Day 24: On Turning 42

this is me, giving myself
a scolding look. Notice the one white stripe,
the only place the sunscreen actually landed.

I keep reading these articles about being 42 and honestly, they're enough to make you cry (my friend Mindy and I often do just that after reading about our body's betrayals that are yet to come). Today I am suffering a terrible sun burn.I never used to burn; rather, I'd turn a golden brown almost as soon as the season's change. That got me thinking about aging and the ways it's both changing and strengthening me. There's something wistful, but freeing about being newly in my 40s. Using Billy Collins "On Turning 10" as my mentor text for today, I wrote about Turning 42.



On Turning 42

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm turning a corner towards something,
though I'm not sure if it's a welcome direction. 
Am I just lost, like usual? Or am I finding my way towards something?
It's a kind of liberation of the spirit, 
but also a weird limiting of the body, 
a surging of the soul. 

You tell me I'm too old to still feel this young, 
to dance with abandon, to be so silly, so ridiculous. 
But that's because you don't know yet
what it's like to straddle memories
that don't feel so distant, 
and the present, in a self that has all those pieces of the past. 
I can lie on my bed and remember
at 20 I was fearless and stupid.
At 30 I still didn't know quite who I was,
but one day, the mirror shifted into focus and
There. I. Was. 

Now I am mostly behind the wheel
of my minivan, 
ushering kids into their own adolescence,
plucking my chin hairs at stoplights,
wondering when all my jeans stopped
being stylish (and fitting). 

A late period could go either way: and which is better?
Tender breasts an omen?
My body does things I don't recognize,
acne, hair that sparkles, rosy cheeks. 
They call it second adolescence, 
But I wasn't prepared for this one. 

It seems only yesterday that I felt afraid all the time.
I was afraid that if you looked to close, 
you'd think I was a fraud. A kid playing grownup. 

Now, though, I know who I am
with a certainty I've never had before. 
All the layers coming together, 
forming a base, stronger than before.

I need to make a choice -- a tonal shift.
Rather than lamenting what has passed,
it's time to throw my arms open wide.
To let the soft animal love what it loves, 
to be married to the amazement
of turning 42. 

Day 23: Eavesdropping

I love to eavesdrop. I always have. I think I’m subtle, but my husband will sometimes remind me, “You know you’re not invisible, right?” as I lean in to hear a conversation better. Even now as I write this, I sit on the balcony of our condo with an ear cocked, trying to discern the conversation two condos down.

Once, at a motel in Montana, I pressed a glass up to the wall to overhear the fight next door. I used to love it when our cordless phone would pick up snippets of strangers conversations. I’m nosey.

Today, my eavesdropping paid off hugely.

We were at the pool on our first day of vacation in Orlando. The resort we stay at each year is a beautiful mix of folks of all ages. Little kids play catch next to retired gentlemen doing leg lifts by the side of the pool.

I heard them before I saw them, this group today. As I read my book, I could hear a trio of voices floating above all the other noise. I glanced over and three women caught my eye. They were in their 60s (I know because I heard them talking about it), but seemed older. I mean, my mom is in her early 60s and these ladies felt different.

They were tan in a way people of my generation rarely get, now that we know about skin cancer. They were tan in a way in March that suggests a life on a beach somewhere, a country club, or a swim community. They were so tan, they were almost crispy.

The three of them floated around the pool, arms resting around pool noodles.

“When you turn 65, you have to take the medicare,” one of them told the other two. One woman (who’s name was almost definitely Linda), gasped. “Why?” she asked. The main lady, who easily could have been named Sylvia, explained that her teacher friend told her all about it. They captivated me. She spoke with such authority. And the way these women existed together was so easy.

About 15 minutes later, Sylvia’s voice carried my way again. “Oh, he’s just awful,” she declared. My ears perked up once I could tell she was talking about President Trump. “The bullying I see at school? It’s gotten so bad since he’s been in office.” Ah, Sylvia. I love ya. Then: “Oh, I can’t stand that Pelosi either. And the NEA? Ugh. Hate them.” Turns out Sylvia’s has plenty of disgust to go around.

