We Have It All

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Christina Dymock

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.
~Mignon McLaughlin

We thought we had it all--a beautiful house, three healthy children and one more on the way, two cars, a couple of four-wheelers for entertainment--and we loved it. We spent money like it was going out of style. Then, the market turned and my husband's job as a bigwig at a construction company was gone. The company had declared bankruptcy and was closing down for good.

We both started looking for jobs right away, but there weren't any to be found. With each passing day our panic increased and we continued to work together in order to pull our family through. The more we pulled together, the closer we got. I felt feelings of adoration for my husband that I hadn't felt in years.

That's why it was so hard for me to watch him blame himself for our current situation. I knew that he had no control over the economy, however, he constantly degraded himself and his spirits sunk lower with each snide comment. I continually asked him to stop, but he seemed to want to punish himself for not having a job.

Finally, one afternoon I pulled him aside and said, "We have four healthy children and each other. That's what's important. That makes you a rich man."

"But what if we lose the house? They'll hate me--you'll hate me," he replied.

I smiled at him and put my hands on both sides of his face to make him look me in the eye. "If we live in a cardboard box on the empty lot across the street I will be happy--as long as I have you." I smiled again as I realized that I wasn't just saying it. Somehow, in all the struggling together I had found that deep abiding love for him that I had on the day we said "I do."

I could see relief wash through him as his shoulders and neck relaxed and the tension left his body. He held me close and we were able to talk and plan and dream together in a way that we hadn't in quite some time. It was a turning point for us as a couple and a family.

We are still struggling financially, but I consider us well-off because we have something that money can't buy and no one can take away from us.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/We-Have-It-All.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

Other Peoples Beds

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Judith Marks-White

Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind.
~Seneca

Fourteen years ago, after my husband Mort died, I spent my summers living in other people's houses, traveling to places where, by invitation, I found myself in a mountain house in Virginia, a lakeside house in Maine, a clapboard cottage at the foot of the Berkshires, and a musty-scented dwelling on Fire Island, overlooking the sea. It was a summer of social gatherings; cocktails at sunset on verandas that spilled over the edge of lush gardens with flowers exploding in color against a pink and orange sky, where finding a patch of cloud was a startling, unwelcome intrusion on an otherwise perfect afternoon.

The rest of the year I worked hard, teaching my classes, meeting my weekly column deadlines and working on my next novel. Friends had offered their homes as healing retreats after the death of my husband. And so, still numb from my loss, I took them up on their offers. I packed an overnight bag and headed off, feeling emotionally wobbly and slightly off-balance.

"You'll stay with us," my Virginia friends implored. "We won't take no for an answer. June in Virginia is lovely."

Other friends who own a summer house in Maine asked me to join them in August.

"Houses are meant to be shared," my Lenox, Massachusetts, friends told me in July.
"You can hear the music of Tanglewood from our terrace."

Listening to Mozart waft through the crisp evening air was hard to resist.

Then, there was Fire Island where my children spent their summers. I had an open invitation. Before I knew it, I was filling a suitcase with summer clothes and easing into the role of the rotating houseguest, spending time with my gallery of friends, who introduced me to the rhythm of their summertime lives and the myriad of activities that went along with it.

All that summer, I hiked high up into the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains to commune with nature and its animal inhabitants, some of which, obviously sensing my reticence, had the good sense to leave me alone. A garter snake slithered by me as I leaned up against a tree trying to regain my composure. My usual stash of bottled water was replaced by fresh water from mountain streams. Here, all pretenses were dropped.

Similarly, the Maine trails whose silence was stirred by bird sounds and rustlings gave way to a silver lake shining in the sun, punctuated with little boats against a landscape of green and purple mountains, providing postcard-perfect settings at every turn.

Fire Island was damp and overcast when the ferry delivered me into the arms of my squealing grandchildren. The afternoon threatened rain as I trekked the beaches and watched as streaks of sunlight tried hard to work their way through the storm clouds. Fire Island is beautiful in any season, and when the winds became fierce, we found seclusion indoors, alternating between games of Trivial Pursuit with the adults and Chutes and Ladders with Andrew and Caroline. One afternoon, I found myself engrossed in play while the parents took leave and put me in charge of four children all under the age of seven. By 5 P.M. I was exhausted. I took them all for treats. We ate ice cream in the rain.

And then there were the naps, where we retired to our respective rooms without the pressure of schedules or the cacophonous ring of telephones or television sets blasting annoying commercials. Reclining on other people's beds to finish a book seemed at once both comforting and strange. Sleeping on sheets that bore no resemblance to my own--pillows that didn't caress my head exactly right, were unfamiliar to my touch yet oddly inviting. Blankets smelled differently, and mattresses, unaccustomed to my body's contour, dipped and peaked as I tried to find a spot that felt secure under me. These were constant reminders I was not home. Once again, the tug of my loss gnawed at me at every turn.

