I watched them go off – first, toward the Capitol -- for breakfast (Ed and I trailed behind)…





…and then for real. You could shrug and say – so what? You’ll see them tomorrow in Chicago. And I will and it will be wonderful. But as I put away the last towel and I make a hospital corner out of the just washed sheets, as I store the two extra napkins and placemats, and return the drip coffee maker to its basement resting place, I don’t think about Chicago tomorrow, but instead, I think how they will next return here, to my condo, next summer and not before that.

And that is a sad thought.

house and home

Late last night, she put together her gingerbread house. We watched her, and we watched a movie, running in the background, and occasionally we picked stories and anecdotes from the Net – to toss around the room, to anyone who was not yet dozing.

This morning, they left me the gingerbread house.





I looked at it all day long. (Soon, I’ll place it in a woodsy place, so that birds and beasts can get their share of holiday sweet stuff. I hope they’ll love it as much as I have loved it.)


And then I watched them go off – first, toward the Capitol -- for breakfast (Ed and I trailed behind)…





…and then for real. You could shrug and say – so what? You’ll see them tomorrow in Chicago. And I will and it will be wonderful. But as I put away the last towel and I make a hospital corner out of the just washed sheets, as I store the two extra napkins and placemats, and return the drip coffee maker to its basement resting place, I don’t think about Chicago tomorrow, but instead, I think how they will next return here, to my condo, next summer and not before that.

And that is a sad thought.

a post on a post-holiday Sunday

The last twenty-four hours of daughter visit. The tree must come down. I can’t take the idea of having a tree shaking off needles after the family has dispersed. Besides, in the next several weeks, I’m only fleetingly in Madison. And I like closure.

In the morning, when the house is quiet, I want to get to it. Off with the ornaments, Put away stockings, bells, wreaths, holiday dishes and glasses – all of it!

It is a huge job and part of me wishes I would wait for daughters to return from their outing so that I'd have help.

Ed watches. I think he cannot believe what a big production this entire holiday is. The challenge of a rugged path up a desolate mountain? No problem. This? Best to retreat and hide.

But he is there, on the floor, grunting, when the time comes to take the monster bush out. We cannot get the tree into the tree bag. We cannot get the tree out the door. Or down the elevator. Or round back to the recyclable room. There is a lot to curse about and I manage to cover the range.

The tree is out.

The clean up really begins.

All the way until sunset.

a post on a post-holiday Sunday

The last twenty-four hours of daughter visit. The tree must come down. I can’t take the idea of having a tree shaking off needles after the family has dispersed. Besides, in the next several weeks, I’m only fleetingly in Madison. And I like closure.

In the morning, when the house is quiet, I want to get to it. Off with the ornaments, Put away stockings, bells, wreaths, holiday dishes and glasses – all of it!

It is a huge job and part of me wishes I would wait for daughters to return from their outing so that I'd have help.

Ed watches. I think he cannot believe what a big production this entire holiday is. The challenge of a rugged path up a desolate mountain? No problem. This? Best to retreat and hide.

But he is there, on the floor, grunting, when the time comes to take the monster bush out. We cannot get the tree into the tree bag. We cannot get the tree out the door. Or down the elevator. Or round back to the recyclable room. There is a lot to curse about and I manage to cover the range.

The tree is out.

The clean up really begins.

All the way until sunset.

fog, part two

In the late morning the fog is still dense. At another time, I may have taken the camera out to the water’s edge, but today I shrug my shoulders and stay home.


LATER:

Guilt. Powerful force, that guilt is. I head out.





Empty. Pathways, bike trails by the lake are empty. One jogger. Brave man. It’s unpleasantly wet outside.




At the entrance to Picnic Point I encounter another person. A neighbor actually. From the old neighborhood. With an unusual degree of formality, we shake hands. You’re here alone? – I ask. Yeah. I often come here. Especially on foggy days. Once I came with my sons and our bicycles. We went up the slushy path. I took pictures of ducks.

No ducks today.





I’m alone again, stepping in snow that immediately melts under my weight. I am close to the shore. But of course, there is nothing to see. Just fog.





Someone once told me it’s tricky to photograph fog. I suppose. A scene fading into nothingness. A robust week turning limp and obscure. Why do some people love fog?

fog, part two

In the late morning the fog is still dense. At another time, I may have taken the camera out to the water’s edge, but today I shrug my shoulders and stay home.


LATER:

Guilt. Powerful force, that guilt is. I head out.





Empty. Pathways, bike trails by the lake are empty. One jogger. Brave man. It’s unpleasantly wet outside.




At the entrance to Picnic Point I encounter another person. A neighbor actually. From the old neighborhood. With an unusual degree of formality, we shake hands. You’re here alone? – I ask. Yeah. I often come here. Especially on foggy days. Once I came with my sons and our bicycles. We went up the slushy path. I took pictures of ducks.

No ducks today.





I’m alone again, stepping in snow that immediately melts under my weight. I am close to the shore. But of course, there is nothing to see. Just fog.





Someone once told me it’s tricky to photograph fog. I suppose. A scene fading into nothingness. A robust week turning limp and obscure. Why do some people love fog?

reviewing the day

Foggy, misty, wet, gray, dark, irrelevant.





