Editing and sewing, a common thread

In junior high, I took a home economics class at my mom’s insistence. I was terrible at it. The cooking part was tolerable, but the sewing classes were torture. Our assignment: Make a simple drawstring bag. Despite the repeated instructions from my teacher Mrs. Lavalle and the pitying glances of the girl sitting at the sewing machine next to me, I just didn’t get it. I was a writer, not a seamstress. How was I supposed to pull a drawstring through a bag I’d already sewn shut? The deadline was looming. Finally, I made a hole with a seam ripper, threaded the cord through and called it done. My grade came a couple days later: a “B-, unexplained broken stitches.”

Sewing, clearly, was not for me. Or so I thought. Twenty years later in an attempt to right some junior high wrongs, I bought a book titled “Sewing 101” and a cheap sewing machine. There were more than a few broken stitches, but I kept at it. Today, I have four sewing machines and serger in heavy rotation. 

Wool mittens are my specialty. All year, I scour the thrift stores looking for wool sweaters—the uglier, the better. I take them home and wash them until the fibers fuse together, which is a process called felting. Then I cut, sew and line with fleece. The sweaters remind me so much of people. Some wash up better than others. Others simply fall apart. Certain pairs are especially warm. Some need an extra row of stitches for strength. Some are thick, some are thin. Felted wool is forgiving. The thread disappears into the fibers, so there’s room for error in the seams. 

Some pairs I sell. Many I give away. To me, they represent warmth—literal warmth but also the heartwarming idea of rescuing something discarded and making it useful. At Christmas, my cousin Julie presented me with a garbage bag full of sweaters from her local Goodwill store. It was my favorite gift. We spent Christmas morning rummaging through them, exclaiming, “Ooh, look how ugly this one is!” When you focus on the right areas, ugly sweaters transform into the most beautiful mittens. 

I’ve often tried to find the correlation between editing (what I do professionally) and sewing (what I do for fun). My theory: both pursuits allow me to be “The Fixer,” adding a comma to a sentence, attaching a button to a cuff. The end result is made stronger. When my son goes to college next year, I have no idea what career path he’ll choose. I do know that the second he steps out the door, his bedroom will turn into my sewing room. No doubt, Mrs. Lavalle would approve.

Christmas Sentiments Said and Unsaid

At Christmas, I get overly sentimental and everything makes me cry. I prefer to spend the holidays in Georgia, because that's home. I prefer red clay over snow. Chicken biscuits for breakfast. Shopping at the little stores in Dahlonega. Seeing "The Nutcracker" ballet at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. Going back to my hometown of Hartwell. Watching Cary Grant in "The Bishop's Wife" surrounded by Christmas lights in my mom's living room in Lula. Visiting every permutation of family. Gifts all around.

Every Christmas brings some new wisdom. This year, I realized 8 things:

1. Family is where you find it.

Shellie & Dave

My brother Daniel has children by three different women. Those women have moved on with their lives. Delaney is one of my nieces. Delaney's mom is Shellie. Delaney's stepdad is Dave.

After 10 hours on the road, my family rolled into Momma's house in Georgia the Sunday before Christmas. Shellie and Dave came over with Delaney and their daughter Falyn. We exchanged gifts, ate ham and hung out. At some point in the evening, it hit me that I'm not actually related to them. But I love them like family.

What I wanted to say to Dave: "You are so cool for hanging out with your stepdaughter's paternal family for Christmas. I keep a short list of the real men in this world, and I just wrote your name on it."

What I actually said: "Here, I got you this cool Fat Albert DVD for Christmas. It also comes with a bonus CD."


2. Awkward family photos are better than good photos.
On Christmas Eve, we exchanged gifts with my mom's side of the family. We tried to get a picture of the women in the family.

What we want to look like:

What we really look like:

A picture is worth a million words--unless it's this picture. 

3. Laughter through tears is still my favorite emotion.

Emily and Lila check
out Video Cam Barbie.

As I poured mimosas for me and my cousin Emily on Christmas Eve, I noticed a dead bug floating in one of the glasses. I fished it out and said, "Eh, I'll drink from the bug glass. I'm not worried."

"I'll drink it," said Emily. "I already have cancer. I doubt a bug will kill me."

