We had chemistry together.

When someone asks how I met my husband, this is what I say. He grew up just a few blocks away from where I grew up, but we didn't really meet until high school. When we had chemistry together.

I will always remember the first time I noticed Eli and began to take an interest in him. Before, I knew who he was in a vague way, one of those Heicher boys, but I didn't know which was which, who was the older and who the younger. One day in chemistry class we were taking a break from our usual lecture/lab routine to help make the decorations for the Sweetheart Dance. (At least, in my memory it was the Sweetheart Dance, but then, that doesn't seem to line up with the right dates. Oh well, we'll call it the Sweetheart Dance.) Eli was lying sprawled across one of the lab tables, talking to my friend Cecelia. He was twirling a tiny ring around his pinky finger and debating out loud whether to give it back to his current girlfriend and call it quits with her.

He was wearing an old pair of too-big farm overalls, and some band t-shirt underneath. He had long hair, dyed blonde. I remember thinking he seemed so cute, in a cute sort of way. (I was sixteen.) He seemed sort of innocently cheerful, which I thought was strange, given the grungy, vague back of the school bus type of persona that I had always attributed to him.

In any case, I just remember thinking, "Huh. He's cute. Kind of hope he does decide to return the ring..."

I really don't know how long it was after that day that I ended up on a double date with Eli, Cecelia and Ethan. It was pure circumstance. Eli had been trying to get Cecelia to go out with his brother. She finally consented, with the stipulation that it be a double, with Eli and someone else. He agreed to those terms, but argued that she had to find the someone else for him to go with. (All of these terms and negotiations, of course, being ironed out through whispered conversations and scribbled notes passed during chem class. As all important teenaged matters are.) She asked if I wanted to go and I said yes, recalling the vague stirring of interest from weeks before.

And so we went. Dinner and a movie. Fazolis and Twelve Monkeys. It was January 12, 1996, and I hadn't worn a coat. I wore huge baggy pants that drooped low enough on my hips to show off the waistband of my black Calvin Klein underwear, a black top with a blue thrifted Caterpillar workshirt thrown over it. I remember the details because I was trying so hard to come off as unintentionally sexy. God, I was SO sixteen! :)

I was cold in the theater, so Eli gave me his coat to cover up with. It was an old green coat; I can't remember it well enough to describe it, but I remember loving it. Back then, as now, I loved the old, the vintage, the thrift store finds. And he wore a pocket watch. A pocket watch! How cool was this guy? My crush on him was pretty much immediate.

When we came out of the theater into the cold, I handed Eli his coat back, and like a gentleman, he tried to refuse and get me to keep it. I said that, no, it was my problem; I was the one who didn't wear a coat and he shouldn't be the one to suffer for it. And so he took the coat back and wore it himself. I have always been impressed by that for some reason. I guess because he listened to me. I wasn't used to being listened to.

That night will go down in history not only as the night I fell in love with my husband, but also the night that I got grounded for the rest of my life. I'm actually still grounded from that night. Cecelia and I went back to the guys' house and stayed there until 2:00 a.m. playing Jenga. Oops.
When I arrived home in the wee hours of the morning my mom was waiting for me. She was not impressed.

But I was. I was love struck. But I was playing it cool.

The next night Eli called to apologize for getting me in trouble. We talked on the phone for over an hour. He was so interested in me, such an active listener. He seemed to want to know everything at once. Not just my favorite color (green), or my favorite band (Smashing Pumpkins), but more importantly, what was my favorite jelly? (apple) He was off-the-wall, funny, charming, wonderful. He was unlike any 17-yr.-old boy I knew. *sigh*

We went through our ups and downs after that weekend. Immediately there were obstacles. There were silences, arguments, and long soulful talks. But there was also love. Love like I had never known.

I will never forget how thrilling that time was. How I woke up every day in anticipation of seeing him. How he would come home late from his part-time job and throw rocks up at my bedroom window to wake me so that I would come outside and sit on my porchsteps and talk to him. How the electrical sparks would practically fly between us in the dark, wherever our bodies touched. The brush of a hand, the bumping of knees.

That is how we began.

This is not an end.

We will always have chemistry.

Little John.

I've definitely been neglecting ye olde blog lately. I took a bit of time this evening to dump pictures off my camera and onto my computer and came across these gems. I think they're a great example of pictures that aren't anywhere near technically perfect (the lighting and color are terrible) but that are SO perfect in terms of telling a story.





