My essay, A Silver Lining,  in this edition, tells how a special tradition made our blended family feel like one!

A Silver Lining  by Violetta Armour

 

“Blended families: woven together by choice, strengthened together by love, and each uniquely ours.”

 

In this day and age of blended families, I think many traditions practiced with an original family often sadly disappear through separation and divorce. 

 

When I married for a second time, my husband and I combined a family of five children, ages 15 to 26.  The only child still living at home was my fifteen-year old daughter so she and my husband had a chance to bond. I did not have that opportunity with his children but wanted very much to be accepted and loved by them.  I think I was always on the look-out for ways to endear myself to them whenever we were together.

 

Our first Christmas I put into practice a tradition I had grown up with. Now thirty-three years later, I can honestly say that is was, and still is, the single most cherished and loving tradition of our blended family.

 

As a first generation American, I grew up in a home that  continued to practice many European customs and traditions, not only during the holidays but all year long according to the Julian Orthodox calendar.  My parents were born in Macedonia and Bulgaria and both immigrated to America in the 1920’s where their marriage was arranged by two aunts. Although they met a brief ten minutes (talk about speed dating!) they agreed to marry and remained married until my father passed away forty-six years later.  But that’s another story. This one is about a beautiful Christmas tradition practiced each year in our home.  

 

The Christmas Eve supper was the last day of a 40-day Orthodox Lent.  As part of the dinner, a special homemade bread or strudel was served. Special because a silver dollar, was placed in it before baking. The traditional belief is that whoever found the coin in their designated piece would have extra good luck the coming year.  

 

My mother carefully nestled the foil-wrapped  silver dollar between layers of crispy delicious phyllo dough and cheese. This was typically baked in a round pan so even the person who did the assembling  did not know where the coin was once the pan was twirled. It was prepared a few days ahead of time and covered with a clean linen cloth.  When my mother wasn’t looking, my brother and I would sneak peeks under the cloth, hoping to see a glimmer of the silver foil.

 

Because we were only a  family of four and the round baking pan was large, pieces were also designated for “the home”, the “church” and extended family members.  As much as I loved this tradition, for whatever reason, I did not continue it when I first married with my two children.  But when we became a blended family of five children, I thought it might be nice to start something that would unite them and become our tradition. 

 

The first year there were 10 of us present for the dinner so I sliced a piece for every one of the children and their spouses and the first two grandchildren.  I also wanted to express my good wishes for what the New Year might bring for them, so I composed a simple two-line  poem recognizing something uniquely important to each of them.  

 

Now, some thirty-five years later and 27 of us, the tradition continues.  I serve the cake and read the poem whenever most of us are around the table at one time during the holidays, sometime between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.  If someone cannot not be present, one of the children takes a video to send to the others or we put them on speaker phone. Today,  in the year 2020, I am sure it would be a Zoom event.

 

It became known simply as “The Poem” and now reading those poems of past years is like a mini-history of our family. We acknowledged births, graduations, weddings,  and sadly even deaths. But always trying to recognize a special accomplishment for each family member, be it ever so small, such as starting Kindergarten or riding a two-wheeler without training wheels or having their best golf score ever.

 

After the reading of the poem, everyone eagerly bites into their designated piece of cake  to see who will be the “lucky” one.  Since baking is not my strong suit, I never attempt the traditional homemade strudel. I think the first year the coin was hidden in a Bundt cake.  One time it was brownies.  Another year I took the coin to a local specialty bakery and asked them to make 20+ cookies that resembled a house and place the coin in one of them, commemorating a year when everyone in the family had a change  of residence. 

 

After slicing the cake into the allotted number of pieces, a number is placed on each one like a little flag with a toothpick.  Then an identical set of numbers are placed in a basket from which everyone draws their number.  When all the pieces are distributed,  everyone bites in. Trust me, your family will find creative ways to do this that are as much fun as the first bite itself. And to guarantee that it is not rigged in any way, in all the years I have put this into practice, I have never once found the coin in my piece.

 

And don’t let the thought of a poem intimidate you. Here’s the simple opening and closing of the first poem, which you are welcome to use.  And in between just a few words about what is important to each family member at this stage in their lives.

