Category Archives: Personal Memories

Lessons Learned From the “Little People”

15 Thursday Mar 2012

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It happened every year on St. Patrick’s Day.  I’d swing open the door of my  classroom to 30 eagerly awaiting kindergarteners and prepare to deliver the unsettling news. Our classroom was a mess. Somehow, blocks and toys had been left all over the floor, paints had been tipped over, and tiny little green footprints covered the countertops and whiteboards!  The children would always be horrified…delightfully horrified.

There was never any argument about the clean-up. Everyone was anxious  to help, confident that under the next pile of blocks or in the next cupboard, they would find the leprechaun responsible for the mess. It had to be a leprechaun, didn’t it? Although an actual mischievous sprite of Irish folklore was never caught, several were seen running past the door or escaping over the playground fence. It would be well into April before the sightings stopped.

I suspicioned that when I left kindergarten for third grade , I’d miss the naive charm of a five-year old.  Although most third graders no longer believed in leprechauns or other fascinating creatures, they delighted in other things. One of those things was the magic of nature. A lizard zipping across the pavement would bring squeals of excitement from most eight-year olds. I was always reminding my students that a paper cup and a handful of grass was not the natural habitat for ladybugs but there were times when their wide eyes, brimming with tears, would force me to concede…”How about releasing them after you show  mom and dad?”  Their enhancement with nature was undeniable and it didn’t stop with living things.

We were lucky enough to have a large, six-foot window in our classroom that looked out on a grassy area and several trees. Not the students that passed by the window or even the workers that climbed ladders, in front of our window to the roof, caused as much of a distraction as the changing weather.  Every time it started to rain, there would be a rumble in the classroom, a couple of my most impulsive students escaping from their seats to get a closer look. The first time it happened, I headed to the window with full intentions of closing the blinds.  But, I stopped.

Wasn’t curiosity the very thing that teachers hoped to encourage? I believed it played as important of a role, in the education of a child, as learning facts. And isn’t a certain portion of  adult success (that is a long-term goal of educators, after all) measured by personal happiness? It always seemed to me that happiness had more to do with being awed by life and the things around you than it did with wealth or fame.

But most of all, I had promised myself, as a young college student, that I would always be a champion of childhood.  Closing the blinds, at that moment, would be communicating that enjoying the sights and sounds of the rain was far less important than our lessons. But the rain wouldn’t last forever and their attention spans were short. The mystery of the rain would pass and we would be able to get back to the joys of multiplication. But for now, for this short moment in time, we needed to delight in what was in front of us. And so we did.

I learned numerous lessons, from my students, over the course of my teaching career. I always knew childhood was a magical time but they reminded me, year after year, that keeping life magical had a lot to do with knowing when to let your imagination run wild and remembering to view everyday events as celebrations. And those, thank goodness, are lessons I don’t have to let go of as I age.

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The Miraculous Make-Over of the Little House

23 Friday Sep 2011

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I fought back the tears as I signed my name on the line marked SELLER. I fought back the tears as I pressed my inky thumb in the Notary’s document book and I fought back the tears when I handed over the envelope at the Fed-Ex counter but once back in the seclusion of my own home…I gave up the fight.

Many years ago, my mother said, “Promise me you’ll do something with the little house after I’m gone.” She was referring to her childhood home, a small house that sat on the gentle slopes of the Oquirrah Mountains in Utah. Built in the 1920s, my grandparents were its first and only owners and my mother had lived there until she left for college. The house might have been diminutive but it was always loved and well-tended. My grandmother sewed the curtains that hung in its windows and cared for the billowy hydrangea that flourished on the side of the house. I never knew my grandmother but I saw her handiwork every time my mother pulled out one of her tablecloths or quilts. I was well aware of her love for family and the elementary school children she taught. My grandfather and I, on the other hand, were great buddies. He taught me to whistle before I could talk and bought me  pink corduroy overalls after watching me attempt to crawl in a dress. He called me his little giant interpreting my persistence as strength instead of what I suspect it really was… stubbornness. I loved him with all of my young heart. My mother’s sentimental attachment to this tiny house made it difficult for her to let it go even though being an absentee landlord, after my grandfather had passed away, had never been easy. As the little house aged, it needed more and more attention and I was well aware that it had become a concern for her.

The little house in the 1920s.