We laughed about it. Because it was funny. Because her sarcasm is what I always loved best about Emily anyway. Because cancer is always so damned serious that you laugh to keep from crying. A year and a half ago, Emily was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer at the age of 28. After surgeries, chemo and radiation, she is currently cancer-free.

What I said: "Drink up. There's a second bottle in there."

What I wish I'd said: "You are the strongest person I know."



4. Sometimes, people surprise you.
My mom takes care of my bedridden grandma who has Alzheimer's. Momma never, ever looks stressed about it. She keeps a running dialogue with Grandma. Sometimes, Grandma nods, but she usually stares in the distance. It's 24/7 thankless job that involves feedings, sponge baths and diaper changes. When I was growing up, my mom was not the doting type. She made me very independent, and I think that was one of best gifts she gave me. To see the level of expert care she provides my grandmother just shows me another layer of the awesome woman my mom is.

What I said: "Oh, look, Grandma has on Christmas socks."

What I meant to say: "Momma, I don't know how you do it. You have earned a first-class ticket to Heaven."

5. Sometimes, you get a handshake from Eddie (Herbert, not Vedder).

Eddie (Vedder, not Herbert)

My ex-husband is named Eddie Herbert. He used to sing in a band called Poison Jamm. Years later, I started following a band called Pearl Jam, whose lead singer is named Eddie Vedder. This coincidence causes a lot of confusion, so I always try to be specific about which Eddie I'm referring to.

Eddie (Herbert) lives only a couple hours from my mom, so our son Marshall got to spend Christmas with him. That meant meeting at a gas station halfway point on Christmas Eve night. When Eddie (Herbert) got out of the car, he shook Jim's hand and then mine--a first. As Marshall stood there in his varsity jacket, I hoped Eddie (Herbert) would say something about it. Comment on how cool it was. But, he didn't.

As Jim and I drove away, though, I saw Eddie (Herbert) touching the jacket, reading it. Just a boy and his dad on Christmas Eve. My heart grew three sizes.

What I said: "Um, yeah, Merry Christmas."

What I should've said: "You are OK as ex-husbands go, Eddie Herbert."

6. Family is where you find it--even if it's all the way out in Social Circle.
So, my brother has a son named Rocky with a woman named Harmony. They live way out in Social Circle. On Christmas morning, Aunt Van and I drove out there to pick up Rocky for the week. I wasn't expecting a gift at all, but Harmony gave me this cool mug that had a ceramic spoon and a quote about aunts on it. I didn't have anything to give her in return. She said, "No problem" in such a kind way that I felt OK about it.

Rocky & Lila, two weeks apart in age

What I said: "Oh, cool, the mug comes with a ceramic spoon."

What I should've said: "Thank you SO MUCH for letting me pick up my nephew on Christmas morning. You are an awesome mom."

7. There's nothing sadder than an unopened ice cream cone ornament.
Every year, I give my brother an ice cream cone ornament. (It's a long story that I'll tell another day.) Because he is wrestling with some personal demons, I didn't know if I would see him this Christmas. But, I brought the ornament anyway and wrapped it up. I didn't see him this year, but I left the gift at my mom's house. And, I'll buy another ice cream cone ornament for him next year. And the year after that.

What I would say if I saw him: "I love you."


8. All roads lead to Hartwell.

Cateechee Club, where the elite meet

When I went to college in 1990, I lost touch with my high school friends. The last couple years, I reconnected with the ones I like via Facebook. This year, we decided to meet up in our hometown the day after Christmas. As my husband and I drove to the Cateechee Club that night, I said, "Look, I haven't seen these people in 20 years. It's either gonna be awesome or really weird." As I walked around the stone fireplace, I saw Kelley and Rodney. They threw their arms up and hugged me and all was right with the world. Then Meredith, Tanya and David showed up, and we laughed for three hours straight.

We filled in the blanks on each other's stories, talked about our common unpopularity, asked about friends who weren't there, texted others to join us ("Call Johnny! Get him over here! Call Michael!") and ordered another round.

At some point, Rodney beckoned the waitress and said, "Can you take our picture? What time do you close?"

The waitress said, "An hour ago."

As we slowly made our way out the door (and handed our phones to the waitress who took a series of blurry pictures), I didn't want any of us to go. Sorry for hugging everybody twice. We posted the blurry pix on Facebook and got a lot of comments--one of them from someone who wrote "Interesting group." Snarky, sure, but it summed us up pretty well.