Later, when I was swimming with my kids (yes, I do other things besides shamelessly eavesdrop), I was once again positioned near the ladies. This time, one of their husbands was with them. Tan with a majestic crown of gray hair, with tufts of gray chest hair, he had an air of authority. I’m not sure if he was wearing a chain around his neck, but he could have been. He probably was.

They talked about everything: the outrageous cost of their Red Lobster dinner the night before, which part of the resort had the best condos. I was half-listening, when suddenly, a gem.

“Oh, there’s so much weed,” he remarked, casually. “I got two plants last year from my friend. Grew them last year and it was great. I’m gonna ask him for another couple plants this year.”

I was puzzling over this, wondering what kind of weed he could be talking about.

“What do you put it in? Brownies, cookies?” Linda asked. My mouth almost fell open. Here, these totally normal people were talking about Weed. And making pot brownies? I could hardly contain my delight.

“Oh, yeah, that and also, you can use it for the oil. You know this CBD thing?”

Just then my kids needed me so I had to swim away before I could hear the rest. We left the pool soon after. I tried to recount the conversation to Greg, but he kept saying things like, “Who?” and “Where?” and, frankly, he seemed very bored. His loss.

My hope is that we run into this group again so I can get the scoop. This time, I might even sit next to them, maybe even introduce myself so I don’t have to eavesdrop.

Day 22: My Name Is...

I love Jason Reynolds' book Long Way Down. And I really love one of the first poems in the book, "My Name Is..." I'm using it as a launch pad for my slice today:

My Name Is

Angela.
Angela Marie,
Angela Marie Wolford,
Angela Marie Wolford Faulhaber.

To my family,
the ones who've known me
since I was a child,
I'm often Angie.
But only to them.

To my present day family,
the friends who've become family,
and the family I've created,
I'm Angela.

To those closest to me,
the people of my heart,
the ones who know me know me,
I'm Ang.

But, really, I'm all of these names,
each representing a different slice of myself:
daughter, friend, re-birthed, adult.
Each name, nestled,
like a Russian doll,
layers upon layers
of identity.

Greg used to joke when we first
started dating
that he could tell which part of my life
someone was from based
on what they called me.

I guess it's true,
that we contain multitudes.
Even if it's sometimes captured
by our name. 

Day 19: There is always...

My friend Holly wrote a beautiful blog post yesterday that 
inspired today's writing. 


There is always
a driveway
stretching out to the road,
a basketball hoop, 
a kickball field,
a pitcher's mound,
RipSticks scattered across the lawn.

There is always
a trio of kids,
of neighbors and children running triumphantly,
in the afternoon they
steal moments between school and bedtime.

There is always
a child
soaking up the sun,
sweat soaking through their t-shirt, 
getting ready for practice, or homework, or dinner.
I gaze out the window, marveling at their energy, 
wishing I could bottle these moments.

Day18: The Truth About Why I Love My Aunts

Yesterday, I wrote about my Aunt Kathy in honor of a "big" birthday. As I was writing, though, I was reminded that in my life I am abundantly blessed in so many ways. One of the biggest blessings is a life full of aunts who feel like more than aunts. Three aunts of each side of the family, plus ones who've married in, have helped shape me as a woman, as a mother, as a sister. I can't begin to capture all the memories, but here I try to illustrate their place in our families' lives. 

With thanks to McKeel McBride
1.
Of everyone in a family,
aunts are the most fun to play with.
They teach you to drive,
rock your babies,
give you too much chocolate,
and sometimes say things that are hard to hear,
but no less important.

2.
I guess I forgot to mention how much I used to love sleepovers:
Betzy's for staying up too late;
Shari's for a taste of independence;
Mary Ann's for tastes of culture;
Tari's for epic family gatherings;
Susie's for a view into a world unknown;
Sleepovers have taken on new meaning now --
weddings, funerals, hotel lobbies --
celebrations of life marching on.

