I came home this evening to find a huge box on my doormat. It was addressed to me, but the return address was for a company I'd never heard of before. I spent a few minutes racking my brain, trying to remember if I'd ordered something and forgotten about it -- one of those things from Amazon, maybe, that come from a different seller. Finally I opened it up to find it full of snack-size packages of PopCorners. No invoice, no note, no packing slip, no nothing. Just bags and bags of PopCorners.
After having my credit card number stolen not once but twice in the last eighteen months, I had a moment of panic -- until realizing, of course, that it'd be a hilariously inept credit card thief who used said stolen credit card to send the credit card owner a box of snacks. So I looked up the company and sent them an email asking what this box was about, thinking maybe they'd made a mistake and sent an order to the wrong person.
Later, in the midst of a long catch-up conversation with my mother, I mentioned the mysterious box. She said, "Huh. Sounds like something Nate and Shanna might do..."
So later still I asked him and he said (and I quote), "They have PopCorners on JetBlue. Delicious."
And that was it. About a month ago I spent a day with Nate in Boston, and somewhere in a full day's worth of rambling sibling talk he mentioned that they were flying home on JetBlue. I said that when the basket of snacks came around, he should try the PopCorners. Because they're delicious, and I've only ever had them on JetBlue flights.
But now, now, I have 40 bags of them in all the different flavors. Because of two sentences caught in the middle of thousands of words of conversation almost a month ago. (Okay, 39 bags. Turns out the Sweet Chili ones are pretty good.)
As if I needed yet another reason to appreciate and adore that incredible brother of mine.
Showing posts with label siblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label siblings. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
concrete
I've been thinking about concrete lately, thanks to this Goshen controversy, and how its relatively weak nature (low elasticity and tensile strength) can be turned into something approaching indestructible by imbedding bones of steel at its core.
I've been thinking about concrete and how ugly it is, and yet how a certain kind of visionary can take it in all its brutish ugliness and turn it into something brutally, Dr. Seussily beautiful.
My mother and I were chatting Saturday evening, in the midst of Passover and on the eve of Easter, about the idea of a holiday baby and how nice it would be to have such a joyous day, a baby's birthday, in what is even still a month tinged with loss.
My nephew, at four days old, is having a difficult beginning to things, and thoughts of him and of my brother and his wife have been permeating everything that I do, even (or perhaps especially) from nearly three thousand miles away.
We McNeils are not a religious bunch, despite my amusement and odd satisfaction at the idea of this Easter/Pesach baby. But on Sunday, during one of many panicked and heartbroken phone calls as it became apparent that all is not quite right with my brother's little one, my mother mentioned that she had been out walking. And she said, in an almost embarrassed voice, that while she had been out walking, she had found herself talking to my father, and to his parents, and to her parents, demanding that they put things right.
My friend Zak, first thing Monday morning, congratulated me on finally being Auntie Em. We talked about my nephew and his name and everything that is going on. Zak said that with a name like that, you just have to imagine he'll swashbuckle his way through all of this.
Zak went on to say (and with his permission, I quote it here in full because it caught me by such sweet surprise and because such is the beauty of online chatting -- our conversations never disappear), "One of my student employees just told me her dad has cancer and this stuff with your nephew... it's one of those things that makes me wish I prayed. Not because I think it would do anything, but I think it's just such a nice thing to say to a friend who's having some troubles. 'You're in my prayers.' The best I can offer is, I'll worry about you and your nephew, which doesn't have the same generous spirit somehow."
I have been thinking about this ever since, especially after short, cellphone-fuzzy conversations with my brother that leave me searching for better words, for more powerful words, to make this not hurt so much, or to not seem so frightening. What I would like to say to him, and to his wife and to their tiny Wynn Moses, is that they are in my prayers, and that in the midst of this ugliness, I know they already have inside them all the steel that they need.
I've been thinking about concrete and how ugly it is, and yet how a certain kind of visionary can take it in all its brutish ugliness and turn it into something brutally, Dr. Seussily beautiful.
My mother and I were chatting Saturday evening, in the midst of Passover and on the eve of Easter, about the idea of a holiday baby and how nice it would be to have such a joyous day, a baby's birthday, in what is even still a month tinged with loss.
