Evan

Well, I was waiting for it to happen, and tonight was the night.  Say what you will about the state of our nation, your politics, your religion, your thoughts on war, peace and everything in between.  When you see a picture of your little brother like this, everything changes.  For me, the Army is a whole new ball game these days.  When I saw this picture of Evan, I stared at it for a good solid five minutes and held back tears.  Then I didn't hold them back anymore, so the best place to go is the blog, right?  Right.

My first reaction was pure and simple pride.  I am SO proud of Evan.  For leaving home.  For making it through basic training.  For going far, far away from his family and his friends to do something he is passionate about.  I can only hope that my own kids will be so lucky as to find something that empowers them the way the Army empowers Evan.

My second reaction was fear.  What's going to happen to him?  Is he okay out there?  Does he know how to do laundry and cook himself dinner?  Does he have enough friends?  Is he being careful with all those GUNS?!  Ack!  So scared.

My third reaction was a sequence of images from my memory that swirled around this picture in my head.  His scrawny ten year old shoulders when I would clench him against my waist.  His crooked tooth grin when he would sit on my lap in the backyard swing set.  His pajama feet hanging off the edge of the bathroom counter when he watched me put my makeup on before going out on a Friday night.  When did he get so big? 

Next I thought about how all of these feelings of pride, fear, and nostalgia are only coming from me because I'm his sister.  Looking at this picture as a sibling is probably nothing compared to looking at it as a parent.  I can't imagine what a picture like this does to the hearts of my dad and my stepmom.  I should call them tonight, but I'd be a blubbering idiot on the phone.  I know Sally reads the blog, so...I'm thinking about you tonight!  And Evan, if you're reading, I LOVE YOU!  And I miss you.  But I am so incredibly happy for you.  Proud is the only word that can put all of this together, I guess.  I'm proud of you.  You're amazing.

Another Lesson From My Mother

Ever since we moved into our adorable little house in September, I find myself doing things I never thought I would do. Not necessarily because I don't like doing them, but just because they've always been things that grown-ups do. More specifically, they've always been things that Mom did, and I had never been able to picture myself in her "taking care of things" role. Last Fall I wrote about the surreal experience of baking pies in my very own kitchen and the almost out-of-body feeling I had when I realized that I was doing things just like her. It was quite a moment - proud, strong, wifely and homey all at once. Today I had another experience just as powerful.

Last week when Chud was cleaning out the basement we found tons of clothesline hanging between the rafters that we had never seen before. "Cool," I thought. "A place to hang clothes to dry." Except I never hang clothes to dry and always throw everything in the dryer no matter what (I know, not a very house-wifely thing to do, but hey, I hate doing laundry). So the clothesline sat there and I didn't give it another thought.

Then today, I decided it's been way too long since we've had fresh sheets on our bed and I decided to wash them. As I pulled them out of the washing machine and started to throw them in the dryer, I glanced at that clothesline and a memory hit me from so long ago it nearly knocked me over.

When I was little, every once in a while (because she was a busy woman, too) Mom would take the time to hang our sheets on a line outside to dry. Then, when she tucked us into bed at night, she'd lay her head down on the pillow with us and we'd take a big whiff of that fresh-air-dried goodness together. We'd smile and snuggle and cuddle and she'd say "There's nothing better than sheets hung outside." And she was right. Those were the nights that I'd lay there and drift off to sleep wrapped in fresh air and Mom's love - nothing ever felt better.

So, today I threw the sheets in the dryer just for a few minutes while I worked on the clothesline. I cut it down from the rafters and strung it up between two trees in the backyard. The previous owners also left plenty of clothespins, too, so I clipped a bunch to the hem of my shirt, grabbed the sheets from the dryer and got to work. It took about five minutes total, and now I can stand back and let nature do the rest.

