’23 and Me

Tags

blessings, Death, family, Food, friendship, happiness, holidays, loss, relationships, tradition, writing, year in review

Can I use that title?  Mea culpa if I’m treading on a trademark here.  😉 Thus introduces my annual pictorial year in review. At this moment, most of the post is prepared, save my intro to the year that (now) was. It is 5:37 on New Year’s Eve. Dom is gathering firewood, the last bottle of wine has been opened, and I am at the computer determining how in the world to sum up this year. In rather unusual fashion for my “pictorial” review, I need to write out some of what transpired over the past 365 days.

The Airbnb blew up. Not literally, mind you, but in a good way. We opened the second weekend of December 2022. Since that moment, we have averaged a reservation per week. In Shreveport. For real. I can’t even explain my own shock. Guests have come for work, for weddings, for funerals, for graduations. We have hosted four moms’ weekends, two baby showers, and a teenager’s birthday party. Two of our guest families were here for family members’ surgery at a nearby hospital. One mom, one dad. I prayed for both families and let them know it. Last December I wondered if sharing my faith would be off-putting to guests. Halfway through the year I realized that nothing was more important than sharing my faith. The Lord has seen fit to bless our Cottage. We couldn’t be happier.   

Our kiddos are adults now, fully functional in their own rights with their own jobs and homes. Aaron spent a year at home after college graduation before moving away again last October to pursue his career in radio. (He took Pepper the cat with him. We miss them both in the house.) Victoria works for a law firm and is adulting like nobody’s business. Both of our adult children have significant others who are wonderful people, and whom I consider my own kiddos. Dom and I pray every day that God will bless our children, and He has. 

My parents are well. Dom’s mom is well. As this year ends I can only be grateful for the blessings we continue to receive, and for those yet to come. 2023 passed as most years do, with some fun, some sadness, and a lot of learning. And now, here’s to the year that was…

January

What happened to the toilet paper roll, you ask?  Pepper.  Pepper is what happened to the toilet paper roll. 

February

The month of Carnival, when we party and prepare for Mardi Gras, decking everything in gold, purple and green.  My fleur-de-lis wreath hangs on my front door as winter sunrise casts a purple glow into my entry hall. Two minutes later, the glow was royal blue. I caught both on camera, but in honor of Mardi Gras, here is the purple one.

March

One of the most fun things about running an Airbnb is that I get to do quirky things that make our guests’ stay a little more special.  Sometimes, I can make the visit special even after they’ve gone.  A family of March guests brought their children and I found a little red dinosaur in the sheets of one of the twin beds after they had left.  The dinosaur reminded me so much of Walter that I immediately went home, dug Walter out of the cabinet and proceeded to create and document their “adventures” together.  I texted the child’s dad and got their address to send the dinosaur back to its home. Dino arrived safely home with a two-page letter full of pictures of all the fun he had with Walter while he was parted from his owner.  According to the dad, that letter was a huge hit.  Here’s Walter and Dino playing with the tape dispenser on my desk. 

April

I scrimped and saved to get barstools for the cottage, and the minute I brought them home, guess who had to test them out.

May

Right before we bought the cottage, my goal for 2022 was to establish Victoria’s old bedroom as my new craft room.  Although it was a full year later, I am happy to say that I finally completed the project. I won’t bore you with every wall of the room (though they are each awesome!) so here’s just a pic of the wrapping station I designed and built. This, by the way, gave Pepper as much joy as the toilet paper roll, as evidenced by the claw marks in some of the wrapping paper rolls.

June

Every once in a while something very odd interrupts your day and makes you howl with laughter.  Like Eddie from September 2016. Or this little guy who showed up in our front yard this year, racing around like a greyhound and jumping at our side door like he was on crack. This dude made us laugh so hard. I can’t recall exactly, but I think his name was also Pepper. At any rate, his owner came driving down our street looking for him and Pepper the Pup happily jumped in his truck, never to be seen by us again. It’s just as well. His wildfire energy exhausted me. And OMG those ears!!

July

My grandmother, my last remaining grandparent, passed away this summer.  One of her habits in life was to write the price of everything she purchased on the item with a black marker.  She did this to such extents that my dad would joke with her and threaten to write the price tag on her coffin.  She would always retort, “I hope you do!” So he did.  Yes, that’s right. He whipped out a black Sharpie right there at the graveside. And in that moment, we needed that laugh.

August

It may be that no one cares, but I have created a most spectacular mock-mosa recipe.  It’s made with equal parts orange juice and LaCroix limoncello sparkling water (in place of the mimosa’s champagne.) If you add a splash of grenadine, you have a mock tequila sunrise.  You’re welcome.

September

Working on the computer is next to impossible with Pepper in the house. She loves to march across the keyboard, typing hieroglyphics in her wake, then chasing the mouse icon on the monitors. Here she is interrupting Dom’s work by laying on the mousepad. 

October

Louisiana weather cooperated for a rare weekend when we didn’t have guests and we got the front door and shutters painted on the cottage. For the win!!

November

See, what had happened was….

Dom and my dad were splitting firewood when a rather knotty piece of tree trunk threw a chunk at Dom’s hand, bending his wrist backward to an unknown angle and damaging either muscle or connective tissue. No bones were broken, thankfully, but he is only now regaining true strength in that hand. Several nights after the injury we trekked out into the yard to find the offending log. I have a whole video of Dom throwing it into the fire, but some very choice words were used toward the wood as he sent it to its doom, so I can only show the still photo here. Never fear, it has paid for its crime. And we are all much more attentive to the groans of the hydraulic splitter.

December

The Feast of Seven Fishes, Mainiero style! For three years we have hosted this Italian tradition. From its meager beginnings in 2021, it is an event that has grown to host over 15 people this year. Dom said the only way he would allow it to grow was if we could all sit at one table. And so I set about reorganizing the entire house so that we could fit a single table in the living room. Boot the dining table to the patio, move the sofa to the dining area, etc. We did it. I do like the single table for family gatherings. Our feast was beautiful this year. We could not have done it without my SIL Melissa’s extra china that matches mine and my niece Bella to help with cooking and serving. Bonus points if you can name the movie in the bottom pic. Name the scene and quote the lines for triple bonus points. What do those points earn you? My immense respect. <3

I love this time of year. I love the lights, I love the feelings. I love the Masses that remind me of the scriptural significance of the season. I love the family gatherings and the visits with friends we don’t get to see that often. I love saying, “Merry Christmas,” “God bless you,” and “Happy New Year.” I love you for reading this post when you could have been doing anything else. 