My nephew, at four days old, is having a difficult beginning to things, and thoughts of him and of my brother and his wife have been permeating everything that I do, even (or perhaps especially) from nearly three thousand miles away.
We McNeils are not a religious bunch, despite my amusement and odd satisfaction at the idea of this Easter/Pesach baby. But on Sunday, during one of many panicked and heartbroken phone calls as it became apparent that all is not quite right with my brother's little one, my mother mentioned that she had been out walking. And she said, in an almost embarrassed voice, that while she had been out walking, she had found herself talking to my father, and to his parents, and to her parents, demanding that they put things right.
My friend Zak, first thing Monday morning, congratulated me on finally being Auntie Em. We talked about my nephew and his name and everything that is going on. Zak said that with a name like that, you just have to imagine he'll swashbuckle his way through all of this.
Zak went on to say (and with his permission, I quote it here in full because it caught me by such sweet surprise and because such is the beauty of online chatting -- our conversations never disappear), "One of my student employees just told me her dad has cancer and this stuff with your nephew... it's one of those things that makes me wish I prayed. Not because I think it would do anything, but I think it's just such a nice thing to say to a friend who's having some troubles. 'You're in my prayers.' The best I can offer is, I'll worry about you and your nephew, which doesn't have the same generous spirit somehow."
I have been thinking about this ever since, especially after short, cellphone-fuzzy conversations with my brother that leave me searching for better words, for more powerful words, to make this not hurt so much, or to not seem so frightening. What I would like to say to him, and to his wife and to their tiny Wynn Moses, is that they are in my prayers, and that in the midst of this ugliness, I know they already have inside them all the steel that they need.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
what's in a name
Years ago, late one night and most likely aided by a glass or two of wine, Nathan and I got into an odd and lilting conversation about baby names. We both wanted "William." I argued that as the firstborn child, I should get dibs on the name. Nathan, ever the logical one, argued that which ever of us had a son first should get the name.
Eventually, in our intoxicated and intoxicating sentimentality, we decided that maybe we could both lay claim to the name, and that it wouldn't be the end of the world for two cousins to answer to Bill.
I remember the conversation feeling very abstract, in that particular way that conversations about not entirely impossible but definitely far-off and hard-to-imagine things feel.
Nathan called me in early September to tell me that Shanna is pregnant, and that come next April they will be parents.
I was surprised at how sad I felt at first, upon getting this phone call. I got off the phone that night and sobbed myself to sleep, which seemed such a shameful and horrible way to greet such lovely news that I've tried not to think about it too much.
Cousin Eric sent me a couple old pictures last week, from a sailing trip on his parents' boat that happened a quarter of a century ago. I wasn't expecting these pictures, and had to catch my breath after opening his email. And it struck me then, in that moment of not being able to breathe, where this initial sadness had come from.
I am so very happy for Nathan, adored baby-brother-mine, and his lovely Shanna and their impending parenthood, and I am so very happy at the thought of being aunt to their child. But also there is the realization that our father will never know this child, will never be known by this child, and will never watch his own child become a father -- something I know he would have watched with boundless joy.
And so I find myself crying for them: for these two wonderful and beautiful men and the loss of an experience that they should have shared, had things gone a little differently with the world.
I imagine, if Nathan and Shanna should have a son, that he will be impish and curly-haired and glowing, as his father and grandfather have been before him, and that perhaps he will carry with him his grandpa's exuberant grin if not his grandpa's name.
Eventually, in our intoxicated and intoxicating sentimentality, we decided that maybe we could both lay claim to the name, and that it wouldn't be the end of the world for two cousins to answer to Bill.
I remember the conversation feeling very abstract, in that particular way that conversations about not entirely impossible but definitely far-off and hard-to-imagine things feel.
Nathan called me in early September to tell me that Shanna is pregnant, and that come next April they will be parents.
I was surprised at how sad I felt at first, upon getting this phone call. I got off the phone that night and sobbed myself to sleep, which seemed such a shameful and horrible way to greet such lovely news that I've tried not to think about it too much.
