Christmas Past

What follows was originally intended to be one chapter in a larger collection of essays that chronicles our family’s journey through cancer over the past three years. I began writing the collection just as the dust started to settle from Charolette’s cancer, and before the storm of Pop’s.  It has been through several edits since Pop’s illness and death, but the original version below is one of the happier essays and captures the joy and peace with which I have always viewed Christmas Eve.  In the spirit of the season I’d like to raise a glass to Christmases past, and to my family who made them magical.

I frequently tease Dominic that I’m going to start dragging him back to Midnight Mass during one of these Christmas seasons in our future. He staunchly refuses, stating in no uncertain terms that he is over any desire to stay up late enough to attend Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. (Even in college, it was well known that Dom would be the first one to call it a night and go to bed.) Once we had children, Midnight Mass was no longer a viable option for our schedules. But, oh, how I miss it.  Of all my memories, our family’s attendance at Midnight Mass and the wee-hours celebrations that followed are some of my most treasured.

They say you can’t go back, and I accept that; really I do. And I accept that those memories may have to remain only memories, being that so much has changed within our family since the days when we were young, just beginning our adult lives, full of hope, possibility and promise.  When I reflect on that time of my life it is as if I am seeing it transpire inside a snow globe.  I shake it and a memory forms, its edges slightly blurred. We are walking up the driveway of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Church. The air is bitterly crisp and I clutch my winter-white wool dress-coat tightly around me. Dominic offers me his arm, and I loop my own through his and snuggle close against his suit jacket, resting my cheek against his shoulder as we walk. Bob and Charolette walk beside us, elegant in their Christmas attire, as we are joined by Victor and Melissa and then by John and Kasie. We enter the church and head up the center aisle to our familiar pew on the right-hand side six rows from the front. We genuflect and file in, filling the pew almost to capacity.  We greet and are greeted by familiar faces throughout the sanctuary, which is adorned in boughs of greenery. Deep red poinsettias and several Christmas trees decorated only in lights flank the altar while a large, solitary manger stands nearby. As Mass begins the smell of incense tickles my nose and makes my eyes water, but I love the tradition of it all. This is Christmas to me – holy and unrushed, simultaneously simple and resplendent.

I watch the memory for a while before shaking the globe again, and the memory fades out like a dream sequence as another forms in its place amid the falling snow. We have left the church and returned to Bob and Charolette’s home. We are loud and lively. We redress in blue jeans and sweatshirts, getting comfortable for the festivity ahead. A thousand tiny white lights shine on the Christmas tree, which is filled with so many jeweled and ribboned ornaments we can barely distinguish one branch from another. The ornaments were handmade by Charolette’s cousin, Boots, many years prior, and they are the only tree ornaments I will ever know inside this house. We have a full meal planned and ready. Wine glasses are filled and Pop reaches far back into a kitchen cabinet to retrieve a bottle he will use to top off the eggnog. We laugh and eat and laugh some more before settling in to exchange gifts in the living room, a process in which we take turns opening one gift at a time. Sometimes Father Dave is there, standing at the kitchen counter, popping the top on a beer and joking with us. He is as much a part of this family as we are, and his relaxed smile says that he feels it.

The memory morphs easily into one of my most favorite Christmases, when during our gift exchange John hands Kasie a wrapped box of running shoes. On the laces is tied an engagement ring. She opens the box and proclaims her excitement that he has bought her exactly the shoes she wanted. And then, removing one shoe from the box, she sees the ring just as John kneels on the floor in front of her. Her hand flies to her mouth and a second later she is in his arms, crying and saying yes. John had almost given her that gift in private; I had to beg him to please let us watch, though I’m sure it was Charolette’s asking that actually convinced him to propose publicly. I believe that is the widest I have ever seen him smile.

Sleepy and satiated, we depart for our homes around three in the morning, only to regroup in the same place the next afternoon for lunch with the extended family. It is at these lunches that I would enjoy spending time with Dominic’s cousins and getting to know Charolette’s aunt and uncles.  Oh, the stories these people can tell on each other!

The tradition changes slightly after those early years of our marriage when we begin filling the church pew with children. Now the snow globe reminds me that we have committed to an earlier Christmas Eve Mass, Victor wears the well-deserved title of Gumbo Chef for the night, and the unwrapping of gifts is no longer facilitated one person at a time.  Tiny fingers rip bows from presents and hold books and dolls high in the air for all to see. “Look, Mommy, look!!” is shouted so much that Kasie, Melissa and I can’t tell who’s opening what or who’s calling to whom. We begin to nod and smile at every child in turn, saying, “Oooh, that’s great, sweetie! Did you remember to say ‘thank you?’” Pop examines the instructions that came with his gifts, collects wrapping paper into a trash bag and plugs batteries into new toys. Mom sits beside the tree, handing out packages still to be opened while her sons gather at the kitchen table to admire a new toolset someone has received.