But, friends and family filled the void of loneliness and provided solace during those difficult times. I moved among them all, enjoying their food and partaking of their hospitality. I was grateful that my grieving was accepted, and that I was being nurtured. I did not need to put on airs. Those yellow summer afternoon, filled with light banter and conversation, warmed my soul.

"Do you prefer cold lobster or leftover poached salmon?" were the most difficult decisions of the day. Invitations to take the boat out for a spin, run into town or walk a mile up the road to the general store was about as complicated as it got. It was a time of borrowed books, smearing sun block over a child's shoulders, dining al fresco, and skinny dipping in the lake in the black of night.

And then, like an unexpected intruder, the winds began kicking up earlier than usual. Sweaters replaced halter tops and the first subtle whisper of autumn was felt. Thoughts of new beginnings took hold as summer began to wane. It was time to put away the porch furniture and throw an extra blanket on the bed at night.

And so, I officially bade a fond farewell to those summers: to sand in my shoes, damp hair that curled exactly right when exposed to sea air, and to the sounds of motorboats putt-putting me to sleep. My legs bore a slight coating of suntan. Mosquito bites were reminders that we lingered too long on open patios. Children's voices echoing in the evening air still reverberated in my ears: "Can't we stay outside and play a little longer?" Mental snapshots of my grandchildren jumping the waves and building sandcastles, eating corn on the cob, and catching fireflies in discarded jelly jars filled my memory bank for months to come.

Lying in other people's beds reminded me I was not alone. Loss had been buffered by a season of friends, and I had a chance to begin to heal. But, in the end, it was my bed that knew me best. Nothing could replace the lure of familiarity. Arriving home, my cat, Annabelle, curled up next to me, and feeling safe, dared to close her eyes. She had traveled with me, but only now, like I, felt at home. A faint hint of my favorite shampoo's aroma now lingered on my pillow. I ate crackers in bed (my late-husband's pet peeve and I giggle at the thought of his disapproval) without the fear of getting crumbs on other people's blankets.

2008: Another summer had come and gone. I am re-married now and home in our house, Mark's and mine: the place of intimacy, where I can relax and be completely myself. I stretch and curl up in all the right spots, as I drift off to sleep on an early December night, recalling the bittersweet memories of summers past, and all the future summers spread out before us, yet to be lived.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/Other-People-s-Beds.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

Don t Take Away My Coffee

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Rebecca Jay

Starbucks represents something beyond a cup of coffee.
~Howard Schultz

They're threatening to close my favorite coffee shop.

The economy is weakening, and people are losing their jobs. But they can't close my coffee shop. I listen to the national and local news channels. I understand budgets, dollars and severance pay. Every morning when I get ready for work, I pray that the next morning I'll still have a job. I want to get ready for work every Monday through Friday.

But they can't close my coffee shop.

Eight years ago, I sat in front of a judge and listened to her end my marriage. It wasn't what I had envisioned when I walked down the aisle in my white dress. But it happened, and as a middle-of-the-demographics woman, I was suddenly thrust back into the marketplace. I worked three jobs, saved every possible penny and finished raising my son.

One of the things that kept me going was my goal to someday be able to afford a drink at the coffee shop. I watched other people going in those hallowed doors and coming out with smiles on their faces. They seemed to have no problems, no financial concerns. Surely none of them worked three jobs like me and saved every scrap of food for leftovers. They carried Styrofoam cups filled with mocha, caramel or some other type of sugary foam. Some lucky guys and gals carried metal cups with the coffee shop brand on them. How I wanted one of those cups! How I longed to be part of the gang!

As the calendar months in my planner flipped over, I continued to work various jobs. Two years passed, and life was still in the survival mode. Then one day, a co-worker noticed that my birthday was coming. "What do you want?" he asked.

It was too easy. "My love language is coffee."

On my birthday, I opened his card and saw the answer to my dream--a gift card with the coffee shop logo. You would think that I might have scurried out of the office during my lunch hour to gobble that coveted drink. But I had waited too long for this goal to hurry happiness.

I planned the right moment: a Saturday morning when I didn't have to work. My son was at band practice. I was alone and geared for joy. After fixing my hair and putting on my best make-up, I drove carefully across town. Slowly, savoring each ray of happiness--I parked and walked toward the door with the coffee logo on the front.

Once inside, my senses exploded into overload. Brownies beckoned from glass cases. Those coveted metal cups gleamed from a corner shelf. And the menu--rows and rows of delightful possibilities. I would choose wisely, and make my gift card last.

"I'll have a small chocolate something," I told the young man behind the counter.

"A tall mocha?" he asked.

Did I sound like a rookie at this game? Probably. No doubt this polite young man was laughing inside. I didn't care.