As parents age and roles reverse, providing support can be a challenge, but it can also provide opportunities. Opportunities that give you a chance to repay a bit of the love and support that has been demonstrated towards you, over the years. My mother had been a parent, a friend… an encourager all of my life. I knew that I would do everything I could to fulfill her request to take care of her childhood home.  So, after her death, my husband and I headed to Utah, to determine what our first steps would be in carrying out her wishes.

A dear family friend, Ken, had been acting as a rental agent and general handyman for the little house for many years. He was more than willing to help us make a list of initial repairs and actually complete some of the work himself. The process would take time as we would have to proceed in baby steps…we were both working and money would be a consideration… but it was a start. Nothing I could do would ever fill the emptiness that I felt after losing my mother but the thought of working on the little house, the house that had been the setting of so many of her cherished childhood memories, brought me immense joy. As we flew home to California, after that initial visit, I was encouraged and filled with anticipation.

Upon returning home, we resumed our jobs and routines and I continued to be energized with each little step we took towards our goal. One day, I returned from work to a message from the insurance company informing me that there had been a fire in the little house. The external damage was minimal but the interior structural damage was significant. The cost of rebuilding would exceed the little house’s value so it could not be rebuilt. The insurance company would cover the cost of demolition and removal of materials.  They would be in touch as to our next steps.

My father had passed away when my mother was in her forties. She was such a young widow and she used to say to me, “If we can live without your father…we can live without any thing.” I knew this house was just a possession, just a thing. I diligently tried to hear her voice and have that familiar message give me solace.  Logic and reason couldn’t change anything…my heart was broken. The next few weeks were a blur filled with numerous bits of information from both the insurance company and the fire department. Thank God, we were between renters, so we didn’t have the concern for human safety. The arson investigators determined there was no foul play so signing papers appeared to be all that was needed to close our case. End of story…or so it would seem.

Another phone message, about two weeks later, changed everything and redirected the fate of the little house. A contractor had been found that would build a new home for the insured amount. Pushing my surprise and confusion aside, I focused on preparing for a meeting where, I was assured, all the details would be discussed. Greg searched the internet for tips on working with a contractor and I prepared by gathering old pictures of the little house. I suspected that the interior of the new house might be different from the original design. After all, we didn’t need to build another coal shoot, but I hoped that the exterior could somewhat resemble that original design. It fit the neighborhood and I was still dealing with the sentimental issues.

Our contractor couldn’t have been more willing to try to make my visions a reality. Sketches of the exterior of the house and  blueprints went back and forth, in the mail, until we both were satisfied, and then the work began. The demolition of the little house was hard to contemplate so I chose to focus on the construction instead. It began in late fall and Ken sent pictures, regularly, as promised.

We did need a new foundation. No rebar had been used in the original.

There was a little snow evident on the neighbor's roof but framing had definitely started.

Work was going on inside, at this point. Brrrr!

A new little house had been born!

Seeing this sweet little house,completed, was overwhelming. It was no longer the house my mother had grown up in but it sat in the same spot, in the same neighborhood, in the same town. I wanted to put in a front yard and then my project would be complete. The little house would be ready to sell…ready to really belong to a family, again.

Greg, Ken, and I worked, that fall, putting in a sprinkler system and a lawn but I could still feel myself stalling for time. Could we hold onto the house for a year?  I hoped that if we could spend just a few days, in the little house, during each of the seasons, I’d be content.  Utah is a beautiful state and we enjoyed the variety and the splendor of each season…except winter. Utah had one of its harshest winters on record, that year, and we decided not to chance the drive. We returned in late spring the following year. I knew that our days, enjoying this little house and its surroundings, were numbered. I had accomplished all that I had set out to do and I knew that letting go of the little house didn’t mean I had to let go of any memories. They would go home with me, and stay with me, forever.

One morning, as I looked out of the window at the grey clouds and the listened to the soft rain, I commented on our accomplishments. We had done all we had set out to do. It was all like a dream come true…a sort of little miracle. My only regret? I’d missed seeing the little house in snow.  And then it happened… the rain got heavier, the sky got darker…and it started to snow. Just a light dusting at first but then heavier and heavier until snow softly blanketed the lawn. The folks in Utah probably didn’t even count it as snow, but as far as I was concerned, it was the winter I’d missed. If I had any question that I’d made the right choice to let go, to move on… I had my answer.