3.
My aunts are like my favorite trees,
Deeply rooted, standing tall,
offering shade from the hot sun,
protection from rough winds.
As a child, I played among them,
knowing I was safe.
Now, I feel their steady presence,
even when I can't see them.

4.
There are aunts by marriage too.
The "other" Kathy, a shelter.
Nancy, a solid presence, joy every time, even across a phone line.
Gina, a model of care-taking and patient love.
These women, grafted to the family tree, have taken root,
help make the soil richer.

5.
If I could have my wish,
I'd take a bit from each of these women,
tenacity
generosity
loyalty
adventure
humor
grace

and pass these on to the next generation,
nourishing the saplings of the family.

Day 17: To My Aunt Kathy

Today is my Aunt Kathy's birthday, and I've been thinking of all the ways she makes life special.

She used to tell me we had a long-lost aunt who lived in California. She's the kind of story-teller you're never quite sure of -- is she lying? She's probably lying. But wait, maybe she's not? She and my mom used to go on crazy adventures when we were kids, once dressing up to "spy" on their husbands who were hanging at The Fern. She made my mom laugh a lot (this is a trait all the sisters possess. They all love to laugh together).

When she lived in Miami (why is it MY ami? I used to wonder. Shouldn't it be HER ami?), she'd drive across the state to Ft. Myers to visit and she'd take me shopping, a task my mother loathed. She'd let me try on every thing in the store, including the Coca-Cola rugby shirts that were so popular in the 80s. She never got impatient.

Holy 80s! Kathy probably helped me pick out that sweatshirt. 

Later, once she had kids of her own, we'd go spend the night at her house, a respite from our own family. We'd make funny skits, and take walks in her neighborhood. Her laughter always warms you from the inside.

When I was a teenager, she helped me decode the mysteries of the tampon, coaching me through the bathroom door. She's sweetly naive, and also really intuitive. She laughs often. She, like all of my aunts, always talked to us like we were real people.

As an adult, I'm lucky I get to be friends with her. She's who I often call on my drive home. We talk about podcasts, kids, movies. She keeps my kids for sleepovers a few times a year, and they always come home full of love and stories.

Her backyard feels like a sanctuary. She's a great gift giver, picking out a thing you'd never buy for yourself, but end up loving. She's always on some kind of kick -- no carbs, nuts only, Whole 30. Until she's not. She can work magic with a chicken breast.

Aunt Kathy will the grandkids, saying the Pledge of Allegiance
 during the talent show last year.

She's wicked good at her sales job because she's wicked good with people. She's never met a stranger. She thinks rules don't always apply, and she's usually right. She never orders fries: "I'll just have one of yours," she'll say. We learned not to sit next to her at restaurants.

She lives her faith. She teaches young people at her church and never shies away from their hard questions. She's raised two amazing sons, ones who are doing so much good in this world. She had the best dog, Cousin Dog Luke. She sees the best in people.

She loves a project, will paint a room on a whim, and gives great decorating advice. She asks lots of questions when she doesn't understand something, a thing too many of us stop doing once we're adults. She loves getting letters. She helps me be a better mom to boys.

I'm so thankful for my Aunt Kathy, the St. Patty's Day gift of my mom's big Irish family. She lights up every room and makes everyone feel lucky to know her.

Day 16: Battle of the bathroom

Two minutes earlier Emily and I had been locked in battle.

She was taking too long in the bathroom and as a one-bathroom house, I needed her to finish. Now. And, in a dance familiar to anyone who lives with a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old, the more I needed it, the longer she was going to take.

"Let me in!" I pounded on the door. I could her her laughing. She infuriated me.

I went to open the door, the one with no lock, only to find it wouldn't budge. The toilet was positioned across from the door. Emily had stuck her feet out, creating a wedge so the door wouldn't open. That jerk.