The fireworks are starting to pop and Max’s fur is falling a little more freely as he begins to quake in his own skin. I have to go snuggle a larger-than-lap pup now, so I will bid you adieu. But not before I bid you a good night, a happy new year and a holy blessing for the days to come. Peace be with you all, my friends. I pray that 2023 has been good to you, and that 2024 will be all that you hope it to be.

Love you always,

Lori  

Bonus pic: My fam, our extra kiddos included:

Martha Immortal

My grandmother was a strong-willed woman to put it mildly.  To be blunt she was opinionated, stubborn and outspoken, all traits embedded deep into her own genes and passed down with admirable determination to us younger generations, a fact to which my husband can rightly attest.  On my mother’s side of the family I come from a long line of fiery red-heads.  But nothing holds a candle to the immortal grandmother of my father’s side. 

In my earliest memories I can hear my dad calling her “Maw.” Knowing she was not my Maw, but recognizing her place in line, I dubbed her “MawMaw.”  Later as I learned to write I dropped the “w,” spelling her name MaMa. Her counterpart was my PaPa (pronounced “PawPaw”) because 1) I like pairs that rhyme and 2) we spell EVERYTHING weird in our family.  It’s who we are.

As a child my favorite thing about MaMa was her curly hair which she kept neatly coiffed in a short bouffant.  If I ever saw her ‘do out of whack, I would ask what happened and she would throw her head back in laughter and say, “What happened to MaMa’s coily hair, huh?”

Martha, 1970.

Stories of her younger days as a wife and mother are legendary in my mind.  Through a sepia lens as if I am watching the scene myself, she stands at an ironing board while her sister, Chris, sits in a nearby chair reading aloud from the Bible.  I am told they would take turns with the ironing and the reading.  Other stories center on her love of shopping sales and furniture buying and her arrival home, packages in arms and delivery trucks pulling up while she exclaims to my eye-rolling grandfather, “Look how much money I saved!!!”  Then comes the day when she, my PaPa and another man are lifting a trailer or camper of some sort when it falls on the other man. MaMa drops to her knees and begins praying loudly, leaving only my grandfather’s hands and the other man’s body bearing the weight of the structure they were moving.  It is reported that PaPa yelled, “Stop praying and HELP ME MOVE THIS OFF OF HIM!!” There may or may not have been expletives involved.

MaMa prayed about everything.  She was a deeply religious woman, Southern Baptist to the core.  She taught me the song  Jesus Loves Me.  It’s one of the first songs I remember knowing.  She later taught the same song to a parrot of hers, and the bird frequently sang it – loud and proud – with a perfect squeaky fermata on the “YEEEEEEEEEEEESS, Jesus loves MEEEEEEE!”

MaMa and I shared a love of Precious Moments figurines and books by author Max Lucado.  Somewhere in a box in my attic are every Precious Moments keepsake my grandmother could purchase. For years, she gave one to me for every holiday, birthday, milestone and momentous occasion, even if it was just to celebrate a school year ending.  On my bookshelf are all the Max Lucado books I own, many of them gifts from her. We would call each other each time a new book was released. “Have you read it yet?!! Me too!! Isn’t it wonderful? What’s your favorite part?”

During my college years, on Dom’s first-ever visit to MaMa’s house with us during the early phase of our dating, she presented me with a full-sized Precious Moments teapot and exclaimed that it would make the perfect centerpiece on the cake table at our wedding.  Dom choked on his beverage while I turned at least five shades of red.

I’m not sure if it was just because I was her oldest grandchild and only granddaughter, but MaMa would do anything I asked.  She once purchased every. single. gift. on my Christmas list, much to my mother’s dismay.  But never was this more proven than a week before my first maternity leave was to end. We called my mother and MaMa and asked them to team up in keeping Aaron, our firstborn, so that we wouldn’t have to seek an outside babysitter. Both ladies turned their lives and schedules upside down to accommodate our wish. MaMa would make the two-hour drive from Tyler every Wednesday afternoon so she could keep Aaron on Thursdays and Fridays while Dom and I went to work, and then she would return home each Saturday morning.  Having MaMa live with us three days a week had some serious spoiling potential.  She would often stop at the grocery store on her way into town and stock up on whatever she thought our pantry lacked.  We could always tell which groceries she had purchased because they bore the magic-marker price she had personally scrawled onto each item. 

MaMa left me with many pearls of her wisdom, but the one that has stayed at the forefront of my mind is something she told me right after Aaron was born.  I was holding him as she leaned over my rocking chair from behind, took Aaron’s newborn hand in hers and said, “If you ever look at a child’s hands – really look at them – study the tiny fingers and the littlest lines in the palms, you will never hurt that child.” I thought it was an odd thing to say, but over the years I have come to realize that I wish more people would spend time looking at babies’ hands. 

MaMa holding Aaron, Fall/Winter 2000

Always willing to try something different and learn new things, MaMa was, among many things, an artist. When I was a freshman in high school I asked her to paint a picture that I liked from my literature book.  She painted a perfect copy of it for me, and then framed it in her favorite and elaborate Early American style.  The painting hung in my childhood bedroom, then my adult living room, then my daughter’s room, and finally resides in Marigny Cottage, our Airbnb up the road. It has since been removed from the ornate frame, but it remains one of my favorite things she ever painted, trumping the lush landscapes and parasol-toting Southern ladies that once adorned her own walls.  It can be seen in the background of this photo of her and baby Aaron, another of my faves from the year 2000.

MaMa had a sweet tooth like nobody’s business!  Her favorite thing to make was dessert. Every time we arrived for a visit, there was a freshly baked pie or cake waiting for us.  My favorite dessert of hers was Cherry Glaze Pie, an easy no-bake concoction consisting of cream cheese, cherry pie filling and jello.  Heaven in a pie plate. She loved making coconut cake at Christmas and it was always beautiful. I thought MaMa made the cake each year to look like snow. But the truth is, MaMa thought for years that Coconut Cake was her sister’s favorite so she made it every year for Chris’ December 25^th birthday.  Years later Aunt Chris insisted that she hated coconut.

