Love and Friendship

This is what almost 30 years of friendship looks like. One lonely day in the sixth grade, in the midst of mean girl drama, we saved each other. She, very bravely, walked into my life and taught me what it meant to be a real friend. I do not remember the details of our first conversation, but I do remember that we very consciously decided that we were done with mean girls. What emerged from a conversation in a small hallway of Holy Angels School was a relationship that has been a shelter for me for the better part of my life. In junior high there were sleep overs and Catholic school dances. Despite different high schools, we remained very much involved. We talked. A lot. This was before cell phones, before texting. This was the age of land lines...party lines for that matter! When we could drive, we spent weekends together. There were boyfriends, proms, and parties...but never drama. We shared secrets, dreams about our futures, and even clothes. In fact, our junior year we have our school picture in the same shirt! When college came along there were different universities, but the same friendship.  She was by my side when I married my husband and I was by hers at her wedding too.  Our oldest daughters share the same birthday - December 7. Our children have mirror personalities. The connections are endless. A shared history.

We can go months without visiting or even talking with one another and still, when we do connect, it is as if nothing has changed. We pick up right where we left off.  Our friendship is like home, I am always so grateful to return to it. Over the years it has become difficult to spend the kind of time together that we would like, but when we do get together there is never an awkward hello or an allowance for an apology. After all these years, she still continues to be the friend that I am fairly certain people write about when they craft greeting cards. I am blessed.

The older I get, the more I appreciate our shared journey. Because of our shared journey I have the bonus blessing of knowing her family. I remember Bunnie's flawless breakfasts on Mason Road. I remember shopping trips to Value City. I remember dance parties to Run DMC. The move to Ft. Loramie. Her parents moving back to Sidney.  I treasure all of it! I even treasure the memories that we shared in some of the most difficult times. The memory of getting ice cream and sitting by her Mom's grave talking for hours about memories and about heaven.  There has never been a time when I haven't felt blessed to be in her presence. So when the opportunity presented itself for me to hear this friend deliver a speech about LOVE to a room full of women, mothers for that matter, I got in my car and drove to Michigan. I wouldn't miss it.

The truth is, whatever this friend could share about what she knows of LOVE should be in print and should be required reading for all.  Her life is a testament to what it means to love. As I sat at the table at Shrine Catholic School, watching her take the podium, I felt my tears coming before she uttered her first word. I realized, she didn't need to say anything at all to convince me. Just being in her presence, at that moment, witnessing to her strength and courage was LOVE. All these years later, she continues to teach me about friendship and the shelter it provides.

Lori Lauber Tisko. From a small hallway in a Catholic school as sixth graders to sharing such a meaningful evening at another Catholic school in Michigan as soon to be forty somethings... love and friendship. A shelter.

Authentically Olding

“Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
like the love that let us share our name.”

-          Scott Avett

Bryan and I decided to take the kids on a trip this year. We have been reluctant to do this because they have been so satisfied, even enamored, with weekend trips to Indian Lake. Our logic was “if they are happy with this…why introduce something more expensive and more complicated?” We have made a concerted effort to raise them to appreciate simple pleasures. We want them to understand that spending money doesn’t mean having more fun, and it certainly won’t deliver more happiness. The happy has to come from within, from appreciating the experience.  When making decisions for my own children I often use some of my own experiences as a measure. Growing up “Schlater in the 1980s” meant one pair of sneakers and a pair of dress shoes that would last a whole school year. I have vivid memories of bleaching my shoelaces and using white polish to “restore” the white leather Nikes with the red swish because there would be no second pair. It was nonnegotiable. I also remember waiting two years to score a pair of Guess jeans and then sadly hitting a growth spurt shortly thereafter so I had to choose between wearing designer high waters and looking like a dork or settling for a super cheap pair of JC Penney blue jeans…until my Grandma Weigandt suggested “cutting them off” and making them into shorts. Genius!  Even more crafty was when she helped me remove the beloved Guess triangle patch that was so important to me in grade seven  and then sew  it onto the JC Penney jeans… no one ever knew.  My parents weren’t frighteningly frugal, but practical. They taught me that I need to appreciate things.  I want to do the same for my kids. All that said---  Bryan and I came to the sobering realization that we only have a few years left to vacation with the kids before they get busy and it becomes a challenge to get away. So, we booked a trip to Vanderbilt Beach in Naples, Florida.

