Category Archives: Seasonal

St. Paddy’s Day

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Methinks St. Paddy’s Day celebrations, especially on college campuses in the U.S., have gotten out of hand.

At the University of Illinois, for example, “Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day” was held this past weekend. Buses and trains brought in party-goers from across the state and even from out of state. Besides consuming more alcohol than was reasonably prudent, these revelers tossed objects from balconies, received more than 300 notices to appear in court for drug possession and public urination (among others),  and left behind enough litter to fill a football stadium.

More than 20 were taken to local hospitals on alcohol-related issues. In previous years, some have been injured or even lost their life, again mostly alcohol-related.

Now I love a good party as much as the next Irishman, but really, is all this craziness necessary? When a person can’t remember how he got where he is, who he was with, or what he did, why does he think he had a good time??

Traditionally, March 17 was set aside to honor St. Patrick, who used a three-leafed shamrock to explain the Holy Trinity to pagan Irish people and convert them to Christianity.

What once was a mostly Catholic saint’s day, with observers attending church and dining simply on corned beef and cabbage, has become an excuse for drunken celebrations across the land.

That makes me a wee bit sad, for as a culture, the Irish have been known for too long as drinkers. There are Irish drinking jokes, Irish toasts, even Irish quips on T-shirts.

I suspect there’s one reason behind all this — money.

Bars and restaurants are happy to trade food and drink to party-goers for green cash. Communities, strapped in tough economic times, are glad to take tourists’ money in exchange for hosting a colorful parade or dying some river or fountain Kelly green.

But not all Irish are drunks;  some Irish never even touch alcohol.

Really!

And I hate to see what should be a joyous occasion marked by people throwing up in the streets and winding up unconscious (or worse) in some hospital.

Especially when those people are our young.

Perhaps we need to imitate the Irish in the motherland, who celebrate the festive occasion with music, sports competitions, fireworks, films, and other family-friendly events.

And remember, “There are only two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were!”

St. Joseph Altar

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For longer than I can remember, every time a storm was on its way, my mom tossed out a piece of “blessed bread” and said a prayer to St. Joseph for protection.

(St. Joseph is the patron of those in need, whether it be workers, travelers, the persecuted, poor, aged, and dying. His feast day is March 19.)

The other night at dinner, Mom pointed out that her supply of blessed bread is dwindling and now that her sister (Auntie M.) has passed, she probably won’t be able to replenish it.

Auntie M., you see, always attended the St. Joseph Altars held along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, and she always sent Mom a supply of blessed bread and cookies to stash in the freezer for stormy days.

It dawned on me that she was right. Here in the Midwest, I’ve never heard of anyone holding a St. Joseph Altar. I lived in Texas for several years; same story.

Holding a St. Joseph Altar is a Sicilian tradition (yes, I’m half Sicilian!). It started many years ago when a drought took hold of Sicily, the people prayed to St. Joseph, and the famine ceased. In thanksgiving, they prepared a table with a variety of food they’d harvested, and gave that food to the poor.

Immigrants to this country brought the custom with them, embellishing it and setting up elaborate tables filled with breads, cookies, and pastries baked in shapes like chalices. Custom dictated that no expense be incurred in setting up the altar; consequently, the “hosts” had to beg for contributions, similar to what the Sicilian people did.

I attended one of these Altars as a youngster and found it fascinating. Children portray members of the Holy Family, going door to door before reaching the site of the Altar; huge pots of spaghetti and other foods are served to the public; Fava (“lucky”) beans and a piece of blessed bread are sent home with those who attend; everything (money, food, whatever) is distributed to the poor afterward.

Hosting a St. Joseph Altar involves an entire family, and I just can’t see Mom undertaking such a task at this stage of her life. So I guess we’ll have to continue the “begging” tradition and rely on the rest of my family to send some goodies this way — hint, hint!

Laissez les bons temps rouler!!

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It’s less than three weeks away now!

Of course, I’m referring to Mardi Gras (AKA Fat Tuesday, or Shrove Tuesday).

Last year, I blogged about King Cakes, one of the many traditions surrounding this day of feasting and celebration before the somber 40-day period called Lent. Today, I’m going to talk about the colors of Mardi Gras.

Now you might consider it odd that a person living in Central Illinois, U.S.A., would be so enthralled with a season far removed by distance, but I lived many years along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, where Mardi Gras is celebrated, Big Time!