“No, you don’t!” insisted MaMa right back. “I make a coconut cake for your birthday every Christmas!”

“Have you ever seen me eat any of it?” Aunt Chris snarked back.

MaMa sat in stunned silence for a beat, then ended the conversation with, “Hmpfff.”

MaMa’s desserts were so divine that I was completely scandalized as an adult when I asked if she would please share her Angel Food cake recipe with me.  She said, “Of course I will!” and proceeded to the kitchen. I followed, only to see her open up her pantry, pull out a box of Duncan Hines Angel Food cake mix and hand it to me. “No way!” I shouted in utter disbelief.  She just laughed and told me to think of her every time I made it. 

At 42 she was “too young to be a grandmother.” At 52, she was too young to be a widow.  Never mind the age on her drivers’ license, my grandmother swore she was never a day older than 29.  In fact, she remarked on my 30^th birthday how amazing it was that she could have a granddaughter older than herself. My entire life, I was acutely aware that my MaMa proudly and spryly professed herself to be 29 years old, always with a gleam in her eye and a wry smile on her lips.  So it struck me at my core when, shortly after her 80^th birthday in a car ride through Bossier, she confessed to me that she had never felt old a day in her life, but she suddenly felt every bit of 80 years weighing on her.  I didn’t know what to say to that, other than, “Oh, MaMa, you’re not old!” She gave me that look that said I was full of it, and replied with a wise chuckle, “Yes. I am.”

Eight years later, in 2018 we became aware of a slipping in her memory and thought processes.  The following year she had to move to a memory care facility. Dementia with all its cruelty had taken from us a significant part of the person we knew and loved.  She had wanted to live forever, or at least well over age 100.  But this morning, at the age of 93, MaMa showed up to the single appointment that awaits us all, called by her Maker and Savior to the other side of the veil. We are saddened that the world which let her go a little at a time over the past four years now has to exist entirely without her in it. I pray for peace for her soul, and for her reunion with my PaPa, her parents, her siblings, my cousin, and all whom she loved who were waiting for her on the other side.  I pray that she is laughing and dancing in the light of God’s mercy and that we will all be reunited with her soon. I pray that however long I live, I never forget the things she taught me: prayer is necessary, children are gifts, dessert should be easy, and Jesus loves me.

Martha Lee Harris Starnes
February 20, 1930 – July 19, 2023

Why Palm Sunday Made Me Cry

Tags

Catholic, forgiveness, Fr Mike Schmitz, Holy Thursday, Holy Week, Palm Sunday, Peter the Rock, The Chosen, Triduum

I’m pretty leaky lately.  I don’t know what it is.  Maybe it’s because in this third year of reading the bible (Bible In A Year podcast) and listening to some stellar homilies (Fr. Mike Schmitz), podcasts (Poco a Poco) and shows (The Chosen) my understanding has deepened a bit and granted me an awareness that sneaks up on me when I least expect it.  Like last weekend – Palm Sunday, to be exact. On Palm Sunday the readings are not only extra, they are rearranged. And with good reason – things are about to get dicey. We are entering Holy Week, a week that is both tumultuous and graceful. 

We started with the Gospel reading where Jesus enters Jerusalem on the donkey.  I closed my eyes and pictured him riding through the Sheep Gate with all the other lambs to be sacrificed for the Passover.  That gives me chills.  The simplicity. The dual meaning. The fulfillment. My eyes started watering and I chastised myself for not wearing waterproof mascara.  How had I not anticipated this, as moved as I am each and every time I listen to my favorite podcasted homily? (Check out Fr. Mike Schmitz’s series from 2022, Last Words.  Listen to the Palm Sunday one titled Last Words: Tetelestai. It will blow your mind.)

Minutes later, I was listening to the Passion narrative with my eyes closed. It’s a long narrative, and if you’re hearing it at a Catholic church, you’re gonna be standing there for a while.  Jesus institutes the Eucharist. He gives his disciples the cup that is not yet his to drink. He tells them the time is near.  One of them will betray him. Peter speaks up: Not me, Lord. I would never! Jesus foretells not one, but three betrayals that Peter himself – the chosen rock – will commit that very night. 

More tears slip beneath my lashes. What is wrong with me? This is not a part of the narrative that has ever stirred me before. I picture these chosen men in my mind. The men who would lead the Church. The men who, though chosen, were still just men. A thought niggles at the corner of my mind.  It isn’t the betrayal that makes this story powerful.  The story isn’t focused on the betrayal at all.  Is it?  

I pondered this thought the whole way home.  I continued to chew on it as I did laundry and prepared dinner. No, it isn’t the betrayal that makes this story a one-in-a-million life changing saga.  It’s the forgiveness.

If Jesus had reacted to his friend as one of us would react, the story would have gone more like this: he would first say something like, “I told you this would happen. But you just wouldn’t listen, would you? Well, thanks for nothing. I made you my rock and under the least pressure you crumbled like dust. I can’t believe I picked you, dude.  For real.  I don’t even want to look at you right now.  Just go.”  As painful as that would have been for Peter, it certainly wouldn’t have been remarkable. 

But he didn’t do that at all. Instead, he turned each betrayal into a new promise. “Do you love me? Feed my lambs… Do you love me? Tend my sheep… Do you love me? Feed my lambs.”  He didn’t expect Peter to be perfect – perfection was an impossibility for Peter, as it is for us. He was asking Peter to be faithful. I often have wondered if he repeated the “Feed my lambs” line because he knows our propensity to commit the same sins. For those same sins, God, who is true faithfulness, will always have the same answer. The forgiveness is what makes this story extraordinary. The forgiveness sets the story apart from all others, and it weaves itself into our own stories at the same time.

The forgiveness is what made me cry.

Did Peter deserve the forgiveness? Probably not. But Jesus gave it and changed the story.  Do I deserve the forgiveness? Definitely not. But Jesus gives it and changes my story, too.

