Ordinary Tragic Irony

Hey screenwriters. I have a story arc for you. You need a bank of ideas that you can pull from, right? Something familiar enough for people to identify with, but yet sad enough that they can think to themselves, "tragically ironic, what a pity." In order to present the irony properly, I have to give some back story. I will try to be concise, but there is a lot to wade through. This is a story about two people from the "silent generation." Just slightly older than the baby boomers, they were the one who gave birth to Gen X. My generation - the latch key kids, the slackers who created the internet, and decided to raise their kids in direct opposition to the methods of their parents.

My parents had a contentious divorce. They couldn't work out a custody arrangement, so at age 11,  I had to tearfully walk into a judge's chambers and tell a room full of strangers and my parents that I chose to live with my mom.  I mean, she was my mom, of course I would want to live with her. This is one of many defining moments of my childhood, but it was also a pivotal point for my parents. You see, my dad did not like to lose an argument. He did not take my betrayal lightly.

In the aftermath of my impulse to cling to the main female in my life, things got much worse. My mom was compulsively afraid of confrontation, and wanted to settle the divorce and get away as fast as she could. This meant that my dad was about to win a whole bunch of arguments. It was his most favorite pastime. Ex-wife gets the kids? He kept the house. This meant that on the day the divorce was finalized, My mom and my brother and I were homeless. Even though our home was right there in front of us, full of our childhood things, we didn't live there anymore.

One of my mom's friends arranged for her to get a minimum wage job at a print shop and let the three of us sleep on mattresses on the basement floor of her house. Her house was about a mile down the road and across a freeway from our childhood home. This would have meant a change in elementary schools. I was about to enter 6th grade, the pinnacle of elementary school, and I didn't want to be in a new school. On the first day of school, I grabbed my 7 year old brother by the hand and led him back to our old neighborhood. We had to be the first to arrive at the bus stop so that no one would know we didn't live in our house anymore. Within a few weeks, the stress of this situation took it's toll on me. I developed an upset stomach and had great trouble digesting food. I was tired all the time and lost hair and weight. However, I was about to switch schools anyway. By Christmas break, my mom secured government subsidized housing in the city of Columbus and we moved. These kind of places are kindly referred to as "the projects." I can share more about them another time in another story.

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One of the insults heaped on children by adults, is that adults think children won't understand what's going on. Children may not know why something is awry, but believe me, they have most of it figured out. At the time, I didn't know why I no longer lived in my own house with my possessions still inside of it. But I knew it was because my parents divorced, and I had not chosen the right parent. At least, this was the tactic my dad had chosen to deploy.

The custody arrangement meant that every other weekend would be spent at my dad's house. I didn't think of it as "my" house anymore. However, from weekend one, my dad let me know that if I would change my mind and live with him, I could come right back to living in my old bedroom full time. Why didn't I acquiesce? I don't know. Every time he said it, I bristled. What would happen to my mom if I left her? She would have nothing. I was being emotionally manipulated and while I may not have understood it, I knew it.

My dad stepped up his game. Knowing my mom's weaknesses, he decided that he would spend money on the kids when they were at his house, but he would not pay child support. In a perpetual process lasting all my youth, he and my mom fought and went to court, over and over, in a seesaw effort to get my dad to pay for the basic needs of his children. There are many other stories here too. The damage a dad can do to his children, by giving them the message that they aren't important? It is lasting. There was a second bout of homelessness and enduring poverty. My mom has never left it.

Unsurprisingly, as I was able to comprehend my situation, I had a decent amount of anger. My dad remarried, and now had two houses. That didn't sit well with me either. There were a number of years where I simply refused to go to my dad's house(s). My dad now lived in his new wife's house, while my childhood home sat empty and then was used as a rental property. But the offers from my dad never ceased. If I would come live with him, he would sell BOTH houses and buy a new one with enough bedrooms for a blended family. I stayed with my mom.

After our inner-city stint, we had another period of homelessness and a subsequent move to a kindly person's house while waiting for our name to move to number one on another "projects" application. We got into a development that was along side a set of railroad tracks, giving literal meaning to living on the wrong side of the tracks. The money situation was so bad that we were the poor people in the projects. The girls who lived near me used to make fun of my clothes - I only had two pairs of pants - and the fact that I had a blanket and newspapers taped to my windows to try to insulate my bedroom from the outside cold. Too poor to buy curtains. And maybe I need to say here that my mom was employed the whole time. So every time I hear Republicans deny the existence of the working poor, and explain how a person can make ends meet on minimum wage, I have to immediately leave, so I don't act on the urge to pull out their black heart from inside their still heaving chest.