 

Opening:

Along with all the Christmas cheer,

 May  1987 be your best year.

 To see your plans and dreams come true,

 Here’s a special wish for each of you: 

 

 

Closing: We love you all. We’re glad you came

Come back next year—we’ll do the same.

We’ll gather round for old times’ sake

And dig for silver in a cake.

 

Another year has ended

Tomorrow we must part

But the memories tonight

Will live on in our heart.

 

Or in lieu of a poem, each member can simply say what it is they are hoping for in the coming year or what was the highlight of their previous year.

 

The second tradition we began was spreading a white tablecloth on our large dining room table with a variety of  assorted colored magic makers.  Each child and grandchild traced their hand  and then wrote a little message into their hand drawing.  Some wrote in the palm of the hand, others wrote something in each finger. Some couples intertwined their hands with a double message. The creativity was quite amazing. 

 

Now whenever a large group of us gather, we spread the tablecloth out and marvel at how the children’s’ hands have grown and what our message was. And of course, new additions to the family are added to the tapestry.

 

As this pandemic year has proven, those special days and holidays with family will never be taken for granted again.  Nothing is  more important than being with loved ones and if there is any way we can make those moments even more special than they are, we are leaving a legacy that no virus or pandemic can destroy. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 My essay, "I've Been Pickled" is featured in a recent publication of Chicken Soup for the Soul --Age is Just a Number-101 Stories of  Humor and Wisdom After 60.  They changed the title to "Showing Up".  Its about showing up for Pickleball and how it showed up in my life!

I’ve  Been Pickled!    By Violetta Armour

 

“ I want to feel my life while I’m in it.” Meryl Streep

 

The phrase “ I’ve been pickled” implies a dilemma of sorts. And perhaps not in the best way. Or it can refer to the name of a sport that is sweeping the nation.  Pickleball is the fastest growing sport in America, primarily with senior citizens. I’ve heard that in large retirement communities such as the Villages in Florida, people line up at 6 am to get a court. 

 

I’m 79 years old and several years ago witnessed the sudden and unexpected death of my husband Don of thirty-two years. Eighteen months later I met Jim, a gentleman who opened my heart to love again. Sadly, he too passed unexpectedly, due to a fall, four months after we met.

 

My grief therapist said you don’t have to be a soldier to experience PTSD.  Yes, I felt like I had been mortally wounded in combat and wanted to remain hidden in a fox hole. 

 

Now almost three years later I have not only emerged—poked my head out of the sand-- but feel that life is good and in many ways better than it has ever been, with no disrespect to loved ones who passed.

 

As crazy as it may sound, I give the sport of Pickleball a lot of the credit. 

 

After my losses, I was fortunate to have tremendous support of family and friends at every turn, but pickleball provided an outlet with unexpected benefits. The obvious one was physical activity but it delivered so much more.

 

My husband and I were introduced to the game in 2015 at our summer residence near Flagstaff, Arizona, where the pickleball courts were a 2-minute walk from our door.  We got hooked on the game itself but also enjoyed the friendships that quickly developed. Hey, when people see you a few minutes after you wake up with no make-up and accept you, there’s an instant comradeship. 

 

When Don passed in April, 2017, the first time I went to the pickleball court in May without him was hard but once again fellow picklers pulled me through-- and running around the court and working up a sweat surely released some of those precious endorphins. Not to mention the release of anger (that often accompanies grief) when you slam the ball as hard as you can.  

 

When I returned to my winter residence in Phoenix, I discovered that the nearby senior center offered pickleball indoors and outdoors as well as at my local YMCA.  I began to play at each place and in some ways it was easier because many of these people never knew Don so his absence wasn’t felt as much.  And for me, it was a new circle of friends.

 

Now in addition to the physical benefits, here’s the REAL secret to the magic of pickleball. It’s the social time on the bench or bleachers while you’re waiting your turn for a court. You’ll meet people from all walks of life with interesting past lives, all ages, and they come in all shapes and sizes. You don’t have to be a super athlete to play. It’s a short court and a short game (11 points to win—usually takes about 15 minutes per game). 

