my folks on my lapel

It's Christmas time again.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love this season. It's in my blood. I was born to it (Dad was Santa). I was raised in it (Mom made every Christmas wonderful). I'm happily a lifelong citizen of its spirit.

The first Christmas season without Dad, I thought I was holding up pretty well. Like I've said, memories of him are almost universally good, and the joy I feel around Christmas is indefatigable. I went about my business of shopping and wrapping and listening to my supersized playlist of holiday music on loop with light and love in my heart. And then around midnight on Christmas eve, I started to cry. And I didn't stop for two hours.

This is my first Christmas without Dad and Mom. And although Mom's Alzheimer's had long since quelled her holiday zeal, she still reveled in the pretty lights and snow and, most of all, family gathering.

Years ago (actually, many decades ago), Mom crocheted Santa pins for everyone. Every member of the family had one. Then, friends received them. Soon, they were sold at St. Luke's to raise money for the church. Then, Mom set up a craft table wherever Dad was selling his wood carved birds, and she sold the Santa pins along with other knitted goodies. I suspect there are several hundred siblings to my pin roaming the Northeastern U.S. I've worn mine every day of the holiday season every year since I was a kid. At one point recently, I glanced down at it and realized that it is a perfect encapsulation of both of my parents at the holidays. And that makes me happy and truly grateful to have been blessed with such wonderful parents.

Merry Christmas.

my backwards grief

Grief is a funny thing. Mom died two months ago, Dad two years and two months ago. In my day-to-day life, thoughts of them arise regularly. These memories range from the time immediately before their deaths to the farthest edge of my childhood horizons. Most times, my brain seems ever reasonable in its reaction. Almost Spock-like on the emotive scale. The same is true when Mom & Dad come up in conversation. I can easily talk about them -- about nearly every aspect of them -- without becoming sad. In fact, so many stories are happy that laughter isn't out of the question.

I've wondered if maybe my ability to grieve correctly is broken. I mean, Mom's only been gone a few weeks. Shouldn't sadness be the norm for me at this time? Why am I able to go about living my life with any modicum of cheer in my smile and sunshine in my heart? Am I doing it wrong?

My friend, Maria, is originally from Croatia. Even though she's lived in the U.S. for many years now, her family still follows Croatian custom closely. When her father died, it was expected that she would mourn for three years. Three years of wearing a black scarf. Three years of not attending any social events like weddings. Three years lamenting the loss.

My Mom had been gone three days, and I was back at my office. Three months will pass, and I'll have Christmas decorations adorning my home when I invite family and friends in for a holiday party. I can barely imagine how well I'll be three years from now.

Yet, I do have grief. And without fail, it catches me by surprise. It's when I'm just strolling along living my life, and an unexpected reminder pops up. Tonight, it was this note above - the message on the back of a photograph of my brother when he was an infant. Dad had written, "Little Gerry... He will hate us for this... ." Seeing Dad's handwriting pushed me off a cliff and into an ocean of grief. Even though what he wrote was funny! How does this make sense?

I always loved my father's handwriting. It was artistic, graceful, individual, carefree. It may as well have been a picture of his soul. I still have letters he wrote to me when I was in college and after I'd moved to Seattle. Some of them barely say anything at all. "Enclosed are photos of some of the latest bird carvings." "The grandkids are getting big." "We can't wait to see you at Christmas." But the elegant, sweeping script written with pen and ink was beautiful and unique. More importantly, he was beautiful and unique. And tonight, I miss him so painfully that I'm nearly drowning in tears.

Why this reaction? Why now? It's been more than two years? Shouldn't big sadness like this be reserved for Mom moments because she's so recently departed? Shouldn't Dad moments be more reserved reflections because I've had a couple more years to adjust to the idea that he's gone?

I don't get this grief thing.

happiness is...

Four schmumfy kitties all sleeping within arm's reach. Three on desktop afghans, one on an afghan-topped hammock below. Truly, I am blessed.

Of course, actually getting a photograph of all four of them together proves too challenging for me. Maybe some day.

Art by Ann Mroczenski

tchaikovsky would be proud

This is my little friend, Alia. For Christmas*, we gave her a kit of unadorned wooden nutcrackers along with a paint set. Without any direction, and with amazing determination and drive, she had completed them all in less than two days. Zoom in on this picture. They have handlebar mustaches. It's all very cool.