Eventually in my later teen years I decided I wanted to have another try at a relationship with my dad. I went to him and suggested that we try to come together on more of a peer-level. I explained that I didn't need him to "father" me, because those years were past. He agreed, and we worked at finding a balance in this new relationship. Meanwhile my mom had entered into a new marriage of her own to a man who made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He moved into her apartment and I made sure my bedroom door was always locked. He was bad news, and shortly after their wedding I left home. (repeat the refrain - a story for another time...)

I worked my way through college, got married, and moved to Southern California, where I ended up having my first child. In the years that followed the birth of my daughter, my dad's behavior became increasingly erratic where she and I were concerned. He started treating me as if I were the ex-wife and my daughter was me. It was a do-over. He could lavish all of the time, money and attention on her that he never did with me. The problem was that this was a scenario he had constructed, and yet he was turning it into his reality.

The actual reality was that I was still me, and I did not appreciate what he was trying to do. I had moved as far away from Ohio as I physically could. I liked not living near the poisoned pool of my upbringing. My dad began to press me for permission to move near us. By the time I lived in Washington, he would schedule meetings with realtors to show him surrounding communities when he would come for a visit. I told him I liked our relationship the way it was - where we would see each other a few times a year with plenty of advance notice. That was my mental and emotional  comfort zone. He was free to have as many phone calls or video chats as he wanted with his grandchildren (now there were two.) He became ever more frustrated with this, stating that he needed to be near his grand-daughter on a regular basis. When he did visit, he began bribing my daughter with gifts or emotional tricks to elicit the behavior he wanted. Apparently she was born with the same bullshit detector that I had, and she began to balk when she had to interact with him. Thing were  getting kinda sticky.

Let's re-introduce my mom into this scenario. Her second husband deceased, she was living in a crumbling house in rural southwestern Ohio. She had a son with second husband, who was in his 20s and he was desperate to move out, but couldn't because my mom was dependent on him for living expenses. Through an ongoing dialog, she decided to apply for low-income senior housing here in Washington. The problem was, she was too poor to qualify. Her income level was too low to receive government housing. I didn't want her living with me, but what was there to do? She couldn't stay where she was, or she would soon be on the street. We agreed that we would co-sign for whatever housing she could get, and she moved out here with only what she could fit in her cousin's minivan, leaving everything else behind. She would stay with us while she was on the waiting list - whether that was months or years. This was the beginning of the end for my dad.

My mom moved here that June of 2007. When my dad found out she was coming, he became very upset. To his eyes, I had "chosen" my mom over him. Again. Just like in front of the judge when I was eleven. The notion that I had a choice either time, is a hilarity to me, as I view both as decisions of necessity. At any rate, this was the last time my dad voluntarily spoke to me. My mom applied to several places in the region, but the only housing agency who would even consider taking her with a co-signer ended up being a place right here in my community. Three months later a spot opened up and she moved in.

We are finally going to get to some irony. Hang in there. That November, after not speaking to me for months, my dad and his wife flew from Ohio to Seattle. At Thanksgiving. Unannounced. He let me know he was at a hotel just down the road from my house by leaving a message on my answering machine the eve before Thanksgiving. While I understand his motivation, I consider this to be emotionally unstable. My husband and I had to go to his hotel room and break this...  this escalating pattern of unsustainable behavior. It was very unpleasant. At the end of it, we suggested that if my dad wanted a relationship with is grand kids, he needed to let go of his issues with his ex-wife and chill-the-fuck-out. Or we would end things right here and now. Take a night and sleep on it.

The next day was the most uncomfortable family Thanksgiving dinner ever in the history of these United States of America. I find it best to read things in the voice of David Sedaris.

I think my dad had a mental break about that night. In the six years since that visit, he has quit his relationship with both me and his grand kids. The only time we have spoken is when I have asked him to reconsider his position, and not lose his grand children, but to no avail. My mom even took it upon herself to talk to him about it. No good. I flew to Ohio for Christmas two years ago, and asked him in person - please come out for a visit. Nope. Apparently he has told his family - my relatives - that I have turned against him. I feel great sadness that he gets more comfort from telling himself that I am a bad person, than he does by being a grandpa. My daughter is about to graduate from high school, and he has missed out on her life since she was 11. The same fucking age I was when I had to make my terrible choice. There's one instance of irony for you. My son? He doesn't even know his grandpa. He was only six when the relationship stopped.

