Mother's Day week

It's two days after Mother's Day and I'm still smiling.

On Sunday, my daughter Miranda and her boyfriend, Tony, treated me to brunch at Hash House a Go Go, one crazy Chicago restaurant. The conversation, rapport, the unusual menu (a BLT Bloody Mary?)--all gifts to this grateful mom. And later that day, my daughter Dana called me from California for a great chat.

Many are the gifts and challenges of motherhood, and I thank God for them all. (I can't honestly say I was real thankful in the midst of the challenges, but such is my perspective now.)

This week I'm also thankful for my mother, Ethelyn Heitman Rossen, who would have been 85 last Saturday. I cherish the 12 Mother's Days we shared as moms together.

The word for 2015

Last month--which I think of as, say, November--one of my favorite columnists in the Chicago Tribune encouraged readers to do a different take on New Year's resolutions. Mary Schmich passed along an idea from one of her readers to adopt a word for the year. And you have until January 31 to change your mind and pick a different word.

Being a wordsmith, I was naturally taken with the challenge.

My first idea was confidence, my supply of which I sometimes let get depleted. I also thought of cherish, loving and appreciating my family and friends (my husband, by the way, shows me every day that he cherishes me, and I'm so grateful).

I chose instead the word order, which has a remarkable number of definitions. Bringing order to cluttered parts of my home. Putting my affairs in order, not before imminent death but so that I can live better. Doing things in the proper order--at work, in building relationships, in setting priorities, in tackling projects. Being a more active and prayerful member of Daughters of the King, a lay order in the Episcopal Church.

A couple of weeks later, I participated in a workshop on basic presentation skills. We had the delightful experience of watching ourselves on video, and I could not believe how serious I came across. Yikes. It became a priority to remedy that during the balance of the workshop.

The next day, Ernie Banks died. He was my childhood--and now adulthood--idol. Mr. Cub was my favorite, with his positive outlook, delicate but strong grip on the baseball bat, and fancy footwork at first base. My dad and I would always sit in the section directly in line with first base because of him. He was sunshine on a warm summer's day at Wrigley Field.

So I changed my word for 2015. It is smile.

Photos in gallery

Due to technical difficulties beyond my control or knowledge, I was unable to post the photos. They'll be in the Photo Gallery section of my website at www.wordsmithbetsy.com.

Saints alive

As the thermometer drops to astonishing lows for mid-November, I share with you, in my next post, some final fall photos taken two weeks ago.

 

This month also includes what is turning out to be one of my favorite combos of holidays: Halloween/All Saints' Day/All Souls' Day. From the joy of dressing up (or greeting trick-or-treaters and remembering your own childhood), to the celebration of our connection with believers through time and geography, to the always-welcome Thanksgiving, November has gone up several pegs this year.

 

All Saints' Day, which celebrates the officially canonized and folks like you and me, is November 1 but in many churches was "moved" to be observed Sunday, November 2. The next day we remembered the saints no longer with us on earth, who this year were joined by my brother-in-law, Dave Burgwald, and my friend Nancy Milnes.

 

I rejoice in the hymns of these holidays, especially "For All the Saints." Beginning with the opening downbeat on the organ ("bahm" is my interpretation thereof), I rejoice in its message of the communion of the saints. I'll close with verses 1 and 4 of the 11 written by Anglican Bishop William W. How in 1864:

[bahm] For all the saints, who from their labors rest,

who thee by faith before the world confessed,

thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

 

[bahm] O blest communion, fellowship divine!

We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;

yet all are one in thee, for all are thine.

Alleluia, Alleluia!

Fall in love

People choose various ways to mark the end of summer. August 31st. Labor Day. The first cool morning. The autumnal equinox--which this year was September 22 at 9:29 p.m. CT. (Who knew? Well, obviously, scientists, but I had no idea it was so late in the day.)

For me, another way summer concludes is the end of Major League Baseball's regular season, which is this coming weekend. This weekend will also be the end of Wrigley Field as we know and love it; a jumbotron much bigger than the scoreboard will be installed in the off season. Don't get me started.

The change of seasons is one of the joys of living in the Midwest. And fall is my favorite season, by far. Here are its credentials for that honor:

• The anniversary of when Bob proposed to me
• Sweater weather
• The start of school (even though it's been a few decades since the #1 Rule of Education was violated: "School shall begin on the day after Labor Day--every year")
• The changing leaves, especially one stunning maple tree on Flossmoor Road
• The slanting afternoon sunlight
• The last two of course lead to the next: marvelous photo opportunities
• Thanksgiving
• A cornucopia of birthdays in our family, from late September through October

Soon I'll be uploading fall photos, as I learn the ropes of my delightful new camera. I hope you enjoy them.

Have a blessed autumn.

A nod to bobbleheads

It's true confessions time.

 

I am rather (that is, very) hooked on bobbleheads. We have nine in our collection and are poised to hit the decade mark this weekend.

 

On Friday, August 8, I went to the Cubs game and received the First Night Game bobblehead, celebrating that historic day, August 8, 1988, when the lights went on at Wrigley Field. Rick Sutcliffe was the starting pitcher that day, so that's who is on the bobblehead, pictured above.

 

The photo demonstrates how far bobblehead technology has advanced. Note that the Chris Sale bobblehead (acquired earlier this season at a White Sox-Yankees game) truly captures his arms-and-legs-akimbo pitching motion and scraggly beard. Now look at Ryne Sandberg in the middle, a bobblehead I acquired many years ago. About the only resemblance to the Hall of Famer is the hair color. It looks like a cross between a kewpie doll and Bruce Banner shortly before he transformed into the Hulk.

 

On balance, I'm at peace with my obsession. It could be worse. I could collect those life-size Fathead wall graphics.

Our founding mothers

On this, Independence Day weekend, I make my traditional observations:

• This is a wonderful country, and I'm proud to be an American.
• I really don't like firecrackers.
• Oh, say, how I wish "America, the Beautiful" was our national anthem.

Today I add a fourth observation. It's one that I've always suspected but has been made clear by Founding Mothers: The Women Who Raised Our Nation by Cokie Roberts, which I started reading this weekend:

• The women behind our founding fathers were remarkable and, with the possible exception of Abigail Adams, have not been given their appropriate place in history.

 
The first of these women who took multitasking to another planet is Eliza Lucas Pinckney, who practically ran the colony of South Carolina. She was in charge of a plantation for her father off in Antigua and later as a young widow, developed the indigo crop in the colony for international trade, ran a school, and, of course, raised children (her two sons fought in the Revolutionary War, served in state politics, and were key figures of the young nation).
 
Mercy Otis Warren was an influential writer for the cause of independence through her poems, personal letters, pamphlets, and plays (even though theater was banned in her native Boston).
 
Deborah Franklin wasn't just the women behind a founding father; she took care of much of his ventures such as the postal service when he was in London representing Pennsylvania. His presence there brought ridicule and threat to her and her Philadelphia household after British measures such as the Stamp Act. But this is the clincher: his second term in England was to be seven months, but he decided to stay 10 years and lived with another woman and her daughter.
 
I come by my patriotism honestly, as my parents named me after Betsy Ross (that's my real first name, not Elizabeth). I choose to believe the accounts about her creating the first American flag and honor her work to create a vital symbol of the new nation. And I've long made peace with the kidding of my childhood. When I went to college, it was a conversation opener for my rather shy self. I'll never forget the equally shy Purdue engineer at a mixer who said quietly, "Betsy Rossen. I'll have to remember that and flag you down."