* We celebrated Christmas with Alia's family weekend before last. Three previous attempts had to be rescheduled for various reasons. If you're wondering, yes, it's fun to have Christmas in almost-March.

traitor

I am an American, born and raised. I married a Canadian, born, lived the first few years, then moved to America by his parents. He loves America and knows more about its history and government than most Americans I know. But he remains true to his native country, and has not (and I suspect, will not) relinquished his citizenship.

He's also a sports fan -- particularly of those sports which are integral to Canada. So, last night, when Team Canada won Olympic gold in Men's Curling, he was so excited. I was not only excited for my husband, but also for Canada to win on their home ice.

Tonight, Team Canada did it again! In a great game, they beat the U.S. in Men's Ice Hockey. I was at the store with Ted when the overtime goal was shot, and the look of thrill and pride on his face was priceless. Again, I find myself rooting for Canada, and for the same two reasons. The big difference this time is that they beat my homeland to get gold. Does that make me a traitor? No! It just means that I love my husband, and I'm happy for him.

i had an excuse

Someday, I'll fix my father's obituary. You see, like so many other people in the same situation, I had only a couple days to write it. And although he had been in ill health for many years, and the underlying fear of his eventual passing was always somewhere in my mind, I made no attempt to prepare for writing about his life when the time came.

And so, in my fresh grief, I struggled to celebrate him, the amazing person that he was, and all of his accomplishments. First, trying to include them all. Then trying to edit them to a reasonable length.* All while my head physically hurt from crying for 24 hours straight, getting 45 minutes of sleep, repeatedly questioning every decision I'd made in the previous 10 days, and realizing that two decades' worth of anticipation of death doesn't lessen the impact.

But I need to give this task more time, concentration, and effort in order to effectively right the wrongs I perpetrated in the original. And so for now, I simply say, it needs amendment. Amplification. And a thought process not pickled in sadness. I hope that day comes sometime soon.

* Some other day, when I'm not experiencing a moment of loss, I'll discuss the travesty that is being required to pay (a lot) for newspapers to run obituaries. I don't care how poorly your publishing business is going -- obituaries are a matter of public record. And everyone's life deserves to be acknowledged, whether or not their surviving family members have any money at all.

it's everywhere

The other day, I blogged about a random heart posted on a tree by the side of the road. Today, I found another.

This one, a simple heart nearly filling every inch of a regular piece of paper and stapled to a telephone pole. I parked in a nearby lot to walk over to it and take a photo, when I realized that it was at the end of Love Lane. How sweet.

I walked back to my car and was turning around to leave when I found another heart on another pole. Thinking there might be something to it, I decided to drive up Love Lane. Lo and behold, each telephone pole on the street had two or three hearts pinned to it. Both sides of the road. From one end to the other. The last house before the street ended, had a giant heart painted on it and lots of little hearts carved into the porch banisters.

I didn't take any more pictures, as it was a small neighborhood, and my parked car and camera-ready wandering might be disruptive. But it was kinda' cool.

lovely day for the beach

It's Valentine's Day. And although Ted usually works the store open to close on Sundays, he enlisted our regular employee to relieve him at noon today. So, we exchanged Valentine's cards and gifts (tomorrow is Glee viewing day), went out for lunch, ran an errand, and then headed to the beach.

The beach? In New Hampshire in February? Well, it seemed like a good idea. It hasn't snowed (and stuck) in weeks, and the sun was shining. We certainly weren't the only ones who'd thought of it. Hampton Beach was downright crowded. There was a little less traffic at North Hampton Beach, and fewer people still at Jenness, where we stopped. Lots of dogs at every location. That said, once we were walking on the compacted sand, the wind made it quite apparent that we wouldn't be staying too long.

We managed to visit with a few of the dogs as we wandered along, exchanging pleasantries with their tethered or free range owners. And I took a couple of pictures, including this tidbit of sea wall advice. But the chill drove us back to the car, where we continued North up the seacoast, enjoying the ocean, marveling at all the beautiful houses and their spectacular view, and wondering when we'd have the chance to give visitors this tour again.

We arrived home, bundled up on the couch to watch a movie, napped, and had a nice sandwich for dinner with some rice crackers. All in all, a lovely day.

love

Silly. Most people talk about sweethearts around this time of year. Husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, secret crush. But at this moment, I profess love for the company where I've worked since the summer of 2008.

finding the heart

Last weekend on the drive to Mom's house, my attention was captured by what appeared to be a broken heart fashioned from wood and mounted on a tree by the side of the road. At the time, I had a full 'to do' list, and wanted to stay on track. Onward I drove.

