Winter Wonderland, Rockwell-Style

I felt like I was living in a Norman Rockwell world: Seventy-five third graders, four teachers, and about thirty parents, congregated for a "Winter Wonderland" party.

Only this Winter Wonderland party didn't consist of sitting in a stuffy classroom, gluing cotton balls to paper plates (as we did at my third-grade party many years ago).

This party was outside, in the higher-than-normal temperature of 23 degrees. Balmy.

This party was at a soccer-field-turned-outdoor-ice-rink, right next to the school.

Most of the kids had their own ice skates. Most of the boys brought their personal bags of hockey gear. The kids who didn't own skates borrowed them from the school's collection (including my true-blooded Virginia daughter).

The entourage walked the short distance to the rink, donned their gear in the warming room, and spent the next ninety minutes skating. Girls clung to each other, giggled, and spun in circles. Other girls practiced their figure eights. Hockey players, on their own side rink, raced back and forth. Timid students held on to their teachers. Parents on the sidelines chatted with their neighbors. Parents on the rink zipped around with their children. Parents and students alike helped lace up skates and tuck in gloves.

And together, they all celebrated the Wonderland that is Minnesota Winter.

I stood and watched--awestruck--at the perfect scene in front of me. As I talked with another parent, I identified the remarkable feeling that was almost palpable in the brisk air:

It was a sense of community unlike anything I've felt before.

This sense of community has surrounded and enveloped us during our short time here.

We live in a highly-respected neighborhood in the middle of the big city. But this neighborhood, one of the oldest around, is really just its own little city within a city. It has everything--a neighborhood market (where kids are safe to walk, sans adults, to get a popsicle on a summer afternoon), a neighborhood bank, several dentists and hairstylists and family physicians, a stunning old Carnegie library, a collection of boutiques, a dry cleaner, a reputable auto shop, a cafe, and so forth. All the essentials, clustered on just two little streets. No need to drive when one can walk.

But beyond these basics, I am not sure what makes the community here so unique and vibrant. It may be a combination of factors: "Minnesota Nice[ness]," combined with long-time residents, combined with numerous individuals who are active in improving their community. It may be the strength of the three neighborhood schools, which parents are so involved in, and the pride of ownership evident in the modest old homes. It may be the endless cold, which motivates people here to seek out other people. An acquaintance recently said, "How can we be anything but nice when we look like this [pointing to wind-blown, hat-flattened hair] for five months of the year?!"

It's the kind of neighborhood where people have lived for thirty years and raised their children, and those children have returned to raise their own families. It's the kind of neighborhood where a new move-in is considered a big deal and a reason to send a welcoming letter and have a party. It's the kind of neighborhood where people watch out for the neighbors, their neighbor's kids, and their neighbor's dog.

I have stood a bit on the periphery. Most of the women in the neighborhood work full-time, and it has been difficult to get to know people when they are gone all day. But even as I have stood on the periphery, I have relished the uniqueness of this community.

It is a little piece of Americana. I didn't think it existed anymore. Fortunately, it does. Norman Rockwell's scenes are alive and thriving.

Especially on an outdoor ice rink during a Winter Wonderland party.

New Year's Vacation

We went to Utah over New Year's, but we spent the majority of our time snowed in at a gorgeous cabin in Idaho.

I was too busy playing endless rounds of hearts and eating chocolate to take pictures, so this paltry selection will have to do.

Emma and her Aunt Jill. (I think all of my kids could pass for her kids. Lucky kids.)

Madeline, Isaac, and Clara painting wooden boxes. (I think we brought home twelve of those boxes.)

Nathan and his cousin Andrew, post-snowmobiling.

Emma and Clara headed out on the snowmobiles with Grandpa.

The entire crew of cousins. One more to be added later in 2011.

Can It Be?

Is it possible?

Did we really, truly decorate gingerbread houses this year, and no one:

threw candy,

spilled candy,

ripped apart the house,

got covered in frosting,

got put in time out,

yelled at a sibling,

dissolved into heap of tears,

or declared in a fit of rage that "she" (ahem) would never do this again?

It was an idyllic hour. The twins and Nathan cooperated. And they actually followed instructions. And had fun. And listened.

And it didn't take me the rest of the day to clean it all up.

And we were all smiling at the end.

I think we've hit a milestone at our house.

Emma and Clara made a house, too.

But a repeat picture is in order. Can you believe the pleasantness of this scene?

I hope you can, because I am still in shock.

Tuesday Reflections

Lengthy Tuesday Reflections. But then, when have I ever been brief?

Before I went to bed last night, I learned that Major Richard "Dick" Winters died last week, at age 92. If you don't know who Major Winters is, click here.

