Thanks Giving, Giving Thanks

If you feed them, they will come.

While the statement makes me smile considering the happiness of my guys is in direct proportion to the contents of our pantry, a few years ago it became all the more meaningful as my husband and I prepared to host Thanksgiving for both sides of our family. It was a large gathering, which meant dining al fresco with long tables set with platters of food, a fire pit crackling nearby, an area designated for cornhole, and a backdrop of trees showcasing leaves of brilliant orange, red and yellow.

The day before Thanksgiving they began arriving from near and far, from Illinois, Virginia, Maryland, South Carolina, and Georgia. They came, our brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, all representing a variety of professions: engineers, accountants, businessmen, a teacher, an information specialist, a personal trainer, a writer. Some were students in middle school, one was a high school senior, several were in college, and a few had recently graduated and had entered the work force. There was a beautiful boy with autism, a Papa who was 87 years old and who brought a homemade cherry pie, a Nonno who would soon get a brand-new knee, and a Nonna who brought her Italian heritage into this very American holiday by offering espresso with the pumpkin pie.

That was a lot of family, which meant a lot of chaos. While we are a cohesive group, we are still individuals with ideas, passions, and opinions; in other words, we do not agree on everything and, in fact, often have polar viewpoints on issues dealing with religion, politics, and world affairs. We are loud, opinionated, loving, and competitive, and not unlike families everywhere, it is not always perfect.

And yet, on that day it was, and fast forward a few years, it still is. Thanksgiving reminds us of this. In all the running around we do to live our lives, and despite all those things that make life messy and chaotic with work, politics, doctor’s appointments, sports practices, exams, and job interviews, it’s nice to have a day which the only thing that matters is sitting down and breaking bread together.

This year our gathering will be a little smaller, but again we are preparing hearth and home. We will pull out board games and wash guest towels and bake pies; we will keep fingers crossed for good weather and pray for sons driving home; and we will print out our family’s Thanksgiving prayer for everyone to read aloud. It is a special prayer, written by Lino Villacha, and my mother became pen pals with Lino through her best friend who was, for many years, a missionary in Brazil. Lino’s poem, Obrigado Senhor, is a prayer thanking God for his many blessings—and when you read his words in light of the fact that he suffered with leprosy and lived in poverty, it puts things in perspective.

In his poem, Lino thanks God for healthy limbs when so many are crippled; for a voice that sings when many are mute; for hands that work when so many have to beg; and for a home to return to when so many don’t know where they are going. And as we read the poem reminding us to celebrate what we have instead of focusing on what we do not, it is the last two lines which capture the essence of Thanksgiving: It is wonderful, Lord, to have so little to ask/And so much to be thankful for.

To which the only response for all of us holding hands around the table this Thanksgiving will be a heartfelt and very humble, Amen.

Tales from the (Plague) Crypt: A Lake Como Halloween Story

Once Upon a Time in Lake Como (just two weeks ago), under a half-moon sky when it was closer to midnight than not, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria were walking back to the hotel after a lovely dinner. They were lagging behind the rest of the group who, because of the lateness of the hour and a chill in the air, had hurried on ahead.

But Belinda, Maria, and Wendy lagged.

Suddenly, Belinda spied an illuminated church steeple up a side street and wanted to go check it out, sure that it was the same steeple she had heard earlier from the hotel rooftop (the chimes playing Ave Maria). They could not tell how far away the church was, and a quick Google search simply confused matters, so the three of them decided to walk uphill on that side street with the hope the church was nearby.

Other than an occasional car or motorbike, the streets were deserted; other than their echoing footsteps, it was deathly quiet.

And then things got confusing because they rounded a corner and …  WHERE WAS THE STEEPLE? They could no longer see it, even as they continued to follow the street. But they had seen it! Bright and tall and unmistakable. Still, the church steeple had completely disappeared from view.

Then, a few blocks ahead, they saw part of an old building that maybe was the church? As they drew nearer, Maria stopped in the middle of the road.