Right after Jan. 6 (Feast of the Epiphany), Carnival Season gets underway. Kings, Queens, and Parade Marshals are announced, individual krewe themes are revealed, and the partying begins.

There are parades featuring decorated floats, live bands, and plenty of beads and doubloons for everybody; there are formal balls (I’m talking tux and ball gown formal!) for invited members and guests; there are more traditions than you can shake a stick at.

Even the colors of Mardi Gras are traditional. Back in 1872, Carnival King Rex selected Purple (symbolizing justice), Green (faith), and Gold (power) as colors for the festivities, and they stuck.

Oddly enough, it was the colors of Mardi Gras that influenced the selection of colors for two of Louisiana’s then-rival universities. According to the SEC Sports Fan Website, the folks from Louisiana State University originally had blue and white as their school colors, but, hoping to celebrate their first football game against Tulane University, they wanted a change.

Some of the guys and their coach went into New Orleans to find colored ribbon to brighten up their gray jerseys. It being just a few months before Mardi Gras season, all they could find were purple and gold cloths (the green had yet to be delivered).

LSU picked up the purple and gold to make rosettes and badges, leaving Tulane to purchase the green when it finally arrived. This they combined with blue to arrive at their school colors.

Curious about my headline? It’s a Cajun expression meaning, “Let the good times roll!”

Happy Valentine’s Day?

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Call me jaded, but I dislike Valentine’s Day.

Really dislike it.

It started, I think, in grade school, when we were instructed (no, coerced) to provide a Valentine for every member of our class.

Funny how the card manufacturers know just how many kids are in typical classrooms!

Anyway, a few days before the “event,” we’d create these elaborate construction paper envelopes in Art class to hold the Valentines we’d be receiving. Covered with doilies, hearts, and flowers, the envelopes would be things we could treasure.

Right.

Little kids of opposite sex rarely like each other (unless you consider those oh-so-private crushes that nobody knew about!). Still, we’d think long and hard about which Valentine card to give to which classmate, hoping the one with the “mushy” verse didn’t go to the kid nobody liked!

Or the teasing would start.

I don’t know what our teachers would have done, had somebody “miscounted” and omitted a classmate. It might have happened, but I didn’t know of it.

When the day was done, we’d carry our treasures home and go through each one, wondering who meant what by the card that was chosen.

Looking back, it was probably nothing more than, “Help me get through this awful chore as fast as possible!”

Fast-forward to my twenties when my dislike of Valentine’s Day was reinforced — big time. One of my grandfathers had to go to the hospital on Feb. 14 for a “routine” medical test on his heart; he never made it out alive.

I know he’s in a better place, but his death cast a pall on the holiday, one that’s hard to put aside.

Today, Valentine’s Day seems like such forced frivolity. An excuse to spend a lot of money buying candy or jewelry or flowers or whatever for your sweetie.

A Hallmark kind of day.

That’s all fine, but if you love someone, should you be telling him/her that every day?

I think I’ll grab a bite of chocolate and ponder that a while!

“Snowmageddon” in Central Illinois

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Figuring I should post these ice and snow pictures before the next onslaught of wicked weather, here are some of the shots I took while tip-toeing around my neighborhood yesterday. Enjoy!

Ice-encrusted tree branches

Rosebush covered with icicles

Snow and ice on holly

Spruce "decorated" with ice and snow

Lamp post wearing this season's fashionable icy shade

Ice on the north side of trees

Go Away, White Witch!

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I woke up in Narnia this morning.

Well, not really, but it felt like it. Here’s a photo of one of our trees (those are buds that thought it was time to come out):

Iced branch and trees

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, it’s beautiful. Yes, it’s historic. But doggone it, it’s dangerous and I’m tired of it!

It started yesterday with freezing rain, sleet, and ice. The stuff fell for hours, off and on.

Today, the folks who study these things are calling it a “monster storm.”

No kidding!

We’re in line for more ice today, as if we haven’t had enough. Then, we’re supposed to get six inches of snow. Then, the snow is supposed to get blown around in gusty winds.

Can you see the recipe for disaster here??

Iced power lines (no, my city didn’t bother to bury them like normal places do), iced tree limbs, and high winds.

My dog gives me the look that says, “What, are you kidding?” when I send him out to potty. Slipping and sliding on the skating rink that’s my backyard, he finally does “the deed,” then tucks his head and tries to scamper back inside.

Poor thing looks like a drunken sailor. No merry barking and racing around chasing birds and squirrels for him today!