It is at the end of these evenings of frivolity that Dom announces, “Saddle up!” and we wrestle cookie-filled children into car seats and drive home.  Once they are tucked safely into bed and our Santa duties are fulfilled, Dom and I continue our tradition of exchanging one gift each before turning out all the lights except for those on the tree and in the garland. This is where I find my silent night. We plug It’s a Wonderful Life into the DVD player and snuggle on the sofa. We know it’s okay if we fall asleep before Clarence gets his wings; we will watch it again the next night.  And maybe the night after that.

 

Advertisements

Life and What-Not

“The problem with adulthood,” I began my conversation with Victoria, “is that by the time you realize what you want to do, what you are good at, it’s often too late to go back for a do-over. Take this quantitative management class I’m in right now. I love it. It’s just straightforward mathematical statistics for the purpose of solving business problems, and it energizes me. I really like this stuff.” (Eye roll from the daughter.)

“I knew this, of course, back when I was in college, but I didn’t pursue the field. I met with one tiny obstacle and – meh – I moved on to an easier path. I was young and dumb and though I don’t have many regrets about my past – other than superficially wishing I could go back in time and give the young Lori a few Gibbs’ head-slaps – I regret not pushing through for the degree I wanted and a career that might have provided more material resources. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do now and I don’t believe material resources would serve me any better than the spiritual resources I have access to, but I often find myself wondering what it would be like if I had been ‘adult-enough’ to insist on more effort from myself at a younger age.

“And so that is what kicks me in the head as an adult – knowing that we cannot change the past, we can only direct the future. We can change what we do today for the benefit of tomorrow, and no more. But when you’re over the proverbial hill, and you see it all this clearly, and you know – absolutely know in your heart – that you could have done better, or more, or whatever with your energy and resources…all you really can do is let your children know the pitfalls. You want to make sure that your kids understand what mistakes not to make, what obstacles to push through.

“And that brings me to the fallacy of youth, in that when I was young and dumb – as so you shall be, too – I was not interested in older people’s advice of the pitfalls. I had my whole life ahead of me, and that’s all that I saw. My future was a blank page, and I was selecting the pen with which to write it. Don’t dare tell me what pen I should use; that’s my decision! And so, when we are young we make the easy choices, the fun choices, the choices that bring us pleasure, even if it is fleeting. It’s only when we are older that we think, what if??? What if I had chased that dream? What if I had studied harder? What if I had actually attended that Business Law class instead of deciding that Dominic might be hanging out in the student center and surely I HAD to be there too? But Business Law, while a really interesting class, at the time paled in comparison to the interest I held for my social life and your father’s whereabouts. (Cue head-slap). Surely I could have pursued your father after my work was done??? But, as I said, I can’t change the past. Our choices, our actions, make us who we are and I do love this life. What I can do now is hand you the information and hope that you choose to make good decisions. That’s the goal of every parent…to make sure our kids don’t have any regrets.”

Victoria seems to consider this for a moment, then says, “I watched this movie last night where this guy walked outside and got struck by lightning. For no reason at all! He just walked out, got struck by lightning, and died right there on the spot.”

Nobody listens to me.

My Latest DIY Gig

Tags

DIY canvas art, Emily Bronte quote, in memoriam, Job 12:10, love notes to Dom, mod podge projects, painting fonts, photos to canvas, soul scripture, wall art, Whatever our souls are made of

So, I’ve kinda been working on another project. It’s one that I’ve had in my head for several months. Originally, I wanted to somehow put a photo of me and Dom on a canvas and then script out the words to a love poem in a diagonal around the photo. I haven’t worked it all out yet, but it’s still something I plan on doing. Just… later. Because, really, this other thing morphed out of thin air and sort of took over the photo I was gonna use.

From the steps of the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, DC, November 2009.

Original problem: I need coordinating art to hang on either side of my dresser mirror, which stands pathetically bare at the moment. (And, please ignore the fact that the bed is not made. Thank you.)

Original idea: Why don’t I paint two canvases to hang on either side?

Secondary problem: What color to make the canvases? Match the room’s moulding? I have that paint. But I want it to look like art. “Hey, Aaron, do you know how to blend paint colors to make them look good on canvas, like watercolor blends or something?”

“Nope. I haven’t been to art camp in like, three years, Mom.”

“Crap. Thanks anyway, sweetie.”

When what to my wondering eyes should appear? My sister-in-law gave me this personally hand-painted wood-art for Christmas. When I asked my mom where in my home she thought I should hang it, she replied without missing a beat, “In your bedroom. You have all black-and-whites in there.”

She’s right. The bedroom would be the perfect place for it. And then it hit me. Black canvas. White paint. Suddenly, I had my outline. I just needed two perfect quotes. And two perfect pictures. Egad. Whatever “perfect” pictures might include me are so few that they have been excessively overused in everything that represents me. My favorite photo that includes me is from 2007. My second-favorite photo is from 2009…and it’s taken from behind me (see above). You get my drift, right?   Finding two pics of me that are self-proclaimed-“worthy” and not already over-used is going to be next to impossible.