While I am usually semi-competent at putting my thoughts into precise and communicative words, I am falling short on this one.  Perhaps I will be unpacking these thoughts more in the days and months to come. I’ll wrap this up for now, though, and wish you all a beautiful experience of the Triduum. 

May the peace and mercy of Christ be yours throughout this week and the Easter season.

2022: A Year of Air and Grace

Tags

Airbnb, Ascension Press, BIAY, Bible in a Year, Fr. Mike Schmitz, Marigny Cottage

I am beginning this annual pictorial review much later than usual – 8:16 PM on New Year’s Eve.  As I sit at the keyboard with a glass of champagne and contemplate all that has transpired in the past twelve months, I can be nothing but grateful.  The year was a tough one and as it winds to a close we finally see light again. Oh, that beautiful light.

The long and short of it is that just as spring was blooming on 2022 a neighbor’s loss became our gain when their house and property were sold at auction. With much prayer and no small amount of blind faith, we had the opportunity to be the purchasers.  In the process we were hated. I understand that they simply could not see past the pain to recognize reason. Forgiveness was a daily task (isn’t it always?). Some days I didn’t think I could do it.  But I went to bed every night thanking God for His blessings.  I covered our family and theirs in prayer even when I didn’t feel like praying.  I cannot adequately put into words all that I have thought through this process. If that day ever comes I will be sure to write those thoughts down because they are simultaneously painful and beautiful. This was the year that God said to me, “I’ve got you. And I’ve got them. I know where this is going. You just have to follow and trust.” This was the year I longed to listen and actually heard Him. This was the year I put each day in His hands. This was the year of air and grace, both given and received.

My tradition has been to celebrate the milder moments of the year with humor sprinkled in sarcasm, regardless of the more poignant days. But the poignant days made this particular trip around the sun what it is in the rearview, and they deserve to be celebrated here. So, as we close the book on 2022 I offer a few snapshots of life as we lived it.

January

My girl-crew, the French Toast Mafia, in my kitchen on the day I taught them how to make French bread and yeast rolls. Here’s me, Kendell, Claire, Brandy, Amy and Bailey. I love these ladies. I always will.

February

Max’s birthday is celebrated on the last day of February. We do all the celebrating. He does all the tolerating.

March

Morning reading and prayer time with Fr. Mike Schmitz and the Bible in a Year podcast.  Every day. 365 days. The most beautiful routine I have. Here’s the morning sun shining across my living room and casting its rainbow on my bible.

April

Easter Sunday – the whole fam came for our first-ever shrimp boil. The shrimp left a lot to be desired. But the company – Heaven on earth!

May

We purchased the new property in early May. The pond on the property is one of the many blessings, as it provided a bit of peace and joy when we were able to avert our minds and hands from the work required by the rest of the property. We got to spend a few evenings fishing in it before the summer heat kept us indoors.

June

I finally managed to hang one of my grandparents’ hammocks near the pond, thinking that when we opened the house up as an Airbnb, the hammock would be a great addition. I was squashed in the hammock and flopped around like one of the fish we had caught, but my wine glass was happy.

July

Victoria and her friends all went to the beach, so we kept the furbabies.  Here are Socko and Rico, two of my three O-boys.  My third O-boy is Leo, Victoria’s boyfriend’s yellow lab, and I have dubbed myself Nonna to all of them.  Yes, I’m that lady.

August

Thinking I needed to embark on a writing career, I had my niece Bella come over to snap some photos of me for a writing portfolio. I’m not much on photos of myself, but seriously…August did me no other favors.  To follow up, my employment hasn’t changed. I just had to hear God’s voice through the noise. Again.

September

As I started painting furniture and decor for the Airbnb, my paper plate paint palette started to look like a new Halloween decoration.  Total accident.  Total coolness.

October

In the month that the hubster turned 50 I have not a single pic of him. I do, however, have this… the reason I can look back on this year and smile. You can be a part of the Bible in a Year community too. It’s never too late. ❤

November

My parents both turned 70 in November and I managed to pull off a surprise party complete with family, friends and peeps they hadn’t seen in years. Before I pat myself on the back too much, I have to confess that I neglected to get a photo of them together at the party. Epic fail on my part. But, here is my dad with his brother, my Uncle Floyd. 

December

The chaos of the year finally stilled and the Airbnb opened at the beginning of the month.  As we hosted our third family of guests in the newly named Marigny Cottage right before Christmas, we also celebrated our second annual Feast of Seven Fishes at home, a formal-ish seven-course seafood meal that Dom and I prepare and serve at Christmas. We had 16 people present this year for dinner, and Bella helped us cook and serve. It was a lot of work, but it was also a thing of beauty, and we can’t wait to do it again next December.

The year of air and grace.  It feels good to breathe again. It feels good to know my God and to trust Him. It feels good to be thankful. In closing the year, I’d like to borrow from the Bible a prayer for each of you.

May the Lord bless you and keep you.  May the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.  May the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.

Peace indeed, my friends. For you and for everyone. Love always…

Bonus Pic:

Fireworks are in high gear either down our street or neighborhoods away, and Max is about to come right out of his fur.  Uninvited, our freckle-footed fur factory jumped into the chair with Dom for comfort, shaking and shedding all the way. It’s gonna be a long night.  

Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl

Every once in a while you get to work with someone who just gets you. Someone whose camaraderie makes the work easier and more enjoyable. Someone who brightens the day with her smile. Someone who makes you laugh so hard you snort, or worse yet spew coffee all over yourself. Someone without whom you simply can’t imagine doing this work that you do.

My someone is Brandy.  

Brandy and I worked concurrently in different departments of a previous employer for about nine years. We knew of each other, but never really got to know each other. We would smile our greetings in the hallways, but it was always distantly cordial. I held back because I assumed she was too fancy to be my friend. She held back because she assumed I didn’t cuss.

Fast forward to 2019. Brandy was working as a church secretary where the pastor had asked me to be his business manager.  I kept calling the church office to finalize my start date, certain that I was annoying Brandy with my persistence.   Even though she later confided that she wasn’t at first entirely sure what to expect from the prospect of working so closely with me, we formed a solid friendship rather quickly, reinforced in a matter of months by funeral cookie shenanigans, some furniture rearranging, and an after-work bottle of wine.

