New Year's Day, southern style

Happy 2013 to ya'll!!

    We just finished our very southern traditional New Year's Day meal, and it was so delicious, I just had to share some stories with ya'll.

     My family has always had a meal of pork, greens, and black-eyed peas on the first of January.  After all, those are the ingredients that are supposed to bring you good fortune and prosperity throughout the year. My mother always prepared the food according to the way my father's grandmother had . . . baked pork loin or tenderloin (sometimes marinated), steamed curly kale, and black-eyed peas that had been soaked, cooked, and then slightly mashed.  The crowning glory was my great-grandmother's bread-and-butter pickles, supposedly chopped up and added to the peas, but I always preferred mine on the side.

     I did not fully appreciate this meal as a child.  Oh, I liked all the items, just not necessarily in the same meal.  If the slightest bit of grit still resided in the kale, I would not take another bite.  Also, I never fully understood the need to mash the peas - were they not suitable as is?

     Now that I run my own household, I have made a few changes.  I always use a marinated pork tenderloin - the only change is whether I bake it or my husband cooks it on the grill.  I started out insisting on kale, but since my children will actually eat wilted spinach, I have switched.  I simply sautee some garlic and oil, add the spinach and kosher salt until wilted.  DELICIOUS!  Some years I soak the peas and then cook, others I cheat and buy canned (yes, I know, my female ancestors are rolling over in their graves.)  What I never do is mash the peas, but please do not tell my mother.  The only thing I truly miss is those pickles.  My grandmother is gone, and while my mother still makes them some years, I have yet to have a kitchen large enough to undertake that process.  (For those of you not from the south, it takes over a week to make those delectable green slivers.)

    We've all eaten our share to guarantee us good luck in the new year.  I wish you and yours many blessings and days of happiness in 2013!

  

The Great Christmas Debate . . .

. . . you know, the one about when to take down the decorations.  If you think Republicans and Democrats are having a hard time solving the fiscal cliff crisis, just try this one on for size!

     My mother had steadfast rules for decorating when I was growing up.  We were not allowed to be the tree up until two weeks for Christmas (always live, NEVER artificial) and everything was to come back down New Year's Day.  I hated waiting so long to begin decking the halls, but I really abhorred packing it all away.  As the oldest child, it often seemed that I was left to handle it all by myself, except for getting the boxes back in the attic.  That was Daddy's job, and he enjoyed his part even less than I did mine.  I made up my mind that when I became a "grup," I would tinsel and light by my own rules.

     We usually put our tree up (yes, a live one) the first week of Christmas.  It takes so much work that I want to have at least a full month to enjoy it.  Of course, there all those lucky years when Thanksgiving falls early and you get an extra week!  Since I know people who start with all the red and green on Turkey Day, I do not catch much flack for being too early.  The debate comes in on when to take all that finery down.

     Some people insist on starting the day after Christmas.  They definitely don't have a large southern family that is still busy celebrating until the 29th.  There are also those who follow my mother's tradition of pulling it all down on New Year's Day, but I'm still young enough that I want to enjoy the night before and not burden myself too much on the first day of January.  Lastly, I heard a local so-called civility expert claim that all decorations should be gone by January 6th "because your neighbors will be tired of them."

     I beg to differ.  No, I'm not one of those people who wants to see your Christmas lights at Easter.  I am, however, both southern and Episcopalian.  I'm not sure if it is one, or both, of these characteristics that makes me keep my house Yuletide ready until the second week in January . . . but any good Christian knows about Three Kings Day.  If the wise men did not arrive in Bethlehem until January 6th, then my house is going to be shining with tiny lights and bedecked with evergreens to welcome them in.  I do not think my neighbors are bothered by this, but if they are, my deepest apologies (and just look the other way for a few days.)

     Whenever you decide to pack it all away, my hope for you is this:  neither broken glass nor needles stuck in your vacuum, and wonderful memories to tide you over until the time to do it all again.

     

A Dying Art . . .

     I have always loved writing letters.  It may be because I tend to be old-fashioned or because I'm academically trained as an historian.  Perhaps it was my grandmother's insistence that I be reared with a deep appreciation from whence I came.  Regardless of the reason, I try to pen several letters a month, and I insist on signing and addressing some seventy-odd Christmas cards every year.  No photo cards or pre-printed labels in this house!

     When my grandparents were removed from their house this past summer, my letter writing became more diligent.  I was unsure how to reach them, but my grandmother especially loved receiving mail from me.  I started writing to both of them more frequently, and after my grandmother passed away, I have kept up my efforts to communicate with my grandfather.

     A few months later, a friend of mine was lamenting on Facebook about how no one takes the time to actually write to anyone these days.  I completely agree.  An actual written letter is very different from an email or Facebook post.  People tend to think how their comments will affect others (for good or for bad) when they take a pen to paper.  I also miss real letters from an historical point of view.  How many people take the time to print out their emails, posts, or tweets?  What will future generations have left of us to study?

     I made the decision to start a personal campaign.  I did not want this to be a New Year's resolution, because then it seemed doomed to fail.  Instead, I started during one of the busiest times of year:  December.  I decided, starting December 1st, to write one letter, every day, for a year.