“Oh my gosh! I know what that is. It is a chapel built to commemorate those that died during the plague,” she whispered.

And she was right. The plaque about the plague read: CHAPEL OF THE PLAGUE DEAD, 1630

It was a tiny, one-room chapel, built of ancient stone. The entrance was a locked gate which offered a view of the offerings on the altar and a single flickering candle. It was a little spooky because … the PLAGUE! And the deserted street! And how did that flickering candle get in there?

Wendy and Maria were discussing all this when they realized Belinda was no longer with them.

WHERE WAS BELINDA?!

“Belinda, where are you?” they hissed. And because of the ancient stone streets and ancient stone walls and a 1630 Plague Chapel that provided a spooky echo, it was a very loud hiss.

“I’m up here,” Belinda hissed back. “I thought I’d run up this hill to see if the church is here.”

Wendy and Maria scrambled to catch up. Belinda was not going alone.

They walked uphill, alongside a cemetery behind a low, stone wall. The tombstones and crypts cast long shadows and, imagining all the plague victims buried there, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria picked up their pace.

And found the church! And a tiny grotto with a statue of the Virgin Mary!

But still no steeple.

Whatever. Belinda and Maria paused to pray a Hail Mary (in Italian) while Wendy (the non-Catholic) waited patiently. Truthfully, it was a very hurried prayer because, leaning against the front of the church and illuminated by a single streetlight, was a man. And given the deserted streets and lateness of the hour, a very suspicious-looking man.

“Drug dealer,” said Belinda.

“Doesn’t look good,” said Maria.

“I think we should get back,” said Wendy, the wisest of the three.

So, they walked back down the hill, past the cemetery, past the Plague Chapel, and back to the hotel where they discovered more than one text asking: WHERE ARE YOU??????!!!!!

Well, not in bed. Instead, Belinda, Wendy, and Maria took the hotel elevator to the rooftop. They had to see for themselves.

The church steeple.

It really did exist.

CHAPEL OF THE PLAGUE DEAD, 1630

(P.S. For those wondering … earlier, Maria mistakenly identified the church as the Church of St. Nicholas when it was, in fact, the Church of San Leonardo. She was right about the Plague Chapel but wrong about the church name. She was 50% right and 50% wrong, but still receives an A- because she is a big supporter of Funny Math.)

Speak to Me Sunday: There, and Here

 Last night I was sitting in Mass thinking how, two weeks ago, we were in Annecy (France), having just arrived as the church bells in town were ringing. And just last Sunday, we were in Munich (Germany) where we spent a lovely afternoon visiting the various churches near the Marienplatz. On both occasions I was struck by a sense of well-being.

That same feeling returned last night as I sat before Mass reflecting on our trip. I have received numerous texts and messages asking about the trip, how it went and what we saw, what was my favorite place or what we had purchased, but I find it hard to put two weeks of adventure (in which we did a LOT) into a coherent response. Where to begin?

And so, I will start with the churches.

While this trip to Alpine Europe was not a pilgrimage, in many ways it felt like one as we visited countless cathedrals, churches and chapels, all surrounded by majestic Alps and built for the glory of God, as places of refuge, and as visual reminders of a heavenly realm. Then, factor in all the preparation prior to the trip (the research on St. James Cathedral and the Mariahilf painting), all the guided tours sharing information about Cathedral architecture, paintings, and sculptures, as well as all the saints and martyrs nestled in niches and grottos or adorning altars. There was even a blessed few minutes spent in an Adoration Chapel at St. Peter’s Abbey in Salzburg, (something we just stumbled upon when we saw a large wooden door, opened it, and entered into the calmness of God’s presence), and a midnight walk in Lake Como to the church steeple we saw in the distance (which turned out to be the Basilica of St. Nicholas).  

All this to say, during our travels it was impossible to not feel the presence of God, and so in every cathedral, church, and chapel we entered, I lit a candle. Enveloped in the circle of light, with smoke drifting heavenward, my prayer was always the same: Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

Over and over again I prayed just those words, gratitude being the overriding emotion that spilled from a cup that was already overfilled.