One day in that first year we were discussing our closets. Brandy mentioned finding her clothes hangers on sale and registered a look of mild confusion on my face. “Wait a minute, what kind of hangers do you use?” she asked, visibly bracing herself.

I replied honestly. “The plastic ones that the store uses. I like it when they let you take them home.”  I looked to our friend Claire for support.  Claire nodded and shrugged to indicate that she and I were on the same page.

Brandy threw her hands up and sat back in her chair. “Omigod, we cannot be friends.”

That Christmas Brandy gifted me and Claire with our own sets of pretty velvet hangers for our closets.  Claire and I promptly bought more velvet hangers to outfit our entire wardrobes. 

Because of Brandy’s influence I am permanently hooked on bougie skincare, Fr. Mike Schmitz podcasts and BruMate beverage containers. I am fascinated by balloon arches and charcuterie boards which she makes look effortless and luxurious.

Brandy was the first one to see and care for me after I faceplanted into a glass wall at work. She was at my side and filling icepacks the night Claire’s dog tried to bite my lip off. She’s a quoter of movie lines and a lover of songs. She wears the most cha-cha shoes and her signature color is pink. Brandy is never afraid to laugh at herself. She is witty and quick with the one-liners. She’s French Toast Mafia through and through.

I could not have possibly imagined all the joy I would get from working with Brandy. Hearing her talk sweetly to church members, help people on the phone and offer consolation to those who were hurting made me realize how perfectly suited she was for the position she held. In situations I knew I would surely botch had everything been relying on me, I watched Brandy put people at ease with her genuine kindness and thoughtfulness.  She is treasured by parishioners almost as much as she is treasured by me. 

Today is our last day of working together at the church. Brandy is moving on to a new and exciting job and she is going to rock its socks off. All her talents will shine where she is going, but there will be an emptiness in the place she leaves. I am terribly sad to lose my work bestie, even though I am so happy for her success. I feel like I’m losing half of my work-self and it’s going to be hard not to cry all day long.  I dread the moment she leaves today. And next week? Please. I can’t even think about it.

I am so grateful to God for blessing me with this wonderful, beautiful friend whom I adore. Our shenanigans are not over.  We’ll just have to move our morning meetings to after hours when our Brus can hold something other than coffee. Until then…

I love you, B, and I miss you already.

Wake Me When It’s Over

Tags

loss, year in review

I usually write this annual post around the 26^th or 27^th of December, right between the buzz of Christmas gatherings and the fireworks of the new year.  But this year is different.  This year I don’t really feel like writing the post, and I’m not sure why.  Tradition, however, is kicking me in the butt right now and I am taking the hint.  So, on this last day of 2021 – and, in fact, in the final hour of the year –  I once again present our annual year in review.

As I looked through the photos of this past year, it should not have surprised me that a solid 75% of them were of our pets.  And maybe that’s why I wasn’t ready for this review. We lost two of those beloved pets this year, and even though the memories are sweet, the loss is recent enough that the pictures still sting just a little.  If only it were possible to truly capture their abundant personalities in photos so that you could understand how incredibly lucky we are to call these animals ours.  Such is the limitation of photography, I guess. Thankfully it is not the limitation of memory.

Without further adieu, let’s see what 2021 looked like from my camera roll. 

January

I came home at the end of a day to one of our smoke alarms beeping, alerting me to the need for a battery change.  No bigs, right?  Unless you’re Max.  He was so wigged out by the beeping that he bolted out of the door and right into the open back end of my vehicle where I was about to unload groceries.  Over the groceries, over the back seat and into the front seat this 90 pound fur factory clumsily climbed through my car in an effort to escape the soundtrack of his nightmares.  It took me roughly twenty minutes to get him out of my car, and I have no shortage of videos of him considering the exit, turning in the seat, and repositioning himself, staring intently at me as if willing me to drive him as far away from this haunted house as possible. 

February

Ahhh, the snow days.  Max’s Husky soul was in absolute heaven!  Mabel spent most of her time outside yelling at Max while he frisked around in the snow.

March

Boo was our first cat experience.  He was Victoria’s cat who entered our lives in October of last year.  Boo spent most of his short life recovering from various illnesses at our home, and Max got to understand cats because of Boo, as did Dom and I.

April

Few things make us as happy as seeing cardinal families at our bird feeder.

May

As we laid Boo to rest, we prepared our flowerbed for future graves, knowing we would be adding to it sooner than we wanted to. St. Francis stands watch over our fur babies, illuminated at night by two solar spotlights. 

June

My parents celebrated their 50^th wedding anniversary in relative quiet with me and Dom.  Through fifty years of promised love and restraint from wringing each other’s necks, they are my role models. I love you, Mom and Dad.

July

Once Victoria had cried enough tears for Boo, she got Socko, a male kitty who is a sweetheart of a snuggler.  Pepper (Aaron’s cat) hates him. Max isn’t sure if he should snuggle or run.  All I know is, this is the only kitty who hasn’t attacked my Christmas tree.  Rock on, little Sockster.

August

The hardest part of this year, by far – saying goodbye to a faithful companion just a month shy of her 13^th birthday. Mabel was Dom’s pup from the beginning, and losing her left a giant hole in our hearts.

September

September tried to sneak by unnoticed, but on the early morning of September 19^th, our outdoor kitchen was engulfed in flames. Max awoke us to the danger with his barking and potentially saved the entire house.  Damage was thankfully limited to the patio, and we are working toward restoration now. 

October

It only took me three years, but I finally made it to my bridge.  Thank you, Bella, for making sure all the pics were perfect. 

November

There is nothing Max loves more than when we stock or restack the wood racks.  They are his own personal toyboxes, as far as he is concerned.  He will always grab a log and haul off to chew it, perfectly content with his new treasure. 

December

Since Pepper, Aaron’s cat, has not yet had a photo in this year’s review, here she is under the tree sampling the presents. Pepper is a real sweetheart as long as no animal but Max is in the house. Let her even catch a whiff of Socko, though, and kitty has claws!

These past two years have just stunk, worldwide, and I don’t have the energy this year to laugh it off or make wisecracks about how ridiculous my worries were over the past twelve months.  It is my prayer for each of you that the next year is better than 2021 in every way, that you enjoy peace and health and happiness in ways you have not known.  I pray that 2022 will be infinitely better than the previous two years have been.  You deserve it.  We all do.