Cousin Eric sent me a couple old pictures last week, from a sailing trip on his parents' boat that happened a quarter of a century ago. I wasn't expecting these pictures, and had to catch my breath after opening his email. And it struck me then, in that moment of not being able to breathe, where this initial sadness had come from.
I am so very happy for Nathan, adored baby-brother-mine, and his lovely Shanna and their impending parenthood, and I am so very happy at the thought of being aunt to their child. But also there is the realization that our father will never know this child, will never be known by this child, and will never watch his own child become a father -- something I know he would have watched with boundless joy.
And so I find myself crying for them: for these two wonderful and beautiful men and the loss of an experience that they should have shared, had things gone a little differently with the world.
I imagine, if Nathan and Shanna should have a son, that he will be impish and curly-haired and glowing, as his father and grandfather have been before him, and that perhaps he will carry with him his grandpa's exuberant grin if not his grandpa's name.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
sistering & daughtering
I was talking with my mother on the phone this afternoon, mostly just making sure she and Paul had made it home (or mostly home, being still nearly 100 miles from Anacortes) after their stay in Pennsylvania this past week. Mostly this, but also there was this: "Well, Emily, we got our boy married."
Indeed we walked our boy down the aisle three days ago, our six awkward elbows linked inextricably at least for those few moments, him looking adorable and anxious and ecstatic, us in our fancy red get-ups looking anxious and happy and, I imagine, ever so slightly bereft.
It's a funny thing to be an older sister walking a baby brother down the aisle. And it's an even funnier thing when that relationship, this sibling bond of ours, seems in some ways so much closer, so much more intimate, than the relationships shared between most siblings I know.
I drove down to Philadelphia Friday afternoon with three friends and our conversation (between naps by at least some of us in the back seat) ranged far. But the moment that jumped out at me, the moment I have been carrying with me, was a particular exchange between Jill, driving, and Dave, in the shotgun seat, half heard through my sleepy hazy daze, curled up in the back.
They were talking about kids, specifically about how many they might, in an abstractly futuristic way, have. Jill said she wanted two, that she would never have only one child. Dave retorted, with a surprising edge to his voice (this is Dave after all, one of the kindest, gentlest creatures known to man), that she should watch what she said next. She explained that both of her parents are only children and both are neurotic, and she doesn't want her kids to be like that. (I know I am paraphrasing here, and was not entirely awake, but this is how I read, how I remember reading, the conversation.) He countered with the fact that both he and his husband are only children and quite well adjusted, thank you very much.
I wouldn't disagree with either of them, knowing them and their families as I do. But what I would add, what I found lacking in their discussion, wasn't so much how the kid(s) it(them)self(ves) would turn out, but any acknowledgment of the joy that a sibling relationship can provide.
Friends and lovers come and go, parents die before their kids, and the world moves on. But I know on some indisputable level that no matter where I am in the world, no matter where Nathan is in the world, we are not alone in that world.
It's a pleasing thing, having a brother one adores, and the three of us, my mother, my brother, and me, we make an odd little trio sometimes but a formidable one, I think, in our love for each other.
And it was such a happy, a thrilling, a satisfying thing, accompanying our boy down the aisle on his way to his new bride, all of us lucky enough to be surrounded by people we love -- friends and family from Washington State, Washington D.C., France, Pennsylvania, New York, Kansas, Norway,
and 
more.
Indeed we walked our boy down the aisle three days ago, our six awkward elbows linked inextricably at least for those few moments, him looking adorable and anxious and ecstatic, us in our fancy red get-ups looking anxious and happy and, I imagine, ever so slightly bereft.
It's a funny thing to be an older sister walking a baby brother down the aisle. And it's an even funnier thing when that relationship, this sibling bond of ours, seems in some ways so much closer, so much more intimate, than the relationships shared between most siblings I know.
I drove down to Philadelphia Friday afternoon with three friends and our conversation (between naps by at least some of us in the back seat) ranged far. But the moment that jumped out at me, the moment I have been carrying with me, was a particular exchange between Jill, driving, and Dave, in the shotgun seat, half heard through my sleepy hazy daze, curled up in the back.