Just last week, I'd read an article by a self-help guru who said, "Find your tribe." She said that it's important to hang out with the people who make you feel good and to get rid of the people who don't. Well, this is my tribe. I cannot wait to see them all again. I want to hear about the last 20 years of their lives--each of them--in great detail, the kind of detail that you can't capture in three hours at a restaurant.

Today, my husband asked me what my favorite part of Christmas was.

What I said: "The Cateechee Club."

And I meant it.

Haven't seen YOU in a while

"Haven't seen YOU in awhile."

Here's the truth: Our family doesn't make it to church every Sunday. Sometimes, we're lucky if we make it once a month. When we finally do go, some well-intentioned person who knows absolutely nothing about our lives inevitably feels the need to say, "Haven't seen YOU in a while."

At our old church, we called this person "Peter Sellers." He wore black-framed glasses and possessed a verbal tic that made him snicker at the end of every sentence.

Haven't seen YOU in a while. Hehehe.

In fact, there has been a Peter Sellers at every church I've ever attended in my life. And you know what? Those admonishments (always delivered with a smile) fail to make me want to attend church more. They've always made me want to go less.

When I checked my email this morning, I noticed I had a Peter Sellers note from one of the women at church. I've never had coffee with this woman. We know each other only from when I pick up and drop off my daughter on Wednesday nights for choir and crafts. Although there were plenty of smiley emoticons sprinkled throughout, the message was clear: Haven't seen YOU in a while.

She ended the note by saying, "Please let us know how we can be helpful in any way." OK, here's how you can be helpful. When I finally do make it to church, one of these Sundays, I'm not sure when, instead of the Peter Sellers routine, here's what you can say to me:

1. "It's cool that you find other ways to plug in at church even though you can't always make it to worship services. Donating your time, talents and money on other days of the week besides Sunday is AWESOME!

2. "Wow, your husband must be SUPER tired from working 16 hours every Saturday writing about Penn State football. When he gets home at 2:45 a.m., he probably wants to sleep. So, we won't expect you at the 9:30 service during football season. Or the 11 a.m. service either. Sleep is important. People don't get enough sleep nowadays. We will pray that he finds a day job with a more normal schedule."

3. "I couldn't help but notice that you work full-time outside the home during the DAY and that your husband works full-time outside the home at NIGHT. And he manages kindergarten pick-up and drop-off for your daughter during the day. When in the world does he sleep? Oh, right, on SUNDAYS. Now I understand why you haven't been in worship services."

4. "Wow, your son is tall. I bet he letters in three high school sports. He probably stays busy with games and practice every day of the week--except Sunday. So, I guess that's the only day of the week that the four of you are able to sit down and have a meal together. It's amazing you make it to church at all. I say you're doing great if you make it here monthly."

5. "Have you ever seen that show 'Sunday Morning' with Charles Osgood? Sometimes, they have compelling interviews with fascinating people about fascinating things, and you learn something. Sometimes, you just wanna sit on the couch with a cup of coffee and not worry about rounding up the family to get out the door in time for church. Because we ALL know that job falls on the shoulders of the mom. And, girlfriend, you worked all week. Put your feet up and watch Charles Osgood. God is OK with that."

40th Birthday + Thanksgiving = Most Awesome Two Days Ever

I have two children but have often considered having four or six. If anyone were to ask me why, I would say, "I just want lots of people around the table at Thanksgiving." Clearly, I was thinking too small. A big Thanksgiving involves way more than one table.

This year at my Aunt Mary and Uncle Mark's house in Texas, there were 31 people around multiple tables--in the dining room, at the breakfast nook, in the hallway, at the bar, outside on the deck. As we said grace as a group and drew numbers to see who would go first in the food line (Grandma, almost 90, got dibs), my eyes filled with tears. I felt the immediate urge to offer someone one of my kidneys. I love these people--all of them, even especially the crazy ones. Obviously, you don't need to birth a bunch of kids to have a good Thanksgiving. You just need food, hospitality and a few wild cards to keep it fun. Wine helps, too.

Whenever I visit my dad's side of the family in Texas, the time always goes too fast. I stay up late and wake early, worried that I'm going to miss an inside joke, a grocery store run, a life-changing conversation or a cocktail. Every time I leave the room, I want to say to everyone, "Don't do anything or say anything until I get back."