I strained against the door, trying to get her to budge. I could only imagine the she was straining just as hard. We both gritted our teeth, bellowing in frustration.

Then, CRAACCCKKKK.

Oh. Crap.

"ohmygodohmygodohmygod."

The door suddenly gave and I burst through it. The toilet was now gushing water. Emily was panicking.

We had broken the toilet. The porcelain tank had cracked when Emily was pushing up against it with her back.

"ohmygodhohmygodohmygod." I joined in the chant.

Mortal enemies a mere minute ago, we were now bonded in this crime. We raced for towels to sop up the water.

Our mom was due home any minute. What would we tell her? There is no greater feeling of solidarity between sisters than when you have to unite against your parent.

We cooked up a story about Emily's knee having popped out of place, causing her to fall into the toilet. Both of us had a condition that during puberty caused our knee caps to painfully dislocate for a few awful minutes. We knew our mom hated this for us, and we suspected she wouldn't ask a lot of questions, but be full of worry and sympathy.

We were right.

The relief we felt with having gotten away with this foolishness should have been the catalyst for setting us on a more peaceful path. Alas, it was not. We continued to wage war against each other for years. Now we can laugh at these ridiculous stories, though my mother, as you can imagine, doesn't quite see the humor, even 30 years later.

Day 12: Gifts of Writing

"I haven't written a book since second grade," Jason dropped this little bit of information as we sat across from each other. I was guest teaching in his 10th grade English class, helping students write argument essays. Jason looked at my expectantly, his eyebrows raised, waiting to see what I'd say.

"Tell me about the book," I asked him. He talked for several minutes, this kid who didn't usually have much to say, about the book he'd written 8 years ago.

"You still have it?" I asked.

"I think so. When will you be here again?"

"Tomorrow," I told him, and then we moved onto the work of the lesson.

I walked into class this morning right as the bell rang. I'd forgotten all about this conversation until I saw Jason reach into his backpack. He smiled at me shyly as he pulled out a small book.

Bound, full of colorful illustrations, it was clear that this book was a family treasure, stored somewhere safe. I held it in my hands, turning the pages, fussing over the illustrations.

I got to the last page, and staring up at me was the 8-year-old version of this young man sitting in front of me. My heart squeezed. Sometimes I forget that these big puppy-like kids were once little kids, like the ones I live with at home. I looked at his face, and he was so dang proud of himself. Still.

"Oh, thank you for sharing this with me, Jason. Can I take a picture?" He nodded. And then we moved onto the work of the lesson.

But, really, the real work had just happened. Jason reminded me of what a gift these students give us, bearing their sweet little souls through their writing. How tender and precious it is. How lucky we are to be able to help them grow.

I don't want to forget how proud we both felt today.

Day 11: Modern Day Bickering

I was looking through old texts tonight with my 11-year-old daughter. We were cracking up at some of the texts she and her brothers have sent me, especially the ones where they were fighting.

The two boys seem to go at it the most. Justin, the 9-year-old is particularly dramatic in his text exchanges. You can see that my responses are super empathetic. We tried to go out for a date night,
and received this text early in the evening.

A few hours later:

I think you can sense from my tone here how I feel about this kind of interruption.

After school is when they really go at it. Usually the dispute centers around technology, whether it's laptops or TVs.

Another after school message. A few days before, someone had given each kid a handful of mints and Justin had one left that had been sitting on the counter for days. Until this happened:

Most recently, I received (read the bottom text first).

It's easy for me to laugh at these, to keep it in perspective. I remember when my sisters and I used to do the same thing to our parents. They'd be at their friend's house playing cards, or my mom would be at work, and one of us would call my mom crying (we NEVER did it to Dad. Seems my kids have inherited that instinct as their dad never gets these texts). Like me now, she'd barely tolerate the nonsense. 

As crazy as these little tiffs make me, I'm comforted in knowing that these are valuable lessons the kids are learning about how to coexist, how to work through conflict (how to bug their mom? They've mastered that one). My sisters are my best friends now, so I know this is all part of building the foundation of their future friendships. 