 

There were mornings I awoke with a heavy heart after my losses. Some days I just wanted to burrow back under the covers, but pickleball was an easy option where I could choose that very morning if I wanted to go or not.  I didn’t have to sign up ahead of time but it gave me a reason to get dressed and show up.  Not just showing up for the game, but for life itself.  Having a place to go each morning and meeting new people who soon became friends was a great start to each day.  It’s a great pastime for couples to do together and also for singles to meet other singles who have a similar interest.

 

This year I’ve been invited to play in a ladies pickleball league. We practice each week for our matches with other leagues in the area. Now in addition to fun, there’s a competitive edge and that beautiful comradeship that comes when you are part of a team. 

 

I’ve played at many different locations and have found each one to be friendly and welcoming to newcomers.  When I visited my children in Chicago at Christmas, I found an indoor court at a senior center near their home.  Now it’s “have paddle, will travel”.

 

I  would venture to say that no matter where you start to play, you will be welcomed. We were all beginners once and we encourage others to join in the fun.  Truly, if you’ve never played any sport or don’t consider yourself an athlete, you canplay pickleball. Because the court is small, it is not hard on the joints that require lateral moves as in tennis. You can watch how the game is played on U-tube.  If there is sound on the video, you will hear that funny pop of the wiffle ball and probably some laughter over crazy or missed shots. Really, who can be too serious about a game that has Pickle in the name?

 

My life is so good now that sometimes I feel guilty enjoying myself  so much when I’ve lost two dear people, but perhaps it’s those losses that make me  appreciate life.  To never take one day for granted and live it as fully as possible. 

 

And if  life occasionally hands you a  dill pickle, perhaps you can turn it into a sweet gherkin.

 

Oh, one more plus. Your grand kids will think you are so cool.

 

Books and Bras

In my last Blog post I talked about how lucky I was to live on a walking path and watch the world go by me during this time that I feel I am under house arrest.  As the quarantine continues and I am longing for human  face-to-face interaction vs. virtual and zoom (but thank goodness for those outlets), I decided to go one step further and not just wave and say Hello but engage in a conversation with anyone who was willing to stop for a few minutes.

Most people were also willing.

So, it goes something like this.  

“Hi, do you have time to talk for a few minutes?” They laugh and say something like, “I have nothing but time these days.” 

 I usually don’t ask anyone who has ear plugs and many do, or if they are walking in pairs and engaged in their own conversation. 

I am sitting in a lawn chair about 20 feet from the path with my notebook on my lap and pencil poised. 

I explain that I am a writer and should be using this time to start a new book, but my focus and attention span seems challenged these days so I am writing short pieces like my blog. Kinda like a marathon runner  going out for a short daily jog just to stay in shape.

I ask how long they have lived in Sun Lakes and where they lived before they came here or where they grew up.  Oh my, that opened Pandora’s box and a series of amazing co-incidences

that proves once again how “It’s a  Small World”  after All. Ooops…sorry for putting that song in your head.

The first day I met Nancy who grew up less than 5 miles from my childhood home in Gary, Indiana.  Really!  The only reason we did not go to the same high school was because she lived on one side of the tracks and I lived on the other side. The tracks were the dividing school boundary.  (Just for the record, I was on the wrongside—mainly blue collar workers from US Steel.  Nancy lived in the part of town where most of the doctors and lawyers lived.) 

But the more we talked , we realized we frequented the same haunts.  Like the Tivoli Tap pizza Parlor on 5^thAvenue in her neighborhood. My girlfriends and I went there  because  we knew the guys from Horace Mann High School were cuter than the guys at our own high school. It was truly a Happy Days place with a juke box blaring out Rock Around the Clock and Elvis. 

Nancy came to my side of the tracks (Tolleston) for the best ice-cream in town at the Dairy Maid, packed on a summer night. We attended the  same big band summer dances at the Pavillion on the shores of Lake Michigan, shopped for prom dresses at the same stores on Broadway.  Oh my, we talked a very long time.  

Another question I often ask is “What kept you busy before your were house bound or what do you do to stay busy now, besides walking.”