It started as rain and turned into snow,

dusting the lawn with a touch of winter in spring.

The little house was only on the market for about 4 months before it sold. It was what we wanted but I still cried.

My mother was a master at knowing when to lead with her head and when to lead with her heart. I always wished I had more confidence when it came to making that choice. There were numerous times during this journey when my head told me I should reconsider. Instead, I listened to my heart. I will be forever grateful that I did for it allowed me to fulfill a very special promise.

Mrs. S

03 Saturday Sep 2011

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Every year at this time, as the kids go back to school, I can’t help but reflect on my own years as a student and then as an elementary classroom teacher. This year, my third grade teacher, Mrs. S, has been in my thoughts not only for who she was but for the part she played in developing my beliefs about the role of a teacher.

Third grade could have been a difficult year for me. We were an Air Force family and we had recently moved from Ramstein, Germany back to the states. I had been in an elementary school, on the base in Europe, where a new student was somewhat of a regular occurrence. That was not the case in the public school in Forestville, Maryland. I was a bit shy and Mrs. S. made sure that the transition was as painless as possible. It’s ironic I actually don’t remember much about her except that she had grayish blonde hair, was pregnant, and put her arm around my shoulders…often.

Many years later, during one of those reflecting back discussions with my mom, the topic of school and my third grade year came up. I was shocked to find out that my mom and dad initially had reservations about Mrs. S. I can’t remember exactly what my parents’ concerns were but it had something to do with her academic goals for the year or her professionalism. But my mother was very clear about the reason that they kept me in the class. “You needed a safe, loving environment. We had just upset your little world with a big move and it was most important to us that you went to school each day feeling happy and secure. Mrs. S did that for you.”

My college days, that were spent preparing for a teaching career, were filled with courses and lessons on learning theories, best teaching practices, and the gentle nature of the young child’s psyche. Those topics were repeatedly addressed over the course of my teaching career. But as the years progressed, we talked  more and more about test scores and the importance of students being able to compete in a global economy. Ahhh…that global economy. I have read several articles, over the years, that say there is a  characteristic among American entrepreneurs that makes them unique. That characteristic is their willingness to fail and then try again. Our culture does not really view failure as failing unless one gives up trying.

If one of our strengths, as a nation, comes from our people who are not afraid of failure, then we need to start when students are young, encouraging them to be all that they can be, to take risks knowing they have the safety net of caring teachers for support. It goes without saying that we need to have classrooms that provide students with academic opportunities but we also need to provide some emotional support as well. Adults, in our schools, need to “put their arms around the shoulders” of their students whether it’s in protecting them from bullies, encouraging them to believe in themselves, or just giving support during life’s scary times.

I sincerely hope that as our nation struggles to improve an educational system, that seems to be failing so many, we don’t underestimate the value of demonstrating tenderness. I had a teacher who exhibited compassion towards me, over 40 years ago, and I never forgot it. It made a difference then. It can make a difference now.

Mickey’s Joy

19 Friday Aug 2011

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In her book, Living a Beautiful Life, Alexandra Stoddard states…”Creating daily rituals – making daily tasks into times of enrichment through planning and special personal details- is a way to live a richer, more satisfying life.”

My mother designed her life to be filled with meaningful rituals. Those personal rituals became as much a part of who my mom was as her genuine appreciation for life and  her nickname, Mickey.

My father was in the Air Force and so my parents moved around more than most young couples. To say my mother was a people person is a serious understatement so you might imagine how difficult it was for her to repeatedly say good-bye to friends. Those were the days when long distance phone calls were quite expensive and e-mails were nonexistent. So, to stay in touch, my mother took up the task of letter writing. That undertaking (she would have never called it a task) became her letter writing ritual.

This writing ritual began before I was born. By the time I was old enough to really comprehend the level of her of commitment, she had been writing for over twenty years. It took two address books to hold all of her friend’s addresses and a small date book to keep track of the daily correspondence.

Each day, she would find time to sit, coffee in hand, surrounded by her stationary, note cards, and fancy address labels, and write to those people who meant so much to her. She sent joyful wishes, notes of sympathy, thoughts of encouragement, and holiday greetings. If an occasion had meaning for a friend, it had meaning for my mom and she sent her thoughts in a card. She relied on her Birthday Book to make sure no one’s special days were overlooked but she had spent so many years and so much time acknowledging those special days, that many of them were imbedded in her memory.