They were talking about kids, specifically about how many they might, in an abstractly futuristic way, have. Jill said she wanted two, that she would never have only one child. Dave retorted, with a surprising edge to his voice (this is Dave after all, one of the kindest, gentlest creatures known to man), that she should watch what she said next. She explained that both of her parents are only children and both are neurotic, and she doesn't want her kids to be like that. (I know I am paraphrasing here, and was not entirely awake, but this is how I read, how I remember reading, the conversation.) He countered with the fact that both he and his husband are only children and quite well adjusted, thank you very much.
I wouldn't disagree with either of them, knowing them and their families as I do. But what I would add, what I found lacking in their discussion, wasn't so much how the kid(s) it(them)self(ves) would turn out, but any acknowledgment of the joy that a sibling relationship can provide.
Friends and lovers come and go, parents die before their kids, and the world moves on. But I know on some indisputable level that no matter where I am in the world, no matter where Nathan is in the world, we are not alone in that world.
It's a pleasing thing, having a brother one adores, and the three of us, my mother, my brother, and me, we make an odd little trio sometimes but a formidable one, I think, in our love for each other.
And it was such a happy, a thrilling, a satisfying thing, accompanying our boy down the aisle on his way to his new bride, all of us lucky enough to be surrounded by people we love -- friends and family from Washington State, Washington D.C., France, Pennsylvania, New York, Kansas, Norway,
and 
more.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
it's kind of funny
It's kind of funny, being here in Anacortes this week shopping and cleaning and gardening and cooking in preparation for this weekend's west coast pre-wedding barbecue in honor of my brother and his fiancee. (I should say my absolutely adored brother and his absolutely lovely fiancee.)
It's kind of funny in part because this is my baby brother, my Nater Tater, who has become in some ways more adult, more grown up, than I can ever imagine being. And it's kind of funny in part because this west coast pre-wedding gathering is pretty much exactly what I always imagined (when I imagined such things at all) would be my actual wedding to a certain young man several years back. And it's kind of painful, this shopping and cleaning and gardening and baking and making gallons of gazpacho and bringing gift bags to the hotel where the soon-to-be-in-laws and siblings are staying and all the rest of this crazy hectic wonderful beautiful family- and friend-filled weekend.
It's kind of a funny thing, this feeling of being so overwhelmed with love and happiness for someone so dear as one's brother, and yet also and simultaneously feeling a little bit heartbroken.
I guess as long as the hummus and gazpacho and snickerdoodles and black-bottomed cupcakes are well received tomorrow, I'll be all right.
It's kind of funny in part because this is my baby brother, my Nater Tater, who has become in some ways more adult, more grown up, than I can ever imagine being. And it's kind of funny in part because this west coast pre-wedding gathering is pretty much exactly what I always imagined (when I imagined such things at all) would be my actual wedding to a certain young man several years back. And it's kind of painful, this shopping and cleaning and gardening and baking and making gallons of gazpacho and bringing gift bags to the hotel where the soon-to-be-in-laws and siblings are staying and all the rest of this crazy hectic wonderful beautiful family- and friend-filled weekend.
It's kind of a funny thing, this feeling of being so overwhelmed with love and happiness for someone so dear as one's brother, and yet also and simultaneously feeling a little bit heartbroken.
I guess as long as the hummus and gazpacho and snickerdoodles and black-bottomed cupcakes are well received tomorrow, I'll be all right.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
on finding the perfect ring, a family engagement, and chuppahs
Nathan called me early one Saturday morning last March. He'd gotten it into his head to spend the day walking around downtown and wanted me to accompany him.
It was a particularly nasty morning: torrential rain, biting wind, and no A-train service north of 168th Street. I was reluctant, to say the least, but eventually let myself be persuaded.
We met up at the 125th Street train station and headed downtown. I asked what it was exactly that we were doing, and he said he'd read about this little tiny jewelry shop in the East Village that does exquisite work and only uses non-conflict diamonds and would I please help him pick out an engagement ring?
We found the perfect ring, eventually, and Nate had the jeweler expedite it so that he could bring it to Paris the following week with, I think, the intention of perhaps proposing on a bridge overlooking the Seine. (You wouldn't necessarily think it to look at him, but my brother can sometimes be quite the romantic.)
And me and my big mouth, well, I guess I figured since the proposal was only a week away, it wouldn't hurt to, you know, maybe mention it to a couple people. A few people. Not too many, I swear, and all under strict instruction to, unlike me, keep their big mouths shut.