And then my heart spoke up. I have been sorting photos of Mason lately because I want one of them on a mousepad for my office. I found some adorable pics. (The World’s Best Dog…14 years…we’re gonna have more than a handful of good pictures!) By the way, this is his “Did someone say, ‘treat'”? face. Lord, I miss this dog!

I was also saving a list of quotes that I pondered when we were planning Mason’s headstone. And so I went there. I cried. And cried. (And cried some more). But eventually I settled on one that worked with another quote I had been wanting to place in our home. As Billy Joel sang, it’s all about soul.

“For the soul of every living thing is in the hand of God.” Job 12:10

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

And there I had it. One canvas for Mason, one canvas for me and Dom. Two photos, printed in black-and-white to complement the others in the room. I had the photos printed through MPIX.com because I love how they print B&W photos. They just look awesome. (Get the True Black and White matte paper. It’s worth the extra pennies!) And I figured that under a slew of Mod-Podge, maybe MPIX’s photo paper could hold up like I wanted it to. My own printer paper? Maybe not.

So here is the finished product. What follows after this are directions for those fellow DIY-ers who just like the satisfaction of making something yourself.

Instructions:

Materials you will need: Canvas, word processor, internet access (if you don’t already have the fonts you want to use), acrylic paint, mixing palate or plate, brushes, photo, Mod Podge glue (matte finish), pencil, graphite paper, tape, paper towels and a jar/bowl of water. This project takes approximately three days to complete, in order allow proper drying time between steps.

First, determine what size canvas you need. I knew I wanted tall-skinny canvases, so I went with 12×24. I found a 2-pack at Michael’s for relatively little cost (with a coupon). This size works great for word processing design, too, because you can base it off of a standard 8½x11 piece of paper.

Second, decide what photo you want to use and what size. Cut a piece of paper to the size of your photo. An 8×10 worked perfectly with the 12×24 canvas, but so would a 5×7. You be the judge here. It’s your art.

Third, design your word art. I used Microsoft Word to space and position my lettering. Set your page properties at 0.5” margins all the way around, and then select “Landscape” orientation. This lets you size your letters to fit your canvas, based on text being 10” wide (size the text on each line specifically). You can set your page size to your actual canvas size and see what prints on letter-sized paper, then literally cut and paste once printed to make it all match up.

My favorite fonts are Cambria (standard font in MS Word) for the block print, and Allura for the script. Scriptina Pro is also a great font for a flurry-ish script. I use dafont.com for downloading all my script and special fonts (Search these font names on their site to download). Size ‘em up, making sure your sidelines are all even with each other, if that’s the look you want. Print on regular paper and then cut off the extra margins so that you can line up your text and tape in place.

Size up your text with your photo size – place it all on the canvas to be sure that you’re lining it up right.  Remember to use a blank piece of paper cut the size of your photo (or the actual photo if you have it already.)

Now that you’ve got your wording and photo size all worked out, go ahead and paint your canvas. (I had already painted mine.) If you’re looking to do a solid color like me this will be a breeze. If you want a mottled, blended-color look, you need to know what you’re doing on your own because I am absolutely no help here. 😉 I painted mine solid black, remember?

Once your canvas is dry, you will need to use graphite paper (either black or white, depending on your canvas color) to transfer the font image onto the canvas in the desired place. I taped my wording to the canvas and then slipped a piece of graphite paper (or, transfer paper) underneath it.

Use a pencil to trace around the letters, making sure to move your graphite paper as you go. (You will notice that in my example, the word “soul” is off-center. I had to go back and trace that word last so as to center it with the rest of the text. I could have done that earlier in the paper-taping process, but I didn’t.

When you are finished tracing, you will have this very erasable outline.  (Be careful where you lay your arm to paint, as you could wipe away the markings you’ve so carefully made. You also want to be sure not to apply too much pressure on top of the canvas so that you don’t inadvertently stretch it out.

Ok, here’s where we have to talk about brushes. First, I know NOTHING about brushes that I haven’t learned the hard way, and even that is pitifully little. What I do know is that you need the teeniest, tiniest brush to paint the words in your selected font. I didn’t know this on the first painting, and my letters lacked definition. See? Yuck.

That was done using a small angled brush, which I thought was appropriately small enough. But alas, I was wrong. In any brush, your paint is going to eventually glob up and if your brush is too big, then the glob just gets really messy. Like I said, I thought my brush was small enough. No, the next picture shows you the brush I used on the second painting. See, my mother-in-law is a retired certified ceramics teacher. The brush is hers. This is the brush she uses for eyelashes and pupils on the faces of her small creations. This is the brush she insisted I take with me when I raided her stash of supplies for my project. This is the brush that I thought would be too small for any grand thing I was going to do, but this is also the brush that made my words come to life on the canvas. It doesn’t look like much, but trust me, it is mighty.