The book my mom used to record birthdays, anniversaries, etc.

What had started as a simple way to stay in touch with long distance friends had turned into a personal and unique way of reminding friends, near and far, of their importance in her life. And in doing that, it had also allowed her to live a part of her life,everyday, dedicated to one of the values she held closest to her heart, the value of friendship. It’s no wonder that it brought her such joy.

Using Poetry to Personalize Your Celebration (part 1of 3)

04 Thursday Aug 2011

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It was June and my teaching buddies and I were looking forward to vacation but lamenting the fact that we never seemed to do a good job of getting together over the summer. Someone suggested that we schedule a round of golf every week and whoever was in town could just show up. The idea met with unanimous approval which was pretty amazing considering there were ten people voting and only a couple of us had ever actually held a golf club.

We decided we would find a small, local golf course and we would play late in the afternoon so our amateur skills would offend as few people, as possible. Birch Hills Golf Course, a small executive course near the school, turned out to be our summer playground for golfing and we became acquainted with Mike, the golf pro, on our first visit. Judy had called ahead to set a tee-time and explain our situation before the first time we actually played a round of golf.

At first, Mike was the consummate professional explaining exactly what the club offered in classes, equipment, and support. However, it didn’t take him long to realize this group of golfers was more interested in the color of their tees and who would drive the golf cart than in signing up for classes to improve their putting.

The rules, for the course, were painted on a wooden sign that hung on the outside of the door to the pro shop and were quite obvious. Teachers are basically  “compliant children” so Mike didn’t need to worry too much about us breaking the rules. We did sometimes giggle a little too loud, allow ourselves an inordinate amount of do-overs, or stop too many times to take photos. Our golf game might have been a bit unorthodox and we might have bent a few rules but we never broke any rules that could result in anyone getting hurt and we were never disrespectful of the more skilled serious players. The Marshall, who drove around in his little cart watching for infractions, disliked the fact that we would sometimes bunch together and make a six-some. He would always drive up to the group and exclaim…”Ladies, the rules state that you golf in groups of 4.”  He must have complained, back at the pro shop, because once Mike made Judy walk outside and reread the rules posted on the door. But before the end of the summer Marshall had become our “best friend” and would purposely go out of his way to stop by and say hi whenever his shift was ending just as we arrived.

As the dog days of summer drew to a close, we faced the beginning of a new school year and the ending of those regularly scheduled golf games. Our weekly tee-offs had provided us with fun, friendship and a modicum of exercise. No one wanted to see them come to an end. We decided to stretch out our time together and end our summer routine with our own personally created Sports Award Banquet. We chose categories of awards  where we would recognize each other for the unique strengths we each brought to the game or the growth that we all demonstrated. It would be the culminating activity after a summer of fun and new learning. We made reservations at a local restaurant, invited Mike to join us, and set out to create voting ballots for those awards.

I wanted to add my own special touch to the evening so I decided to create a poem that retold our golfing story. It was never my intention to write a “literary work of distinctive style and rhythm.” Instead, I wanted to remind the group of the adventures we had shared on the golf course and I wanted to make them laugh. My lack of poetry writing skills would insure my poem was never mistaken for high-level prose and setting it to the rhythm and rhyme of a well-known Christmas poem would guarantee its silliness. (There is something intrinsically funny about rewriting a well-known poem using totally unrelated words.)

Tomorrow I will post my poem…Twas The Night Before Golfing. Thank you Clement Clarke Moore.

Treasure Each Moment

09 Saturday Jul 2011

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I recognize that my personal philosophy of life has many of its roots in my childhood. While I wouldn’t even pretend to know when or where most of my philosophical paradigms originated, I feel quite certain that a significant one was crystallized for me in the summer of 1964 when I was not yet ten years old.

On March 27, 1964, Alaska suffered a devastating earthquake. By that summer, numerous magazines were featuring stories about the tragedy. I had already seen a few articles filled with images of derailed trains, collapsed homes, and pavement left with gaping holes. To ease my fears and some youthful curiosity, my mom and I had spent time talking about the tragedies that typically accompany a natural disaster. She had also taken the time to reassure me that earthquakes were atypical for Maryland, which is where we were living at the time.