The day before Thanksgiving, we celebrated my 40th birthday. Breakfast started with mimosas and a quick trip to the antique store with Aunt Van, who bought me an awesome cowboy girl hat. Then lunch under the trees of La Hacienda with my dad and stepmom who drove in from Houston. We then hurried to a pre-party at my Uncle Phil and Aunt Daria's house, which made us late for happy hour at my Aunt Chrissie and Uncle Mike's.

If you've never had 30+ people singing "Happy Birthday" at the top of their lungs while your grandma sits on one side and your daughter stands on the other, you're missing out. I wish I'd thought to videotape it, but in a way I'm glad I didn't. Sometimes, you just have to live in the moment and drink it in.

Before we knew it, the party had moved back to Aunt Mary's where we were all spending the night. At 1 a.m., my cousin James said, "We should change your flight, so you can stay longer!" Kinder words were never said. I want to remember them, so I can use them the next time I need a to hand out the perfect compliment. We stayed up till 3, solving all the problems of the world and texting our other cousins.

Here are just a few highlights from this quick trip:

I love that my Uncle Phil pours beer the exact same way my Granddad did.

I love that walking into my grandma's retirement home made me happy instead of sad, because it's the kind of place where they bring alpacas to visit the residents.

I love that we have a family who brings kegs to Thanksgiving dinner.

I love that when I say "Old Guard picture!" to my cousins, they know to sit on either side of me.

I love that my Aunt Jackie wears shoes like this:

And that my Uncle Kenny wears boots with his name stitched in them.

I love that Aunt Mary and I both love to shop in Fredricksburg. "We are so much alike," she said proudly.

I love listening to my dad and my Uncle Phil talk about anything. I also love that they can't help but look cool even when they're just standing in front of a random tree.

I love that cousin Tommy totally rocks that Graham Parsons shirt

I love that Aunt Chrissie bought a chili pepper skirt at Goodwill and--out of all the people in the world--I was the one she thought should have it.

I love that my cousin Jack played tag with Lila even though she's six and he's 21. Jack's dad, Uncle Kenny, used to do the same with me when I was her age.

I love that Grandma and Billie (my Uncle Mike's mom) are the cutest matriarchs I've ever seen:

I love that cousin Mick fell asleep, giving me and James the opportunity to decorate. I also love that when James got excited about TCU beating UT, he screamed and woke Mick up, sending pumpkins flying everywhere.

I love that next year we'll do it all over again.

Pride

When I got home from work today, Lila hurried me upstairs where she'd spread her school papers across my bed. She couldn't wait to show me she'd won an award. The school mascot is a lion, so students can win these P.R.I.D.E (positive attitude, respect, integrity, diversity and excellence) awards. The paper had the "D" circled with a note that read "Lila always makes sure everyone is included in the game or activity that they are doing." She also got a lion pencil as part of her prize.

"That's wonderful," I told her, my mom pride swelling over a simple pencil and a slip of paper.

I remembered years ago that Marshall's first-grade teacher had said something similar about him, something to the effect of "He so nice--to everyone."

Downstairs, I found Marshall sitting on the edge of his bed in his room, a rarity for that time of day. It's the in-between week between football and basketball season, and I wasn't expecting to see him. He told me his girlfriend had just broken up with him. Lila was hovering in the doorway, so I told her to go play. I gathered as many details as he wanted to give and then launched into a different kind of mom pride--"You are awesome and talented and smart and so nice--to everyone--and, hey, are you hungry?"

I tried to remember what a high school break-up is like. If memory serves, my 11-grade self spent the evening in my room eating Snickers bars and watching the VHS version of "Beaches."

And, even though it was a school night, I let him go hang out with his best friend, who would build up his confidence in a way that I couldn't. He took his math homework with him, left for a couple hours, came home early, showed me the completed worksheets and said, "I need to go change my relationship status on Facebook."

And I tried act all casual and said, "Oh, OK, cool."

But, I wanted to say, "Hurry! The first person to change the relationship status on Facebook after a break-up wins! Way to go, son!"