I found myself thinking about the display of art/affection during the week, though. So, today as I headed back home after visiting Mom, I made it a point to stop. That is, after I scoured the treeline of a tree-lined road for 20 miles before finding the right tree -- while driving in the opposite direction. I made a couple u-turns in the process. But on the day of the Big Game (and because I was in The Sticks, New Hampshire), there was no traffic with which to contend.

Upon closer inspection, I discovered messages.

"It's broken worst than you know"

"I love you"

"Thier is no distance so far apart"

"You will alway have a piece of my heart"

Heartbreak is bad for spelling and grammar. But good for art. I wonder if the beloved is aware of this installation.

P.S. Finally photos from my new camera. This occurred because today I also procured a new computer.

'night 'night

In the last seven days, I have gone to work on one day and worked a total of a bit over four hours. I'm so sick that I'll need to have a doctor's note to prove that it's OK for me to return to the office. Ted, too, has been sick this whole time. Not quite as dramatically so, but with a couple miserable days and still -- right now in his sleep -- coughing.

In that same seven days, Ted has gone to work on seven days and worked a total of around 93 hours. And tomorrow, he does his usual open-to-close shift. That's 15 hours in one day. He'll finish around 9:00pm, come home, do a quick nighttime routine, go to bed, and be up again at 3:00am to start Monday with a weekday-standard 12-14 hour day.

Despite his own illness and ridiculous work schedule, he came home today with a box of tea for me. He thought it might help me sleep (something that's been a problem this week) without adding to the pile of medications. He brings me hot compresses, bottles of water, new boxes of tissues (Puffs with lotion, which he went out and got mid-week), hot cups of water with honey that's impossible to squeeze out of a stupid bear bottle, and anything else I need while I sit swaddled in pajamas, afghans, cats, and the couch. Anytime he moves from one place to another, he asks if he can do anything for me.

Ever wonder why the line "in sickness and in health" exists in the marriage vows? I am so lucky.

unrelated

The day started with a very cold Warehouse apartment, which prompted three cats to snuggle deeply with me (the fourth has a burrow in a box of pillows and blankets). Schmoo laid impossibly on top of my feet. Woodle nestled alongside my arm. Milo was solidly pressed against my head: really, he was on my head -- but we were very warm and comfortable. After my morning routine (during which, Milo didn't move a muscle), I found myself unable to make the bed. My husband would say that wasn't strictly true. Had I asserted my position as Master/Mommy/Alpha, I could have simply moved Milo from his deeply embedded and tremendously schmumfy entrenchment in my pillows. But I just couldn't. Guess we know who the real alpha is in the house.

The day ends, and I just found on Facebook a momentous event in the love story of two of my former co-workers. On Chris's page, a Wednesday wall post from Cliff reads, "I love you Chris. Marry me tomorrow." And today, on both Chris and Cliff's pages, new photo albums of a mountaintop wedding in Colorado. I haven't talked with any involved parties, so I don't know if it was actually as spontaneous as it appears on Facebook. No matter. It's terribly romantic, either way.

Can't wait to see what tomorrow holds.

the santa pocket

At left is the adorable key chain I bought at a certain fantastic retail location before Christmas. With the push of a tiny button on the back, his lantern lights up and he gives a hearty "Ho! Ho! Ho!" How could I resist such Santa-ness? Unfortunately, one of the links couldn't hold up against my robot clock key chain (at right), which has had much more practice at weathering the battleground that is my keys (mine is the same model as the picture here, though it's pink). So, to keep Santa safe, I tucked him into the outside pocket of my purse. Some other day, I'll go into detail of the screenplay I will someday pen about Santa battling an army of pink robots with clocks on their tummies.

Years ago, my Mom crocheted a lapel decoration for everyone in the family -- a fabulous, yarn brooch of dear old St. Nick, which adorned my overcoat for the holidays. Right around New Year's Day, I removed him from said lapel and, well, tucked him into the outside pocket of my purse.

Today, while looking for something all together unrelated, I stumbled across my Santa stash. And I realized that the same side pocket of my purse also contained an open package of hearing aid batteries. They belonged to my Dad. I'd gone to pick them up to bring them to him at the hospital the day before he died. I know I should donate them to an organization that will give them to someone who really needs them. But I can't bring myself to let them go.