"Yes, that's right," I said, squaring my shoulders like a sudden expert. "A tall mocha."

My treasure and I sat on a tweed sofa while I slowly sipped. Nothing I had tasted previously in my entire fifty-plus years gave me such pleasure. I pulled a novel from my purse and read about a faraway place, imagining myself there, with another tall mocha--or maybe the largest size, whatever that was called. I pretended I had all the time in the world and was as rich as all the people who kept opening that door and ordering their favorite drinks.

During the next few months, I carved out special outings at my coffee shop. Each time, I tried a different drink. By the time I had used up my gift card, I had a relationship with chai latte, hazelnut and a delightful pumpkin spice. But that first mocha still remained the favorite.

Now that my son is raised and I'm working only two jobs, I visit my coffee shop more often. I still ask for those gift cards on my birthday or at Christmas. Last year I saved enough coins to buy myself one of those treasured cups. It sits on my desk at work, but I don't always drink from it. Sometimes I just stare at it and say a prayer of thanks that I'm finally out of the hole.

You see, they can't close my coffee shop. We all need a place to find hope.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/Don-t-Take-Away-My-Coffee.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

One Second Changed My Life Forever

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Susie Dinsmore

One of the secrets of life is to make stepping stones out of stumbling blocks.
~Jack Penn

As a little girl, I dreamed of owning a ranch with horses and marrying a wonderful man. I never dreamed my world would come to a crashing halt after a traumatic brain injury.

You see, I had to be a daredevil, riding the craziest horses, driving fast, always on the go. This time however, I pushed it too far. I had put a two-wheeled motorized scooter on the fastest setting I could. Next thing I knew, I was flying off the sidewalk. The machine had jumped the curb, hit the street and soared in the air with me still on it. Coming down, the machine was so heavy it thrust me head first onto the concrete street, cracking my head. Everything went twirling and into a blur; yet I didn't pass out. I went into shock. Thinking "I'm tough," I refused to go to the hospital. When I awoke the next day, I knew I was in trouble. When I spoke, I started with the end of the sentence and moved to the beginning of the sentence. My family rushed me to the emergency room, where they found a spot on my brain.

Sitting in the specialist's office while the doctor told my fiancé that I was not the same person he fell in love with was hard. He said that both the front and back of my brain had serious damage. Because of the severity of the damage, he said, I would never be the engineer I had been. He urged me to find jobs that required only one task at a time. I actually believed him. Taking a leave of absence from work, I started rehab.

My fiancé married me anyway. I told him that I would try my best to get "me" back. We bought that ranch I had always dreamed of, with beautiful horses, and settled in.

At first, I seemed normal. You wouldn't have noticed the subtle differences in my behavior unless you had lived with me. I "knew" without a shadow of doubt that I closed the horses' gates so they wouldn't get out. I saw myself actually closing the gates. A horse or two got out. You can guess who got in trouble. I knew I turned off the stove after cooking. I would talk about a memory and I would meld one from years before with one that happened recently. On it went. I soon found myself on my own because my husband would spend more time around friends and less with me.

I became suspicious of everyone. I thought people were talking about me, thinking I was weird, because that's how I felt. What was worse was no one could tell I had anything wrong with me on the outside until, under pressure, I started to stutter. I would say sentences backwards, and they would get distressed looks on their faces.

I became self-conscious about everything I said and did. I began isolating myself from everyone, alone in the house or outside with the horses. Even my family did not know how to deal with me. I went from being well-liked to being cold and distant. I started crying all the time. I felt as though I had lost my mind. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I was incredibly lonely and no one knew my pain.

As time passed, my husband and I fought constantly. I tried desperately to prove to him that I wasn't lying about closing things, opening things, hiding things... you name it.

Not being able to handle it anymore, I said a prayer. "God, I know he didn't know what he was getting into when he married me. Please tell me that I am not the lying person that he thinks I am. Tell me that I am worth something to someone, anyone, somewhere. Tell me that I am worth loving. Do you even care that I am literally stuck in here with my thoughts and I cannot get out? Do you see where I am? God, please save me and tell me what to do."

Collapsing on the bed, I heard a little voice in my head that simply said, "I want you to leave. Just leave. I want you to leave."

"But God, you don't want us to leave a marriage!" I retorted.

"His heart is hard, and I want you to leave. You have friends and I will supply everything you need."

"What friends?" No reply came.

There was no way I would leave without my horses. How could I afford to board huge animals on my minimum wage job? How would I pull this off? I decided it was better to obey and that is when the first miracle happened.

Old friends who I had distanced myself from a few years before offered to board my horses, free. That same day, another miracle occurred when an old colleague of mine said I could live with her for free until I got on my feet. Then, as if pre-planned, the third miracle arrived. Another old friend told me her husband was hiring at his office. The position was a perfect fit and paid more than enough for me to survive. Yes, just like that.