The plan was exorbitant amounts of beach time. Relaxing. It would be a first plane ride for C.J. It would be Evie’s first time on a beach since she was two years old. It would be a lot of firsts for all of us traveling together. I decided to keep my expectations low. I would let the kids dictate the days. The only expectation I had for the trip was to get a few pictures of my kids on the beach at sunset.  I wanted the kids to put on dress clothes, comb their hair, and get a glorious snapshot of them on the beach to remember the experience. Who knows---maybe even morph it into a Christmas card. That was it. That was all I wanted.

The beach was incredible. The kids loved it! They built castles, caught a starfish, dove for sand dollars, and swam for hours. I will never forget their smiles. I hope they never forget the time we spent together.  I took tons of daytime pictures on the beach. But, by the time the sun was setting we were cleaning up to meet my parents and go out for dinner. It wasn’t until our last day there that I realized I might not get the pictures I wanted. We had been at the beach all day again swimming. It would be an hour still before sunset and no one wanted to go up and change into dress clothes and comb their hair for a sunset photo shoot. So…I settled. I settled for pictures on the beach, at sunset in smelly, sand drenched whatever-they-had-on clothes with some super nappy hair to complete the look.  Admittedly I was annoyed.  This was not what I wanted.  However, what I got was “Authentically Olding.”  What I got was so much better than what I wanted in the first place. I captured my kids as they are, not as an orchestrated picture would have them be, but how they are and who they are, at this moment in time. Grace is twelve and just beginning to have those “Guess jean opinions” about name brands. She got a dumpy “on sale” white tank top from Hollister and wore it over and over. There is rarely a day when she doesn’t have on sports shorts. They are her signature.   And- yet there are moments when I just stare at her because she is beautiful. She is growing up so fast and becoming this person who makes me so proud. Evie is nine and this picture says it all. She is a free spirit. No cover up needed. She was probably only out of the water for a few seconds to humor me for the picture. The pony tail she is wearing is likely a day old and what’s worse is that she would try to make it last another day. This is my Evie. People could do worse than model her. She takes no value in appearances, but rather focuses on fun.  She reminds me, every day, that there are so many reasons to smile. And then there is C.J. in his Spiderman swim clothes holding his blue Lego Ninjago guy. He is awesome. He lives in this world that vacillates between fantasy and reality and every day I feel more blessed to be a part of it. Some days I get to be a ninja or the yellow power ranger, but most days I am the dispensable bad guy who suffers a horrible end. Every day I am just happy to be a part of his world.   They are all so much better than whatever I could have expected, or designed, or even imagined. They are all “Authentically Olding.”

Sweet Satisfaction

            It rarely happens, so this weekend was a treat. My world as a mother and my world as a teacher generally spend most of their time in conflict, competing for my attention. I have never heard either of my daughters say “my mom has the coolest job- she is an English teacher!”  They readily admit that they do not understand why ANYONE would want to teach reading and writing. In fact, both of them think I am rather “nerdy,” especially when I get excited about grammar homework or choosing book titles with them.

            This was all true, until Grace Olding was assigned her first research paper. She actually asked me for help! We spent the better part of Saturday morning researching information about the Spanish conquistador, Hernando De Soto. I was showing her how to cite information and she was, at first reluctantly taking an interest…but then it happened. A switch flipped. She couldn’t stop researching. “Mom, did you know he wasn’t a very nice man – he made all of his money by enslaving Indians.” “Mom, guess what, he ended up marrying the daughter of the first guy he worked for.”  Before she knew it, she was almost finished with the research portion and beginning her writing. Her last sentences are  my favorite;  she wrote “Hernando De Soto was looking for gold, but he found something even better. He found the Mississippi River. That is a good thing.”

