Posts Tagged ‘family life’
Cindy on September 29th, 2008
If you do not plant in the spring, you will not reap in autumn.” — Irish proverb
It was one of those luminous Indian summer afternoons — clear cobalt skies and pure yellow light shimmering through the maples on our front lawn. This was autumn’s last hurrah, and even the neighborhood kids sensed the day was ripe for celebrating. I’d taken the day off work and suggested we drive to the old cider mill in Franklin Village, where it’s always worth standing in line for the best cinnamon doughnuts made in Michigan.
But Nate, who was six at the time, had his own ideas. He and Catie, the little girl next door, would set up their own cider-and-doughnuts stand in our front yard, which faces a well-traveled boulevard. Naturally, I ended up at the local fruit market, loading a shopping cart with doughnuts and several gallons of apple cider.
Back home, I retrieved a card table and some cardboard for a poster, then rallied the kids to assemble the doughnuts and paper cups on a serving tray. The three of us positioned the cider stand at the corner of our front yard. The small entrepreneurs perched on lawn chairs and waited patiently for customers. They waved at passing cars and periodically rearranged the paper cups. Business was painfully slow.
Watching the eager pair from the front porch, I felt my heart skip each time a car sped past them. Surely some generous adult would step on the brakes, reach deep into a pocket, and pull out a dime for a cool cup of cider. But most drivers didn’t seem to notice.
I’ve been guilty of similar oversights. Rushing to the office, the bank, or an appointment, I’ve driven past countless children trying to earn spare change at their sidewalk stands. Sometimes I rolled down the window and promised to catch them on my way back, at my convenience, which was usually too late.
Slowly but surely, my faith in humanity was restored as a few neighbors came around to patronize the cider stand. Quarters, dimes, and nickels clinked musically in the collection cup, while Nate and Catie whirled around the card table.
And I’ll never forget how stunned the pair looked when a stranger pulled up in a red convertible with the top down, radio blaring. Leaping from the car, the man sprinted up to the table, grabbed one of the cups, and downed his cider in one memorable gulp. He smiled as he stuffed a bill into the collection cup, and didn’t wait for his change. As the stranger roared down the boulevard, the children flew to me on the front porch, chirping like startled sparrows all the way up the steps.
“Guess what! That guy in the car gave us ten dollars for the cider and he didn’t want any change!! TEN DOLLARS!!” Breathless and giddy, the two began negotiating how the miraculous windfall would be divided. One of them remarked that the cider must have been very good, having earned such an awesome profit.
Despite everything that’s wrong in the world, it’s hard to remain cynical on a grace-filled day like that. I remembered a phrase I’d read by the poet John Keats, and I knew that this was what he meant by “Moments big as years.”  –Cindy La Ferle
–This piece was originally published in the Christian Science Monitor and is also included in my essay collection, Writing Home –
Cindy on August 25th, 2008
My favorite comedy routine is the one in which Steve Martin blanks out in the middle of a monologue, then beams a vacant smile and informs his audience that he’s momentarily “visiting the Bahamas.” Martin redefined the ultimate dream vacation — which seems to be the only type of vacation most women can schedule these days.
Back when I was editor of a travel magazine, I studied the psychological benefits of taking real vacations. At a seminar for innkeepers and hotel managers, I was excited to learn that scads of scientific research had been done to determine what made female guests happy, and what inspired them to return for future holidays. Was it a room with a gorgeous view? Complimentary chocolate truffles? Bellhops who looked like Brad Pitt?
As it turned out, most women listed crisply laundered sheets, spanking-clean bathrooms, and attentive room service as top amenities on the hotel surveys. Or, as a mother of three explained recently, the best part of her family vacation to Disney World was simply returning every night to the hotel suite and discovering that the cleaning fairies had made all the beds.
So, lately I’ve been thinking: If women love to be pampered, why is it that so few of us book personal vacations when we need them? Why is it so hard for us to hit âpauseâ? Despite all the labor-saving devices that modern living affords, we still can’t shake our Puritan work ethic. Whether we’re buying groceries for a family of five or sprinting to the next marketing meeting, our lives are fractioned like the to-lists in our day planners. There’s never enough time.
Worse yet, the media have brainwashed us into thinking that free time isn’t for leisure anymore. If we’re not designing our own line of furniture or auditioning for the symphony on our lunch breaks, we feel like slackers. It’s tough to justify a fifteen-minute soak at home in a Crabtree & Evelyn bubble bath, let alone a week at a spa.