Soon after this, I came across yet another article related to the earthquake. It was written by a woman whose plans for an Alaskan vacation, with her family, had been interrupted due to the earthquake. The article included a photograph of the woman sitting next to an opened and completely packed suitcase. This was not a story of grim adversity but a story of personal disappointment. I hadn’t suffered any more disappointments than the average 9 1/2 year old, but for some reason that still eludes me, this story weighed heavily on my mind. I recognized it wasn’t as tragic as the stories where people had lost their lives or their homes but it still felt incredibly sad to me.

I loved discussions with my mom. Talking to her was always so comfortable. I use the word comfortable instead of easy because it wasn’t my mom’s style to just tell you what you wanted to hear. She was loving, compassionate, and supportive but she was always honest. Even if the truth might sting. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised by her reaction to the Alaskan vacation story. She did have sympathy for the family but she wasn’t willing to just let it go at that.

“Did they have fun planning for the trip?” she asked. She wasn’t really expecting an answer. She was counting on the fact that I would recall our cherished family planning sessions. My dad would bring home travel brochures and the three of us would huddle around planning just where we would go and what we would see and do. “Did they enjoy the time they spent packing…choosing the clothes they would need for a chilly Alaskan climate?” This time she was counting on the fact that I had always loved my clothes and creating outfits. She knew how much I delighted in every moment spent choosing the perfect bathing suit or pair of sandals to pack for a trip.

She wanted me to recognize that even though the family lost their chance at this Alaskan vacation, the wonderful memories they created while anticipating and preparing for the trip, weren’t lost. If those memories were only of family arguments and frustrating moments, then it would indeed be a sad story.

I eventually understood  what she was trying to teach me. Today is too precious to waste while waiting for tomorrow. That lesson has stayed with me for the rest of my life. I’d like to be able to say that I never waste a moment of today worrying about something that is happening tomorrow….but that simply isn’t true. I forget more times than I’d like to admit. But every time I recognize I’m in a frenzy, caught up in the process of getting through today so I can get to tomorrow, it is the thought of my mom and the image of that packed suitcase, that brings me back to what I know is really important.

Throughout my life, my mother looked for ways to show me that life is a gift and each day is worth celebrating. She was a wonderful teacher. I got the message.

Small and Cheap Aren’t Synonyms! (Our Wedding Our Way)

23 Thursday Jun 2011

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The first time I googled “small weddings” the top response was “cheap weddings”.  In disgust, I clicked off the computer and walked out of the room. Perhaps a bit of an overreaction on my part, handling frustration isn’t always my long suit.

At the first announcement that I was getting married, my best-friend gave  me a congratulations card and one of those bridal magazines. It’s incredible what you can learn in those magazines. I learned that I  had an official title –  encore bride. I wasn’t even struggling with the whole second marriage label but it was exciting to discover there was an official title for my new role.  What was even more incredible was the overwhelming number of options available to brides who were in the midst of planning a wedding.

For  a week, I poured over every page of that magazine,  ooohing and ahhhing over the beautifully set reception tables, the magnificent bridal bouquets, and the heavily adorned wedding dresses. It was all very beautiful,  my inner princess was delighted, but very little of what I saw in those elaborate magazines was what my fiancé, Greg, and I really wanted for our wedding. We were both “encores”( assuming encore isn’t gender specific),  in our 50s, and dealing with a limited budget.  I had perused the bookstores and purchased additional magazines. But by the time I got the “cheap wedding” response, on the computer,  I was at my wits end.

One afternoon,  Greg, recognizing my continued frustration, came home with one more book. It was entitled Intimate Weddings.  I was touched by his thoughtfulness. The book’s relatively small size (for a wedding book) and its soft yellow colored cover encouraged me to let down my guard long enough to flip through the pages.  I was instantly charmed. I loved the author’s use of words and her delightful description of possibilities.  I realized that I had been focusing on what I couldn’t have, with our limited budget, instead of all of the possibilities I could explore with a small wedding. It was the turning point in my own wedding planning.  

In the months that followed, as we made the decisions that are typically associated with wedding planning, we consciously tried to think of ways to infuse the ceremony and reception with personal touches. I now realize that the road to our wedding day was filled with more than schedules to keep and choices to make. It was filled with affirmations of long held values, and a few personal insights, as well.