So once you have traced your words onto the canvas, and you have your handy-dandy teeny-tiny brush poised in the air, you are ready to paint, my friend. Squeeze out just A LITTLE of the paint from your tube onto your palate or mixing tray (a paper plate works just fine). I squeezed out a quarter-sized dollop of white paint for the first canvas. I used only a twelfth of it and the rest went to waste. Go easy on the squeezing, is my point.

Now, be a good little student and color in the lines. You’ll be so pleased when you do!

The good thing about using a solid, dark background, is that if you need to touch up any goofs, it’s super-easy!  (See period after the word “God.” I messed up and brought the tail of the “d” up too far.  Once the ModPodge is applied, you won’t see any of the touch-up areas.

Now, where the Mod Podge is concerned, I purchased a small bottle of the Matte finish.  I wasn’t sure how it would turn out, but my bottle of glossy Mod Podge looked every bit of its twelve-year age.  I thought the matte version might be a nice touch.  As it turned out, it is not a flat finish, but is not a super-shiny finish either.  I like the minor sheen that the matte option imparts.

Once the text has dried, you are ready to adhere your photo.  Take a generous size brush (mine is 2″ wide) and dip into a bowl full of the Mod Podge glue.  Brush onto the entire back of the photo before gently placing the photo in the desired place on the canvas. Get the glue as close to the edges as you possibly can.

Smooth the photo onto the canvas with your hand.  Once the photo was smoothed (remember not to press too hard) I flipped the canvas over onto a towel on my countertop and pressed harder with my hand to make sure the canvas was well-pressed to the photo.

Allow to dry (1-2 hours).  Clean your brush in the meantime and allow it to dry also.   Cover the glue so it doesn’t dry out.

Once the photo and your brush are dry, using the same 2″ brush, gently sweep Mod Podge back and forth in smooth, easy strokes running the width of your canvas.  Be sure not to stop in the middle.  Once the entire canvas is coated in Mod Podge and you are satisfied with the brush strokes, allow to dry (2-3 hours).

A few notes about this last step: Be sure to go all the way down the side edges with your glue so you get a uniform look all the way around the canvas.  I worried that the parts of the rounded edge where my glue seemed to pile would be a problem, but they turned out just fine.  I cannot see brush strokes on the canvas, but I can see them on the photos.  It’s not obtrusive at all, but I might investigate a smoother brush for future projects.  Also, the Mod Podge dries so clear that you won’t see any of the glue that might accumulate at the edges of your photo.  Just make sure it’s not a big glob and you’ll be fine.  The glue dries incredibly fast.  I believe within 20 minutes I could not see any glue on the canvas or photo.  It is at this point that you could put on a second coat, but I chose not to.  I hung mine on the wall 2 hours after finishing the last canvas.

And now, my friend, your work is done.  Hang your art on the wall with pride. (P.S.  You may want to affix a picture hanger of some type to your canvas prior to hanging.  I skipped that step also, but I may go back and add it later.)

Love Is…

Tags

18th Anniversary

1. Love is “You don’t look like you feel like cooking tonight. Let me take you out for sushi.”
2. Love is giving him the first omelet, because no matter what I do the second one always burns.
3. Love is doing the dishes together.
4. Love is leaving for church an hour early with me every week because I volunteered for extra duties.
5. Love is being his personal chauffeur for six months after a seizure.
6. Love is allowing that seizure to change him for the better.
7. Love is “You mow.  I’ll weed-eat.”
8. Love is bringing me coffee in the mornings.
9. Love is “Do you need the hairdryer before I put it up?”
10. Love is leaving a note on my steering wheel that says he loves being my husband.
11. Love is deciding together when it was time to let Mason go.
12. Love is allowing him to bury our sweet dog in solitude.
13. Love is grocery shopping with me at four different stores twice each month because I’m a product and ingredient freak.
14. Love is cooking together.
15. Love is curling into his side and relaxing in his arms.
16. Love is putting my wayward shoes in my closet for me, or hanging up my purse.
17. Love is hauling firewood to the back door for him before he gets home from work.
18. Love is a crackling fire and a glass of wine waiting for me when I get home.
19. Love is neatly laying out all the freshly-laundered clothes so they’re easier for me to fold.
20. Love is holding my hand on a long drive.
21. Love is quoting our favorite movies: “You’re drunk, Lovell,” and “I can’t deal with cleaning up.  Let’s sell the house.”
22. Love is spending all day watching The Godfather trilogy.
23. Love is “Lori Darlin'” and cutting the cards.
24. Love is typing the meeting minutes for committees on which he is recording secretary.
25. Love is grinning at each other around beams that would become the walls of our home.
26. Love is “Bless you,” and “Excuse me.”
27. Love is watching the pressure canner for me while I run an errand.
28. Love is singing along with the 80’s station at the top of our lungs while the kids groan in the back seat.
29. Love is wine and cheese for appetizers while the grill fires up.
30. Love is “Don’t forget the peppers and onions.”
31. Love is “Crap. I forgot the peppers and onions. Be right back.”
32. Love is ironing his shirts.
33. Love is cleaning out my car.
34. Love is “I’m sorry,” “I was wrong,” and “Please forgive me.”
35. Love is “I forgave you the minute you said it.”
36. Love is curling up on the couch together watching It’s a Wonderful Life and agreeing that yes, it really is.