Peace to you, my friends. 

The Hard Goodbye

I remember the moment like it was yesterday. I’m crossing our bedroom at the old house. Dom is sitting up in the bed when he firmly announces to me, “I’ve made a decision.”

I stop in my tracks. “You have, eh?”

“It’s time for us to get another puppy.”

I almost drop whatever it is that I’m holding. “Seriously? You’re serious?? You want two dogs at once? When? What kind? How is this going to work?”

He shrugs and shoots me a crooked smile.  “Start looking.  Didn’t you say you wanted a black Lab next?”

Yeah, I had said that alright. We already had our beautiful yellow Lab, Mason, and I had determined that my next dog would be a black Lab named Mabel – so named for the express purpose of allowing me to hang out the back door and yell, “Hey, Mabel! Black Label!!”  I don’t know why that image enticed me so, but there it is.  I also knew that I would call her Mabelline and sing the catchy question, “Why cantcha be true?”

The search was on.  Phone calls, classifieds (those were the days!), breeders and litters and small towns so remote I thought we might not make it back from them.  But there in the heart of Castor, Louisiana, were three 10-week old lab pups. One was a black female.  Stacey went with me and Dom to pick her up.  Mabel wrapped her little paws around Stacey’s arm as she held her, and we all fell in love.  The breeder said we needed to name her right then and there so she could tidy up her AKC records, and that she would appreciate it if we included Rose in the name, on account of the numerous Roses in the bloodline. Fine.  Whatev.  I had no intention of ever calling this pup Rose, much less registering her myself, so what could it hurt? Mabel Lena Rose Mainiero, it was.  A few signatures and $300 later (the first and last time I paid for a dog!) and we were headed back to Shreveport with an adorable surprise for the kiddos. 

Mabel on the day we brought her home, November 2008.

Mabel was sweet and docile that first night, as one could only be with Mason slobbering his welcome all over her. Mabel enjoyed being kenneled when we weren’t home, and thankfully so, given the amount of damage she did when we were present. I’ve written numerous posts about the things Mabel has eaten, the embarrassment she has caused, and the times she has worn my patience to its last tiny thread. I have said countless times that she was our wild-child dog. In her early and middle years Mabel cared only for her own entertainment, and let me tell you… if life was a car, then Mabel drove it like she stole it!

Mabel, all up in the camera! 2010

Mabel was known for eating and/or destroying absolutely everything that caught her attention. Her favorite things to “love on” until they were obliterated were Webkinz stuffed animals. She started with only the birds, which always cracked me up. Once the kids were out of bird Webkinz, she moved on to the other Webkinz toys and finally to any stuffed animal she could find until the entire line was extinct. With all of her antics throughout puppyhood and beyond, Aaron disowned her at least twice. Once, for chewing up one of his Lego Bionicle masks. I still remember the renouncement. “Vic!!!!” he yelled to his sister as he balled his fists up at his sides, “You can HAVE her!” I looked from my red-faced little boy to Mabel. Despite having just been declared dead to him, Mabel showed not even an ounce of remorse for having destroyed Aaron’s toy. In fact, I was pretty sure she was sitting on go to do it again. Remorse, regret, repentance…these three R’s were forever absent from Mabel’s vocabulary.

Who, me?? 2014.

Mabel was the quintessential pesky little sister to Mason.  She used to bite and tug on his neck to the point that I would feel sores under his fur when I’d snuggle with him.  Her favorite thing to do was be the first to run outside when the door opened, and immediately spin around to attack Mason as he stepped over the threshold.  I honestly don’t know how he tolerated her.  At one point when Mason was getting on in years, Mabel decided she would hide behind the wall at the top of the stairs and attack him each night as he came up for bed.  What a brat she was!

Ready to pounce, 2012

I spent many years of Mabel’s life calling her “Dom’s Decision,” as in, “Hey, honey, your Decision ran off down the street again,” or “your Decision brought a locust into the house tonight,” and my favorite, “your Decision stole a pound of candy corn from the kitchen and puked it up in the living room.”

The public shaming, 2013.

Life with Mabel was never dull. Fiercely independent and rocking her need for no one, Mabel tried to live on her own terms. Several years ago we nicknamed a large field near our home “Mabel Acres” in memory of the day during Sunday lunch when she took off out the side door and down the street to cut circles in the grassy field while the entire family tried to catch her. But Mabel had her sweet side, and though she preferred to act like she didn’t need our attention, she never seemed to mind when we lavished love on her.

Vic and Mabel, my brown-eyed girls, 2010.

Like me, Mabel loves sunshine.  She would often lay in the yard as her black fur soaked in the warmth.  She enjoyed the porch swing with me on many Saturday mornings. Looking back, I’m not entirely sure the time she spent with me wasn’t all about the coffee.

Stealing my joe, 2009.

Mabel changed when she became an only-dog in 2014.  She mourned Mason for a couple of weeks, not wanting to be alone outside, needing to know where Dom, the kids and I were at every moment.  She became gentler and more loving, and sweetly earned the famous phrase on her dog tag, “Mischief Managed.”  Her nickname morphed from “Dom’s Decision” to “Daddy’s Baby Girl.” She knew who was responsible for her sweet and easy life. 

In Daddy’s arms, 2014.

Mabel was none-too-thrilled with the introduction of Maximus to our home.  But she did eventually adjust to him as he grew and she realized that annoying little thing with the big ears was, in fact, the same species as her. 

“Someone get this dude off my back!” 2016.

Max took on the role of pesky little brother, paying Mabel back in spades for all the torture she showered on Mason.  Despite my best efforts to keep it sized properly, Mabel’s collar got stretched so that it ended up looking more like a red necklace draped around her shoulders.  I can’t think of a time they played together that Max wasn’t gnawing on her collar. 

Always with the collar! 2019

Mabel earned herself many nicknames over the course of her life. Mabelline, Mabellini, the Vixen, the Vixenator, Mablet, Mabel-Label, the Leine, Leinie-poo, the Bottomless Pit, the Unfillable Belly, Dumpster Diver, Teeny Weeny Mabellini, Baby Girl, and finally Grandma. I especially loved calling to her in an Italian accent: “Ciao, Mabellini! Andiamo, Mabellini! Why-a do you-a bark-a so much in the house, eh?!”