Years ago, when I was a younger mom with an office job and a preschooler, an editor with whom I worked was kind enough to share her well-thumbed copy of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s inspirational classic, Gift from the Sea. First published in 1955, this little book of reflections was written during the famous author’s solitary retreats to an isolated beach house.
Using seashells to represent the various stages of a woman’s life, Lindbergh wrote with amazing clarity about issues that still baffle us today — how to find spiritual serenity in suburban chaos; how to manage work and family; how to jazz up a droopy marriage.
Just as Virginia Woolf reminded us that we need a room of our own in which to dream and create, Lindbergh gave busy wives and mothers permission to schedule precious time alone. I desperately needed that permission â and am forever indebted to the editor who loaned me Lindbergh’s book.
“The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence,â Lindbergh wrote. âIt is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life.â A deserted beach is the ideal place to hear one’s inner voice, she emphasized. Wandering the shore minus goals, deadlines, or diaper bags, a woman can replenish her depleted soul and reclaim her sanity.
Revisiting Gift from the Sea 20 years later, I realize I still need âa central core to my lifeâ that will enable me to carry out my midlife obligations â caring for my aging mother; being a supportive wife; cheering my son’s independence; putting wings on my own dreams.
I don’t doubt that a solo flight to a cabana in the tropics would help me find that central core. A pina colada with a cute paper umbrella would help, too.
But right now, there’s a list of chores and deadlines competing for my attention, including a backyard garden that needs a good weeding. For now I’ll have to settle for a quick mental escape to a fantasy island. Once I get there, maybe I’ll run into Steve Martin. — Cindy La Ferle
– This essay originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Strut for Women magazine –
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Cindy on August 25th, 2008
The young man ringing the doorbell looked clean-cut and harmless. Opening the door, I assumed he was one of my son’s friends and greeted him with a smile. But the kid turned out to be a con artist posing as a needy college student.
âI’m selling magazine subscriptions to help pay for school tuition,â he began, racing through his spiel and waving a laminated brochure in my face. âYour neighbor Bob told me to stop by. I grew up in this neighborhood,â he added, motioning toward the next street, which he named correctly. This kid had done his homework. We do have a neighbor named Bob — but our Bob would never tell a solicitor to drop by and pitch magazine subscriptions. Smelling a scam, I said no and quickly shut the door.
âThe reason you don’t recognize me is because I’ve been away at college,â he shouted as the deadbolt clicked. Yeah, right. I might have believed his fairy-tale had I not fallen for the same trap several years ago when, duh, I wrote a check for two magazine subscriptions to another young con artist posing as a student. My check was cashed but I never received the magazines. I still turn red thinking about it, but I’m older (and a bit wiser) now, so I’m going public with my shame in the hope that others might be spared a similar rip-off.
Despite the âNo Solicitingâ signs posted at both entrances to our home, all kinds of salespeople ring our doorbells and pound on the front door, often interrupting dinner or a deadline. Some claim they didn’t notice the signs. Others insist they really aren’t âsolicitingâ but are collecting for a worthy charity or campaigning for God.
Door-to-door soliciting used to be little more than a garden-variety annoyance. But where I live in the Midwest, automotive companies and manufacturers announce layoffs or plant closings almost weekly, and our regional economy is sagging. Car theft and household burglaries are on the rise in our neighborhoods. Meanwhile, local police have traced several burglaries in my suburban neighborhood to thieves posing as door-to-door solicitors. We’ve formed a Neighborhood Watch group to keep everyone informed and on alert.
Regardless, I still find it hard not to answer a knock at my door. (What if it’s a delivery person? Or one of the neighborhood kids?)Â But as my husband reminds me, solicitors aren’t invited guests, and I have every right to ignore them.
These days, I’m learning to peek through the front window before opening my door to anyone. And, as the police advised our Neighborhood Watch group, I don’t judge anyone by appearances. Solicitors often dress professionally to earn confidence — sometimes carrying official-looking clipboards and bogus permits. Of course, not all solicitors are con artists, but now I find it hard to trust any stranger who comes to my door. Honestly, I never used to be like this. I miss the days when I opened my door to everyone, and my welcome mat really meant what it says. –Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 20th, 2008
Well, our big-ugly sectional sofa went out with the trash last week. It was so huge that Doug had to break it into several parts in order to haul it up from the basement and pile it on the curb. Its saggy black leather cushions were marked with cat scratches, and it didn’t owe us another minute of use.