Thank you, God. Thank you thank you THANK YOU for safety and wholeness, because despite a million and one things that could have gone wrong—missed flights, lost luggage, illness, accident, misplaced passports, bad weather—everything was going smoothly; for blind faith that I could get everyone from here, to there, and back home again; for the courage to leave behind loved ones and head out of the familiar and into the unknown, real and imagined; for the miraculous fact that I was in the Alps lighting a candle in a chapel, church, or cathedral.

So last night, sitting before the altar just before Mass began, my prayer was the same as it had been in Annecy, or Bellagio, or Innsbruck, or Salzburg.

Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU.

Because the world is a beautiful place.

Because we were there, 

and now we are here.

Amen.

Speak to Me Sunday: Lessons from a Nun

Last week we hosted Sister Gaudiosa, a nun from Tanzania, in our home. This was her fifth visit with us and, coming on the heels of headlines involving school shootings, assassinations, rioting, and hateful rhetoric, I was craving serenity. And as always, I found that with Sister.

We spent the first evening talking, on the back deck, then at the kitchen table, finally moving to the family room. Sister told us about her work with disabled adults. Every day she provides the basic necessities of bathing, feeding, dressing. She told us stories of the residents—the woman who has to have a radio with her at all times; the man who eats so fast that they cut his food into tiny pieces so he will not choke. It is not an easy job, and many of the residents are not even aware of her presence, but she spoke of them with such love and tenderness.

And she spoke with gratitude. This is one thing I had forgotten about Sister, how she walks through the world with a grateful heart. She says “God is good” and “thank you” so often that we start thinking like that. Yes! Thank you! YES! God IS good!

As in past visits, we had made plans for the week, the first being a day trip to the University of Georgia.

When Sister first met Timothy, he was just three years old. Over the years, through letters, photos, and visits, she has watched him grow into a young man. But she had yet to see College Timothy, so we drove to Athens for the day where Timothy and two of his housemates greeted us, lined up like the von Trapp children, freshly showered and beaming. (And the house was spotless.) Timothy gave us a campus tour, we ate lunch at Bolton so Sister could experience a college dining hall, and we visited the Catholic Center. She was very impressed with Sanford Stadium.

We also visited my sister in Columbia who fed us a delicious lunch and taught us how to make beaded pens. Sister loved the colorful beads, and I loved seeing them, two sisters, seated side-by-side at the dining room table, one biological and one just as dear. Sister left Columbia with over twenty pens to hand out to her fellow sisters back at the convent.

One afternoon Joe was watching golf and Sister wanted to know about the game. He explained the basics and the next day we took her to Putt-Putt.

When we got out of the car, she was excited to see Africa so well represented: an elephant (tembo), a giraffe (twiga), and a hippo (kiboko)! She wanted to take photos to send home to Tanzania. Then, because we did not want her to think that a round of golf always includes fun animals and waterfalls, we explained that this was PRETEND golf, that Joe played REAL golf. And right there, on the FIRST hole, Sister made a hole-in-one!

Oh, how she laughed!

(An aside: I also made a hole-in-one on that very same hole. And Joe, who plays REAL golf, made it in two.)

When we finished playing, we noticed a large group of disabled adults who were sitting under the patio waiting for their caretakers. Sister walked right in their midst and boldy, yet humbly, stood there with a smile. “Hello!” she said quietly. It was a beautiful thing to see, this way of being bold in a humble way. One by one, everyone perked up. A few of the adults waved, or responded verbally, and the caretakers came forward to talk to Sister.

I love witnessing how people respond to Sister. For some, the response comes from a shared faith. For others, it is a curiosity. But what I genuinely love is the response from those who are not Catholic, or who do not belong to any faith, but who will still recognize her outward expression of faith and are moved by it, this “something” that they cannot explain. And it brings out “something” in them that they cannot name. I witnessed this when we drove to Athens and stopped at a gas station where, inside, were men playing on video poker machines. They all looked up when we walked in. Instantly, one sat up straighter, one smiled, and another one actually tipped his hat.