I met Vicki who is a flutist and plays with the Tempe Woodwind Orchestra.  Spring concert is cancelled but I’ll be going to her next concert which is hopefully this fall. Found out that Vicki is from Cleveland and while we were talking another lady walked by and heard Vicki mention something about Ohio and she stopped and they discovered they were both from the same area of Cleveland. They talked for quite a while about their old neighborhood haunts. 

Then it gets even crazier.  Met a man from Clairton , Pennsyvlania, a suburb of Pittsburgh, which just happens to be where I spent many summers visiting my father’s relatives who owned the Clairton Bakery. He knew it well. 

A side-note: My father’s  Aunt Victoria in Clairton was the one who arranged the marriage between my father and mother in 1933.  The story goes that they were put in a room for ten minutes to get acquainted and both agreed.  I call it the first instance of speed-dating but I’ll save that story for another blog. 

And while we were talking about Clairton, another lady walked by and heard us—she stopped in her tracks to say she was from the same area.  I am not making this up—truth is indeed stranger than fiction.  

And so many interesting occupations either currently or in their past lives.  Met Lisa from Battle Creek, Michigan whose husband is a still a referee for Big 10 football.  Cloe, an artisit, who spends her time doing art projects; an archeologist from Wisconsin  whose name I forgot to jot down. He spends summers there and still works; Rose who was Dean of Nursing at Grand Canyon University; Bobbie from Baltimore who happens to be the Program Chair for the Adventures in Learning Program here in Sun Lakes, a program I had intended to find out more about. They are always looking for speakers so I volunteered to do one on how I got my first book published.

And there’s Janet who has a business of measuring bra-fittings for women.  I said I’d like to be fitted when this isolation is all over. She said I would not have to wait…we can do it virtually  (really???) and we have an appointment set for tomorrow.   I’ll get back to you on that one.

And books. Of course ,I have to talk books. I ask if they like to read and what are they reading, and when I tell them I’m doing this blog because I can’t seem to get going on my next book, they ask what do I write and can they get my books on Amazon…and I say, actually you can get them right now from me…have many in my garage….cheaper than Amazon, no shipping and with an autograph.  I say, the book is free, the autograph is $10.00.  J

In two days, I sold six books which was not my intention at all but such a fun bonus of my “man (woman)  on the street” interviews.  They have no money with them, but I trust they will return and they do. The other day I opened the notebook I had left out on my chair and an envelope with a thank you note and $10 was enclosed.  So who needs brick and mortar to sell books? Not Amazon and I guess not me either.

So I’m selling books and I’m buying bras…and I’m making a lot of new friends. When this plague is  over, I’m having a “real” patio party and inviting all of my new walker friends.  We can see each other up close and share our stories of how we survived, supported one another and came out stronger.  And isn’t that what community is all about? 

Watching  the World Walk By

I’m so lucky that my new house has  a back yard that is pleasant to sit in—bushes, trees, flowers, birdsong and an occasional bunny.

But the best part is that It  is just a few steps to the  walking path…a 3.5 mile loop.

It is busier than usual these days as all other activities in Sun Lakes have come to a virtual halt. 

Perhaps it’s the only exercise left…fitness center and swimming pools closed.  

I’ve even pulled a chair closer to the path so I can often hear snippets of their conversation.  Writers are always encouraged to eavesdrop so we can make our dialogue more realistic. (I do that a lot in restaurants too, but obviously not these days). 

Two women seem to be talking more than a man and woman walking together. No surprise there.  My favorites are the dog walkers…every breed imaginable. Oops, misplaced modifier my English teacher would say. Dog breeds, not human breeds, although walkers themselves come in all shapes and sizes and have interesting gaits. Power walker, arms moving as well as their feet, the ambler, long strides,  and those plugged into their headphones. Are they listening to music, a book?   It’s also a fashion shows of sorts as I’ve discovered the variety of  hats and head gear for sun protection.   Most of the people say “Hello” or wave as they go by and some even consented to a photo for my blog.  

A variety of head gear and sun protection. A fashion show of sorts.