For all the things our love is, and all the things it is yet to be, these 18 years have been the best of my life. I love you forever, Dominic. Happy Anniversary.

 

Creative or Crazy: Sometimes It’s a Coin Toss

Tags

beginner art, bible verses for homes, painting, word-art

Victoria sat beside me diligently watching as I put the finishing touches on a baby shower gift for my cousin.  “I wish I could paint like you, Mamma.  I can’t paint at all,” she complained.

“Technically, I’m not painting.  I’m writing.  This is no great skill, sweetie,” I assured her.   I had replicated the Suessian poem Baby, Oh Baby, The Places You’ll Go in the shape of a dinosaur.  I had to write the entire poem in said dino shape four times before I got my spacing and letter size just right.  And even then, some letters were wonky, the word “scrumpulous” folded in on itself inside the brontosaurus’ foot, and I realized too late that I had given him the wrong type of tail. The gift recipients seemed not to notice the flaws immediately, and I was grateful.

But I was also inspired.  Driven.  Hooked.

Victoria and I traipsed to our local craft stores the next night in search of a wreath for our front door, and I suggested we just go “look” at the canvases.  They were on sale.  Half-off.  I left Michael’s with a large grapevine wreath (which aren’t so much grapevine anymore as they are tangles of leaves and twigs.  What’s up with that?) and a 36×48 canvas, labeled “Artist Professional Level 1: Beginner”… mostly because it was cheaper, but also because, really, there’s no sense kidding myself.

That’s the basis of this project, but here’s the history.  I originally set out this summer to make two word-art prints for Dom’s birthday.  One would be lyrics of songs that make me think of him, and the other would be quotes from my favorite love-story books.  I gave each a different design so that they would be similar but not the same, and filled in the background with more corresponding text.  This is the result:

Since I couldn’t work on these prints in Dom’s presence and I was itching to keep drawing and word-arting (making up your own words is a fine art, too, you see), I decided to bring the bible verses forward from within our walls where I wrote them in 2012.  I wanted them all in one place where I could view them, and I wanted them to form a picture.  So I shaped words and verses into a tree design and got this:

But I drew this on poster board, which is totally not standard frame size (who knew?) and therefore all but useless unless I wish to thumb-tack it to my wall or hang it on the fridge.  So I figured with a little perseverance I could re-create the tree on a larger canvas.  And since this is for my enjoyment, I could take as long as I need to get it just right.  So began the process:

This photo was taken about an hour too late, actually.  I should have taken the picture before the darker color was applied to the canvas, the point at which it looked as if Mabel had stuck her nose in yellow paint and sniffed all over the canvas.  The same point at which I sat back on the floor, stared up at the easel and said to myself, “Holy crap…I’m worse at this than I thought I’d be!”

It is at this moment that I feel compelled to beg mercy from the judgments of true artists.  I realize I have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to painting.  Refer once again to the post title, please.

Over the next few nights I dabbled in my art project, adding swirly verses and wondering if there was some way to use more color on the canvas and blend it so that it looked more like sunlight behind the tree.  I determined that for my skill level, there was not.

For the next several weeks (er, months) I worked on it a little at a time.  I took over the upstairs game room, setting up my paints and easel near the window for good light, and indulgently leaving a mess no one had to clean up or look at.  I totally felt like Ally in The Notebook, painting in the room Noah created just for her.  Except that I was fully dressed.

Now, here we are, already in another year, and with the Christmas decorations all put away there is a gaping blank space on my living room wall just waiting for the finished tree.  And tonight, that blank wall is filled with the verses that have carried me through the process of making this house our home.  Of course, it’s only now that I realize my efforts to make the canvas match the wall were too well-coordinated.  The canvas blends right into the wall, making the picture look not nearly as artful as I had hoped.  When I lamented the fade-away quality of my color choices, Dom asked what could be done to correct it.  Ahem… start over?

Maybe next year.

 

 

Adventures in Upholstery

Tags

dumb ideas, furniture upholstery, wingback chair

The fact that I’m not as crafty as I’d like to be never manages to stop me from attempting the most asinine of projects.  Take, for instance, my wingback chair.

This chair was bestowed upon us at the onset of our marriage by a couple who was upgrading their living room furniture.  We were the proud heirs to the wingback chair and a matching sofa, both pieces outfitted in a lovely cornflower blue floral print reminiscent of the 1980’s.  Never let it be said that I turned my nose up at free furniture.

I handily slip-covered the sofa in a solid blue cotton with coordinating plaid throw pillows.  The only thing Dom had to remember was to not grab hold of the top back of the sofa, lest he become intimate with the family of stickpins which held my handiwork together.