In the meantime, I'm comforted knowing that for the fifth night in a row the boys asked to sleep in the same room together, pulling out the trundle and softly chatting until I hollered up at them to go to sleep. I think we'll be okay. 

Day 9 : Black Belt

"Dad, I feel like I swallowed a butterfly," my 9-year-old said. He was getting ready to test for his black belt in karate, a moment he's been building towards for two years.

Justin had been practicing his kicks and combinations for weeks. This week, he'd been rehearsing his knowledge. Greg and he had been running through it all.

So today, the day of testing, there was nothing left to do but test. As all the kids were lined up, ready to go, I tried to quell my own nervousness. It's so hard to watch your kids do hard things. And then, when they do it, the pride is overwhelming.

Justin nailed it today. After five months of working towards his black belt, he was able to bring it all together. I'm so inspired by his conviction and his passion towards doing his best.

Overscheduled and exhausted

I am so tired. Aren't you? We are all rushing through this life. We fill our calendars with so many things. And then we bump into each other at Kroger, or the skating rink, or at our kids' practice and we say things like, "How did we get so busy?"

You fools! I want to shout. At myself in the mirror. Stop saying yes to everything. To every. Thing. To all of the things.

I'm coming off a five-week bender of saying yes. Retreats and baby showers and conferences and more conferences. This night is the first Friday I will have slept in my own bed in five weeks. All because I can't get the word "yes" out of my mouth.

Please don't get me wrong. All of these things brought so much richness to my life. Each event and experience was something for which I am so grateful. But now I need to rest. I need to hunker down and carve out space for myself to recharge.

And that's hard to do. There are always more things to sign up for. But, please, friends, let us resist the urge.

I think about it with our kids too. We don't want our kids to have down time (why?! down time is AWESOME!). So we sign up for everything -- classes after school, travel teams, extra practices. And Lord help us if we have more than one child.

I am going to stop. For at least this weekend. Except for Sunday School. And birthday party gift shopping, and my son's black belt testing. But after that, no more.

And maybe if I'm lucky, I can clear next weekend too.

Day 6: Being a Grownup is Hard

I got a text last Thursday I could hardly believe. I'd won the lottery. I never win anything, so at first I thought it was a joke. But, no, there it was. Clear as day. I'd won the lottery.

The prize? Two tickets to Hamilton in Cincinnati. For only $10/ticket!

But.

After my initial elation, I looked closer. My heart sank. The date was Friday. In Cincinnati. One problem: I was leaving Friday morning to attend a two-day conference in Columbus, two hours away. I was scheduled to present until 4:30 on Friday and then again at 8:00 am Saturday morning.

So I declined the tickets. I threw away my shot (groan, I know).

The only solace I have is that I've already seen the show. Twice.  I know, I know, that's obnoxious. Greg surprised me with Chicago tickets two years ago for my 40th birthday.

My face on my birthday when Greg
surprised me with tickets.

And then a year later, we got a great deal and were able to take our three kiddos back to Chicago to see it. I'd already been in the room where it happened (ugh, I did it again).

So, while I hated having to be a grown-up last week, to make the responsible decision, I am comforted by thinking that maybe someone who'd never gotten to see the show had a chance to see the story of tonight (that's it, I swear).

An evening on a couch

On a couch

Sometimes on a couch in the evening,
babies who aren't babies anymore ask for a snuggle.

"Mom?" and you look at those eyes and you just know,
sickness has arrived,
knocking at the door.

As you wrap your arms around that little body,
sucking it in so you can both fit on the narrow expanse of couch,
you feel your feet knock up against the bigger baby body,
this one long and lean and full of new-ness.
New smells, new feelings, new emotions.
This pre-teen baby entangles her feet with yours and leans in just a bit.
This one needs you as much as the one in your arms,
so you listen carefully as she tells you a story,
one so boring your eyes
start...
         to...
                glaze and drift,
but you catch her looking at you
and you remember that adage about
listening to the unimportant stuff
so they keep talking to you about the important stuff..

