Lately, my life has been a veritable whirlwind. I've been researching and writing about Iceland, Italy and Scandinavia for various and sundry travel brochures. I started on a new pro bono project with Taproot Foundation. I've been girding my loins for a weekend away with Mr. Chris Czajka and company for a tour of all upstate New York's most glamourous phenomena, including attendance at the annual Hill Cumorah Pageant (a fabulous outdoor presentation documenting the founding of Mormonism; I've got my fingers crossed for the Angel Moroni suspended on fishing wire); private medium consultations with a psychic at the center of American Spiritualism, Lily Daly, NY; and (yawn) a visit to Niagara.
This last weekend alone was a maelstrom of activity. After a Friday night on the town, I sang at a Saturday night concert by my a cappella group, Faces for Radio, followed by zany karaoke hijinks at our favorite dive, Cafe Bong (affectionately known as "The Bong Ho"). First thing Sunday morning, we met for brunch with James Eason, an old friend of mine from high school, then sped out to Pilsen for a soon-to-be-disclosed art project of epic proportions.
Given all the mayhem, it's no surprise that I had failed to follow up on the strange arrival in our household of a stray Jim Croce CD.
Now, I know Mr. Croce of old. I grew up in the '70s, after all. Many's the time my mother would dance about the kitchen, crooning of bad, bad Leroy Brown ("Badder than old King King,/ Meaner than a junkyard dog"). I have not, however, had any contact with the works of Mr. Croce since then, or ever expressed any desire to own his greatest hits.
Despite this lack of interest on my part, there it was: "The Greatest Hits of Jim Croce," courtesy of my father. I assumed my father had meant to have this item sent to himself, but had a pre-set address on Amazon for my abode. I thought nothing more of the matter.
On Monday, despite my tornado-like weekend, I ventured out to Davenport's Piano Bar. This fine establishment boasts a cabaret open mic night, an event which my must have been invented solely for my own amusement. A fantastic accompanist and a bunch of friendly folk singing showtunes, old pop songs, standards, original compositions, you name it. (This is not to be confused with Petterino's Monday Night Live, which is a much more formal and daunting affair).
So, there I sit with my good friend Lindsay, nursing a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and contemplating my next tune, when a fellow gets up and sings a song about being in love with a roller derby queen. This is, of course, amusing to me, as Eamon is an official for Chicago's women's roller derby league, The Windy City Rollers. I text him about the song, and like magic, he walks in the door (mere coincidence -- he as actually at derby practice that night, which is not far from Davenport's). I recount this mystifying bit of synchronicity.
The week plods on, and I finally chat with my father on Wednesday. He asks if I received the Jim Croce CD. Memory jogged, I exclaim, "I've been meaning to ask about that. Did you send that to me on purpose?"
Yes, he assures me. "Number 14 is for Eamon."
After we hang up, I hunt down the CD and check the song list.
#14: "Roller Derby Queen"
Jim Croce and the derby girls, they follow me.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #235: The part where I tend to a long overdue memorial
I told myself I wouldn't let a year pass before I tended to this, but here it is, a year later, and I've yet to post.
What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.
Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.
In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?
But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.
She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.
It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."
I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.
In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.
She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.
But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.
There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.
But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?
But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.
In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.
Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.
But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.
Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.
So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:
Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing
Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style
Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition
Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
What I'm referring to is a sad event that transpired one year ago today: The passing of Dolores McDermott.
Please don't misconstrue the long delay. It's not that Dolores' death passed unnoticed, or that her absence wasn't mourned. It's just that tributes are always hard to write, and particularly so when the person you're memorializing took on mythic status. That's the case here.
In a way, this entire blog serves as Dolores' memorial. What else can be said about someone who appeared so often in these pages?
But it's not just a matter of frequency. Any account of 1500 Norwood would be incomplete without the tales of Dolores. She was a fixture, an icon. "The lady in the lawnchair," the first harbinger of spring whose habitual appearance seated in the folding chair in her driveway signaled that the fine weather was finally here.