Eliot loves, loves, LOVES his Pa Pa Heicher. We spend many a Sunday morning at their house and Eliot follows Pa Pa around as he gets ready for church. He shaves with him, brushes his teeth with him; they spit into the sink at the same time together. You get the picture. My mom calls Eliot "Little John" because he looks so much like him, with the distinctive Heicher eyebrows and all, but it's an appropriate name in terms of behavior as well. He's basically a mini-me for Eli's dad.

Let's just hope he doesn't inherit Pa Pa's penchant for the Three Stooges and all related forms of humor. Because as the saying goes around the Heicher household, "I don't go in for that, Merle."

Turns out it really IS better to give than receive.

Santa came to our house last night because this morning was the only morning all three of us would be home and together as a family. As soon as Eliot was in bed last night I stuffed his stocking full of goodies, Eli brought up the tricycle we'd been hiding in the basement and put it under the tree, and we wrapped his other presents.

I was so full of anticipation last night, wrapping presents, drinking hot chocolate, watching National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation...and I thought, ya know, it just doesn't get much better than this.

Exhibit A: stockings hung from the fireplace with care
(the white one on the end is Mumford's)



Until this morning! Eliot had come to bed with me last night; he was having a hard time sleeping. And Eli fell asleep on the couch watching Lord of the Rings. Again. He always seems to bust out those DVDs around Christmas time to rewatch the whole series. Anyway, Eliot and I woke up, and he was snuggling and chattering to me, all woolly-headed. And after a bit, I said, "Eliot, do you want to go see what kinds of prizes Santa brought you last night?" Because we had talked about Santa Claus coming and that in the morning there would be presents. But he wasn't all that interested. We walked down the hall into the living room to wake up Dad, and Eliot right away noticed through the sunroom windows the tricycle sitting under the tree. He pointed to it and looked at me questioningly. We went out to investigate. He walked round and round it, gingerly touching the streamers on the handlebars, the seat, the wheels. And when I asked if he wanted to sit on it, he nodded his head up and down and said, "uh-huh."

His feet are just barely shy of touching the pedals when they're on the rotation furthest from his foot. It won't be long before he's cruising all over the place on his own. But until then, I've a feeling I'm going to be making many many trips around the living room pushing him!

We rode into the living room, where Dad was still on the couch, and got Eliot's stocking down from the fireplace mantel. He was SO delighted with every single item he pulled out of his stocking, especially the "Chuffy" aka Thomas the Tank Engine fork and spoon. He kept yelling, Dadda, spoon! Spoon, Dadda!" and waving it in front of Eli's face. There was also a six piece wooden train set that he pulled out one car at a time, yelling "choo-choo" with the revelation of each new piece, two Chuffy sippy cups, a Backyardigans DVD, and a package of M&M's.

After his stocking was empty, he took almost as much joy in watching Eli pull goodies out of his stocking, and watching me go through mine. Some of the highlights were a zombie identification guide for Eli and a Japanese book binding kit for me. Turkey giblet dinner for Mumford. Yippee!

A little later in the morning, once we had all gotten cleaned up and dressed, we went back out to the tree for him to open his wrapped gifts from me and Eli. He got the idea about tearing the paper off the gifts immediately. When he saw his Mickey Mouse doll, he exclaimed, "Hot dog!" which of course had Eli and I cracking up.

Exhibit B: "Hot dog!"



The entire morning was almost too perfect, with Eli and I winking and grinning at each other over Eliot's head, and pulling him close to give him kisses every other minute. Like something out of an ABC Christmas special.

I called first my mom and then later my dad, to tell them both how surprised and pleased I am that BEING Santa Claus is three thousand times more fun than getting gifts from Santa Claus. Mom said, "Well, yeah, Rachel!" like this was an incredibly obvious observation that she was surprised I hadn't made sooner, "Why do you think so many parents continue to perpetuate the myth year after year? Because it's so much fun!"

It was. Folks, I'm a Scrooge no longer.

Hope all of your Christmases are just as merry and bright. :-)

Beautiful, easy digital scrapbook pages.

I found a great new resource for digital scrapbooking, scrapblog.com. It's great for those who are new to digital because they have tons of seriously easy-to-use templates. It's all a matter of drag and drop and you can edit and crop your photos, too.

I put these pages together in no time at all. I just used one of the ready-made themes, but you could also get much more creative with the program by starting from a blank page. Definitely something I'm going to be returning to soon to exercise my burgeoning digital prowess. (Okay, actually I only wish I had even a drop of digital prowess, but at least these easy pages make it look like I know what I'm doing!)