            Now, as if a 5^th grade research paper wasn’t enough for me to goon out over, it just so happens to be “Right to Read Week” and the girls had to write a family poem. WHAT FUN! I gave them a template that I use with my seniors in a folklore unit. We sat at the table and gathered ideas. Then I showed them how to piece words together. They went through a series of drafts. Their final product is adorable. I am so proud of them… and I suspect that even thought they are not ready to admit it publically… the English teaching mom was a bonus this weekend.

Here is their poem:

The Olding Girls

We are from Herb and Nettie, Richard and Vera, Bob and Helen, Bill and Grandma Jean, Papaw Ken and Grandma Brenda.

From Maria Stein, Russia, Houston, and Sidney – Williams Street and Hoewisher Road.

We are from families too big for one kitchen table.

We are from “Hail Mary full of Grace” and “close your eyes, shut your mouth,

 or my fist will knock you out.”

We are from “The Hamptons” at Christmas and summers at Indian Lake.

From “pamcakes” on Sundays, Grandma Weigandt’s apple pie,

and cheeseballs at Papaw’s house.

We are from Sidney Yellow Jackets, Houston Wildcats, Holy Angels Wings,

and Lehman Cavaliers.

From dirt bikes and dirt roads to poetry and prayers; from hillbillies to highly educated.

We are from bike rides to the cul-de-sac and backyard dance parties.

From soccer tournaments on the weekends to weekday Catholic school uniforms.

We are from church on Sunday mornings and soccer games on Sunday afternoons.

We are from loving the Disney princesses to loving four wheelers.

From First Confessions, First Communions, and first cousins we love to see!

We are from an English teacher, a chiropractor, and a pesky little brother we call “Fudge.”

We are from watching Mulan and the Lion King to

watching “Wheel of Fortune” and “The Cupcake Wars.”

We are from trips to Chilly Jilly’s after school and before school alarm clocks that we ignore.

We are from playing outside until it is dark and putting on Taylor Swift concerts in our living room,

We are from goofy, busy, silly, prayerful, strict, funny, weird, and loving parents.

We are the Olding Girls.

Yep - they are The Olding Girls... and I am so lucky to be their mom.

Chaos, Peace, and "Street Cred"

Now more than ever before in my life I feel like so many things are spinning out of control. My natural urge used to be to try to make some kind of sense of all it, to attempt to control it, or at least organize it in a way that would allow me to understand it.  I have grown accustomed to episodes of chaos. Sometimes there is chaos at home with crazy schedules or a vomiting child or even an inability to understand how to parent away tendencies that I see as weaknesses in my children. Sometimes there is chaos at work. This is not difficult to imagine in a high school setting. The workload becomes too much, the demands of graduating seniors weigh on me, the uncertainty of next year’s class schedule creates anxiety. Sometimes there is chaos in the life I lead after school as a volunteer. A budget is due for the catholic school, enrollment is down, parents have concerns, people want answers.  Yes, I have grown accustomed to operating despite episodes of chaos.   But this doesn’t feel like an episode, it feels like a full blown chaotic finale.

I no longer feel the need to control or manage the chaos, I just want a break from it. I need a break. I have been looking forward to spring break for months. I am a day and a half into spring break and while I have not managed to escape chaos completely, I found peace today. I had planned on staying home and getting “things organized.” I usually find it relaxing to organize in the quiet of my house. But, today I reluctantly decided I would go to mass at 8:45. It was an all school mass at Holy Angels, where my girls go to school. I wanted to have coffee and putz at home alone, but my third grader reminded me that this would be my last chance to go to confession during Holy Week. That’s what I get for sending her to a catholic school.  So I went to mass and planned on staying after to go to confession… with her class.