This morning, in between waffle-cooking, lunch-making, hair-combing, laundry-doing, kid-dressing, piano-practicing, and scripture-reading, I read a few articles paying tribute to the life of this remarkable man. I thought about the HBO miniseries "Band of Brothers," which we have watched several times, and about the book that shares the same title, upon which the miniseries is based. I played and replayed the hauntingly beautiful theme song for the miniseries (go here for a slideshow and to hear the song). I admit, I was a bit teary.

I reminisced about going to hear Major Winters speak, while we lived in Hershey, PA--also his hometown. The auditorium was brimming with listeners, and on the stage sat a lone old man, perched on a stool, reminiscing about leadership and his life's experiences. Afterwards, I approached the stage and shook his hand and talked for a brief moment. He signed my copy of Ambrose's book: "Jennifer--Hang Tough," he wrote above his name. And then he turned to speak to my dear friend Rochelle, who is a female WWII veteran and who accompanied me to the event.

As we left, I remember thinking how extraordinary circumstances had given this man an opportunity for greatness. And great he was. But he was also just...normal. A normal man who, because of circumstances, accomplished some extraordinary things. And who humbly gave all the credit to the men who fought and died at his side.

Not long after that event, I took Rochelle to the dedication of the World War Two Memorial in Washington, D.C. My friendship with Rochelle had piqued my interest in the time period, and I had read a number of books about the War. I was looking forward to accompanying her to the dedication. But as part of our day together, she asked if I would take her to the Holocaust Museum, just off the National Mall.

I had been there before, numerous times. I had no desire to go again. But I reluctantly agreed to take her.

I stood there in the middle of a dimly-lit room that depicted the events of Kristallnacht, I watched Rochelle peruse the displays, and I tried not to think too much.

But The Thought came anyway, out of the blue, as crystal-clear as can be: "Jen, this is why they fought. It is fitting that Rochelle is here, in this place, on the same day the Memorial is being dedicated."

On that day, I resolved to shake hands with and thank every World War Two veteran I would chance upon. Perhaps it's a silly notion, but it's one I've upheld--including last month, at Macy's, at the Clinique counter, where an elderly Navy veteran waited patiently while his equally elderly wife got a makeover.

He told me how he had lied about his age to enlist and how a kamikaze had killed his best friend. And how he was grateful for Harry Truman, whom he believes saved his life.

My husband calls me a "World War Two schmuck."

Yes, I am.

I am not sure what it is about this generation that has captivated me for so long.

Perhaps it is the extraordinary time in which they lived--a time that is actually fairly recent history.

Perhaps it is the singularly clear cause for which they fought.

Perhaps it is the homegrown values that they espoused, influenced in part, I believe, by their Depression-era upbringing.

Perhaps it is the fact that they were really just normal, hard-working Americans, who were called upon to rally and rise to some unbelievable challenges.

Perhaps it is because many of the choices they had to make were complicated and had no clear, black-and-white answers.

Perhaps it is because it was the era of my grandparent's young adulthood, and I never thought to ask them about it while they were alive.

Perhaps it is because the things they experienced changed our society in fundamental and widespread ways.

Perhaps it is because my blessings today are built on the backs of so many of their incredible sacrifices.

Perhaps it is all of these reasons.

Today isn't July 4th...or Memorial Day...or Veteran's Day. It is 1/11/11. But today I am feeling an extra measure of gratitude for Major Winters and for the "Band[s] of Brothers" everywhere, including those today (of which my brother is a part). These brothers lead...and follow...and fight....and sometimes die. And many of them, like Major Winters, are privileged to go forward and live quiet, honorable lives that are a tribute to their brothers with whom they fought.

Too Much

My name is Madeline.

I am a princess.

I am tender.

I am dainty.

And my mommy asks too much of me.

She likes to stuff my legs into snow pants and my delicate fingers into gloves. She puts an ugly hat on my head and yucky boots on my feet.

Then she likes to make me walk three blocks to my siblings' school.

She thought it would be fun to go for a walk. In the first snow. In the cold.

Well. I showed her.

First I took my gloves off and threw them in the snow, where she couldn't find them.

Then I cried and clung to her legs and cried some more and demanded her to carry me. After all, she left my four-wheeled chariot in the garage. What did she expect?

Then my fingers turned purple and started to hurt. So I demanded her scarf, to wrap around my delicate fingers.

And I whimpered.

Mommy carried me for a time, but then she had the nerve to put me down.

She said she was tired.

Well. I showed her.

I laid myself down, right there on the sidewalk.

And I waited.

My brothers watched in admiration as I waited to be recognized. Carried. Soothed. Comforted.

After all, my name is Madeline.

I am dainty.

I am tender.

I am a princess.

And my mommy asks too much of me.

(Pictures from November 2010.)

2,000 Words

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I think I'll post two:

(You have to click on the above picture and view it larger for the full effect.)

Many updates to come!