Pace varies…those walking alone usually have headphones…are they listening to music, an audible book or just plugged in, in  case that important call from a grandchild comes thru? We can only hope it’s from the grandchild and not your stockbroker.  At any rate, it’s a time when we need to stay connected any way we can.

I think today I’ll put Alexa out there and play music for the walkers. Since the average age here is probably mid-70’s, they might like a sound track from the 60’s-70’s. I’m thinking a little Cat Stevens or the Beatles.  A song I’ve been playing a lot these days, as I look at the beautiful blue skies of Arizona and the great outdoors we can still enjoy is “How Great Thou Art.”  Truly, HE is.

So these challenging and often lonely days, If I can’t go out into the world, I can in a small way bring it in to me.  One walker at a time.

Clive Cussler, author of over 85 books with sales of 100 million copies, passed away in Scottsdale, AZ at age 88.   I had the pleasure of meeting him in 1994 when he did a book signing at my bookstore, Pages, in Ahwatukee.  He certainly made that event a fun time for many.  

First of all, I should say that when I learned that such a successful author lived nearby in Scottsdale, I called his publisher to see if he would book a signing. I did not have much success with that effort. Perhaps we were too small a fish in the big book pond.  

About a month after that I attended some type of author luncheon where he was the guest speaker. After the meeting we were both standing outside the restaurant waiting for a valet to bring our cars and I asked him if he would come sign at my store. He replied, “Yes of course” so quickly and graciously, I immediately liked this man for the person he was. I was already in awe of his success (me an aspiring writing) and his visit further proved his kindness. 

During the signing (there was a long line waiting for him) he did not appear rushed. He spoke for several minutes with each person and wrote things like, “We’ll always have Paris” in some of the ladies’ books.  J

I had arranged with him ahead of time that I would like to offer a “ win a lunch with Mr. Cussler”.  Anyone who bought any of his hard cover books (versus the many small paperbacks he already had in print) would be put into a drawing for lunch with him.  

We had a wonderful  Chinese restaurant next door to the book store and his wife joined us.  It was during this lunch that he told us the story of how he got his first book published through a hoax.  

Clive grew up in Alhambra, Calif., a poor student but an avid reader of adventure stories.

“I detested school,” he told Publishers Weekly in 1994. “I was always the kid who was staring out the window. While the teacher was lecturing on algebra, I was on the deck of a pirate ship or in an airplane shooting down the Red Baron.”

He attended Pasadena City College briefly, but left to join the Air Force when the Korean War began in 1950. He became a mechanic, flew supply missions in the Pacific but never saw combat. While stationed in Hawaii, he learned scuba diving and explored underwater wrecks. 

He began writing fiction at home in the late 60s, but his first two books, “Pacific Vortex” and “The Mediterranean Caper,” were repeatedly rejected. Unable even to get an agent, he staged a hoax. Using the letterhead of a fictitious writers’ agency, he wrote to the agent Peter Lampack, posing as an old colleague about to retire and overloaded with work. He enclosed copies of his manuscripts, citing their potential.

It worked. “Where can I sign Clive Cussler?” Mr. Lampack wrote back. In 1973, “The Mediterranean Caper” was published.  

Despite an improbable plot and negative reviews, “Raise the Titanic!” sold 150,000 copies, was a Times best seller for six months and became a 1980 film starring Richard Jordan and Jason Robards Jr.

Mr. Cussler, who named his franchise hero after his son Dirk, acknowledged that Dirk Pitt’s character was his own alter ego. His later novels, many co-written by his son or others, often included himself as a character who saves the day. His son, a daughter and friends were also used as characters in his books.

“I’ve been doing Dirk Pitt for 30 years,” Mr. Cussler told The Times in 2000. “Maybe I can find another writer down the line to take him over. It’s not the money; it’s the fans.

“I’d like to retire,” he continued. “I’m toying with the idea of Pitt having a son who shows up. He’s getting a little long in the tooth. When we started out, we were both 36 years old. Now he’s a little over 40, and I’m pushing 70.”

His “hoax” story should be an inspiration to any author  to be creative and believe in yourself.  (In fact, why haven’t I tried that?” )

RIP Mr. Cussler and thank you for your stories and mostly for your kindness.