In due time, our puppy Mason would eat the sofa (yes…the whole sofa), but the wingback chair managed to survive where it stood proudly in what I called “the sitting room.”  For the next 13 years the chair provided a comfortable place to read, relax and chat.  Since the blue floral print fabric was a bit dated for my taste, I constantly sought more pleasing fabrics to drape over the chair, giving it a new – if not wrinkled – look every time the mood struck.  Without fabric properly cut and sewn to fit, my chair always looked like a laundry bin, though I tried to keep it tidy and inviting.

Dom didn’t exactly share my love for the chair.  He found it utilitarian at best, and would gladly sit in it when he needed a place to rest, but I think he would have been perfectly content with the idea of leaving the chair as a permanent fixture of the house that we sold. I was having no part of that, and insisted that the chair come with us to the new house.

“Can’t we just buy a new one?” Dom complained.  “I don’t understand your attachment to this chair.

“It’s a good chair!” I insisted.  “Besides, I want it to live in the office at the new house.  It only needs a facelift.  I have the fabric already; I just need to find someone to re-cover it for me.”

My plan was to recover the chair in a fabric that my Aunt Penny had found – she had recently sent a bolt of a pretty gold-and-chocolate print upholstery fabric my way.  I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough for the chair, and thought about covering throw pillows in the fabric instead.  Then I unrolled the bolt and figured that if I found an alternate coordinating color for the back and sides of the chair, I would not only have enough of the print fabric for the main parts of the chair, but also enough to recover a footstool to match.

Keep in mind that the whole time I envisioned this transformation, I never once envisioned myself as the muscle behind it.  The only things I have ever successfully re-covered look painfully homespun.  I do not have the knack for making anything, save cakes, look store-window worthy.

But, as with all my projects, desperation and an unnerving desire to NOT spend money began to settle in my bones and I sort of convinced myself that re-covering the chair on my own might be an easy project (stop laughing) and surely it couldn’t be thaaaaat difficult.  (Really. I said stop.)

Dom helped me hoist the wingback chair upstairs to the bonus room where I could work on it to my heart’s content and not disturb anyone with my mess.  Using a small flathead screwdriver and a pair of needle nose pliers, I began to pluck staples out of the bottom of the chair, revealing the springs, padding, wood frame and (dear goodness) more staples.  Mabel felt the need to stay with me while I worked, at least until she heard the dog bowls rattling downstairs, at which point she was a puff of black dust in the doorway.

I worked on the chair for about an hour before my hand began to cramp and I noticed red grooves from the pliers’ handles marred into my skin.  I looked around the room and took inventory: one back and half a side of the chair uncovered, three metal tack strips that surely could be used as medieval torture devices but had only served to secure the fabric to the back of the chair, and about 200 plucked staples neatly piled in the curve of a Babe Ruth commemorative plate.

I believe there was a still, small voice in the back of my mind as I tidied my mess that evening which told me I could very quickly get in over my head, and that this project surely was not going to be all rainbows and sunshine.  I also believe I told the voice to shut the hell up as I turned out the light.

The next day we had some rowdy power surges at our office which left the electric company working on a nearby transformer for the better part of the day, so we were granted the afternoon off.  I decided to spend this unexpected free time working on my chair.  Approximately fifteen minutes into the continuation of the staple pulling, my screwdriver slipped, viciously ramming my knuckles into the wood frame of the chair.  We have a saying in the Mainiero household that declares NO project is going to turn out well unless somebody bleeds in the process.  The evidence dripping down my hand suggested that my adventure in furniture re-covering was going to be a raging success.  I slapped a band-aid on my index finger and proceeded to pull more staples.

Two minutes had not passed before I realized the soaked band-aid was about to float away, and more blood was running down my hand.  I soaked through two more band-aids before throwing the pliers onto the ground, huffing in Mabel’s direction, and storming downstairs with a confused pup hot on my heels.  The little voice in my head had only one word for me:

Google.

Before my browser had completely launched, I was already employing my six good fingers to type the words, “furniture upholstery shreveport.”  A list of local businesses popped up and I began to dial numbers on my phone.  Five phone calls later, I understood that most folks want at least $700 for labor on a wingback chair. (Egad!!)  One lady broke my heart when she said her late husband was the one who did the furniture upholstery, but he passed away last December.  She would gladly make me a slip cover for my chair, however, but I needed to put all the fabric back on my chair so that she could work with it.  I already knew Dom would wrinkle his nose at the mention of a slip cover, and the mere thought of re-attaching all that fabric to my chair made my finger throb.  Another location offered to charge considerably less than everyone else, was located on my side of town, and would be open until 5pm if I decided to bring my now blood-stained chair on over to them.  With that news, Victoria graciously helped me load the crime scene furniture into my van, and I was on my way.

When I arrived at my destination, the gentleman who had spoken with me on the telephone walked out to my van to retrieve the chair.  “You wouldn’t believe how many people call us in your situation,” he said.

“What… frustrated and bleeding?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed.  “Actually, if you hadn’t called today, you would have called once you got ready to sew on this fabric and realized your machine at home couldn’t handle it.  People usually break the machine’s needle before they call.”