The week went by so quickly. We stayed busy during the day, and in the evening we talked and watched two movies: Hidden Figures (the true story of three African-American women who were essential to the success of early spaceflight at NASA) and The Way (the story of a grieving father making a pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago while carrying the cremated remains of his son). She loved both movies and wrote them down for the next time the sisters at the convent have a movie night.

On the morning of Sister’s departure, I drove her to the airport for her early morning flight. It was very dark on Bobby Jones Expressway. There were no other cars around. And because the world was still sleeping, we were taking quietly. Sister led us in prayer. As I drove, I realized that I could not see beyond the beam of the headlights. If I thought too hard about it, it would have been scary, but I trusted that as I moved forward in the darkness the headlights would reveal the road ahead.

And that is what Sister taught me this week. Having arrived in the midst of political, social, religious, and cultural upheaval emblazoned across the headlines, her presence reminded me that if you surround yourself with what is good, pure, brave, and humble, if you are grateful, if you walk by the light of God, carry it with you and allow it to be your guide, then not only does the world where you are standing becomes a brighter place, but you can light the way for others who come into your path.  

Verso l'alto

Hanging on our refrigerator is a prayer card with a photo taken in 1925 of (as of today!) St. Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain. Written across the top are the words Verso l’alto, which translated literally means towards the heights. Those words have become a rallying cry of what it means to walk on this earth while striving to reach the summit of eternal life.

This past August, we visited a Medieval Cathedral and Abbey in Dunfermline, Scotland. As I wandered around inside, my gaze kept shifting upwards: to the crucifix, the ceiling, the beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated by the early morning sunlight. Even outside I kept looking up: to the spires, the bell tower, the enormous wooden doors. 

So much about the architecture of a church is about that upward movement: the vaulted ceilings, towering columns, pointed arches, tall candlesticks, raised altar area, and hanging crucifix. All of it is meant to draw our eyes upward.

The rituals of Mass also direct our eyes heavenward: the Book of Gospels is lifted on high, incense curls toward the heavens, candle smoke drifts heavenward, the consecrated host is raised, and even our voices are elevated in praise and prayer.

This is why verso l’alto are words to live by. On one hand they can refer to the physical act of climbing toward heaven, on a deeper level they refer to what we are doing while climbing: who we are as children of God; how we act, forgive, live our faith, help the sick, love our neighbor. All the things we need to do in order to find meaning and purpose on our climb. 

Today, just in time for the canonization ceremony in Rome, there are now two prayer cards on our refrigerator: one of Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain, and one of St. Giorgio Frassati standing on top of a mountain.

A reminder to keep striving.

Verso l’alto.

Writing the Next Chapter

 In early January 1988 Joe packed up his black Nissan 200SX (a new purchase befitting a recent college graduate with a job offer) and took I-95 south towards Augusta, Georgia. While he had job offers from several companies during his senior year at Penn State, a generous offer from SRS, as well as the presence of numerous golf courses within a 50-mile radius, helped him make the decision to move south.

Joe arrived in Augusta without knowing a single person. He signed a lease on a 2-bedroom apartment just off Washington Road. His apartment,14P, was on the second floor, and he furnished it with items passed down from his parents. In his closet were five white dress shirts (one for each day of the week) and on his dining room wall hung a professional dart board worthy of any pub. With his first paycheck he purchased a state-of-the-art stereo system. He worked during the week and played golf on Saturdays, after which he went straight from the golf course to evening Mass at St. Teresa of Avila Catholic Church (still wearing his golf clothes).

 After one year of working (and golfing), in November he purchased a ticket for a spaghetti supper at St. Teresa’s, which is where we met. We dated six months, got engaged, and six months later (exactly one year from our first date) we married in that very same church. Just before our wedding, we closed on a tiny patio home … our first mortgage.