My Uncle Leonard, my father’s youngest brother, married us. I can see a bit of my father in his face and in his demeanor. My father was a much younger man when he passed away but I can still see the family resemblance. My father would be so proud of him….and of me.

Alexandra, my best friend’s daughter, was my bridesmaid. I am an only child but she is still my “niece.” Family bonds are as much a matter of the heart as they are about genetics, for me. On the day of the wedding, Alex wore, around her neck, a strand of my mother’s pearls. I still miss my mom. Although she never knew Alex as a young woman, she had loved her as a child and young teen. It was a sentimental reminder of the love we all had shared.

Greg and I purchased pocket watches, as gifts, for his parents. Time is the ultimate gift. The watches symbolized all the time his parents had spent caring for him, loving him, supporting him…helping to form him into the man that I love. The watches also stood for that precious portion of time – the future – that stood ahead of all of us. We tucked a picture of ourselves, in the case, to remind them of this particularly special moment in time.

In the middle of our reception, we took a small break for a photo montage. I’ll always remember how I felt, standing with Greg by my side, as we watched the images flash before us. The montage began with a short tribute to the memory of my loving parents. But instead of moving on to pictures of Greg and me, the images transitioned to pictures of our guests. Secretly, we’d chosen a few pictures of each of our guests and their families.  Those photos and some  favorite music selections were handed over to a videographer.  The finished product was our way of saying – Your lives are important to us. Without all of you and the influence of your love and friendship, we couldn’t be all that we are…we wouldn’t be here.

The personal touches weren’t all  the results of such serious thought. We definitely left room for the expression of those  individual  personal characteristics that help define us. There is a part of me that has never outgrown the love of all things frilly or sparkly. She’s the inner princess that loved everything in that original bridal magazine. I chose my wedding shoes in honor of her.

Our wedding day had been designed to reflect the things that were of value to us.  It was filled with friends and family and a reminder of the way they had enriched our lives. It was filled with the traditions of marriage that were close to our heart. It was filled with personal touches that made our wedding day “uniquely ours.” Our wedding was small… but only in size.

Intimate Weddings was published in 2004. The blog, Intimate Weddings, was started four years later.

Will You Stand By My Side?

14 Tuesday Jun 2011

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I was ready to pop the question. A little luncheon had been planned in honor of this special occasion. The house was clean, the table set, and a few appropriate words had been rehearsed. I was a little nervous but I was ready.

But what I was about to propose wasn’t marriage. I had invited Alexandra, my fifteen year old niece, and her mom, to lunch where I was going to ask her to be the one and only bridesmaid in my upcoming wedding.

I think it is a magical factor of human nature that we are capable of knowing we will love someone or something before they actually become a tangible part of our lives. But it is an experience most of us have had. I knew that I would love Alex even before she was born. I was enchanted holding her for the first time.

Even though I knew that I would love her, I could not possibly have known all the wonderful memories that we would build together. I could not have possibly imagined all of the joy that she would bring to my life. I could not have envisioned all of the giggles and the hugs that we would share over the next decade and a half.

So, I wanted this luncheon to be more than an opportunity to anticipate and prepare for my special day. I wanted it to be an opportunity to celebrate the unique bond that she and I had developed.

The luncheon table had been decorated in browns and pinks to match a bridesmaid tote that I had bought for her. Pictures, chosen from different stages of her life, served as our centerpiece. A banner, asking the big question, hung across the doorway. While she knew she was coming to lunch, I don’t think that she suspected my ulterior motive.

It was fun to see the surprise in her face.  

And even more fun to spend the next six months shopping and dreaming and building even more memories, together.

And when the big day finally arrived, that sweet, beautifully radiant child, who had been so close to my heart, for so many years, was there ready and willing to stand by my side. It was one of the happiest days of my life.

                   Happy 18th Birthday! (June 14, 2011)        I love you.

Kim’s Bachelorette Party

01 Wednesday Jun 2011

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Celebrations naturally accompany friendships so I guess you might say Kim and I have experienced over 30 years of shared celebrations. We became buddies in the earliest years of our teaching careers and recently joined the ranks of the retired. Still friends – but after all those years – more like sisters than buddies.