She was the "mayor of Norwood," constantly observing, always with a bit of news about this neighbor or that. Passersby would stop to say hello; sometimes cars would even stop. Anyone who doubts the ominpresence of Dolores need only visit Google maps, and take a street view of our block. Dolores sits there to this day in her lawnchair, enshrined in Internet glory.
It's only on a block like 1500 Norwood that you'd have a Dolores -- the sometimes sweet, sometimes crotchety old lady who knows everyone and everything that's happened in the last 40 years on this block. What's more, she assumes you know them as well -- "You know, Bill on Glenview. He was the one who lived in the blue house when the dime store caught fire..."
I don't even know how long Dolores had lived on Norwood, but it was a long time. I estimate it must've been at least 100 years. In my mind's eye, I see her in a 1930s housedress, Marcel waves in place, calling in the kids to listen to "Little Orphan Annie" on an enormous wood-paneled radio. That's all wrong, of course; Dolores would barely be a baby in the early '30s. But there was something so undeniably old-tyme about Dolores, so Depression-era, so much of deep roots and cherished traditions, the image feels right. She was like a throwback, an icon of old-ladyness from another time--not unlike her block, a throwback to the old-fashioned Chicago neighborhood.
In fact, I'd say it's not simply that you cannot describe 1500 Norwood without mentioning Dolores. I'd suggest she herself was a sort of emblem for everything that's special about this block. She embodied the permanence of a neighborhood where people don't move away, and where old ladies stay in houses that are too big for them long after many would retire to the nursing home. She was a living example of the shared memories, the traditions, that makes community on such a block coherent.
She wasn't just sweetness and light, some latterday Aunt Bea. She was Chicago life, warts and all. She got crabby and complained about her relatives to anyone who would listen. She spied. She harbored a long-time feud with our other neighborhood stalwart, Bernadine.
But she also held up the pillars of community by keeping tabs on all our neighborhood doings. It was she, long-term readers may recall, who revealed who stole my Autumnal pumpkins, and who pooped on my lawn.
There was a certain shamelessness to Dolores that was the hallmark of old-ladyness, the privilege of living into your 80s. She never hid the fact she spied on you; she blithely proclaimed she had watched you doing thus and such. Often, she skipped a greeting altogether, and launched into her latest complaint instead--the fact that her grandkids hadn't washed the dishes or that someone had looked at her squinty-eyed--followed by an exasperated rolling of the eyes.
But her shamelessness was coupled with an oddly circumlocutionary way of addressing matters. She was paradoxically direct and indirect at the same time, skipping the niceties of normal human discourse. I fondly recall the time I came home, and as I pulled up to the curb, she beelined straight for me, waddling into the street on her characteristic blue Crocs. "I'm going to a wedding Saturday, and I need a dress. I wanted Ray to take me to the store, but he's not home. He said he would but he's not there..." To know Dolores was to realize that what she was really saying was, "I want to go dress shopping, I want to go now, and you're going to take me." Who was I to disagree?
But she was also generous. Nothing gave her more joy than discovering she had something she could give you. One time, she complained of a deli-quality meat slicer that was taking of space in her pantry. "Does your husband like meat?" Soon, we had a meat slicer. And bags of tupperware. And a tub of frozen cookie dough.
In the few years I knew Dolores, I got small glimpses of her life before old age. Once she told me of how she loved to sing when she was a little girl. She laughed at herself, showing me how she'd sit tipped back in a chair in her backyard, crooning to the moon.
Another time, she told me about how she'd take her many (8? 9?) kids to the dime store, which was at that time located about a few blocks north of us on Clark. She described leading them down the street, and how they'd have to stop and inspect each and every gangway. The trip would take hours, she recalled.
But these were only snapshots, and after she passed, I was delighted and surprised to get a fuller image of Dolores from the remembrances of her children at her wake and her funeral. Dolores loved to dance. She was committed to family traditions, particularly at the holidays. She raised her children with love, joy and energy.