Beauty shop.

On Saturday we visited MaMa's house and played one of Zayda's favorite games--beauty shop, which, when she says it, comes out "booty shop."

This is Zayda and Eliot working in tandem to give me a nice comb and curl while I browse through a new scrapbooking magazine.

And this is me smiling because "booty shop" is also one of my favorite games. It means I get to sit on my booty and relax and the kids are still fully entertained. It's so much more low impact than, say, horsey, where one is required to romp around the house on hands and knees with a 20+ pound kid astride one's back. Yep, I'll take booty shop over horsey any day.

This game isn't a Zayda creation, either. We've been playing beauty shop for generations. I remember Mom sitting patiently on the floor (most likely reading a Woman's Day or Good Housekeeping) while Elecia and I, and sometimes Adriane, would fill her hair full of every clip, barrette, and pin we owned. The doorbell would inevitably ring in the middle of the process, and she'd have to get up and answer it looking like some kind of whacked out nut job. Ah, the memories! ;-)

And Eliot, who ALWAYS shakes his head "no" when asked ANY question (Do you want a cookie? Are you a good boy?, etc.), nodded an up and down "yes" when Libby walked in and asked him if he liked playing beauty shop. Gasp!

Once my hairdo was complete, it was my turn to fix Zayda's hair. This is what she got.

Isn't it "booty-ful"?!

This last picture was taken with my phone, so it's probably a bit fuzzier.

We had to have one to send to Daddy in Minnesota, so that he could see his boy's beautiful locks all fixed up! Eliot looks a little concerned in this picture, like "Hey! Nobody said this was getting documented!"

Face it, my boy--Momma's a scrapbooker--EVERYTHING you do is getting documented! ;-)

Three generations of ham eaters.

And the descriptor "ham eaters" isn't a euphemism of any kind. We just like ham. A lot.

Eliot is confused in this picture, about why he likes ham, or maybe about why he's sitting on Pa's head. But in time he will come to realize that it's simply part of his heritage. It's in the genes. (The love of ham, not the sitting on people's heads.)

Thanks to Elecia for the great photo! :-)

The monkey thought it was all in fun...

I have a jack-in-the-box that is exactly like the one my grandma and grandpa used to have in the collection of toys kept at their house for the amusement of all the grandkids. It isn't THE jack-in-the-box from my grandparents' house. After Grandma passed away and we were talking about memories of her and staying at her house, I mentioned this toy, but it was nowhere to be found. Luckily, resourceful Elecia, who must love me, found one on Ebay and got it for me.

I don't know why I wanted it, exactly. It always scared the hell out of me when I was a kid. (Okay, who am I kidding--it scares the hell out of me now.)

I used to be sure that the clown inside was an evil spirit, possibly because 1) clowns are creepy, and 2) this one bears a strong resemblance to Lady Elaine Fairchilde from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood of Make Believe. You remember Lady Elaine? She was the pompous, bitchy puppet who looked like this clown. I never liked her. In fact, I wanted to smack her every time she appeared on the show.







Yikes.

The jack-in-the-box plays a tinkling, creepy version of "Pop Goes the Weasel," and the clown always jumps out on the "pop" note, so you'd think I'd be ready for it. But there was never any being ready for this evil thing. I bet I jumped every single time. And then despite the shivers and tingles running up and down my spine, I'd somehow feel compelled to push the clown's head back down into the tin box and turn the crank again. Until he popped out and made me jump again. Madness.

So maybe it's the same dark fascination that made me want the thing now. That or just a desire to face old fears and reassure myself that they don't hold terror for me anymore. That I've moved on and nothing can scare me.

I played it for Eliot this morning and it scared the hell out of him too. It was hilarious. I'd turn the crank really fast so that it would pop up before he lost interest. And every time it popped up, he'd make an "O" with his little mouth and whimper. But he kept looking. And I kept shoving the clown back down and turning the crank again. (Perverse, and mean, I know, but the kid has been such a shit today he deserved a little jack-in-the-box action.)

For some reason, I didn't think it would scare him. I didn't think he'd be interested in it at all, but I figured that if he paid attention, he'd think it was funny. He loves peek-a-boo, and isn't a jack-in-the-box just another version of peek-a-boo? But he was scared, and for some reason that made me happy. Because I recognized him having the same reaction I once did? Because anytime I recognize myself in my child I'm delighted? Probably. But that isn't all. It isn't just vanity. I think it has to do with my hopes for him as well. My hope that his life will be full and complete. That the range of his emotion will be wide, his fear making his comfort more... comfortable?