I hadn’t even foreseen the problem of sewing on upholstery fabric with my little machine.    I gave him the fabric I wanted to use, and he helped me pick out a coordinating fabric from his stock for the sides and back of the chair.  He also pointed out that I have a really good chair “worth keeping” because of its solid wood frame.  I couldn’t wait to share the chair’s redeeming qualities with Dom.

So, in roughly six weeks I should have a newly recovered chair and healed knuckles.  And maybe, just maybe, Dom will be proud of this chair I refused to give up.

Poca Voglia

Tags

home names, little wishes

I’ve always wanted to name my house – ever since the days of my childhood when I would watch Dallas and marvel at the majesty of Southfork.  Of course, I knew I would not likely have anything as vast as a Southfork of my own, but the thought of a place with a name – a distinct identity – was intriguing.

Our old house was warm and friendly, but never quite name-worthy.  The name would come some day when I fulfilled the dream of building my own house.

That day is now.

Any appropriate name would need to be Italian (duh), and so I spent weeks in my “spare” time google-translating phrases that were personal, yet meaningful.  Stately, yet modest.

Weeks, I tell ya.  Weeks.

(By the way, this is exactly why I don’t have a tattoo.  Such a permanent item would need to be, in my estimation, an all-encompassing graphic rendition of my personality, beliefs and ideals.  Its meaning and message would need to stand the test of time.  I mean, really…how would I ever decide on one?)

I also had standards for not only what the name would mean, but for how it sounded when spoken.  It couldn’t be cumbersome.  It needed to sound lyrical.  It needed to roll. Google Translate and that little Italian voice inside my phone had their work cut out for them.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the names I tried and cast aside.  In the end, one name won out because of its meaning and its melody.  Poca Voglia (pronounced POKE-a VOHL-e-yah) means “little wish.”   This house began as a little wish twenty years ago when Dom and I sat in the student center at our university and he drew me an abstract picture on a napkin of the home we would someday build together.It’s probably hard to see on this scanned and faded napkin, but that’s the house in the foreground with a pond in the back.  And a dog.  No house is a home without a dog.  😉

I am full of little wishes.  But I am also full of gratitude and contentment.  Poca Voglia.  Welcome home.

Sixteen Years

In honor of our anniversary two years ago I quoted lines from songs that make me think of Dom. Those songs live in a playlist called Lori Loves Dom (sappy, I know!) and they have to be pretty worthy songs in order to make the list.

Every once in a while I will hear a song that I may have known for years and the first thought through my head will be, “Oooh! I need to add that to the playlist!” One such song* popped up just the other day and I thought it was perfect for how I feel about this man who carries my heart in his pocket.

“I can just see you with your hair turning grey.
What I can’t see is how I’m ever gonna love you more,
But I’ve said that before…
Now you’re my whole life. Now you’re my whole world.
And I just can’t believe the way I feel about you…
We’ll look back someday at this moment that we’re in
And I’ll look at you and say,
‘And I thought I loved you then…’”

It’s as true today as it was sixteen years ago, Dom. I love you more than life. Happy Anniversary!

(*Lyrics from Brad Paisley’s song Then on the album American Saturday Night. All copyright and gratitude due Mr. Paisley.)

The Twelve Days of Christmas – Mainiero Style!

For some, Christmas is over.  For our family and slightly over a billion other Catholics, Christmas has four more days to go.   I have taken some of our more memorable moments of the last few days and compiled them into the Mainiero Twelve Days of Christmas.  Disclaimer: The conversations shared here may or may not be verbatim, but convey no less than I heard, at any rate.  They are also not dated with any precision, since we are technically only on Day 8.

Somebody crank the harmonica, would ya?

On the First Day of Christmas my true love said to me…

“I’ve made an executive decision.”

“Seriously?  You do recall that the last time you made an executive decision and announced it in such grandiose fashion we ended up with Mabel, riiiiiiight??”

“Nevermind.”

On the Second Day of Christmas, my dear son, with Christmas money burning a hole in his pocket, said to me…

“Hey, Mom…can you take me to WalMart so I can get this Lego set I want?”

“Dude… on the day after Christmas, you want to go to WalMart?  December 26^th…the pinnacle of wretched retail returns…really?? Puh-leeze!!” I huffed…

And then promptly took my children to WalMart.

On the Third Day of Christmas, my mother said to me…

“Let’s clean out Victoria’s room while I’m at your house today.”

“Sure.  Then we’ll clean out my washing machine and dryer filters.”

Ironically, neither of us was kidding.  Equally amazing, we found a movie gift card lodged in the dryer filter, and it still had a balance.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas, my children said to me…

“Hey Mom, since we found that movie gift card…” (don’t you love inappropriate use of the word “WE?”) “…can we go see a movie today?”

“What do you want to see?”

“Chipmunks!!”

“Hell no!”

On the Fifth Day of Christmas, my children said to me…

“Hey, when are you going to the grocery store again?”

“Never.”

“Whaaaaaa???!!!!”