But wait, there's more. If only my dad had stuck around, he'd have relished something. In the years that my mom has lived near me, I have come to appreciate what drove my dad nuts about her. I know that sounds harsh, but yeah, I see it now. Thank god they divorced and didn't procreate more than twice. That is half a joke, and totally true. My mom lives in a world of her own. She isn't bothered by her lack of money. She finds ways to make a dollar stretch that could give her a show on TLC. I have likened her life to that of water. Always following the path of least resistance. Always taking the shape of the container that holds it. Motherhood is not a natural state for her - if the kid is breathing - that's good enough. They will find their way. Or not. Either way, it's their life. She has other things to think about. She also happens to be one of those people who talk so much, that the person on the other end of a phone conversations sounds like they have developed a speech impediment. All they can get out are partial sentences, or the same word over and over, as they try to be a participant in the conversation. Same way when communicating in person. It wears me out. I tried to tell my dad that two years ago, but it didn't register with him.

At any rate, we come to the most recent set of events that prompted me to write this whole shitty story.

My mom has a boyfriend. Do you still use that word in your seventies? I don't see why not. The feelings are the same, right? She met him four months ago and is living with him. I met him the other day. Seems nice enough. She is ending her lease at her apartment and has moved out of my community to one that is nearby.

She has left me in a bit of a tight spot. My husband and I both need to be out of town at the same time and I need someone to stay with my son for a few school days. For the last six years I have relied on her to house sit and help me out here and there with kids and pets. Now she tells me that she will only help me out if I allow her boyfriend to sleep in our house while we are gone. I am uncomfortable with this because I don't want strange men in the house with my son while I am gone. Just a rule I have. Seems like a prudent one. I ask her - can she just spare five nights away from the new boyfriend? He can come over during the day while my son is at school. Not good enough, she said. So now she is upset that I don't trust her judgment in men. I had to bid her the best of luck in her new adventures, and turn to my contact list to try and find a house sitter. I know, these things happen. Time and season for everything. And the time and season of help from my mom is done, unless the boyfriend comes with her.

The last few days have brought a fair amount of sadness that creeps up when my mind isn't occupied. The only way to move it out of my system is to spend the last several hours typing out my rambling thoughts. I have a dad who has forgone a relationship with me and my kids out of jealousy over my mom, and a mom who has issued an ultimatum and chosen a boyfriend over me. I am feeling very unlovable at the moment. I know every family has their own brand of dysfunction, but I am wading through some dysfunctional bullshit. What gives? Are they as incredibly selfish as I think? Is it me? Choice is a weapon, the weapon of choice. I need to go meditate and a then grab a stiff drink.

If you had a penny for my thoughts...

...You would have a lot of pennies.

I heard a story on NPR a few years ago about ADD/ADHD. There is a strong heritable link with this particular neuro-type, so there was a particular segment about the experience of the many adults who realize they have been dealing with it their whole lives, because their children have just been diagnosed. One lady recounted how she received a diagnosis, then went to the pharmacy and filled her prescription for Ritalin. She was supposed to take the first pill the following morning, but  couldn't endure the wait, and she took it right there at a drinking fountain in the store.  

I was driving off the island after just dropping the kids off at school and it was sunny (you always remember the sunny days when you live in Seattle.) And I was forgetting to breathe as I waited for her to get on with her story. And then she said what I was afraid she'd say. 

She said it was quiet.

I knew it. I felt slightly sick. She said that the realization snuck up on her. She was driving just as I was, and suddenly realized that she was just concentrating on driving and on the car in front of her. Usually there would be an incessant stream of thoughts, ideas, and to-do lists as her constant internal companion. But it was so quiet. She cried because she had never experienced anything like it. I cried because I never have.

Every day so many words fill my head. Not voices, mind you. We aren't talking about psychosis. And we aren't referring to the normal, mental notes to "go buy milk and bread at the grocery store before you pick up the dry-cleaning, and the kids have flute and soccer today."  

The words filling my brain weave a net of connectivity and possibility around me. They sometimes make me a creative and funny, quick-witted person that I like. And sometimes they immobilize me such that I might drown. I clear them out every night through meditation as I fall toward sleep. They leave willingly enough, usually. But they are waiting for me to return to consciousness in the morning just as eagerly as my dogs wait for my return home.