     So far things are going well.  Some of my letters are long, some are just short thank-you notes, others are birthday wishes.  I plan on sharing some of these with you as my journey progresses.  If I do not get around to doing so until 2013 . . . Merry Christmas to you all!

The Goodbye Not Said

     Today has been filled with weepy moments, and I decided it was finally time to allow some emotion to escape.  You see, my grandmother passed away in August, but due to certain family members who do not even know how to remotely act like good Christians, I have been unable to properly mourn her passing.  I could not afford to have a weak moment as I needed all my strength to deal with their ugliness.  So I built a wall around my grief and soldiered on.

    Over the past few weeks, I have felt small cracks in that wall, but I have tried my best to dam them up.  Apparently today was the day all repairs failed.  First, I unpacked my Christmas stocking which my grandmother (mostly) made - her first and last attempt at knitting.  Then I made the mistake of watching a recorded episode of General Hospital . . . the one in which Edward Quartermaine passes away.  Seeing certain family members being kept from his bedside was the last blow my wall could stand.

     After allowing myself a short crying jag, I decided it would perhaps be cathartic to write what I would have said to my grandmother if I had been given the chance.  So here you are, Nene:

     I would have reminded you of the things of which we spoke the last time I was allowed to see you:  how much I love you, that I will make sure my children remember both you and my grandfather, and that I will keep the family Bible updated and safe.  There are other things I want to say, such as how much it means to me that I was raised on Lee Farm and that you took the time to share the history of the land and our family with me.  Thank you for all the trips to the movies and for making sure that my sister, my two daughters, and I all received our first dolls from you.  Thank you for the beach memories and for extending that opportunity to my three children.  Thank you for allowing me to acknowledge your faults and shortcomings and find a way to love you regardless.

     Most importantly, I want to promise that I will try to be better than our previous generations.  I will try my best not to hold grudges and to forgive family that has treated me badly.  In turn, I will strive every day not to hurt them, regardless of their actions.  I promise to love my cousins unconditionally.  Finally, I promise that your namesake, my sweet little Bess, will be taught to embrace the best of you.

     Thank you for loving me, and I will never stop missing you.

                                                     Love Always,
                                                         Ginny

The Decision

                                             


     It is finally official . . . we are a homeschooling family!


     This definitely was not a decision that came out of thin air.       In 2006, our oldest child had a horrible kindergarten experience with a teacher who was inept academically and scarring emotionally.  I began my homeschooling research then, as well as visiting area schools.


     I was intrigued by the possibility of teaching my own child (I already had experience as an instructor of college undergraduates.)  Homeschooling was a definite consideration until we fell in love after a visit to a local private Christian school.


     That school was all we could have hoped for (and more) for the first two years.  As Grace began third grade, some concerns arose, but we did not immediately feel the need for change.  As the year progressed, it became clear that the school was not meeting our needs, and we once again started the research process.


    As soon as I revisited the idea of homeschooling, I found answers to my troubling questions.  Teaching Grace myself would of course mean that I could fill in the academic gaps, but other areas were much more important.  I saw the opportunity to help restore her flagging self-esteem, and I prayed for the return of my happy-go-lucky, willing-to-try-anything little girl.


     The affirmation came when we told our daughter our plans for the next school year.  Her smile was so big and wide  that I am surprised her face did not ache!  She has embraced the change with so much enthusiasm, and within a few short weeks, the sweet child I knew has reappeared.


     I am not naive.  I know there will be bumps in the road.  After all, I will be teaching a fourth grader and a kindergartner with a busy eighteen-month-old at home.  There will be days they will drive me to drink.  And there will be days when they take all their frustration out on their mother/teacher.  I am willing to hold on to all those times in between, when I get to witness their faces light up with excitement over a new discovery.  In the end, their happiness, both through academic success and emotional encouragement, is what led our family to this adventure.

The after-Christmas let-down

    

     We've all suffered through it at some time or another . . . that unhappy feeling that follows all the excitement, parties, and joy of the Christmas season.  As a child, I remember dreading New Year's Day when we all labored under my mother's steadfast rule that all decorations were to come down January 1st, no matter how late you stayed up or how much "fun" the adults had the night before.  It was usually a day filled with chores and grumpiness, made even worse if it was your last day of freedom before returning to school.

     Now that I get to make up my own decorating rules, I start bedecking the house immediately following Thanksgiving and refuse to remove the tree or nativity until at least after Three Kings' Day.  That has helped to somewhat remove my angst and winter-blues after weeks filled with family, friends, and never-ending desserts.  This year, however, has been different.  Our tree just came down last night.  Yep, that's right, January 22nd.

     I think I've had a more difficult time this year because Christmas was just so wonderful.  It was our third child's first, which always makes it special.  When the tree first went up, she kept pointing at it and laughing, as if to say, "Look what the crazy adults have down now.  They think a real tree belongs in the house!"  Of course, a baby's delight in ripping tissue paper into minuscule pieces is always infectious.  While that wonderment is enough of a reason to make the holidays special, this time it was more than that.