And then the proposal didn't happen. The perfect moment never quite presented itself. And those few people have been harassing me for months now, always asking, constantly inquiring, as to my brother's good intentions. (I might exaggerate a little bit here, but still, it's stressful for a girl to have secrets, especially when she's such an utter failure at keeping them.)
But finally, finally, just after Christmas, just before the New Year, my brother found his perfect moment, in the dead of winter, at a small bed & breakfast out on one of the San Juan Islands, just off the country's western rim.
And miraculously enough, the girl said yes.
When I was a little girl, I kind of always wanted a big brother. I was happy with the brother I had, of course, but I fantasized about having an older brother, someone bigger and stronger and more worldly, to look out for me I suppose.
What I never fantasized about was having a sister, older or younger. I had my girl friends, my bosom buddies, to steal a phrase from Anne Shirley, and just never hungered for a sister.
I will stand with my brother, who is also my best friend, and his Shanna at their wedding ceremony come September. And while Shanna may not be the older brother of my childhood dreams, she's a woman to be reckoned with, and a woman who looks after her own, and a woman my family will joyously welcome as one of our own, and a woman I will be pleased and honored to have as a sister in law.
Which brings me, lastly and finally, to the chuppah. I was talking on the phone the other night with Nate about possible wedding dates, locations, ideas. I mentioned to him my not very well thought out idea of knitting for Shanna a wedding shawl. He said he thought that might be nice, but that he'd been wanting to broach the idea of me knitting a chuppah for them.
A chuppah, if you don't know, is the traditional Jewish canopy under which the bride and groom (or the groom and groom, or bride and bride, as the case may be) say their wedding vows. It represents, or so it is said, the home the couple will create together. It is open on all sides, held
aloft simply on four poles, the better to welcome in the couple's loved ones, and the world around them. And it is empty, furnished only with the couple themselves, the people there to bear witness, and the love shared between them all.
The idea of knitting a chuppah for Nathan and Shanna, for these two beautiful, wonderful people who somehow found each other quite literally in the wilderness on the far side of the world, just makes me want to laugh and cry with joy.
I've tentatively found a pattern, swatched in some old yellow acrylic I had in the closet just to see if I like doing it (for a piece this big, you better find a pattern you don't hate knitting from the outset). Now I just have to figure out the yarn (lace weight? fingering? worsted? bulky? white? cream? vanilla? wool? silk? cotton? bamboo? some combination thereof?), and try not to get overwhelmed.
It was a particularly nasty morning: torrential rain, biting wind, and no A-train service north of 168th Street. I was reluctant, to say the least, but eventually let myself be persuaded.
We met up at the 125th Street train station and headed downtown. I asked what it was exactly that we were doing, and he said he'd read about this little tiny jewelry shop in the East Village that does exquisite work and only uses non-conflict diamonds and would I please help him pick out an engagement ring?
We found the perfect ring, eventually, and Nate had the jeweler expedite it so that he could bring it to Paris the following week with, I think, the intention of perhaps proposing on a bridge overlooking the Seine. (You wouldn't necessarily think it to look at him, but my brother can sometimes be quite the romantic.)
And me and my big mouth, well, I guess I figured since the proposal was only a week away, it wouldn't hurt to, you know, maybe mention it to a couple people. A few people. Not too many, I swear, and all under strict instruction to, unlike me, keep their big mouths shut.
And then the proposal didn't happen. The perfect moment never quite presented itself. And those few people have been harassing me for months now, always asking, constantly inquiring, as to my brother's good intentions. (I might exaggerate a little bit here, but still, it's stressful for a girl to have secrets, especially when she's such an utter failure at keeping them.)
But finally, finally, just after Christmas, just before the New Year, my brother found his perfect moment, in the dead of winter, at a small bed & breakfast out on one of the San Juan Islands, just off the country's western rim.
And miraculously enough, the girl said yes.
When I was a little girl, I kind of always wanted a big brother. I was happy with the brother I had, of course, but I fantasized about having an older brother, someone bigger and stronger and more worldly, to look out for me I suppose.