Over the years his work continued at SRS; there was still the occasional golf game, but not as often because our family was growing. One son, then two, then three. And with a growing family came the need for a bigger home. On May 22, 1998, we sat with lawyers and realtors around a huge conference table and reviewed contracts and transferred funds and signed on the dotted line, after which we took the boys to McDonald's to celebrate the fact that we had just bought a house, the one in which we still live in today.

Years went by, and life was full of responsibilities: Catholic school, mortgage payments, house repairs, car loans, college tuitions. Joe continued his 45-minute daily commute, waking up at 4:30 am (two hours before the rest of us) and changing in the closet so as not to wake me up. At separate times during the ensuing years our sons had summer internships out at the site, and Joe loved driving in with his sons.

When the older boys were in grade school, Joe was promoted to Program Manager and started travelling for work—to Oak Ridge, Kansas City, Albuquerque, Los Alamos, and Livermore. He lived by a self-imposed code: book your travel, prepare your slides, and arrive on-time (or early)! Over the years he boarded over 1400 flights, using the same carry-on which, today, has one wonky wheel and one non-turning wheel. All offers to replace it have been turned down because that bag has become a badge of honor for him. Joe still had that carry-on when, in 2021, he achieved One Million Miler Status with Delta.

Thirty-seven years of working and travelling. Of occasionally bringing us with him on his trips (never complaining that while we explored he had to work). Of sacrificing to provide for our family.

But if you know Joe, then you know he is also a planner, and he has worked and planned and saved so that he could circle the month and year of his retirement: August 2025.

This year. This month.

Today.

The weeks and days leading up to this moment have been celebratory: a farewell luncheon, emails and cards with well-wishes and funny stories, and our 9-day trip to Scotland. But there have also been moments of nostalgia, accompanied by the harsh reality that Tempus fugit; however, the absolutely wonderful thing is that this is not the end of a chapter, but the start of a new one. Yes, the blank pages may seem daunting, and we will have to find our new normal, but we are incredibly grateful for the chance to branch out, try new things, travel more, and in Joe’s case, cheer for the Nittany Lions, build his dream home, and play golf during the week.

Also, he is looking forward to staying up late and NOT having to get up early.

In a farewell email to his colleagues at SRS and across all the sites, Joe ended with these words:

I will leave you with one recommendation. Find your World to Rule.

Maybe it’s as the W80-4 LEP Program lead, or the 1K conical polishing operator, or the Receipt Inspection engineer, or a Sunday school teacher, or a Habitat for Humanity volunteer.

Take ownership, and Rule your World. Best wishes!

I think these are words to live by as we write this new chapter of our lives. Thank you, Joey, for all your hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. Sleep late tomorrow. You deserve it. 

All my love,

Bia

Going, Not Going

Going up: New windows. It was time. Every single window is being replaced in our house and, as you can imagine, chaos reigns supreme. Banging, pounding, hammering. Vacuuming. I am holed up in our family room—the one room where windows do NOT need replacing (only because those were replaced post hurricane).

Going: To Scotland. This is meant to be Joe’s retirement trip—all those golf courses in Scotland called his name whereas Jamie Fraser called mine. Ha!

Not going: At least not this month. Originally, Joe had planned to retire this week, but the Powers that Be convinced him to stay until the end of August. So, what was supposed to be Retirement then Trip, is now Trip then Retirement.

Not going: Me, to the bathroom. With a person at every single window, I cannot GO. This may turn into an issue.

And on that note, I leave you with this because it pretty much goes with all the above ...

Speak to Me Sunday: Write Me a Poem

His name was Cameron.

Nestled among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, his booth had a quietness about it.

A chair and table. An honest-to-goodness typewriter. A banner that read: I’ll write you a poem!

How, I ask, could I not be intrigued?

And so, I let him write me a poem.

At first, he sat with his fingers poised over the keyboard, contemplating our conversation about writing and poetry and love of travel. When he began to type, among the market noises of conversation, laughter, and a musician with a microphone, there was the staccato tapping of an honest-to-goodness typewriter.