“You want food?  Take my car.  And some books to sit on. One of you steer and one of you work the pedals.  Kroger is that direction.”

“Mommmm!!!”

On the Sixth  Day of Christmas, the rabbits said to me…

“Hey, lady!! It’s freakin’ cold out here in the garage since you left the bloomin’ door open all night.  Bring us in, would ya?”

“It’s 6 a.m.  Curl your furry little cottontails up into a ball and snuggle down in all that expensive bedding we buy you to pee on.”

“If you don’t come down and let us in, we’re going to thump our back feet so loud you’ll think the house is falling down around you.”

And so they did.  And so we did.  The rabbits were in the kitchen by 6:15.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas, I said to those damn rabbits…

“It’s 60 degrees again.  Out you go.”

“Witch!!”

“Hasenpfeffer!!!”

(Google it.)

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, my daughter said to me,

“Mimi wants to know if I can spend the night with her so that the fireworks don’t keep me awake tonight. Can I? Can I?  Pleeeeeeeeeeease???”

“Did Mimi ask you, or did you ask Mimi?”

“Does it matter?”

On the Ninth Day of Christmas, I heard my daughter say…

Quite excitedly as she was assisting her dad in cleaning out the fireplace…

“Hey, Daddy, can this be my job EVERY year??”

Rock on, right?  I may loan her out.

On the Tenth Day of Christmas, I said to AMC…

“For the love of everything holy, WHYYYYYYYYYYYY are gift cards to your theaters sold in Shreveport, Louisiana when there is not an AMC theater in a 200-mile radius of us???!!!!!”

“Oops.”

“’Oops??’  I’ve been gifted with $50 of worthless movie cards.  That is, unless my husband and I pass up fourteen other theaters and spend three times that in gas to go see a movie in Dallas.”

“We can refund you for the gift card values.  You’ll have a check in 5-8 weeks.”

Sweet.

On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, I confessed to the Hubster…

“Um, honey…I think that movie card I picked up for your office party was an AMC card too.  Tell whoever got it they can call for a refund.”

I got The Look.

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas my daughter said to me…

“Will you help me give Marsha a bath and clip her nails?  She really needs it, and I just know she’ll be good in the sink. I’ll hold her still.”

And wouldn’t ya know?  That’s just exactly how I wanted to spend the last of the holiday – giving the rabbit a Spa Day. 😉

I hope your family had a magical Christmas celebration, and that the magic continues throughout the year. 

Where There’s a Will There’s a Way

This week Dom and I initiated the task we have selfishly waited fifteen years to complete.  I remember sixteen years ago sitting in his room discussing our future together when I remarked that whatever we did or did not do in this life, I was going to insist that we plan all things for the benefit of each other and whomever else we might bring into the relationship. (You do know I mean kids, right??)

So, all these years later we finally took the plunge and did what was always important but never critical:  we met with an attorney to establish our Last Will and Testaments.

And Oh-My-Holy-Gosh, the things you have to think of when preparing those documents!!!

Living Wills, Powers of Attorney, calls to my parents… “Hey, Daddy, are you cool with taking care of all my health and financial decisions if I am  incapacitated and Dom is unavailable?”  No parent wants to think about such things.  I know this.  But we have to talk about it anyway.

You already know that I have planned my funeral  – right down to the headstone I want and the songs I want sung.  But there is so much more to proper  planning.  I now compare it to planning a wedding.  You can plan the party down to the smallest detail, but if you fail to plan for the life that follows, the party is pointless.

You can take that last thought two ways and 1) prepare for your own afterlife, or 2) prepare for the care of those lives that will be left behind in the wake of your departure.  I humbly suggest doing both.  Just sayin’.

There was an interesting point in the conversation that got glossed over because, well, it really only pertains to people with separate property, and probably A LOT of it. But my mind has been tossing it about today whenever I find myself with little else to focus on.  Our attorney mentioned the unusual circumstance of a couple dying together, and the (potential) resulting legal question of who died first.  In a state such as Louisiana this issue can tangle substantially complicated estates and wreak havoc for the heirs.  For us?  Not so much.  We is simple folk.  But for some people, in preparing for the unlikely possibility of this happening it is advised that couples note in their LW&T that should this phenomenon occur for them personally, it is to be presumed that (insert name here) died first.

Can you even imagine???

I realize that the people this would apply to have such substantial estates that if one of the spouses were in his or her second/third/etc marriage, the passing of one before the other could leave somebody’s heirs out in the cold.  Again, totally N/A for me and Dom.  But still, this intrigues me.  If we had reason to sort this out, how would it read?

I shared this with Mom, who nodded in complete understanding and answered, “We would all know Dom went first because wherever he goeth, thou will follow.”

She knows me better than I know myself, no?  I laughed out loud and agreed because I have frequently told him that if he ever leaves me I’m going with him.

So that’s how it would read if we ever had such a reason to spell it all out.  It can simply be presumed that he went to leave, and I chased after him…just like I  always have.  😉