We Are All Connected.

Years ago my daughter Berta traveled to China occasionally for her work. On one trip she brought home a few souvenirs for me.  A beautiful miniature Mahjongg set since I was just learning the game, and a set of these coasters pictured here in a variety of beautiful colors.  

These coasters are probably 13 years old and yet their colors are as vivid as the day I received them. I like them so much that I take them back and forth with me each summer when I go to Munds Park for three months. They lay perfectly flat and can also serve as a cover to a coffee cup to keep it warm, especially useful in Munds Park where the morning chill can often be in the high 30’s for the entire month of June.

This morning I was doing just that…. using one of the coasters as a lid to my coffee cup. I examined the beautiful stitching more closely and marveled at how intricate it was.  With the Corona virus raging in China now I thought of the hands that made this coaster and wonder if that person is still there.  Is she (I’m assuming it’s a she—and probably bent over a sewing machine rather than hand-stitching) or one of her family members affected by the virus?

Her hands touched this coaster at one point and now here am I, thousands of miles away, touching it also. In fact, I was drinking my coffee in bed while I did my morning readings. How much more intimate could it get?

It made me realize how connected we all are in this big wide world.   Of course that leads me to Disneyland and It’s a Small World After All. Okay, I apologize for putting that song in your head.  I hope it doesn’t twirl around there all day as it will in mine now,  but I do hope I also don’t forget how people we don’t even know often touch our lives.  We are all going about our daily lives so earnestly on this planet that is at once so large, yet so small in the vast universe.  Time to read Ecclesiastes again.

                                        LOCKSMITHS COME IN ALL SIZES

Yesterday I witnessed something special that I wish I had photographed.

It would have been the picture of 11-year old Logan wearing a tool-belt, standing beside his father when I opened my front door. 

His father is a locksmith and I was having my doors re-keyed…a benefit that came with the home warranty. The re-keying was done not so much as a security measure as my home had only one owner for 22 years and the seller’s daughter did not indicate that keys had been distributed to housekeepers, handymen, etc. 

I did it because there were so many locks on the door with different keys for each lock. I thought it would be nice to have one key for all.  (No comments here on how often I lose things or confuse keys). Just sayin….an effort to simplify my life.)

So back to Logan with the tool belt that actually held tools. Real tools, not playschool wooden ones.  I said, “Well, hello, and I see you bought your little helper today.”

The father smiled and said “Yes.”  

I thought maybe this was one of those “bring your child to work days” so I said, 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

Shy smile from Logan. “Yes, but it’s my birthday.”

“How old are you today?”

“Eleven.”

“I have a granddaughter who will  be 11 in a few months. Are you in 5^th grade?”

“4^th”

Then Logan and his father proceeded to examine the locks in the storm door, front door, and door leading from garage to laundry room.  They discussed the locks between themselves and and Logan had quite a bit to say in the discussion, identifying which type of lock was required. They determined that I couldn’t have one key because the storm and garage door were one kind and the front door with 2 locks was another kind.  But they were able to eliminate a few keys so I only had 2 instead of 4.

While the father worked on the storm door, Logan worked on the laundry room door.  

He removed the thing a ma chig that the key goes into and went to the truck where evidently they had the equipment to change it and make new keys.

While they both worked, I could hear bits of their conversation which sounded like two co-workers of equal rank rather than a man and a child.

When they were done with both doors, they showed me which keys went where and Logan once again was quite verbal and involved.  He took my old keys to recycle.   It was obvious he had done this many times with his Dad.

I found out that Logan was one of six children, in the middle of the pack. The fact that on his birthday he was probably made to feel like an only child…a very special only child…made me smile.  

It seems many kids today are overly absorbed with technology, their heads often bent over an I-Pad in pursuit of a villain in a video game or their thumbs rapidly texting.  How refreshing to see  a child learning a hands-on trade.

It speaks volumes that Logan wanted to spend his birthday working with his Dad and spoke volumes for a Dad who had taught his young son valuable skills. An apprentice of sorts.

I wish I had taken his photo so you too could see the real-life tool belt around his waist.

Logan re-keyed my door, but he also opened my heart a bit.