The third one bounds in.
He by your head, his very presence disturbing his younger brother's force-field.
You reach a hand out,
knowing he'll lean in for a back scratch,
just like a cat.
And as you scratch,
he
s
t
i
l
l
s.
Just like he always does.

As every part of your body and mind
is occupied with the work of loving these little people through another day,
you long to close your eyes and rest.
And sometimes you do.
And sometimes you just sit,
even for five minutes,
and soak up their chaos.

My aunt always says that you never know when it's the last time you do something with your kids. I think about that sometimes:
when is the last time I picked one of them up?
And how the moment slipped away unnoticed because
I didn't know it would be the last time.

All these moments, they pile up, like the laundry that waits for me after bedtime
like the lesson plans that must be finished,
like the lists I'm still crossing off.

I tuck them away,
knowing that though I won't always remember them,
that doesn't make them matter any less.

My favorite thing about slice-ing is the way I start to look at the world differently. Everything becomes a possibility:

Creeping upstairs to hear my 11-year-old daughter reading to her 9-year-old brother as she "puts him to bed" for me.

The ice patch I almost bit it on this morning, still there this afternoon as it hid in the shade of my van.

The luxury and shame of Click-list.

A stolen hour with a good friend while at our son's baseball practice.

A precious Facebook memory popping up, and how my husband has re-watched it three times since getting home from work.

A text from a dear friend who never gives up on trying to find time to reconnect.

A car ride with my 11-year-old son, now that he can ride in the front, full of conversation about Legos and cell phones and hearing him use words like "increment" naturally.

Quizzing the twins on science vocab. Separately of course.

The exhaustion of a Monday fully lived.


Every moment today has been sifted, examined, mentally drafted into a piece. How to filter out just one of these moments? Instead I squirrel them away, treasure them, perhaps to revisit. Or maybe not.

What It Means to Be a Hildreth

This week marks a year since Grandpa died. I started my blogging month with a post about him, and I found I actually have a little bit more to say.

Though I have never carried the Hildreth name (I'm a Wolford, through and through, and now proudly a Faulhaber), I carry the spirit of being a Hildreth down deep. Based on a prompt last summer from the 100 Days of Summer Writing at the Moving Writers blog, I began to contemplate what it means to be part of this family.

What does it mean to be a Hildreth?

It means...

Thanksgiving around a table: a seat at the kids table in the piano room; graduating to the big table (the one with the tablecloth Grandma had ironed earlier that day); later, after we outgrew everyone's homes, perched at the hotel conference room tables, playing games, eating Gina's carrot cake.

You love front porches: And swings and gliders. Waving at people as they walk by. When someone honks, you toss up a hand, even if you don't know who it is. Clematis creeping up the trellis, the ceiling fan quietly spinning. Drumsticks in the summer, popsicles for the kids.

Writing thank you notes. For gifts, for visits, for relationships. There is no occasion that can't be punctuated with a thank you note.

You pray. The rosary, the Our Father, kneeling at the Stations of the Cross, or sometimes just in the quiet corners of your memory. You gave up exchanging gifts for having prayer partners at Christmas. Your confirmation sponsor or confirmation name has ties to your extended family. You have said the same prayer before dinner, holding hands while Mimi wells up, every year for as long as you can remember. And, if you're in a time of your life when you don't pray, you always know that someone is praying for you.

You're loud. You've got a lot to say. Teasing is a love language. You love to tell stories or jokes. The stories have become lore: Pat's special brownies in high school, Ed mooning the cops, Katie and the jelly beans, Chuck falling down the stairs naked and Grandma coming out with her flashlight. The stories are the soundtrack of your life.

You cherish traditions. Dietsch's at report card time. Christmas tea in the little red mugs. The red tin full of butterscotch brownies (what a disappointment when Grandma stopped baking and that tin was only full of brown sugar. Never stopped us from checking.). Playing cribbage and backgammon.