I've always wanted to hang sheets outside, but in my old apartments it just wasn't ever possible. Once again, (because I'm a sap), I stood there hanging sheets and thought about Mom, Grandma, Grandma's Mom and so on, and wondered if all the mothers in my family shared that fresh-air sheet snuggle with their kids. I hope they did, because I plan to pass along the warm fuzzy feeling to my kids, too. Chud thought I was a little bit crazy when I told him what I was doing - poor guy's never slept in air-dried sheets. I hope he appreciates it when he lays his head down tonight!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go call my Mother!

Apple Pie = Home

Chud and I had a wonderful weekend. We hosted our very first get-together at the new house and it was a splendid success. We're so grateful to everyone who stopped by. The weather was beautiful, the food was delish, and family, friends and neighbors were mingling like crazy. It was a wonderful weekend.

I have to say, there was one moment this weekend when I felt particularly nostalgic. All week long we worked on the yard, planned the grocery list, cleaned the house, etc. just so that I could wake up Saturday morning and make a couple of pies. I've been craving pumpkin pie since the leaves started turning, and I can't make the first pie of the year without making an apple pie as well. Why? Because that's the pie Mom makes, and it wouldn't be fall without one. I don't know what I looked forward to more: making the pies or having the party! For me, apple pie is the definition of fall, and as soon as the pie hits the oven, my senses take over and I get teary-eyed thinking about Mom's kitchen. For me, Apple Pie = Home.

Let me give you a little background. My Mom, Joyce, is one of six kids. All of them have their particular talents, but my Mom is "the pie-maker." Every holiday or gathering would not be complete without her apple pie. I remember, when I was little, everyone would make such a fuss over Mom's pies - especially the homemade crusts. Apparently they're pretty hard to do. Growing up, it seemed like every weekend from mid-October to late December was filled with pie making extravaganzas in Mom's kitchen. She had flour flying everywhere, and once she lined the pie pans, the leftover dough was used to make crackers for me and my brother. Pies were just a normal part of our weekend life, and I'm ashamed to say, I didn't really care much about how they were made. Mom tried to teach me, but I had bigger and better things to worry about; like who I was dating, where I was going to college, and what I was going to wear for the weekend.

Once I finally went to college, there weren't many people making apple pies in the dorms. I came home on the weekends with my arms full of laundry, but as soon as I walked in the door, I would drop my basket to the floor and take in a big whiff of Mom's apple pie sitting on the counter. Mmmmm....home. She continued to insist that I learn how to make one, but I was too busy. I had papers to write and beer to drink and semesters abroad to plan. No time for pie.

After I got married, Mom found the exact same 1980 copyright version of her Betty Crocker Cookbook at a yard sale. This was the one with HER crust recipe and she was so excited to find it that she bought it and gave it to me...just in case I ever wanted to try to make a pie. "Thanks," I said, and I stuck it on a shelf.

Last year I found myself craving an apple pie. I knew my first attempt wouldn't be nearly as good as Mom's and I didn't want it to be, because "Mom's Apple Pie" took years of practice to make, but I figured I might as well get started. Don't you know, that pie was pretty good! I took it to school and everyone ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the homemade crust and I started thinking..."Mom might be on to something here."

Well, this weekend was the biggest "Aha" moment for me. As I was tossing the cold water into the flour and salt, I was imagining myself as a tiny little girl, sitting in the kitchen, watching my Mom do the same thing. I started wondering if my Mom watched her Mom do that when she was little, and so on and so on. Then I started putting the pie together and fluting the edges (that's the really hard and impressive part) and I realized that it wasn't that hard at all, because I had seen HER do it so many times before. It was like my hands already knew what to do, just from watching her. It really was amazingly satisfying.

When I put the apple pie in the oven, I started cleaning up the kitchen and finally got a good whiff of the cinnamon and apple goodness coming from the oven. My whole body felt warmer, happier, cozier....just loved. I felt loved. I felt my Mother's love in her 1980's Betty Crocker recipe, I felt my grandmother's love in her six child house; I know it sounds crazy, but I felt like all the women before me finally took a minute to stop and think, "Wow, Rachael's grown up, and she can finally make a pie."