Fortunately, we at least were forewarned. The prognosticators have been talking about this beast for a week now, giving us plenty of time to gather necessities: food, water, medicine, books, etc.

But how does one prepare for losing power when the temps drop to below zero??

Enough Snow Already!

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Once again, we in the Midwest U.S. are getting inundated by piles of snow.

And while shoveling some of that mess yesterday, I started pitying residents of other parts of the country who aren’t used to snowy winters yet are suffering through some of the same conditions we are.

For you “snow newbies” here are my best tips for dealing with the white stuff:

  • Buy some boots, assuming you can find them. Strappy sandals and stiletto heels are too-cute-for-words, but terribly impractical on snow and ice.
  • Buy an insulated parka, a hat, and mittens. You want a coat material that repels water yet keeps you warm. You need a hat because we lose most of our body heat through our heads. And yes, gloves are more stylish, but mittens are warmer (something to do with having all your fingers together rather than separated, or so I’ve been told!)
  • Try to get your groceries, refill your prescriptions, and do your necessary errands before the snows come. You have to assume it might take days for the snow plows (or Mother Nature) to clear the roads sufficiently for you to travel about.
  • Keep your car’s gas tank full. Who wants to stand outside freezing while pumping gas?
  • Buy a snow shovel. A snow blower looks cool but works best on the light, fluffy kind of snow. What, you didn’t know there are different kinds of snow? The heavy, wet variety is hardest to shovel, whereas the fluffy kind blows and drifts best when the wind kicks up.

Hospital emergency rooms see a lot of winter-related injuries. Don’t be one of them! Don’t stay outside more than is necessary and be sure you cover exposed skin to prevent hypothermia.

Snow and ice are two different things. The former is a nuisance, but the latter can be deadly. Walk gingerly; drive defensively, assuming the other guy can’t/won’t stop before slamming into you.

Don’t risk back injury by shoveling snow the wrong way. You want to push the snow out of the way, not scoop it up, turn, and toss it to one side.

Stand your shovel on the sidewalk or driveway (about a 45-degree angle) and push until the load becomes nearly immovable, then give your shovel a good kick to unload it. If the snow is particularly wet, you’ll need to tap it off between pushes. I don’t know for sure, but I think this is pretty good exercise for legs and derrieres!

If you must pick up a shovel-full of snow, bend your knees, squat, and scoop, rather than keeping your back rigid.

Don’t shovel after eating a big meal. Take frequent breaks and get out of the elements periodically. When you’re done, reward yourself with a cup of hot cocoa beside the fireplace!

A quiet New Year’s Eve

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I always feel like an “old soul” on New Year’s Eve.

And it doesn’t have a thing to do with my age!

There’s just too much mischief and noise and forced revelry for me. Too many exploding fireworks, too many drunks on the road, too many expectations of serious fun, too many “Year in Review” lists.

It seems as if everybody is looking back, when I’d much prefer looking ahead!

As a kid, I loved staying up late to watch the New Year’s specials on TV and share a toast with the grown-ups. Maybe it was the chance to postpone bedtime; maybe it was the treat of “toasting” with sparkling grape juice or even a soda; maybe it was the joy of listening to “teenaged music” without parental grumbling for a change!

Fast-forward several years. My ex-husband and his family introduced me to their custom of banging pots to celebrate the new year. They’d all march out to the front porch — pans and pots and kitchen utensils in hand — and beat the living daylights out of them. I never knew if it was to frighten the “bad spirits” or “make a joyful noise to the Lord.”

After My Favorite Domer came along, I found myself working many New Year’s Days so I could spend Christmas with him. Consequently, New Year’s Eve was pretty much a non-event and like as not, found me fast asleep when the ball dropped in New York City!

Probably my favorite New Year’s Eve, though, came when I was in college. I spent the weekend with a girlfriend after a bowl game, and the two of us each had two dates in one night! We got bored with the first pair of guys and ditched them early — pleading headaches, or some such excuse! — then promptly went right back out with two new guys and had a blast. The midnight hour found us chomping French fries and guzzling hot chocolate in a 24-hour diner!

Totally out of character, I know, but fun anyway.

Suffice it to say, my “stick-in-the-mud” ways mean I won’t be nursing a hangover tomorrow. I won’t be moaning my lack of sleep or wondering how I got home or what happened to my car.

I won’t have spent more money than I could afford, won’t have eaten or drunk myself into misery, won’t have lost a finger or an eye to a firecracker.

A quiet New Year’s Eve really isn’t so bad, after all.

 

“Is that all?”