I love my Dad. I miss my Dad. I am blessed that thoughts of him bring me happiness, that I was by his side much of the last week of his life, that we didn't leave important things unsaid. The therapists of the world might say that I have closure. Still, the hearing aid batteries aren't leaving the Santa pocket any time soon.

day 4: fishes and birthday wishes

Ted and I went to Jumpin' Jay's for my birthday dinner tonight. This is our favorite restaurant in town. Would that we were more affluent that we could partake on occasions other than just special ones.

The food is so scrumptious! Although I missed the Wild Mushroom Risotto that's been off the menu for about a year now (we keep hoping it will come back), the roasted pear and radicchio salad did not disappoint. It never does. And pan-seared yellowfin tuna (rare) in Mandarin sesame glaze with wasabi aioli is divine with garlic mashed potatoes and shredded beets. A glass of amazingly smooth 2008 La Crema Pinot Noir was convincing enough to require a second.

Ted was very happy with both soup and entree of scallops. He wants to know if I'm willing to have multiple birthdays every year.

My broken camera made this shot challenging -- especially in the bitter breeze. But it was a must to get a picture of Jumpin' Jay's fish, complete with scarf and snow.

day 3: part 2

Milo was feeling a bit chilly. He plopped down directly between me and the keyboard, leaned his whole body up against my chest, and I wrapped a blanket around the both of us. He promptly rested his head on my arm and went to sleep. This was not a convenient position for me to do much of anything. But he was so snuggly, I couldn't help myself. It was not easy taking a picture of us (Ted was asleep). This was the best I could do with my broken camera and my arm wrapped up in blanket.

By the way, as of this entry, I've now officially posted twice as many blog entries in 2010 as I did in all of 2009. Hmm.

day 3: safe a bit longer

I didn't take down the Christmas tree today, for several reasons. When I was a kid, my parents would keep it up through my sister's and my birthdays. Why stop that tradition now? Plus, we can't put it curbside for another couple days. Why have it sitting inside undecorated? Plus, Epiphany's not until the 6th. Why not go with the 12 Days of Christmas vibe? Any more excuses needed? I think not. I like the tree, and dread the dark hole its absence will create. So, I'm clinging. I'm allowed.

My long list of chores and errands was only moderately decreased. Translation: I had a lazy holiday weekend. Ted & I went out to a movie and dinner yesterday. It felt decadent -- even though it was a matinée, and we were out of the Olive Garden before 5:00pm. It's rare we are able to have such a date. We watched another movie when we got home. The constant, if not epic, snow was conducive to such a film marathon.

Today, Ted's putting in an open-to-close shift. A mere 15 hours. He'll switch off the lights in 6 minutes and be home in 7 -- maybe 8, if the cars don't let him cross the street. Hopefully, it won't be too slippery for him. Did I mention he got ski poles for Christmas? To add stability on his commute. They pair nicely with his crampons.

remembering

In honor of Grandma Cox

Alzheimer's Diagnosis

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Thanks, Dreama, for tweeting/blogging about this.

ya' hafta' try

I've been to many concerts where the "Superstar" phenomenon takes hold of me and won't let go. Do you know of this phenomenon? It was explained by the Carpenters in the song of the same name. The sheer talent of a person wholly compensates for any lack of physical attraction one might have for the artist.

The most striking example of this for me was seeing Stevie Ray Vaughan from the third row at the Portland City Hall Auditorium in November 1989. Having been a fan of his music for a few years at that point, and not finding him particularly easy on the eyes (although he always seemed to be sharply dressed), I was a little stunned at the level of enchantment that blossomed in two short hours. I fell trulymadlydeeply in love with SRV that night. Talent oozed from every fiber of his being, and I was rapt. It's happened many times with other musicians since then -- almost always in small venues where I'm breathing their air, looking them in the eye. But never to the extent it did with Stevie Ray. I still love him. ::sigh::

Given that, it's easy to understand why Julia Roberts fell for Lyle Lovett. Listen to this song.* Seriously. It came on my iPod the other day (which, by the way, is a great way to listen to it), and reminded me of how incredible Mr. Lovett is. In the way that shuffle randomly removes some music from the docket of things I'm currently listening to, it sometimes randomly draws me into (or back into) wonderful territory. Now, I'm listening to nothing but Lyle Lovett for a while.

That's all I wanted to say for now. I'll be back later.