I dropped the girls off and had ten quiet minutes to myself in church before peace came. It didn’t come in the quiet. It wasn’t there when I was alone. It came as I watched 231 students in uniforms genuflect and take their seats. The music started and their sweet voices filled the church. Then Father Hess began his homily about miracles. He asked the children to define what a miracle was. Hands went up, and he picked Evie Olding to answer. Evie, my nine year old, who has been in trouble since birth for not listening or speaking out of turn. I was certain she didn’t know the answer. In fact, I was convinced that she probably didn’t even hear the question, she just wanted a chance to speak in front of an audience.   To my surprise, she astutely answered “A miracle is when something appears that you can’t explain.” A soon as she said it my nose started to tingle, my cheeks got warm, and the tears came. I couldn’t stop them.  It was a beautiful, cathartic, quiet cry that continued as the children celebrated mass.

I didn’t have the answers to how I should deal with all of the chaos and what my role would be in the solutions that were needed. The anxiety wasn’t completely gone. I knew the chaos would find me again, but I could feel the worry dissipating. I picked up a hymnal and found the page to read the words of the next song so I could sing along.  “Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest.” I have sung this song at least a hundred times in my life. However, today the words comforted me in a way that was tangible.  I felt like I was home. I was where I needed to be. The chaos would still be there, but so would He. I need to trust more and worry less. It sounds simple enough, but I have never been good at it.

Mass ended and I parked myself behind the third grade class to wait for my turn in the confessional. Father Dan led the third grade class in an examination of conscience.  He then invited me to go before the children. I went in and sat down so he could hear my confession, I told him about the peace I felt during mass, and I was crying again.  We talked for several minutes and instead of a penance he said “You need to rest and let grace and peace find you.” As I left the confessional I thought again about Evie’s definition. If a miracle is when something appears that you can’t explain, then I feel like that is what I was given today. I found peace in the middle of chaos. I can’t explain it, but I know it was real.

Oddly enough, when I picked Evie up from school… she let me know that her class prayed for me because I was in there for a long time and I came out crying so they figured I must have really done something awful.  Apparently I now have all kind of “street cred” with the third grade class at Holy Angels.

Sisters

Sisters. What does that mean? I have the unique experience of being a sister and raising two little girls who are sisters.  As a child, having two sisters was a mixture of magic and mayhem. My sisters and I could create magic in our basement Barbie world where the rules were ours to make. There were also imaginary weddings using towels for veils and Necco candies for communion. There were never any grooms, but we never needed the grooms to complete the magic.  As we got older, mayhem ensued with epic battles over Forenza sweaters and gas money as we attempted to share clothes and a car. Magic and mayhem. Through all of it one truth prevails – nothing is real until I share it with my sisters.  Now we navigate the real world in our own clothes and in our own cars, but our lives are still intricately connected.  My cell phone company could attest to that.

                As we attempt to raise our own families there are endless conversations about celebrating big birthdays and small parenting victories. More talks about losing teeth and losing tempers. Candid conversations about what is best for our children---and each others---often crossing boundaries that only a sister can cross without doing irrevocable damage. We also share anxiety over health concerns, educational woes, and what is best rather than easiest. When there is news to be shared, good or bad, the sisters are called in to process it.  And when they do - it magically becomes just a little bit easier to handle or a little bit sweeter to celebrate.  This is my relationship with my sisters. I see this relationship developing in my girls. I also recognize it when I watch my cousins and friends with their sisters.

                Being a sister is serious business. This was never more apparent than when I watched my Grandma Schlater celebrate her 90^th birthday. Her children were there. Her grandchildren were there. Her great grandchildren were there.  And so was her sister, Mary. In fact, Mary never left her side. Grandma has confusing moments sometimes, but there was no confusing who Mary was and why she was there. I am not certain that Grandma understood that we were celebrating her 90^th birthday, but she knew she was there celebrating something, because Mary was next to her smiling, holding her had, and at times, barking our orders that only a sister can bark: “Nettie, put your hand down and smile. The people want a picture.” When Mary said that, Grandma looked at her and said “Well, OK” and smiled for  “the people.” She smiled for her children, grandchildren, great grandchildren – and as I watched it all happen through the lens of my camera I realized that while she smiled for us, she celebrated her birthday with her sister.  There was no mistaking it. It was magic.