Later, when he handed me the finished poem, I recognized the vulnerability of having a stranger read something you had just written, and I respected him for it; there is also vulnerability in having a writer watching you read it.

But that is what poetry does, it pulls you out of yourself, and there was an awareness about his finished poem, an intuitiveness because it was so … me.

We had not talked about my love of books, but his poem mentioned me as both a reader and a writer. I did not tell him about my two-shoebox-full postcard collection, or that I use postcards as travel journals, but he somehow knew. I did not mention that given a choice between the beach or mountains I would pick mountains every single time, and yet it was in the mountains his poem placed me.

But that is another thing poetry does, it creates magic. For there, among vendors selling grilled kebabs and beaded pens and farm-grown vegetables, I found a poet.

His name was Cameron.

And he wrote me a poem.

my poem

A View on Perspective

Do you know what I find discouraging? There is no perspective anymore. As a society, we are spoon-fed by the media and the stories written and images projected only offer a telescopic view of what is America. And what is even more discouraging is that the rest of the world is offered this same narrow view and thinks, “That is America.”

But it is not.

According to the latest statistics (2024), there are 340 million people living in the United States.

According to the latest statistics (2019), there are 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States.

Every night Headline News claims that the United States is in a crisis and that political, social, and economic division is ripping the country apart,

that systemic racism is rampant in all levels of our society,

or that every city is plagued by riots and civil unrest and looting.

But chances are, despite all these things, you listen to news anchors, watch the news clips, and think, "That's not my experience. That is not my country, or my city. That is not me."

Because most of the 19,500 incorporated cities, towns, and villages in the United States are NOT Chicago, Seattle, Los Angeles, or New York City. 

Because most of the 340 million people living in the United States are citizens who work side by side, play together at recess, socialize at parties, and worship at churches, synagogues, temples, or mosques. They rebuild each other’s houses after a hurricane, bring food to a neighbor, volunteer at homeless shelters. And they do all this despite differences in economic, social, political, racial, or religious differences. 

This does not mean that problems should not be acknowledged and that we should not step forward to be part of a collective change. As citizens, we carry the responsibility to not only promote the ideals of our country, but to remind each other (and the world) that we are not defined by large inner cities, strident politicians, famous movie stars, or media news outlets.

We are the “rest of the story.” The one not told.

Ultimately, we are all imperfect parts that make up the whole, but focus through a telescopic lens on the former and you lose sight of the latter—a country which covers 3.8 million square miles, its land as varied, complex, colorful, and complicated as its people. 

This is America, from sea to shining sea.

Holy Saturday: Come to the Quiet

On March 27, 2020 our family gathered around the television to watch Pope Francis give an Urbi et Orbi blessing. Translated from Latin (to the city [of Rome] and to the world) this blessing is usually given on three occasions: when a pope is elected Successor of Peter, at Christmas, and at Easter. On this date, however, the Pope delivered an extraordinary blessing as he prayed for an end to a pandemic that had brought the world to its knees.

That night it was raining in Rome. We watched the Pope walk to the sagrato of St Peter’s Basilica and, facing an empty square, addressed the world. It was hauntingly moving—St. Peter’s Square, glistening in the evening rain, and a solitary figure calling the world to prayer. His was a lone voice, echoing throughout the quiet piazza. After the blessing, the Pope then spent time before the Blessed Sacrament.

And there was silence in Rome. Silence from our television. Silence in our home.

It was a moment that profoundly moved me.

We live in a noisy world. A busy world. There are jobs to do, problems to solve, goals to reach, children to raise; there is sickness, unemployment, and doubt. There is worry and fear.  

And yet, it is in the midst of all this—the problems of the world—that God whispers, “Come to the quiet.”