We’d purchased the thing several years ago, when our son started high school. We’d just remodeled the basement, hoping to create a cool space where our son and his pals would want to hang out. It worked. And that huge black leather sectional was the nucleus of the room, in more than a decorative sense. Like a bonfire at a campsite, it drew people together and inspired camaraderie.
Throughout the high school years, it provided ample seating on movie nights for “the crew,” my son’s inseparable neighborhood pals. Later, its built-in sofa bed (never very comfortable) hosted college buddies who came to visit. Its proximity to a private bathroom, in fact, made it a hit with any overnight guest we entertained.
Our son graduated college and left the state for his new career this summer, so Doug and I decided it was time to upgrade the furniture in the basement. Time to reclaim the space for ourselves.
“Wow, it’s the end of an era,” my next-door neighbor joked when she saw the sectional in pieces on the curb. “Maybe we should have a memorial service for it.”
Honestly, I didn’t feel the least bit tearful or nostalgic. But as strange as it sounds, I did feel sort of indebted to that piece of furniture for welcoming my son’s friends. I felt grateful that Doug and I were able to provide a safe place where young people wanted to be. Grateful that our home had the room and the heart for it.
– Cindy La Ferle writes on home and family issues at Cindy La Ferle’s Home Office: www.laferle.com
Cindy on July 23rd, 2008
Lately I’ve been thinking about Sam Lamott, son of best-selling author Anne Lamott. I don’t know of many women who haven’t read Anne’s Traveling Mercies, her collection of candid essays on her long road to sobriety and conversion to Christianity. For many moms in my age group, Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year, was their introduction to a whole new literary genre: the tell-all “momoir.”
Sam (who’s now 18) is often at the center of Anne’s writings. We’ve all watched Sam grow up on the page, from his first smelly diaper to the brutal arguments over his driving privileges.
Legions of us are forever indebted to Anne for admitting aloud that motherhood isn’t one sweet series of Hallmark moments. Still, I can’t help but wonder how the Sam Lamotts of the world — kids who’ve literally grown up in print — really feel about all this. Is Sam scrutinized more closely because of his famous mother’s writings? Is he held to a different standard of behavior? Do his friends understand (or resent) his position? Is the rest of the world also secretly wondering how he’ll turn out? Is it really any of our business?
For years, I’ve wrestled with this issue on a much smaller scale. And I’m still conflicted. My own son, now 22, recently asked me to remove a post I’d written about him on my own blog last month. The post was innocent enough. And the photo of my son was flattering. The verbiage was confined to a very short paragraph about how grateful I am that my son helped me redesign my Web site, and how much I’ll miss him when he leaves the state for his new job.
Problem was, I used his name, he said. The large corporation that had just hired him out of college was in the process of doing an in-depth background check on him, he reminded me. Therefore, he did not want his name or his photo floating around on my blog, no matter how flattering. A little paranoid? I’d say so. But at the same time, I understood my son’s point of view and why he was worried.
We’d been around and through this before. Years before I began blogging, I wrote a weekly column for our local daily newspaper. My assignment was to write about my family life — which naturally included funny or poignant moments involving my son and his friends. No matter how careful I was, my son was hurt or humiliated more than once by what was published in my column. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.
But I haven’t. In fact, I’ve been at work on a memoir about preparing for the empty nest, and there’s no easy way to write it without mentioning my son’s first name throughout. Euphemisms like “my son” or “the kid” sound awkward in a longer work of nonfiction. For now, I’ve put the project on hold, despite the fact that an agent and a publisher are interested in it — and despite the fact that I believe my book would be of help to other women facing the empty nest transition.
So I deleted the offending post immediately. My son told me it would have been OK if I’d simply removed his name. But I wanted to prove to him that our relationship is far more important to me than a blog topic. I’m guessing he’ll outgrow this particular sensitivity, once he feels at home in his new job and settles into his new life on his own. But I’d sure love to talk to Sam about this. — Cindy La Ferle
–A shorter version of this post originally appeared on 50-SOMETHING MOMS Blog. Check the June Archives for “Sam Lamott” on the 50-SOMETHING MOMS site, and to read comments prompted by the original post.–
It was one of those luminous Indian summer afternoons — clear cobalt skies and pure yellow light shimmering through the maples on our front lawn. This was autumn’s last hurrah, and even the neighborhood kids sensed the day was ripe for celebrating. I’d taken the day off work and suggested we drive to the old cider mill in Franklin Village, where it’s always worth standing in line for the best cinnamon doughnuts made in Michigan.