It seems a bit unfair that the time it takes me to write this post existed as a nano-second in my brain. This is one reason why I like writing, it converts a micro-thought into a fuller form. This post exists only because last week that I began several different posts on dogs, education, rage, advocacy, empathy... And I couldn't finish any of them ...for reasons that will enrich future posts.

When I first heard Girl Talk (thanks to KEXP DJ Michele Myers, one Saturday afternoon) I was gobsmacked. This energetic, chaotic, and beautifully blended album of mash-ups - 363 songs in one long mix - sounds like what ADD feels like. Creating a video from all the songs involved is just icing on the cake. This is part one - "Oh no."



 

Sub-par

 Hey, 6th grade. Nurturing a love of science? You're doing it wrong.

I run the risk of appearing negative or cynical as you make your way through these blog posts. But it is much more fun to write about things that go awry, than it is to wax poetic about motes of dust floating on sun beams. I am actually pretty Zen about things, and shed my anger as the humor of the situation finds its way into the folds of my brain. Life is fucking hilarious, and you can't make this shit up. Unless you are writing a memoir, then you can say whatever you want. I now present to you my stink-eyed view toward my son's 6th grade science curriculum.

My son loves solving problems, He enjoys science. He constantly asks great questions about the hows and whys of the physical world. Last summer he attended a STEM camp where the theme was "Moon Base" and he had such an amazing time that he was in tears at the end of the week. It was heart-breaking when he sighed, and asked why regular school couldn't be just like this week had been. And it had been fantastic. A week of learning scientific concepts, developing hypotheses and testing them. The practical application of what he was learning; it was ideal. Six hours a day of math and science and technology. The school district's foundation created a grant for this specific camp, and it was money well-spent. They were even able to procure an astronaut to come and give a presentation to the kids, who ranged from 5th-8th grades.

This year, his 6th grade science teacher is one of the teachers who led the camp, so we were both pretty stoked. We learned another grant would provide for a unit on robots, using sets of Lego Mind-storms. The year looked so promising.

Since this is the first time I have mentioned my son, I need to fill in a few details. He is, what in the olden-days, we would call a quirky kid. In the modern days we would still call him a quirky kid, but then we would diagnose his ass and medicate him pronto, to try to make him conform as much as possible to the current definition of a successful, sorry, compliant, student. Wanting to be a modern parent, that is just what I did. 

No - I'm kidding. Well, actually, it's complicated. In the lingo of parents of quirky kids everywhere, he is what is referred to as 2E. This is pertinent, because even though he has an IEP, his science and math teacher is reluctant to allow my son alternative ways to handle note-taking, tests and assignments. This has made the year challenging. We have dealt with it in many ways, including letting my son know that sometimes, you must work within the parameters you are given - and you still have to meet or exceed the expectations. Even if it means a 45 minute assignment takes you three hours to complete. There is so much I could say about this topic alone, but I just need to get on with the matter of the most recent project. The float-sink-float submarine.

I had hoped that this project would have disappeared in the five years since my daughter was in 6th grade. That project is a sonofabitch. The kids are learning about density, mass, volume, buoyancy and so on. The thing is, they perform a simplistic version of the experiment in the classroom with a paper cup and marbles. Having them perform this experiment at home doesn't do anything to further their understanding of the concepts involved. It does, however, provide an education on some new swear words that maybe they haven't heard before. So really, it's an English lesson. You know they don't really teach grammar or diagramming sentences in school anymore. Some examples to work from:

Oh for fuck's sake. 
Why the fuck isn't this thing sinking? It sank the last time.
What the fuck? Why are the tablets fizzing already?
I am going to fucking explode if this doesn't work.
 
My son was a full participant, with lots of ideas and suggestions. He completed scientific drawings and outlined the steps involved. He even christened the sub the "Abraham Sinkin'." Which is pretty rad. He ran the trials while I did the timing. So many trials. Dozens and dozens of trials. Eventually, we got the sub to work. It floated for 20 seconds, sank, and returned to the top about 30 seconds later. I created a duplicate sub as a back-up. It worked too.

Feeling wise, I had my son ask his teacher if we could record the experiment and upload it to YouTube, in case something happened and the sub didn't work come performance time. You see, the kids have to show their working sub to the rest of the class. For THREE DAYS of science class time, kid after kid will go to the front of the class and repeat the same thing, over and over and over. They get two chances to prove their sub works. Otherwise - zilch - you lose the points. And what with my son's difficulties with fine motor skills and a stutter, what could go wrong? Lots. 