Recently I watched the movie Paul, Apostle of Christ. There is a scene in the movie of total bedlam—Rome is burning, Paul is imprisoned, the Christians are being persecuted, killed, or thrown into Nero's Circus, and Luke and the Christians are debating whether to flee Rome, stay and minister, or take up arms and fight back. Then Luke, who stands strong on his belief in front of others but privately expresses his doubts to Paul, reminds them that Christ's love. "We live in the world,” he says. “But we do not wage war as the world does. Peace be with you."

There among the fires, fear, indecision, death and agony, the early Christians found the quiet and, subsequently, God’s peace. They may have had to dig through the rubble and roll aside the stones of fear, doubt, loss, and feelings of abandonment, but the only way they could move forward was to seek the silence and find God’s peace.

As humans we don’t always do what is best for us: we like to complain about our busy lives even as we pencil in another event on the calendar; we feel burdened, and then add to that burden by doing unnecessary tasks; we allow ourselves to get so caught up in the noise and confusion that we become part of it. What to do?

“Come to the quiet,” God whispers.

It sounds simple, but sometimes the way to find silence is to carve it out for yourself—through prayer, a walk in the woods, staying home—and allow yourself to be cocooned in God’s gift of silence. Stillness. And in that silence, removed from things of the world, you will find the gifts of hope, faith, peace, fortitude.

Such blessings, from a little silence.

something, nothing at all

i can sing a silly song

of sixpence

or croon a lullaby

ignoring high notes

or really low ones

half mindful of sharps and flats

 

i can dance a dance

of two-step or four-square

with someone

or no one at all

twirling and twisting to a rhythm

or the drumming of my heart

 

i can draw a drawing

with ink on parchment

or do a pencil sketch

color curlicues of flowers

or starry starry nights

with crayola crayons

 

i can weave a tapestry of words

long sentence-threads

climbing and looping

into paragraphs and pages

essays and stories

this poem

 

i can do many things

but no thing well

 

i’m a songbird in my mind

a ballerina in my head

caravaggio stirs my soul

and shakespeare my thoughts

a jill of all trades

master of none

*from the files of very bad poetry by bia

Happy Birthday to the Bambino on His 21st Birthday

Today, my bambino turns 21. I should probably stop calling Timothy “my bambino” but I’m the mom and I can do what I want😉; besides, how is it even possible that I am a mom to a 21-year-old?

So. Twenty-one. I could write an introspective post on what a mature, responsible young man he has turned out to be. Or that he is still holding a 4.0 grade point average, all while being involved in campus activities, the Catholic Center, and intramural sports. Or how he keeps us entertained, knows everything there is to know about cars, and would like to meet the guys from Top Gear. I could also mention that he does NOT like to read fiction (a definite flaw in an otherwise stellar young man) but you know that already.

What I really want to talk about is Timothy, my Travel Buddy. He may be Joe’s Sports Buddy, but he is my very own Travel Buddy. Whenever we accompany Joe on one of his work trips—Washington DC, Kansas City, California, etc.—Timothy and I are on our own while Joe attends meetings. We take the subway into DC, the train into San Francisco, and a rental car through the serpentine roads of Lake Tahoe. We map out our days, plan our meals, and look for adventure. He (begrudgingly) takes a selfie of the two of us. He has excellent navigation and map skills.

He is also a good sport because in his role as Travel Buddy he has been dragged to many an art museum—ALL the art museums in Washington DC, the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City (this one TWICE), the outdoor sculpture garden in New Orleans, the High Museum in Atlanta, and many, many more. Excluding myself, he has probably been to more art museums than anyone else in the family. See? A good sport. Of course, each visit comes with assurances of lunch, a souvenir (usually a Lego), and a promise that we will leave at a predetermined time. 

And yes, he groans and he moans and he complains but we manage to have fun ... especially with modern art because it makes us laugh. That red triangle on canvas? A piece of pizza! That rope sculpture? A brownie! When he is not associating artwork with food, Timothy is the most articulate art critic and uses words such as stupid, dumb, boring, and idiotic. 

All this to say that I love my Travel Buddy, whether or not he loves art museums.

So, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Timothy!