Helping me study, 2014.

Mabel became a diabetic in 2018. Diabetes for dogs is much like Type 1 childhood diabetes in people, meaning that you can’t “diet-and-exercise” it into submission. Even with the prescription dog food and the twice-a-day insulin injections, Mabel’s blood sugar levels would not normalize. We did the best we could for three years. We spent many weekends running blood glucose curves on her and charting her progress. I spent approximately two months right after her diagnosis chopping, measuring and packaging precise proportions of meats and vegetables to feed her a completely raw diet, and then cooking it for her, and then realizing I was cooking more for the dogs than for the humans before throwing in the towel and signing up for prescription dog food.

Mabel with Walter, 2015.

Mabel went completely blind this year, but she could still hear me come home in the afternoons and would know it’s Wine-Time – that’s when she and Max get to run in the front yard while Dom and I sit on the porch and chat. Sure, it took a little extra effort to get her in and out of the house, leading her through the forest of lilies in the flower beds because she couldn’t go up steps anymore.  But who could resist how happy it made her?  

Wine Time in the jungle, 2021.

I have said for the past few months that as long as she still enjoys Wine-Time, she still has life to live.  There is nothing we won’t do for our fur-babies.  But eventually we realized there’s nothing more we can do.  And that’s where the heart breaks. 

Mabel with another fuzzy, September 2016.

I remember seeing a poster on the wall at the vet’s office when Mason was just a puppy. It was a life expectancy poster and it showed the various breeds of dogs with their approximate life span in years. Labs were marked at 11 years. We were fortunate that both of our pups lived longer than that – Mason at 14 and Mabel, just a month shy of 13. As we realized Mabel’s age and illness were wearing her down, it was devastating to make that final decision. Ironic, that the first decision was so easy, and the last one so hard.

Loving on Aunt Stacey, Thanksgiving 2012.

I hate goodbyes. I hate this part of being a pet owner. There is never a “good” time to say goodbye. We always want one more day, one more chase, one more trip around the water bowl. We took Mabel to the vet for the last time today. The goodbye was just as hard as I thought it would be.

Christmas pup with her stogie, 2016.

The Book of Proverbs tells us that “a righteous man has regard for the life of his animal,” and this is the only thing getting me through this. Caring for them, even to that last day’s decision, is loving them. Mabel has so much more than our regard. She has our undying love and gratitude for the marvelous and mischievous ways in which she brightened our days and enhanced our lives.

Mabel claims all the decorations, 2009.

Take now to that “far green country under a swift sunrise,” sweet Mabellini, and run like somebody left the gate open. We will miss you terribly and love you forever.

Sunning in the backyard, August 2021

Mabel “Mabellini” Mainiero
September 17, 2008 – August 20, 2021

Good Riddance: The 2020 Farewell

Well, this has been a year none of us wants to repeat.  Illness, loss, suffering, isolation, confusion and death have forever marred this year in our hearts and minds.  We have grieved missed events, neglected milestones, and suspended family gatherings.  We have gone months without seeing people we care about – family members, church members, friends.  Some, we will never see again and our hearts break when we think of the year that took them from us. 

The scariest thing is that it’s not over yet.  One virus decimates our bodies while another decimates our nation.  One is thus far incurable; the other completely preventable.  I will say only one thing on the political front: Can we all please act our age and recognize that our personal opinions are not the only ones that exist?  I mean, really.  Don’t make me use my mom voice.   

But this post is not about the crap we’ve all experienced this year and the hardship that may still be to come.  This is about a look back on the weird and the wonky, the mysterious and the mundane, the little moments that I will want to remember when I am old and drooling into my jello.   

So, in keeping with tradition, although this one is several days late, I present the 9^th annual year in pictorial review.  Here’s how 2020 looked from the inside of my heart and home. 

January

This is the year I’ve tried to learn to paint instead of just winging it.  However, this picture is totally winged.  For over a year I had been mulling an image over in my head, trying to illustrate a combination of my Texas roots and my Louisiana upbringing.  This is the end result. It’s the first time something I’ve created has looked as good in reality as it did in my head.   

February

Continuing the painting theme, and because there are so few other pics to choose from this month, I finally filled my living room wall with something Dom likes.  The center tree pic is currently being re-created so that it will no longer look like a Kindergartener drew it.  Wish me luck. 

March

Dom and I were each sent from our respective employers to work at home during the state stay-at-home orders.  Dom took the home office for his workspace and I converted my craft room into my “office.”  I may have gotten the printer, but I dare say he got the nicer digs. 

April

Because when you’ve been quarantined for a month together, every day should end with a pristine Irish Coffee. 

May

The month Vic would have graduated (the actual ceremony was postponed until August).  She and Bella executed her Senior pictures instead. 

June

Just what everyone needs… a technological gadget harassing us into exercising.  I learned that Siri does not understand the reply, “Bite me.”

July

Here it is: the annual weirdo picture. I was slicing tomatoes to roast and this slice ended up looking like lips. Ha!

August

One evening on the way to dinner Dom said, “I want to stop into this dealership and look at a truck real quick.  It won’t take long.  I just want to look.”  Three hours later, we finally made it to dinner.  In his new truck. 

September

A rare picture of Max and Mabel together, sitting still and generally looking toward the camera.  Sweet puppies.   

October

Max is not supposed to beg at my table, but he does it anyway. Who can really resist that face?

November

A much scaled-down Thanksgiving gathering, just us and John and Kasie’s crew.  It was not the same without the usual crowd, but we made the best of it.  If you notice a new face in the pics, that’s Aaron’s girlfriend, Annie.  If you notice a new hairstyle, that’s Aaron.  Feel free to hum the theme song to Welcome Back Kotter.  We do it every time he comes home. 

December

Meet Boo, Victoria’s new kitten.  She got him in October, specifically wanting an orange kitten for free and VOILA! The Ruston dog shelter had two such kittens that they just HAD to get rid of (because, dogs…).  Halloween Kitty was not without his issues, and a sinus infection caused his forehead to burst, so he had to seek refuge with us and care from our regular vet.  By the way, Boo is no longer considered “free,” as evidenced by the “medicare” collection jar with his name on it that now has permanent residence on our kitchen counter. 