Finally, it must be recalled that it is thanks to Dolores that Eamon and I ever came to Norwood. After viewing our house, we loved our house so much we decided to go all in. We made an offer of the highest amount we could pay, knowing it was still under the asking price. Our offer was politely declined. Later, mysteriously, it was accepted. Dolores later gave her version of the story. She'd met Eamon when he came back to see the house, and took an immediate liking to him. When she heard that our offer had been declined, she told the owners--the O'Malley kids who had lived across the street from her nearly all their lives--that we were nice people and they had to sell to us. We were the sort that needed to live here. The rest, as they say, is blog history.
So that's Dolores, our Lady of the Lawnchair, Mayor of Norwood. As a final farewell, let us pause to recall her legacy:
Crazy Crap Item #6: The part where my pumpkins go missing
Crazy Crap Item #61: The part where I see the first robin of spring, Norwood Street style
Crazy Crap Item #94: The part where we light the torch on the summer block party tradition
Crazy Crap Item #111: The part where I experience the joy of city living
Crazy Crap Item #115: The part where I document the first robin of spring
Crazy Crap Item #136: The part where Delores experiences an upgrade
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #234: The part where Miles is not amused
As I have mentioned before, my young neighbor Miles is a budding expert on dinosaurs. Recently, he was also attempting to tell riddles. I have dwelt upon the capacity of the 5-and-under set to tell riddles before they truly grasp the concept of humor. As may be recalled, this attempt is not always successful or sensemaking. Miles, I discovered, was similarly ill-adept. I thought I'd help him along by inventing my own dinosaur-themed riddle.
Kay: "Hey, Miles. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"
Miles: [Dull silence]
Kay: "It's a riddle. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"
Miles: [Blank stare]
Kay: "Tyrannosaurus wrecks!"
Miles: [Palpable discomfort]
Kay: "Get it? Tyrannosaurus wrecks! Do you like that one? You think it's funny?"
[Long pause]
Miles: "No."
Wit is wasted on the young.
Kay: "Hey, Miles. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"
Miles: [Dull silence]
Kay: "It's a riddle. What happens when two dinosaurs run into each other?"
Miles: [Blank stare]
Kay: "Tyrannosaurus wrecks!"
Miles: [Palpable discomfort]
Kay: "Get it? Tyrannosaurus wrecks! Do you like that one? You think it's funny?"
[Long pause]
Miles: "No."
Wit is wasted on the young.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #233: The part where I go dumpster diving
This morning, I was enjoying my habitual repast of cinnamon toast and strawberries and reading about an obscure 17th-century poetess, when the phone rang. It was my lovely neighbor Ruth.
"I thought you should know that there's a full-size stuffed lion in the alley behind the Walters' house. They're throwing out a bunch of stuff."
"I'm on it."
Mere minutes later, and I am in possession of said lion -- a glorious, free-standing example of toy-making at its finest. As I stroll through my backyard with this lion -- I think I'll call him Frazier -- hoisted up on my shoulder, I hear Kevin and Sam call to me from their backyard, some four or so houses down. They wave a small toy monkey that they have rescued from the selfsame pile. I suggest our next block party should be jungle-themed.
Now, with Frazier safely stowed in my basement for whatever future adventures may await him on Norwood, I realize that I could easily go to bed now at 10:30 in the morning, as my day has already been as fulfilling as it could possibly be.
"I thought you should know that there's a full-size stuffed lion in the alley behind the Walters' house. They're throwing out a bunch of stuff."
"I'm on it."
Mere minutes later, and I am in possession of said lion -- a glorious, free-standing example of toy-making at its finest. As I stroll through my backyard with this lion -- I think I'll call him Frazier -- hoisted up on my shoulder, I hear Kevin and Sam call to me from their backyard, some four or so houses down. They wave a small toy monkey that they have rescued from the selfsame pile. I suggest our next block party should be jungle-themed.
Now, with Frazier safely stowed in my basement for whatever future adventures may await him on Norwood, I realize that I could easily go to bed now at 10:30 in the morning, as my day has already been as fulfilling as it could possibly be.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #232: The part where I add an addendum
This is a follow-up to the story about the Caseys' very bad day. So if you haven't read that, read it first.
One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.
I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.
"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.
Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"
Without missing a beat: "The bed's."
I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.
One thing I forgot to record in my account of the day of drama and trauma on Norwood is the actual cause of James' trip to the ER.