The only test was the party - and folks loved the pies. Pete ate two pieces of the apple pie and I got lots of compliments! All night long I thought about all the traditions my Mom tried to start. She would give me jewelry and say "I hope you give this to your daughter someday; I want it to be an heirloom." She even spent months on a special quilt just for me to give to my kids. She tries so hard to find things to "pass on," but the best thing you could pass on to a kid is something you teach them without even knowing. If it weren't for her, I couldn't begin to make a pie. I'm the worst cook in the world, but since I SAW her do it, I could picture myself doing it, and when I see myself doing it, I picture they way she used to do it, and suddenly - it all makes sense. I don't know why I never wanted to make pies before. I guess it's all a part of growing up and being a Mom and saying to yourself, "This is the way things are done." And when you have a party, you make a pie.

I'm sure I'll try to teach my daughter how to make pies and I'm sure she'll tell me it's silly and she doesn't want to learn. But when she finally gets the gumption to make her own first pie all by herself, I'll be there to reminder her that pies are what we do. Fasciottos and Neltners, we know how to make pies. It won't fix the economy or whisk us off to exotic places, but it makes where ever we are feel like home and that's why we do it.

Apple Pie = Home.

Remembering the Roller Rink

So tonight some friends and I went to the ol' Champs roller rink. Actually, it's the new Champs roller rink and I haven't been roller skating in quite some time. Since I started teaching I've had the luxury of going with our school once a month, under the guise of "involved and caring teacher," but really I'm just there because I think roller skating might be one of my favorite activities in the world! I remember when I was really little, I'm talking maybe five or six, and I got my first pair of roller skates. They were white with pink wheels and I felt like the coolest kid in school. My brother got a pair too (but not pink) and we skated around the basement for HOURS.

When we were in grade school and middle school, we used to go to RECA roller rink once a month with our school. My brother is a year and a half younger than me, but he was always so much cooler than I ever was. RECA roller rink is where all the drama of pre-teen life unfolded like the pages of a soap opera script. Girls would cry, boys would cuss, ahhhh, those were the days. As I was skating around the rink tonight, gaping at all the prepubescent socialites, I remembered that my most embarassing moment happened at a roller rink and I'll never forget it.

I was chasing my brother's friend Robbie around all night. We were playing that really cool game where I stole his hat and he stole it back, then I stole it again and so on. Finally, my girlfriends and I were sitting along the side of the rink, holding out our hands, waiting for Robbie, my brother, and the gang of boys to skate by and show us some love. I had Robbie's hat on and as he came whizzing by, he snatched it right off my head and laughed. I would not stand for such an insult, so I jumped onto the rink and started chasing after Robbie as fast as my little skates could fly. Then, in an instant...I was on the ground and seeing stars.

I had no idea what just happened, but I opened my eyes and all the lights were on, the teenage workers in the yellow jackets were standing over me, there was no one else on the floor, and a long, white, PVC pole was propped against the railing. It occured to me that I just fell down during the all boys limbo skate! Not only did I fall down, but I was clothes-lined by the pole and knocked out for a couple seconds. I, of couse, did not know it was the all boys limbo skate and I was skating fast! When I came to, everyone was staring and the teenage workers in the yellow jackets asked me if I was okay, then they asked me what I was doing on the floor during the all boys limbo skate.

I told them I was trying to catch my brother (lie)...because our mom was coming to pick us up (lie) and he had to get his shoes on right away or she'd leave us there (lie again). No one bought it. My brother was horrified. Robbie was laughing. I've never been so humiliated in my life!

I've said before that it's impossible to embarass me. It's true. Nothing will ever be as bad as that day. I don't care if you strip me naked and parade me around the circus tent, nothing can be as humiliating as my thirteen year old self getting clothse-lined by the limbo pole during the all boys limbo skate. Nothing. And I'm glad.