June is the month of brides and all things wedding. It seems fitting that a June blog, on celebrations,  should be about a wedding related celebration. This story is over 20 years old but it still makes me smile to retell it.

Kim had announced that she was getting married and I wanted to give her a Bachelorette Party. I wanted it to be an evening with lots of time for sharing but I also wanted a bit of tradition. Somehow guys had to be a part of the equation even though the classic evening with a gang of girl-friends and a male-stripper just wasn’t the right fit.

Trying to think of an idea that compliments occasion is always fun for me. It’s a bit like putting puzzle pieces together. I decided the first part of the evening, and the most lengthy, should be with just the two of us. Somehow I would add the “man” touch at the end of the night. The pieces of the puzzle finally came together. I needed something like those life-sized  cut-outs of movie stars you see in a video store advertising the newest movie release. But, I didn’t really want movie stars. I wanted guys that had been a part of our lives. I would have to make them myself!

The men needed to be life-sized and dimensional. I ended up creating something like large puffy paper dolls. Discarded sheets of butcher paper, previously used to cover classroom bulletin boards, are easy to come by in a school setting. I knew my choice of colors would be limited to the primary colors typically found in a classroom but they could serve as bodies and clothing. I’d have to make faces out of something closer to skin color. I needed a body template so I asked a friend, who was sworn to secrecy, to take home one large sheet and trace her husband. From that template, I traced twelve bodies to be the fronts and backs of six men. For several nights, I spent my evenings stapling the sides of the paper bodies,adding the torn newspaper as stuffing, then stapling the opposite side to seal the paper doll body. As I stapled and stuffed, I ran through years of memories to determine just who would be in attendance that night. I wanted the men, in attendance, to be somewhat representative of the experiences of our friendship as single women.

Our first principal, Dave, needed to be there. I remembered him with a big smile and a genuine concern for children. He had a dream of owning a pet store specializing in birds. I wished I’d had a parrot for his shoulder but I settled on a t-shirt from the school where we had first taught together.

Steven and Joe represented our twenty-something years. The dating scene needed to receive some recognition. The four of us had gone on a skiing date. I knew I could dig out my old skis and poles. The guys provided memories. The ski gear served as decoration.

Ramon, her fiance, had to be in attendance. I gave him a little crown. He isn’t really the crown type but it added to the ridiculousness of the whole evening.

When I was done, there were six guests in all. A little crepe paper and a few balloons and we were ready to party.

The night of the party Kim came to pick me up. I purposely told her that I would just walk out to the car so we’d have as much time at dinner as possible. Combine friends and food and time always goes by quickly. We never seem to have enough time to just talk, anyway. I was excited about going back to the condo for the surprise but as we got closer I began to suffer tha pangs of self-doubt. Was this ideas a little creative, albeit silly, or just plain stupid?  What if Kim didn’t get the meaning of all of it?  But I was in too deep at this point and one of the reasons that Kim is such a good friend is the she “gets” me. I felt certain she would recognize that I planned this goofy party out of love and genuine happiness for her impending wedding.

As we approached the front door, I purposely started to talk just a bit louder than normal and faked fumbling at the door lock. I could tell Kim recognized the awkwardness of the moment. But I just opened the door and motioned her inside. As she stepped in, I shouted “surprise” with all the enthusiasm of a hostess with fifty waiting guests. Then I stood there, frozen, in anticipation of her reaction. I’m sure Kim was confused for a moment before it all made sense. I don’t remember exactly how it all happened but the next thing I knew we were both laughing and I was retelling the whole planning of the evening. Kim was working her way around to all of the guests as I snapped photos. We laughed and talked and reminisced about all the crazy things we had done over the years.

Catching up on old times
Bunny ears for Dave
Kim and the guys
Dan and me
Kim and her prince

When the evening was over we loaded all of the men into her car, waved good-bye and they drove away. The image of her Jeep Cherokee packed with six paper-stuffed men is etched in my mind forever. Why I didn’t take of picture of that, I’ll never know!

 
Kim’s Bachelorette Party was over. We had celebrated our friendship and where it had been and we had celebrated Kim’s life and where it was going. Life goes by so quickly and friendships are so valuable. We had taken a small moment in time and made it into an event – a celebration. For me…that’s always the appropriate thing to do.