* For some reason, this video has embedding disabled. So you must click the link to view it.

community and family

I have loved Extreme Makeover: Home Edition from the first episode. I admit, it was my obsession with Trading Spaces that brought me to it in the first place. That said, I've been hooked ever since (and not just because Ty Pennington regularly unbuttons or removes his shirt!). Tonight's episode featured the Voisine family in New Hampshire, and so I was vested a bit more for a couple reasons.

First, Granite State pride! Second, a family who lives next door to my brother was nominated and was one of the final few families to be considered. Third, my niece, Caitlin, was one of the blue-shirted volunteers who helped with the project last fall.

In addition to watching the show itself, the local ABC affiliate created a one hour special called "Extreme Makeover: New Hampshire Builds a Dream." It highlighted the community angle, and was very interesting to watch. The actual EM:HE show was two hours long. All in all, it was wonderful to watch and left me needing only one thing (c'mon, click the link!).

On another note, I visited my parents earlier today. A long-time friend of theirs had mailed them some stuff she uncovered while organizing a few decades of recreation-related memorabilia. In addition to three pictures of my parents from 1974 (nice tie, Dad!), there was an editorial from my hometown newspaper. It is dated July 25, 1963. This may bore you to tears, but I am fascinated. So I shall transcribe.

"Man With a Challenge" by Dan A. O'Connell (Editor)

Gerald Cox, 29, earnest and affable, college-trained in the new but necessary skill of Recreation Director, arrived this week to take charge of our town's recreational needs on a full-time basis. It would be the understatement of the year to say merely that the job offers a tremendous challenge. The new Director undoubtedly knows all the basic theories, concepts, and techniques of this pioneer science. He has the advantage of practical experience in the field and has compiled an impressive record of accomplishment in other places. His future here looks good, but unless the people of this community are prepared to pitch in and help, the young man and his program are certain to come a-cropper.

Ours is a progressive town, aware of tremendous change in the making, and conscious of a need to adjust with the times to survive their impact. This awareness and consciousness has been evident for several years. Almost everyone agreed that "something should be done," but nothing ever was, mainly because no one seemed to know exactly what, when, where or how. The problem came to a head this year when people woke up to the fact that so-called juvenile delinquency spawns on adult neglect and community callousness. As a result, the annual Town Meeting in March faced up to the problem, created a Recreation Commission and authorized the employment of a qualified, full-time Recreation Director.

Although the Town Meeting action was unanimous, it should not be assumed that everyone in town has "seen the light" or goes along with the proposition, regardless of the recorded unanimity. Beneath the facade of Twentieth Century trappings and adornment, the town remains an old-fashioned New England community, fiercely and ruggedly individualistic, with inherent distrust of governmental intrusions of its early American way of life. Considerable "selling" of the need to bend with the times, when survival is of the essence, remains to be done. Young Mr. Cox has been given the ball and will be expected to streak down the field to a series of impressive touchdowns. He is on his own and will be required to make the runs without a protective wall of interference. We who wish him well can only shout encouragement from the sidelines and try to set in proper perspective the comment of curbstone quarter-backs.

It would be doing the young man no favor at this stage of the game to promise him clear sailing ahead and no hidden shoals to wreck his programs and shatter his dreams. The plain fact of the matter is that Directed Recreation Programs and Supervised Facilities have long been considered new-fangled hokum by many good citizens who persist in living in the past and refuse to believe that the wide open spaces of youth no longer exist, or are rapidly disappearing under the impact of expanding "metropolitanism." They belong to generations which have accepted and enjoyed the pleasures of modern living without considering the price that youngsters and generations unborn will have to pay. It is only human nature to assume that the whole world revolves about one's own axis. The selfishness is instinctive and unwitting.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding and misconception about the business of Directed Recreation, a terrible inclination to dismiss it as "coddling" or boondoggling" or "time-passing." Nothing could be farther from the truth! A dynamic and intelligent program of directed and supervised recreation for all ages is not a luxury or a convenience, but a civic necessity. There is much more to Gerald Cox's new job than supervising youthful athletics, encouraging arts and crafts, or baby-sitting while children play. He will be responsible for seeing that tragic mistakes do not recur in the future. Our generation is harassed by the spectacle of youngsters playing in the streets because a callous older generation has taken away their pasture playgrounds to turn a fast buck. Civilization is cursed by teen-agers loafing on street-corners because society gives them nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

Young Mr. Cox has a man-sized job staring him in the face, and a good place to start is at the beginning. He should take immediate steps to prevent a bad situation from coming immeasurably worse by having a heart-to-heart talk with the Planning and Zoning authorities. It is not enough that new real estate sub-divisions be required to provide adequate road, water, and sewerage facilities: there should be sufficient land set aside for playground areas to keep the kids off the street in an age of increasing transport speed. Next, he should try to conserve and improve and expand the playground and park area still extant in our town. They certainly do not inspire civic pride at the present time. He cannot insist, but he should suggest that the uncommitted sector of the Alexander Estate be preserved, as the good Doctor wished, for recreation, not speculation.