What I never fantasized about was having a sister, older or younger. I had my girl friends, my bosom buddies, to steal a phrase from Anne Shirley, and just never hungered for a sister.
I will stand with my brother, who is also my best friend, and his Shanna at their wedding ceremony come September. And while Shanna may not be the older brother of my childhood dreams, she's a woman to be reckoned with, and a woman who looks after her own, and a woman my family will joyously welcome as one of our own, and a woman I will be pleased and honored to have as a sister in law.
Which brings me, lastly and finally, to the chuppah. I was talking on the phone the other night with Nate about possible wedding dates, locations, ideas. I mentioned to him my not very well thought out idea of knitting for Shanna a wedding shawl. He said he thought that might be nice, but that he'd been wanting to broach the idea of me knitting a chuppah for them.
A chuppah, if you don't know, is the traditional Jewish canopy under which the bride and groom (or the groom and groom, or bride and bride, as the case may be) say their wedding vows. It represents, or so it is said, the home the couple will create together. It is open on all sides, held
aloft simply on four poles, the better to welcome in the couple's loved ones, and the world around them. And it is empty, furnished only with the couple themselves, the people there to bear witness, and the love shared between them all.The idea of knitting a chuppah for Nathan and Shanna, for these two beautiful, wonderful people who somehow found each other quite literally in the wilderness on the far side of the world, just makes me want to laugh and cry with joy.
I've tentatively found a pattern, swatched in some old yellow acrylic I had in the closet just to see if I like doing it (for a piece this big, you better find a pattern you don't hate knitting from the outset). Now I just have to figure out the yarn (lace weight? fingering? worsted? bulky? white? cream? vanilla? wool? silk? cotton? bamboo? some combination thereof?), and try not to get overwhelmed.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
postcards & last suppers & family far away
I had dinner with Nathan, my Nater Tater, tonight, and even though he's not actually leaving for Portland for another month or so, it is likely that this might have been our last dinner together, just the two of us.
We were waxing nostalgic for this past year, this shared time here in New York City, these semi-weekly sibling dinners, at his place or at mine, that have become such a normal, such a wonderful and welcome and routine, part of our lives.
I was having dinner at Nate's place tonight, drinking wine and keeping him company as he chopped onions and garlic, boiled water, and picked windowsill basil for a delicious pasta, when I saw a postcard on his counter and, in my ever nosy fashion, flipped it over to see who it was from.
I should have known, really, given that I've been getting similar postcards or cards or packages for over fourteen years now. These weekly mailings arrive like clockwork from Anacortes, from our mother, sharing her daily goings-on with us in a simple intimacy that continues to amaze me.
They're full of little news, by which I mean the small intricacies of a life full of contentment, full of amusement and affection for the people and places and things inhabiting this life.
I asked Nate if he keeps any of these cards and he gave me a look and said yes, of course, all of them. And I felt guilty, because I don't. I keep my favorites on the refrigerator with a magnet, replacing them every so often with a new favorite. And I keep all the rest in piles scattered around my apartment for awhile until a cleaning frenzy kicks in (more rarely than I would care to admit) and I throw away everything that has accumulated on the dresser or the counter or the floor next to the bed in the preceding months.
I was talking with Sarah once, years ago, about these weekly notes, about how Mom has been sending them almost without fail since I graduated from high school. And Sarah was silent for a moment, and looked far away, and finally said, "You must have boxes of them. These pieces of her life."
I don't, even though sometimes I feel like I should. Which is kind of funny, because between Nathan and me, you might guess that I'm the more sentimental of the two, certainly the more overtly (some might argue just plain overly) emotional, and yet it is he who is keeping these cards, these notes, these little windows into our mother's world.
Maybe that's okay. Maybe I can be the overly sentimental of the two, the one more inclined to self-indulgent ramblings and crying jags and giggles, and he can be the steadfast keeper of the cards.
She'll know that we both love her, that we both adore her, in our oddly complementary practical and sentimental ways.
"3/17/08
Dear Emily,
This is an odd little card, but the bunny must be wishing you a Happy Easter!
I talked to G. Mac* on Saturday, & she sounded pretty happy. She's feeling well, too. She's saving stamps for Paul & always asks when we're coming down to get them!