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Okay, show of hands.

How many of you got what you really wanted for Christmas this year?

Be honest, now.

Was the style exactly right, or the color, or the size, or the brand?

What about the price? Was it so extravagant that you knew somebody would be paying for it clear into next summer, or was it so cheap that you immediately thought of shoving it in a closet (or re-gifting next year)?

And what about Christmases past? How many of them truly lived up to your expectations?

We all have a tendency to build the holidays up. Happy television people, happy magazine people become our ideals.

In a frenzy, we decorate, bake, shop, wrap, and hide our presents from peeking eyes; we address Christmas cards; we browse online, salivating over untold goodies that we have to have NOW.

And in all the glitter and tinsel and sugar and trimmings, we lose sight of why we’re celebrating this day.

So it’s no wonder we find ourselves feeling let down when the last package is opened.

We’re not alone. Our kids pick up on this, and it’s not pretty.

Most parents know (and dread) “that look” on their kids’ faces.

The one that appears confused.

The darlings look around expectantly and ask, “Is that all?”

They might be sitting on the floor surrounded by mounds of wrapping paper and new treasures, yet there it is.

“Is that all?”

My Favorite Domer did it. My sister did it before him.

My late father, always the voice of reason, told a true story to put things into perspective.

When Dad was a child, money was very tight. It was the time of the Great Depression. Men were jumping out of windows to their deaths after learning their job was gone and so was their money. Women were taking in laundry. Folks were standing in bread lines. Everybody was hungry and tired and sick and scared.

One Christmas, Dad recalled, he wanted toys like the other kids. Something to play with, to enjoy in those wretched times.

But my grandparents could ill afford fancy toys. They did their best to put food on the table and clothes on the kids’ backs.

Still, it was Christmas, so my practical grandmother put together a special toy just for my Dad.

Imagine his surprise — and disappointment! — Christmas Day when he opened a marshmallow man, complete with candy cane arms and legs and a marshmallow head.

That was all.

No toys. Not even one.

Not even another present.

So while you’re squirreling that hideous sweater into the re-gifting closet, while you’re standing in yet another returns line at Wal-Mart, while you’re consoling (for the fifth time) a weeping child disappointed over not getting the latest-and-greatest, think about that.

And remember — it’s not the present, it’s the love behind the present, that truly matters.

Our Dilemma over The Presents

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What do other people do about The Presents when they’re going “over the river and through the woods” for the Christmas holidays?

Yes, you read that right — The Presents.

You know, the GIFTS.

I’m not talking about the ones you have to take to Uncle Mike, Grandma, or Cousin Harry.

I mean the ones you exchange with your immediate family.

Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, maybe Fido and Fluffy.

In the overall scheme of things, this might not seem to be much of an issue, but it is (and has been) a controversy in our family for as long as I can remember.

It started after my parents married and moved far away from home. Lonely for their families during the holidays, they decided to make an annual pilgrimage south for Christmas. This “tradition” continued when we kids came along — and that’s where things got sticky.

You see, my parents’ siblings, too, had married and were having children. So the family was growing. Money was tight, and we kids often balked at having to travel several hundred miles to visit kith and kin, when we could be enjoying a break from school with our friends.

And then there was the dilemma over the presents.

Basically, there were two options — neither of which was appealing:

a) Leave the presents at home, or
b) Take the presents with us

Sounds simple, right? Wrong.

Let’s look closer at these choices.

If we left the presents at home, we’d have to celebrate Christmas morning with nothing to unwrap (unless our parents went out and replenished the stash, which, as I said before, was cost-prohibitive).

And just try telling little kids (or teenagers!) that they have to wait until they get back home to open their presents!

Not gonna fly, I’m telling you.

By the time we got back home, school was starting up again, meaning we never really got to enjoy those presents. And it’s anti-climactic to open presents after the holidays!

Option B isn’t ideal either.

Sure, you have something to open on Christmas Day, but at what cost? Packing presents in the trunk of a car means boxes get crushed and bows unraveled. Packing them inside left little wiggle room for us.

And there are some things (bicycles, for instance) that take up too much space to pack. Who wants to leave behind an extra suitcase or two when you really don’t know what the weather might bring or what you’ll need when you arrive?

Many times, we compromised. We’d open the big stuff early and take the smaller presents with us.

I imagine our relatives must have thought we’d been extremely naughty since our “loot” pile looked so small!

So I’m looking for advice. If you’ve been in this kind of situation, how did you handle it? What works?