But, enough of telling young Mr. Cox what he should do. Even more important than a good idea in a typical New England town is the psychology of convincing people to go along. The people of this town are not Hicks and Yokels, but highly intelligent and surprisingly well read, far more so than their city slicker cousins. They resent being fast-talked, high pressured, or peddled a bill of goods. They are set in their ways, but not obstinate, and like Abraham Lincoln, will do the right as God gives them to see the right. Don't try to talk above them, or at them, but to them, man-to-man. Do this, Mr. Cox, and you'll do okay! Do otherwise, and you're a dead duck!

Many bright young brains, in the course of history, have come to town with the idea of re-making it in their own image, only to fall on their faces, and crawl away into oblivion. Many of them had good ideas, but the wrong approach. We are New Englanders and New Hampshiremen; we don't want to be made over; we relish ourselves the way God made us! All we ask of Mr. Cox or anyone is to help make us better and help us better utilize the facilities and natural wealth with which Divine Providence has endowed us. If Mr. Cox dedicates himself exclusively to doing his job well, he can certainly count on the cooperation and support of the vast majority of our townspeople. Nice to have you aboard, "Gerry"... and Good Luck!

Post-script.

My Dad was the town's Parks and Recreation Director for 28 years until his retirement. In that time, he created, implemented, and oversaw countless recreational and athletic programs, led the conversion of an old school into a community center, built a permanent staff of full-time, part-time, and volunteer recreation staff, and lobbied long and hard (and usually successfully) to save and create parks. It was he who protected the Alexander Estate mentioned in this article. That land is the ski hill I mentioned last week. My Dad rocks.

slide show

The above picture was taken just shy of 42 years ago. How can I be so certain as to its date? It was snapped in the living room of my childhood home, shortly after I was born (I'm the one sporting the swaddling wrap). Today is my 42nd birthday.

I have no great insight to share. No deep, meaningful wisdom culled from my four-plus decades on Earth. No sage advice to impart. Just a little then-and-now slide show. Above, from left to right, are my sister Cathy, and brothers Gerry, Chris, and Sean. Below, current pictures of each, in order oldest to youngest.

This is Gerry. He's lived in California for almost 30 years. He's an adaptive physical education teacher, and he climbs anything vertical (hence the rock in the background). He's game to try anything -- surfing, cycling, astronomy, geocaching, drumming, spelunking... you name it, and if he hasn't already tried it, he probably will.


This is Chris. He bought the house next door to the one we grew up in, and has been there making extensive home improvements and raising a family ever since. He's a database administrator for a truly massive corporation, and spends his spare time as a Boy Scout leader and watching any vehicle that comfortably goes 200 miles per hour. He and Shirley will celebrate their 21st anniversary this summer.


This is Sean. Also one who stayed relatively close to home (a mere five miles away from the homestead), he is a science/health teacher and athletic trainer for a rival high school (though he still has the good conscience to be conflicted when they play our alma mater). His kids keep him elbow deep in activities like camping, maintaining their personal wildlife preserve, and rooting on the Red Sox and Patriots. He and Debbi celebrated their 25th anniversary last summer with an Alaskan adventure.


This is Cathy. She's the first in the family with two kids in college and the third on the cusp. Cathy lives a bit further from home base, in a house that bears remarkable resemblance to our Grandma Cox's house (right down to the attic accessed through a miniature door in a bedroom, and a cold shed behind the kitchen). She manages a large call center for an insurance company, and is very involved in her church community which, of late, is working to acclimate several families of Congolese refugees to life in very cold New Hampshire. Cathy and Tim will celebrate their 23rd anniversary this year.


Words can't really describe how much I love these people. And not just because their my siblings and I'm obligated to say that. I guess the difference is that I not only love them, I really like them.

With that, I need to do some work for the store before I go to bed. Happy birthday to me. One more shot. Wasn't I cute?