Being a Hildreth carries comfort with it. It's a part of my cultural identity. I'm so lucky to have an extended family that feels like home.

I started this post a year ago, when my grandpa was sick. This man who'd been such a fixture of my life was fading fast. I couldn't finish the piece last year. Seven days after I started it, Grandpa passed. As I was preparing for this year's SOL challenge, this post stood out to me. It's been nearly a year. The family home has been sold. We have shed tears and laughed about memories. The aching and absence is not quite as fresh, but we all continue to be profoundly affected by his life. 

Four Things About My Grandpa That I Want To Remember

My grandpa is sick. He's 89 years old and a year ago, it felt like he'd be here forever. Then we found out he has cancer, so now we wait. We pray that he doesn't have to linger. As his body starts to shut down, our huge family has been making regular pilgrimages back to our hometown, soaking up all the moments we can.

The last time I was home, I sat next to my grandpa. He was having a good day, talking and joking, opening his eyes for a bit. Before I left, I felt like I need to have a Moment. So I took his hand, kneeled next to his recliner, looked him in the eyes and said, "Grandpa, I love you. You are the best grandpa anyone could have."

He smiled and said, "Okay, okay. I know, honey." And he waved me off. He's not big on emotion.

My mom keeps telling me to focus on the lifetime of memories we've created with Grandpa. So for my first slice, I want to think about the things I want to hold in my heart forever.

How much he loved his front porch.

My grandparents with my twins, Emma and Jacob, who are now 12.

The front porch at 1020 Hurd is our extended family's hub, our heartbeat. In the summer, there's often a gaggle of folks spilling off the steps. People wave as they walk by with their dogs. Visitors drop by. Growing up, we could depend on Grandma and Grandpa to be sitting out there on the glider, reading their latest library books. We lived across the street, and when we'd get home they'd always look up, smile and wave. What a gift it was to live so close to these two.

The old dipsy doodle

My grandparents had a backyard that felt like it went on forever. It was long and narrow. The detached two-car garage had a creepy area behind it with a barrel where Grandpa used to burn leaves. There was a cut through in the hedges that was our shortcut when we walked to Dairy Queen.

My favorite was the family picnics we'd have back there. My grandpa would pitch the wiffle ball to all the grandkids. He'd plant himself in the middle of the yard and we'd line up.

"Okay. Get ready for the old dispy doodle." He'd wind up like a crazy person and let it rip. My cousin Andrew was especially great at ripping those pitches out of the park (or to the end of the yard). I can still remember his skinny legs in those baggy shorts as he lifted one leg high to power those pitches.

His unwavering faith.

My grandparents had a deep faith. They met as young adults in a bowling league through church. For their whole life they were "pillars" of the church. Every afternoon (and probably more) my grandparents prayed the rosary together, holding their red, worn prayer books on their laps. They invited priests over to dinner, circling us around the big dining room table.

My grandparents also were part of an organization called The Franciscans. They grew old with the other couples in this group, praying together, raising children, taking trips to the Holy Land. I was struck most by the way my grandpa lived his faith. He took Communion to the elderly (try calling him elderly). He visited any parishioner who was hospitalized. He loved driving people to their doctor's appointments. He believed in taking care of people and he did it in more ways that I can count.

How he taught us all to be friendly people.

This man never met a stranger. No matter where we went, someone would shout, "Hildy!" He greeted everyone with the same delight, chatting and teasing. Sometimes he'd walk away and mutter, "I'm not sure who that was." Most of the time, though, he could tell you what house they grew up in and how he knew them. He was genuinely interested in people. He loved when we'd bring our friends around. Even until very recently, my 60 year old uncle's high school friends would stop by the front porch to say hi to my grandparents. You could always count on my grandpa to tell a story, usually a funny one. He'd get going and start laughing so hard he couldn't finish.

He was the life of the party. I miss him every day.