The day after Christmas.

On the bright side, there were daughters. Their presence made the day warm, luminescent, funny, relevant.


In the early afternoon, Ed and I poured over a book on Tobago – a place I am urging him to visit (with me, soon) and which, in spite of insignificant costs to him or me – he refuses to seriously consider. Weather comparisons notwithstanding (it is 85 F there at the moment).

The fog grew dense, the roads went from being merely wet to being wet and slick. Nevertheless, we ate dinner elsewhere. I needed to not worry about food. Just on this one day after.

reviewing the day

Foggy, misty, wet, gray, dark, irrelevant.





The day after Christmas.

On the bright side, there were daughters. Their presence made the day warm, luminescent, funny, relevant.


In the early afternoon, Ed and I poured over a book on Tobago – a place I am urging him to visit (with me, soon) and which, in spite of insignificant costs to him or me – he refuses to seriously consider. Weather comparisons notwithstanding (it is 85 F there at the moment).

The fog grew dense, the roads went from being merely wet to being wet and slick. Nevertheless, we ate dinner elsewhere. I needed to not worry about food. Just on this one day after.

Christmas Day

Midnight. The yeast is not bubbling. Did I overheat the milk? How many rests does the dough need anyway? If it rests, may I rest too?

Okay. Done. To be baked in the morning. Still need to do the spice cake but, things are half ready.





Morning. Sunlight comes in through my wall of windows. Hello, tree. Merry Christmas everyone.





I work on the spice cake and once that is in the oven, I put ribbons on packages. We recycle ribbons and so it is a challenge to match sizes cut to packages of ten years ago.

Ah! Breakfast foods are ready.









Wake up daughters! It’s Christmas!

[P.S. To Ocean commenter: send me an email and I'll forward cake recipe!]

Christmas Day

Midnight. The yeast is not bubbling. Did I overheat the milk? How many rests does the dough need anyway? If it rests, may I rest too?

Okay. Done. To be baked in the morning. Still need to do the spice cake but, things are half ready.





Morning. Sunlight comes in through my wall of windows. Hello, tree. Merry Christmas everyone.





I work on the spice cake and once that is in the oven, I put ribbons on packages. We recycle ribbons and so it is a challenge to match sizes cut to packages of ten years ago.

Ah! Breakfast foods are ready.









Wake up daughters! It’s Christmas!

[P.S. To Ocean commenter: send me an email and I'll forward cake recipe!]

Christmas Eve

I’ve been through so many! I’ve gone through Christmas Eves when there was fog (79), when there were stormy clouds around me ( 98, 99…), when there was such cold, only to become even colder in the weeks after (84), when there was too much snow and so nothing was easy (66), and it was especially difficult to find a tree to bring home (67), when all bad things happened to others but I thought that I was somehow spared (77), when it seemed that life was unfair just because a toy could not be put together easily (86).


This morning, I got up early enough to watch the night recede. Looking out, I knew that this would be the year of gentle, pretty snow.





The kind that clings to every twig. The kind that does well if left undisturbed. Sensitive, delicate snow.





We started the day as every year: at Hubbard Avenue Diner.





Surely it is possible to have a quiet Christmas – a no fuss Christmas.

Ours is not a quiet, no fuss Christmas. Which means that the day before has no pockets of idleness.

For someone raised in a family that could not decide how it felt about any holiday celebration, and now, finding myself in the company of someone who feels no ambiguity at all but chooses instead to ignore holidays and grunt at the mere mention of them, I’ve gone in a different direction: I love these handful of days and all the possible ways they can bring together people, food, music and lights: You like the spiritual dimension? It’s yours. You’re a food nut? Cook up a feast. Thinking of others brings you satisfaction? Give of yourself – this is your day! Music – that’s your joy? Wow, you’ve got choices.

It’s a beautiful time.

Christmas Eve

I’ve been through so many! I’ve gone through Christmas Eves when there was fog (79), when there were stormy clouds around me ( 98, 99…), when there was such cold, only to become even colder in the weeks after (84), when there was too much snow and so nothing was easy (66), and it was especially difficult to find a tree to bring home (67), when all bad things happened to others but I thought that I was somehow spared (77), when it seemed that life was unfair just because a toy could not be put together easily (86).


This morning, I got up early enough to watch the night recede. Looking out, I knew that this would be the year of gentle, pretty snow.





The kind that clings to every twig. The kind that does well if left undisturbed. Sensitive, delicate snow.





We started the day as every year: at Hubbard Avenue Diner.





Surely it is possible to have a quiet Christmas – a no fuss Christmas.

Ours is not a quiet, no fuss Christmas. Which means that the day before has no pockets of idleness.

For someone raised in a family that could not decide how it felt about any holiday celebration, and now, finding myself in the company of someone who feels no ambiguity at all but chooses instead to ignore holidays and grunt at the mere mention of them, I’ve gone in a different direction: I love these handful of days and all the possible ways they can bring together people, food, music and lights: You like the spiritual dimension? It’s yours. You’re a food nut? Cook up a feast. Thinking of others brings you satisfaction? Give of yourself – this is your day! Music – that’s your joy? Wow, you’ve got choices.

It’s a beautiful time.