     During Christmas break, our usual joyous, adventurous, smiling, good-natured eldest child returned.  Oh, she had never left home, not in body at least.  But during the first four months of her third grade year, our daughter, who had always been called "Sunshine" by her teachers, turned into a crying, insecure mess, constantly believing she was not good enough or melting down because she was no longer sure what was expected of her.  My husband  and I have watched our outgoing, self-assured child become a stranger, at least concerning all things school-related.

     No, we did not sit idly by and let this happen.  We've had numerous meetings with teachers and administrators trying to find out what is going on.  We were shocked, quite frankly, because our sweet little Christian school was so phenomenal for both first and second grade.  In fact, I sang the school's praises to any and all who would listen.  I looked with shock upon people who could afford the school and yet did not even consider sending their children to such a fine institution.  My favorite saying was, "Every time I thought nothing better could happen at school, something even more amazing came along."  Enter a new administration.

     There are always going to be bumps in the road when changes take place in school leadership, and I prepared myself for that.  What I did not expect was a change in the ethos, or culture of the school.  Our happiest academic place on earth changed into an institution where any parents or teachers who disagreed or questioned change were belittled and demoralized until they gave up the fight.  The bright side?  All this unhappiness led me to reexamine myself as a parent.  I've become more patient and found ways to turn just about anything into a fun learning opportunity.  Above all, I am determined that my child will not lose her love of learning.

   And that, my friends, brings my story back full circle to the Christmas tree.  It may just be a symbol, but it represents how happy my child can be, of joyous moments discussing the birth of Christ while unknowingly learning multiplication as we increased our cookie recipe.  That Frasier fir reminds me of her excitement at finishing another Harry Potter book and starting on #5.  Most of all, it gives me hope of how great our daughter's education can be if we, as parents, maintain a central role.

   As for the fate of the tree . . . it is out of the house, but now I'm letting the neighborhood children decorate it with homemade bird feeders.  That way, I think I can hold onto the happiness at least through February.

Lest We Forget

     Like just about every other American, I've been thinking about where I was ten years ago, how I felt, what my reaction was, and how my life changed that day.  When I focus on those questions, September 11th, 2001 seems like just yesterday.  The details are still that clear to me, as I am sure they are to you.

     My husband and I had been married for three months.  I was commuting two hours away to work on my PhD at a school that was closer to my parents' house than our home.  Because of that, I usually spent two nights a week with Momma and Daddy to save on gas.  That morning I was in Suffolk with my mother and cousin, who was eight and with us for the day so Momma could help her with home school math.  I was watching the news because I did not have class until the afternoon.  I remember the exact chair in which I was sitting, how the sun was streaming through the window, the drink in my hand, with Diane Sawyer and Charlie Gibson on the television.  I remember my shock when I actually saw the plane fly into the second tower as they were talking about the first.

     I immediately tried to get through to my husband, but it took a little while. Once I finally reached him, I remember saying two things.  "I think there may be more," and "I hope this isn't enough to make those towers fall."  While we were on the phone, I learned that the Pentagon had been hit.  I sat, glued to the TV, trying to learn anything and everything, as I watched first one, then the other tower crumble to the ground.  My eyes welled up with tears, and it wasn't until some time later that I realized those tears were running down my face.  I tried to imagine if this was how my grandparents felt on Pearl Harbor Day, but this time it was different - we had immediate access to news and all the images.  Not more horrific or less devastating, just different.

     The school I attended was located near Langley, and I spent several hours trying to find out about class, wondering about the safety of traveling near a military base.  After the fourth phone call, I gave up and decided to stay home.  I didn't really want to leave my family behind any way.  That was a driving feeling that day . . . hold onto your loved ones as tightly as possible, because they could be gone in an unthinkable moment.

     In the days that followed, I constantly either watched TV or listened to talk radio.  That was a change in my life.  While I also paid just enough attention to know what was going on in the world, now I felt compelled to understand everything.  I no longer listened to music in the car but rather inundated myself with news and current events.

     Other things changed, too.  Everywhere you went, the terrorist attacks were all anyone spoke of.  In the first few days, there was a question of a draft, and I told my husband that if he had to go to war, I wanted to be pregnant before he left.  I couldn't imagine not having a part of him to hold onto.

     Fast forward to April 2003, and I was in labor with our first child.  Dave tried to put General Hospital on the TV in the labor and delivery room, and I quickly told him I wanted it on FOX.  Operation Iraqi Freedom was underway, and I didn't want to miss a moment of it.  About a week later, as I sat at home nursing my newborn daughter, I watched as Iraqis pulled Saddam's statue to the ground.  It may have been small, but that was a victory in my eyes.

    The world I have brought my children into is drastically different from the one in which I grew up.  The days following September 11th showed that one thing had not changed, however.  When the chips are down, Americans support one another.  We prayed, donated blood, and helped our neighbors.  That's the America I want my children to know.  I have cried more today than I did ten years ago, possibly because I was still in shock back then.  Through those tears, I've told my children about the sacrifice of nearly 3000 people, and that they can honor those fallen by living their lives through good works.

May God bless you, and God bless America.