I first learned of it when Sam joined Jack and me to await the outcome. Jack was concerned it was his fault. I asked what happened, and he said it was his fault because he was the one who had told James to jump from one bed to the other -- the incident which resulted in the noggin-cracking.
"Accidents happen," I told Jack, who I felt didn't need a "Didn't-your-mother-always-tell-you-not-to-jump-on-the-beds?" lecture at that precise moment. Plus, it seemed like a pretty self-evident lesson.
Today, to help bolster recovery of both James and the entire Casey clan, I whipped up one of my now-world-renowned batches of brownies. When I delivered said treat, James' uncle was visiting, and asked James, "Whose fault was it that you hurt your head?"
Without missing a beat: "The bed's."
I've said it before, I'll say it again: I like the way that kid thinks.
Crazy Crap Item #231: The part where the Caseys have a very bad day
[NOTE: No children were harmed in the posting of this story. Though the story itself was the source of some harm.]
Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.
I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.
It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.
The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.
As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.
Finally, we got to the big question.
"Is he going to die?"
I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."
I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.
Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).
By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.
Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.
Ahh, the resilience of youth.
Yesterday was full of drama and trauma on Norwood. Around 5pm, I was putzing around the entryway, after investing some considerable time in a new entryway-beautification project. What to my wondering ears should appear but my neighbor Ann calling to me.
I opened the door to find her out on the lawn holding James. She's a very laidback lady, so it took me a few seconds to realize that she was in full-on panic mode. It's not initially very far off from regular Ann mode, except that in panic mode, she doesn't finish sentences.
It also took me a few seconds to notice a lot of blood on her shirt, at which point, it very slowly dawned on me that something was terribly wrong. I cut her off in mid-sputter. "What happened?" She started to say something about how she had called Ruth because James had a cut on his head, and could Jack come over, and Sam too, since Ruth was going with her to the ER. I said of course, and called to Jack to come in.
The poor kid was extremely freaked out. He was just crying and asking, "Is my brother going to be OK?" I told him I knew it was scary, and did he want to talk about it? He said no, that would make it worse, so I suggested chocolate milk and cartoons. He thought that seemed ok.
As we sat on the couch looking for a good kid-type show, he broached a few comments about how worried he was about his brother. He seemed very concerned that it was just going to take too long for the ER folk to help James. As Jack is a logical, detail-oriented kid, I told him about triage, and how they screen patients to determine who needs immediate care. I recounted my last trip to the ER. In response to his worries about James feeling pain, I described the medicines they have to make pain go away.
Finally, we got to the big question.
"Is he going to die?"
I answered, "No. No, he's not. He is not going to die from this. He's going to be fine."
I've never seen such a visible sign of relief.
Then Sam came over, and they snacked on cheese, and played with some army men I just bought from the dollar bin at Target. Then we went outside and made swords out of styrofoam. Later, Sam's dad Kevin arrived home from work his son, who was miffed that Jack got to stay at the Dalys (the tenor of his complaint seemed to be something about how Jack gets all the fun).
By about 7:30, Jack, who had been waving off snacks for the past 2 1/2 hours, suddenly announced he was "starving." I hustled up some grub, and Jack, Eamon and I had a nice supper of chicken, corn and Scooby Doo cartoons.
Ann and Jim finally got James home by about 8:30. He ended up having 11 stitches, including 3 stitches deep in the wound, as the cut went all the way to the skull. But Ann said James didn't cry at all; everyone in the ER was amazed. And when they came to get Jack, James insisted on coming in, then leapt all over my livingroom, banged on my electric piano keyboard, climbed on the back of my couch, and, like his brother, was very reluctant to go home.
Ahh, the resilience of youth.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #230: The part where Jack and James wax pious
Yesterday, Ann announced that Jack (age 7) and James (age 4) took it upon themselves to write a letter to God.
Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:
- "Add some crosses there."
- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."
We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.
They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.
I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.
I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.
Apparently, Jack did all the actual writing (a skill he's been honing in first grade), while James added helpful suggestions. To wit:
- "Add some crosses there."
- "And stars. Jesus loves stars."