I also wanted to tell him that I was proud of him for seeking the company of friends during a tough time (circle the "P"), for texting me while he was out to let me know he was OK (circle the "R"),  for refusing to say an unkind word about his ex-girlfriend (circle the "I") and for doing his homework (circle the "E") tonight. This kid deserves a few lion pencils.

Old Guard, reunited in 10 days

Last year, when my Aunt Mary got married in San Antonio, the whole family--from Texas to Georgia to Pennsylvania--turned out for the wedding. We Whalens are a big Irish-Italian group with overlapping generations and an endless supply of kids and grandkids and uncles and aunts. As we left the reception and headed to the after-party, I stood there in the elevator with my two cousins, Mick and James. We're the eldest grandkids, so I made what I thought was an obvious statement:

"Look at us," I said, "We're sorta like the Old Guard."


Old Guard, right before the Sharpies came out



And something clicked. We paused and gave each other that look, the one you give when you know history has just been made. When you know nothing will ever be the same again. It will only be infinitely, more amazingly better. What ensued was an evening of high-fives, endless toasts and a round of "Old Guard 4-life" neck tatts written in black Sharpie (Gothic font). As the night wore on, we categorized the rest of the family, so everyone would know who was who:

Elite Guard:
our almost-90-year-old grandma
Nothing and no one can trump Elite Guard. She drinks wine and grew up with Sinatra. Top THAT.

Old Guard: duh, that's us--me, Mick, James
We're second in coolness only to Grandma, obviously.

Color Guard: my dad, his five siblings and all their spouses 

Our aunts were wearing bright-colored shirts, so this seemed like a logical name at the time. Too late to change it now.

Young Guard: the rest of the cousins and subsequent generations

No matter how hard they try, they will never be as cool as Old Guard. This does not stop Old Guard from giving Young Guard lots and lots of advice on everything.

Ink Guard: a catch-all category

This includes anyone in the family who wants to admit to having tattoos. See Color Guard, Young Guard, et al.

And all that nonsense stuck, as if we'd been saying it for decades and decades. Now when I send my cousins a text, I have to remember to look in my phone under "O" for Old Guard Jamed (sic) and Old Guard Mic (sic).

In 10 days, I fly to San Antonio for my birthday and for Thanksgiving. Old Guard will be back together, and all will be right with the world. And I'm bringing my Sharpie.

The no-good, craptastic day

Sometimes, you have one of those days that just spirals into crappiness for no good reason. Little stuff piles up and becomes big stuff. Today was one of those days.

You ever walk up to a group of people and they stop talking? And you KNOW they were just talking about you. My first thought is, "Oooh, maybe they're planning a surprise party for me!" but then my second thought is, "Crap. This ain't good. What'd I do now?" That happened to me today--twice.

Throughout the day, my allergies flared up, and I started sneezing. I bought some soup at lunch and planned to power through the rest of the afternoon. But, my medicine wasn't working. I ran out of tissues. Finally, I just chalked up the rest of the day to sick time, so I could be gross in the comfort of my own home.

 Lying on the couch in my robe, I called up a friend to tell her about my craptastic day. Maybe I caught her at a bad time, but I got the brush-off, sort of an "Eh, what are ya gonna do?" response. When I hung up, I felt crappier than before.

And I couldn't shake it, the indifference from several women in one day. Normally, I could count on the hustle and bustle of our family within our home to cheer me up instantly. But, the house was empty. The kids were at school. My husband had driven a friend to Maryland for a cancer treatment. On any other day, I would relish a couple hours to myself.

Standing in my kitchen, I whipped out my phone and sent a Facebook message to four of my friends, women I've known since junior high in Georgia. I told them I was having a bad day and asked for some prayers. All four responded within minutes.

Prayers going up!

Take a bath, drink a cocktail!

 You are so loved!

 And know that you are loved dearly all the way down here in Nuberg!

That last one made me smile because you don't have to know where Nuberg is to know that it's a long way from there to my house in Pennsylvania. That's a lotta love. It made me think of Li Po's poem "The River Merchant's Wife" (translated by Ezra Pound) where the narrator writes a love letter to her husband who has been away traveling for several months:

If you are coming down through the narrows of the river,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fo-Sa.

You don't have to know where Cho-fo-Sa is to know it's a haul.

Tomorrow's another day, and I will remember my friends' kind words: I'm loved. All the way down in Nuberg. And as far as Cho-fo-Sa.