The answer from the teacher? We could upload a video to YouTube if we liked, but the grade will only be based on the in-class performance. How disappointing. I mean, really? Why couldn't all of the kids upload videos of their submarines for the teacher and then bring the subs in to class so everyone could see each original design? If the kid couldn't upload a video, then they could still perform it for the teacher at school. Nope - three days will be spent humiliating some, and thrilling others.

The morning of the performance, we carefully packed the Abraham Sinkin' into a leftover Christmas gift box. Tablets preloaded into their compartment, so he wouldn't have to fumble with it at school. Extra tablets included. I checked to make sure the seals were tight, leaving as little to chance as possible. My son was beside himself, not wanting to go to school. That earlier robot unit I mentioned, the one using the Lego Mindstorms? His robot had trouble on the performance day and he got a "1" which means "fail." He was crushed, because he had worked so hard and because the robot worked prior to the performance. He still checks his grades online to see if that "1" might magically change. It never does. 

I said his name and made him turn to look at me square-on before he went out the door. "You worked hard on this, and you did everything right. You went beyond the requirements. Your sub picks up an object and it has an awesome name. You put great care into your drawings and your explanations, and you understand the math involved. If you sub doesn't work, we-don't-give-a-shit." Actually, I said "We don't care." But I am pretty sure he knew what I meant. He groaned and took off out the door and down the driveway.

Here is the Black Keys with Little Black Submarines...

 

By the way, his sub worked. On the first try. But some did not, and for that I am sorry. 

Samwise Gamgee

Creativity and silliness often go hand-in-hand. When our family gathers to watch a tv series or a movie, we assign the characters to the most closely matching family member. Take the ABC show Modern Family, for example. My son is Manny, my husband is Jay, my daughter is close to Alex, and I am the brother-sister combo of Claire and Mitchell. But we skew Geek, so when we watch Firefly, Doctor Who, or Lord of the Rings, we do the same. To me this is perfectly normal, but occasionally when someone else gets a glimpse of the inner workings our family's quirks, they have a momentary lapse where I can see their thoughts cross their face. They are trying to decide whether this is cool, or if they want to back away slowly while mentioning what a lovely day it is.

Over the school holiday break, we re-watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Blu-ray extended edition, in case there was any question. Then when the boys were out for a two day trip, my daughter and I got our creative on and made some art - the kind with paper, paint, and sculpey clay.  While creating, we listened to the cast commentary - for all three movies - in the background. It was a little extreme to listen to 12 hours of background chatter, sure, but highly enjoyable. We had assigned the characters. My son was Pippin, my husband was Faramir, my daughter was Gimli. But there was some disagreement with my assessment of my being closest to the character of Galadriel. So I reconsidered.

And I have to admit, I was wrong. I am Samwise. Fiercely loyal, would beat the tar out of someone if they threaten my Frodo, able to deliver lines that would sound cheesy if they weren't said with complete sincerity and pureness of heart, a wistfulness for the idyllic life of the Shire, willing to carry heavy burdens on my back (pots) and spices in my rucksack, because there is a right and proper way to eat. Yes, I am a Sam, which is unfortunate for my daughter because once I made that mental switch, the parallels in real life became immediately obvious to me. If I am Sam, then she is my Frodo. And naturally, you assume I have been getting into the Longbottom leaf. But if you are still reading, then enjoy the ride.

My daughter is now in the January of her Junior year in high school. This means she is now on a twelve month journey, culminating in December, when she will hit a send button and cast her college applications to various college admissions offices. Once she throws-in, the heat of their scrutiny will reveal the strength of her essays, the wisdom of her extra curricular activities, the forged layers of her GPA. And the she will then retreat to gulp for air and to await her fate. Which eagle will swoop down and pluck her from the side of the mountain before she suffocates from the searing hot gasses swirling around her? One will come and it will carry her to a place where she will begin a new part of her life. But the journey is long and difficult. And "one does not simply walk into Mordor college" any more. Not like when I attended and the state college admitted anyone who was a resident, you know, because your taxes supported it.

I feel the weight of the burden she bears. She didn't ask for it, and the college-entry process is all kinds of bullshit. But she has to choose what to do with the time she has been given. (So many lines - I could keep writing this way for days!) She has a few extra difficulties to overcome that most people don't. I have a hope that her response to those challenges may even look attractive to the right school. But no matter, I will be along side until her task is completed and she can sail off to a new land...

"I may not be able to carry the ring, but I can carry you, and it as well." ~Samwise

Robert Plant And Alison Krauss bring it back.

2013

A clear night in Seattle, as is always the case.