Have a good week!
Love,
Mom & Paul
P.S. I made curtains for the kitchen nook windows - they look cute!"
*Grandma McNeil
We were waxing nostalgic for this past year, this shared time here in New York City, these semi-weekly sibling dinners, at his place or at mine, that have become such a normal, such a wonderful and welcome and routine, part of our lives.
I was having dinner at Nate's place tonight, drinking wine and keeping him company as he chopped onions and garlic, boiled water, and picked windowsill basil for a delicious pasta, when I saw a postcard on his counter and, in my ever nosy fashion, flipped it over to see who it was from.
I should have known, really, given that I've been getting similar postcards or cards or packages for over fourteen years now. These weekly mailings arrive like clockwork from Anacortes, from our mother, sharing her daily goings-on with us in a simple intimacy that continues to amaze me.
They're full of little news, by which I mean the small intricacies of a life full of contentment, full of amusement and affection for the people and places and things inhabiting this life.
I asked Nate if he keeps any of these cards and he gave me a look and said yes, of course, all of them. And I felt guilty, because I don't. I keep my favorites on the refrigerator with a magnet, replacing them every so often with a new favorite. And I keep all the rest in piles scattered around my apartment for awhile until a cleaning frenzy kicks in (more rarely than I would care to admit) and I throw away everything that has accumulated on the dresser or the counter or the floor next to the bed in the preceding months.
I was talking with Sarah once, years ago, about these weekly notes, about how Mom has been sending them almost without fail since I graduated from high school. And Sarah was silent for a moment, and looked far away, and finally said, "You must have boxes of them. These pieces of her life."
I don't, even though sometimes I feel like I should. Which is kind of funny, because between Nathan and me, you might guess that I'm the more sentimental of the two, certainly the more overtly (some might argue just plain overly) emotional, and yet it is he who is keeping these cards, these notes, these little windows into our mother's world.
Maybe that's okay. Maybe I can be the overly sentimental of the two, the one more inclined to self-indulgent ramblings and crying jags and giggles, and he can be the steadfast keeper of the cards.
She'll know that we both love her, that we both adore her, in our oddly complementary practical and sentimental ways.
"3/17/08
Dear Emily,
This is an odd little card, but the bunny must be wishing you a Happy Easter!
I talked to G. Mac* on Saturday, & she sounded pretty happy. She's feeling well, too. She's saving stamps for Paul & always asks when we're coming down to get them!
Have a good week!
Love,
Mom & Paul
P.S. I made curtains for the kitchen nook windows - they look cute!"
*Grandma McNeil
Thursday, June 21, 2007
best birthday emails ever
6.21.2001 Budweiser for your Birthday
Hello Ms. Emily McNeil,
Your friend, Nathan McNeil, informed the good folk here at Budweiser that you would be enjoying Budweiser Beer for your Birthday this year. We would like to let you know that we appreciate your decision to drink our fine product. We know of no other beer that costs as much to brew or tastes as good as beech wood aged Budweiser.
Have a happy birthday and enjoy Budweiser responsibly.
Sincerely,
Your Friends at Budweiser Customer Relations
6.26.2001 Birthday Failure
Ms. McNeil
We were informed that you would be drinking Budweiser and hence wanted to wish you a happy birthday. However, it has since come to our attention that you in fact drank no Budweiser whatsoever on your birthday. We hereby retract our wishes for a happy birthday.
Cordially,
Budweiser Customer Relations
Hello Ms. Emily McNeil,
Your friend, Nathan McNeil, informed the good folk here at Budweiser that you would be enjoying Budweiser Beer for your Birthday this year. We would like to let you know that we appreciate your decision to drink our fine product. We know of no other beer that costs as much to brew or tastes as good as beech wood aged Budweiser.
Have a happy birthday and enjoy Budweiser responsibly.
Sincerely,
Your Friends at Budweiser Customer Relations
6.26.2001 Birthday Failure
Ms. McNeil
We were informed that you would be drinking Budweiser and hence wanted to wish you a happy birthday. However, it has since come to our attention that you in fact drank no Budweiser whatsoever on your birthday. We hereby retract our wishes for a happy birthday.
Cordially,
Budweiser Customer Relations
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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