We inquired of Ann what the boys could possibly be writing to God. "A general proclamation of their love," it seems.
They were also concerned that if they stored it in a drawer overnight before mailing, God might show up and take their unfinished draft. This was, apparently, a great concern.
I suggested that Ann spirit the letter away in the night. Mimi added that she could leave a cross behind.
I suspect she did no such thing. So much for the true fun of parenting: messing with your kids.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #229: The part where I play catch-up (Part 1, Cookie Party)
So it seems I have not been diligent enough in recording the doings on Norwood, as is attested to by the nagging of some of my readers (I'm looking at you, Ann). So here is my first attempt to hit rewind and record some of the events I neglected to document before.
Part 1: Cookie Party
For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.
Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.
Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:
* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.
* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.
* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.
* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.
* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.
* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.
These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).
After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:
* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"
* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.
* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"
* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.
* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.
* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.
* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.
* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.
All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!
Part 1: Cookie Party
For two years now, Cookie Party has been a hallowed annual tradition here on Norwood. Cookie Party consists of me making many sugar cookies in holiday shapes and obtaining an embarassing amount of holiday-themed embellishments. The final piece slides into place when I invite the small children of my neighborhood over to decorate these cookies by smearing frosting and applying sprinkles to both the sweet treats and themselves. Drop cloths assist in easy clean-up.
Last year's first annual cookie party was a grand success, and cries for a 2008 edition soon followed.
Applying the lessons of last year, I made a few changes in this year's plan. These included:
* Taking advantage of modern freezer technology to make and store cookies a few weeks in advance of said party to avoid pre-party preparation crunch.
* Slip-covering the diningroom chairs in cut-up plastic tablecloths to avoid the spilling of colored frosting and (yes) red wine on their cream-colored cloth seats.
* Purchasing even more supermarket gel icing squirters, since these seemed to be such a hit the year before.
* Making it clear in advance to all parents that I was very much OK with the idea that the post-cookie-sugar-crash would provide an excellent transition into parent-oriented happy hour, with the aid of some kid-style movies that could be lent by aforementioned parents.
* Removing all death- and injury-inducing items from our livingroom (pocket knives, laser pointers, nail clippers, cigarette lighters, cat o' nine tails, etc.), and placing all crystals, porcelains, and other valuables out of reach of small hands.
* Obtaining multitudinous toys from the dollar bin at Target, to be placed under the Christmas tree for general merriment and take-home gifts.
These preparations in place, the day of cookie party arrived attended by great excitement and a monumental snow fall. The latter led to yet another, hopefully soon-to-be repeated tradition, the transformation of the Caseys' front steps into a sledding hill. (See alternate sources for a full-photo record and video 1 and video 2 of this event).
After sledding, I returned to my cozy home to finalize preparations. Guests began arriving after 3pm, and festivities were soon well and truly underway. Highlights included:
* The new cookie-decorating efforts of young Anika, who displayed a determination and focus seldom seen in a such a tiny girl. She sat, fascinated for hours, emptying tube after tube of gel frosting onto a single cookie. When, at intervals, her tube would run out, she would hold it up to me with brow furrowed, as if to say, "What the hell?"
* The repeated, worried question "Can we eat them when we're done?", which repeatedly garnered the reply of "Um, yeah, I'm not planning to make a cookie art gallery with them." This followed by greedy gobbling, greedy gobbling, and more greedy gobbling.
* The constant tug-of-war between two schools of cookie decoration: the commitment to "cookie as art" versus "how much crap can I load onto one cookie?"
* The decision by some artisans to don protective eyewear to avoid the dreaded "jimmies in the eyes" risk.
* The retirement of parents to the livingroom for uninterrupted adult snacks during the first wave of decoration.
* After cookie decoration, the grand migration of kids into the livingroom for movie-watching, dancing, skipping, and general merriment, to be replaced by parents, snacks and many bottles of wine on the diningroom table.
* A visit by block favorite Jon Hey, who entertained the crowd with carols on the keyboard.
* The slow and steady drunkening of parents as children undergo a similar stupor of sugar-crash.
All in all, a grand success. To many more cookie parties!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