Or maybe it's just a simple manifestation of my meanness to the ones I love most fiercely. Like if I'm mean to them first, no one else will be able to hurt them. Call it preparation for the big, wide, mean world.

And anyway, it's not like I'm making him watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.

Moose toes and other friendly reminders.

Grandma always used to wear socks with flip flops around the house. So much so that we grandkids thought she only had two toes on each foot.


Later, Elecia and I lovingly referred to this peculiar sock/shoe combo as Grandma's "moose toes."


Today I was rushing around to go pick up Eliot at daycare and couldn't find my slip-on shoes. The only pair sitting handy by the back door were my flip flops. But I was wearing socks. So, in the spirit of Grandma, I donned moose toes and headed out to go get the boy.





I felt like Grandma was smiling down on me today, just like Granddaddy is there with me everytime a waiter asks, "How do you like your eggs?"


I have these varied reminders in my life of loved ones who have passed on. But their spirits grinning over my shoulder also join with those whom I never got a chance to know. When I can't think of someone's name, I sputter, "Domino!" after a great-grandmother and the family dog whom I never met. She surely couldn't have guessed that her frustration at a failing memory would become a source of recognition and connection for generations to come.


These connections comfort me. It's impossible to feel alone when the universe sends reminders that I am surrounded by family, both present and past. Memory can have a tangible, touchable presence. It's a shoe with socks, a scrambled egg on a breakfast plate. It is bits of personality and individual quirks, phrases repeated and adopted until they weave a web of familiarity around us, as comfortable and as precious as an heirloom quilt.


This is what I have been given. This is what I shall wrap myself in.



(Zayda: the next generation of moose toes!)

A great love.

I recently inherited several bundles of letters and telegrams that my grandfather wrote to my grandmother while he was away during WWII. One of my projects this summer is to go through them and figure out how best to preserve them so that they don't deteriorate any further.

Reading through these letters, I'm feeling a mix of emotions. One is, of course, sorrow at the loss of my granddad. I miss him. And I know that Grammy must miss him tremendously. But aside from that, it's really a gift to have these letters and to get the chance to know him in a different way. As I read them, I hear his voice in my head.

Sometimes I laugh with the recognition of particular phrases or bits of personality that are just so him. In this particular letter, he mentions how little they get to eat, but not in a complaining way, just as a matter of fact. And he says that he finds the food "sufficient," which is so him. He never was one to complain about anything. Once I was helping him write a narrative of his time spent as a POW, and he described his treatment at the hands of enemy soldiers as "not that bad." My grammy interrupted as he was telling the story with, "Byron, you told me they threatened to kill you every day if you didn't give them information." And he replied, "Well, yeah...but they never DID!" And that was Granddaddy, always focusing on the positive.

It also gives me chills to read his plans for the future. He keeps reassuring Grammy that he'll be okay and that they're going to have a wonderful life together when he gets home. Just knowing that he WAS okay and that they DID have that wonderful life (60 years of marriage, three children, nine grandchildren, and nineteen great-grandchildren, at last count) makes me so happy for him. For them. For all of us.

Theirs is a great love story. And Granddad truly did have a wonderful life, despite all he went through during the war.

Here's a photo of him in his uniform. Isn't he handsome?!



And here is one of his letters (though I'm not sure if it's going to be readable):





He nearly always begins with "Dearest Doris," and closes with "your Byron."

I like this letter because he talks about how one of the guys has labelled him a "sentimentalist." He replies by saying, "I don't know, but if all the hopes and plans I have for you and I and Jr. after the war makes me one, well that's what I am then." (Grammy was pregnant with their first child at this time, who turned out to be my Aunt Pinky, and not Jr. after all.)

I'm looking forward to reading and sorting the rest of the bundles while Eliot is in daycare this summer, even though reading these private communications makes me feel a bit like a trespasser. I guess I can take comfort that the army censors read all of them before me? So they were never truly private? Some of the letters have sections that have been cut out or blackened, whenever he apparently referred to something off-limits. From the context, I can glean that what they've removed are mostly references to locations (at least so far).

I hope that Granddad wouldn't mind me reading these (and posting them on the Internet?!). I don't think he would. I see them as a wonderful piece of not only my own family history, but of American history as well. I think he would see the letters themselves as insignificant, now that they've served their original purpose. I wish I could ask him.