I don't like New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. 

OK, I don't like it this year. Well, I am ambivalent about it, as I am with so many things. 

I did like it at one point in my life. When I was a kid, NYE was a raucous and enjoyable time, where I wasn't any longer feeling the loss of Christmas being over, and was not yet sad that school was about to resume again. While it still was intact, my family had a feast of child-friendly foods on NYE - pizza and Cokes, popcorn, Christmas cookies. We gathered in front of the tv to watch the ball drop. Then at the magic moment, we ran outside to bang as loudly as we could on pots with wooden spoons, or we would clash cymbals of mismatched lids; whooping and shouting, "Happy New Year!!" to our neighbors and their barking dogs. One year we even formed a parade - grown ups and children alike, marching around our little 8 house cul-de-sac. No coats; kids didn't need them and the adults had the warmth of inebriation to ward off the chill air.

When my family split from divorce, it was a holiday I would always leave my mom for, in order to spend time with my dad's side of the family. They were far more fun. That, and they existed. My mom's brother was killed while serving in Vietnam and she became an only child in 1968. In the years post-divorce (1978) she had entered into a pentecostal relationship with Jesus, and raising a toast to the new year paled in comparison to raising the roof at a worship service. So the charming Midwestern dysfunction of my dad, his three siblings and their families had a much more tangible entertainment value. It was sometimes overseen by the matriarch of the group, depending on whether she had a man to drive her, or if one of her kids were up to the task. Often the clan would gather at one of the two daughter's houses which were both an eight hour drive away from their brothers, who had never left their hometown.

There were only a few times I missed NYE with those relatives. I even took my fiance to the event, to make sure he could pass muster; which he did. However, things change. Upon the high school graduation of her kids, her own divorce ended one of my aunt's reign as hostess. And for myself, college graduation brought job obligations and a move away from the Midwest to Southern California. As the years went by, NYE was sometimes spent at parties, sometimes at friend's houses, sometimes on our own. But I learned something that hit me as a surprise...

My husband didn't like the "clanging of pots and pans" thing. It was ear splitting and sort of embarrassing, and he would humor me by standing patiently while I made some noise. But he didn't really want to participate. Totally within his right, silly him, I reasoned. When we had children, I showed them the proper way to ring/clang in the New Year. They liked it,  but it also hurt their ears. And in California we didn't have any extended family within 3,000 miles to help back me up, so one year, the pans never left the cupboard. Then I had another shock. Not only didn't my husband like to bang the pans, he preferred to celebrate the clock turning midnight from behind closed eyes, and didn't in fact, need to see fireworks to know that it had become January.

This was difficult for me to accept. There were years when I tried to get him to stay up, and it was not optimal. There were years when he tried to stay up for my sake, and it was still, not ideal. Nowadays I am humoring him when he says he's going to stay up late with me and the kids, because I know his heart is bigger that his sleep cycle. He will only get crankier as he fights the sleep, and a drink or two will only hasten process. I decide to it is best to ply him with wine into a state of relaxation, until he kisses everyone goodnight and slips into the cool dark of our bedroom. Then the kids and I do our thing until the magic hour, and head to bed ourselves. The only problem with our current scenario is that the kids won't be with me for much longer.  

This year in particular, as I see the pictures posted of so many families gathering cousins together and lifting glasses, I begin to feel alone. Not 'lonely' alone, just a sadness that my little family unit is so 'alone.' We have no cousins, no aunties nor uncles, no crazy grandparents to pepper our memories with saucy behavior, no gathering place for an extended family. We don't watch parades or football or have a special meal. We don't really have any sort of tradition other that going on a walk on New Year's Day. And I feel oddly bereft. I lost something I had once, and there is no way to replicate it. 

Hell, I don't even want to replicate the way things were exactly. As I got older and realized "charm" was the wrong description of the dysfunction of my dad's family, and living 3,000 miles away from them was actually just about right. Nonetheless, growing up, I thought my extended family would be a part of a support network for my own kids. I was wrong about that, and part of bereavement includes acceptance of your situation and moving on. 

How we celebrate NYE is not really the issue, is it, then. The root of the sadness is that we started our own family culture essentially from scratch. Like immigrants. We have family in the "old country." But we struck out for a different life. I hope I have done enough to give my kids a sense of place; and the roots of belonging and rest. Maybe someday I will be the eccentric matriarch, and they will return with their families to be silly and lift all our glasses to toast the promise of a new year.
 

Beautiful song about living in Seattle by The Lonely Forest