Looking back on all that this year has dealt us, I’d still like to raise a glass to the hardship we’ve faced, the strength we’ve discovered, and the promise of tomorrow.  I’m having a dry January, so my glass only has decaf tea in it.  I hope that doesn’t jinx anything. 

Happy New Year, everyone.  May 2021 be infinitely more palatable. 

Cousins, COVID, and the Class of 2020

My mom texted me this morning. Her phone had reminded her – a week early – of Victoria’s high school graduation ceremony that would have been held on May 16 at 9:00 AM.

That is, if the world hadn’t fallen apart.

That’s right – if we were pandemic-free, my baby girl would have graduated next weekend. I would have watched her walk across the stage right behind her cousin, Lucas.  I would have snapped a million pictures.  Seriously.  I would have totally drained my phone battery or my storage capacity, whichever proved to be the weaker link.  We would have left the ceremony and gathered with the entire family at our house, celebrating and laughing until the kids finally decided they had spent enough time with all us oldies and driven off in search of their friends.  Kasie and I would have uncorked a wine bottle and probably dusted off a photo album or two.  Oh, the photos!

We would have first turned to this page. The page appropriately titled “Yucas and Tortilla,” because that is what they called each other when they were toddlers. Cue the awwwwwwwww’s.

Yucas and Tortilla in the toybox – 2004

Born just six months apart, these two were so stinkin’ precious.  And trouble? Don’t even get me started! I mean, really.  Look at those faces.  (Although, I have to add one small caveat here… it was Lucas’s sister, Bella, with whom Vic spent the most time in “time-out” at Mimi’s.)

Trouble with a toy train – 2005

But days become months, months become years.   Kids grow up.  Moments get breathed into being, then reshape and reform until they blur into one strange memory on whose continuum we cannot determine exactly when the change occurred.  We miss the growth while it’s happening.  We miss the sprouting of the seed and the budding of the leaves.  We look around one day and we have a tree.  Or an adult.  Or two, as the case may be.

Growing, growing, GROWN! – June 2019

When we recognize the moment, when we see the pending end of an era that we honestly don’t want to end, we smile at the memories.  We swipe away a tear before it has a chance to ruin the day’s makeup.  And we pray that those trees have strong enough roots.

As my children grew, one of my dear friends told me that it may not always be the “firsts” that tug most at my heart; oftentimes, it will be the “lasts.” She was so right. This is my last baby.  Grown, even if not quite flown from the nest.  But I know it won’t be long. These photos make me sad and nostalgic, but they also make me immensely happy.  For our family, both tearjerkers exist here.  John and Kasie are experiencing their first child to graduate, and Dom and I are experiencing our last.  It is bittersweet, to be certain.  It is worth celebrating; it is worth writing; and it is even worth crying over. We are so madly proud of our babies, though it’s evident they aren’t babies anymore.

Marion C. Garretty is credited with saying, “A cousin is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost.”  I believe it.  I’ve witnessed it. I feel it when I look at these photos.  I am eternally grateful to my niece Bella for taking such great cap-n-gown pictures of these two. Her talent has made my heart smile.

To all the graduates of 2020, but especially to Lucas and Victoria, may every day be an adventure, may you love and live life to the fullest, may the sun shine always on you, and may the stars write your name.

I love you forever,

Mom / Aunt Lori

Three Women

Foreword: Today I was one of three women comforting a co-worker in her hour of grief.  Later, when reflecting on the day, I realized the significance of three women and was instantly honored to be one of them. The essay below was my personal Thank-You note to the three beautiful ladies who got me through one of my darkest hours. It was written just days after Pop’s death in 2018.  Today’s events made me reflect on this, and I post it now to honor the friends who love beyond measure.  

On the last day of March I interviewed for the first time with OIB, after which I went back to my office at the Catholic Center, certain that I had not made the impression necessary to land the job. I reasoned that I could find peace in that fact, that God would place me where he needed me, even if it meant staying where I was.  An hour later I was sitting at my desk when a call came in with news I almost couldn’t bear.  My father-in-law’s upper GI that morning revealed a tumor in his esophagus.  A biopsy had been performed, but even without full results doctors knew it was most likely cancer.

I recall sinking into my chair and putting my head on my desk as tears threatened. We had just come through the darkest night with my mother-in-law’s cancer.  Her healing had been the miracle we dared not expect. Her illness had been tumultuous, and I had taken her care as my personal responsibility, though in fact it was shared by many. The news of Pop’s tumor burst the bubble of hope and ease, the promise of brighter days, that I had allowed myself to seek comfort in for almost a year.

When I raised my head from my desk, three women surrounded me. They were the family I chose, the friends who would stand by me through any storm. I burst into tears as one held me.  All I recall saying is, “I don’t think I can do this again.”  They each assured me that not only was I strong enough, but that they would not leave my side.  And they didn’t.

Leaving the daily presence of those friends whom I love so dearly was not easy. I feared for a long time that I might not enjoy relationships that close, that near to my heart, in my new work environment.

I was wrong.

Last week when I answered the phone call that told me of Pop’s exit from this earthly life, I felt the weight of a sadness I have never known. As a family we have not sustained loss this close.  Dom and his brothers, their wives and I all have our parents, alive and well.  I was wading into territory none of us knew how to navigate.  Fear and hopelessness closed in on me and I could not contain the emotion, regardless of my preference to remain wholly dignified in that moment. I laid my head on my desk and tried to breathe through the sobs that simply would not be silenced.

When I raised my head I was at once moved by the sight of three women surrounding me. Three beautiful women whom I have grown to care for quite deeply in the short time I have known them.  Three women who held me and assured me that I could weather this storm, and that they too would be by my side.

When I consider the parallels of the journey I have taken over the past year, I am struck by God’s truly amazing grace and the constant reminders of his love. His joy shines through you daily and gives me courage to press on through all things. His love poured out through you three on Wednesday and in the days that followed.   For everything you have done and everything that you are, I love you immensely.  Thank you.