At my lowest point during this time, I had lost my dream home to foreclosure, been divorced, lost my stepdad to a rare disease, rushed to several hospitals for my mother's weak heart, battled creditors, lost a few jobs due to "mistakes," and I had put down my dear friend of more than fourteen years, my sweet dog, Nina.

Now, I manage an office. I successfully passed all four of the State Life and Health Insurance exams -- which most people fail one or more times. My mom and I are best friends! I am at peace with myself while learning about the trials of head injuries and their impact on people's lives.

It is amazing when everything falls into place once you are back on the track you started. I believe there is a place in you that can overcome obstacles you cannot see past. There is hope; there is a promise. It might take some time, but you will get there.

I sure did.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/One-Second-Changed-My-Life-Forever.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

Kitten Capers

From Chicken Soup for the Soul:

Kitten Capers From Chicken Soup for the Soul : What I Learned from the Cat

An ordinary kitten will ask more questions than any five-year-old.

~Carl Van Vechten

I got a kitty recently. A cuddly bundle of joy and delight who is always endeavoring to figure out the world around her. She is constantly reminding me of the awkward but endearing quality of learning, and of the play and bizarreness of the world.

Yesterday she put her head in a small backpack sitting on a chair. Sticking her face in the outside pocket, she sniffed around to discover leftover cucumber slices from my picnic lunch. At first with interest, and then with vigor, she was stuffing her head and then her whole upper body into the pocket to make sure she hadn't missed anything.

But before long, having that curiosity satisfied, she sat up ready to move on to another adventure. In one zesty move she jumped off the chair -- hooking one of her little back legs on the backpack strap on the way down. Suddenly, what she thought was a harmless inanimate object with some boring human food was a fierce and attacking animal, right on her tail! Onto the floor and around and around the LIVE and wild backpack was chasing her.

I watched. First I worried that her little legs would be injured in her fight for life with the luggage. Then I felt the mild concern of seeing a terrified expression on someone you love, even in the face of something you know to be harmless. And then came humor -- this kitten was doing battle with an inanimate object. How many times had I done battle with things that were completely harmless to me? Expending much energy and great fright defending myself from "a backpack," so to speak.

It got funnier and funnier as the scene went on -- a terrifying backpack of all things. Man, the world can be strange! Slashing around on the wood floor in a fury, she managed to free herself from the horrific monster before too long. However, her bold curiosity of moments before was gone. She slunk away from the terrible scene and hid under the nearby wood stove, collecting herself.

I don't even remember the moment when she discovered it was just a stupid backpack -- the same uninteresting one with the dying cucumber slices she had seen and tried to leave behind only moments ago. Though I know it wasn't long afterward.

I just remember sitting there laughing. Laughing at the funny situations that life deals us and at the weird ways we forget and then rediscover the illusion. Laughing at seeing myself battle luggage on the kitchen floor. Attaching to things that I could be rid of -- perhaps just for the drama of it all.

Sometimes the most random moments bring a clarity that can't be ignored, making the game so obvious -- all you can do is sit back and laugh.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/Kitten-Capers.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

Dog Sanctuary

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog

BY: By Dallas Woodburn

A dog is one of the remaining reasons why some people can be persuaded to go for a walk.
~O.A. Battista

There is a small, old-fashioned ice cream parlor in the pleasant little town of Urbana, Ohio. Decades of existence give Kerr's Sweet Shop a comfortable, well-worn atmosphere, like the feel of your favorite pair of jeans.

Urbana is such a tiny town that most everyone knows everyone else personally. As a matter of fact, they usually don't just know you, but your father and grandfather and perhaps they even knew your great-grandfather. There was once a young boy who visited this ice cream parlor quite often on his way around town with his Boxer dog, Gar. Gar was short for Gargantua, named after the famous giant because he grew to be such a big dog -- "ninety-seven pounds of pure muscle!" the boy proclaimed proudly.

Whenever he visited the ice cream parlor, which was almost daily in the summer, the boy always ordered two ice cream cones -- a chocolate one for himself, and a vanilla one for Gar. The boy was a self-proclaimed "chocoholic," and he felt bad that Gar always had to settle for vanilla, but he knew that chocolate is dangerous for dogs. Gar didn't seem to mind; he wagged his stubby tail gleefully when the boy held out the vanilla cone for him to lick as they sat together on the steps outside the ice cream parlor. The boy half-kiddingly said that if they could find a way to harness the energy of that tail to a generator, they would have enough power to light all of Urbana for weeks on end.

One time the boy was sick with the flu and wasn't able to leave the house to go to school, much less the ice cream parlor. After four days, or maybe a full week, when he was well again, the boy took Gar out for their routine walk around town. The dog trotted happily beside him, no leash required, only stopping a few times to sniff at bushes and hydrants and trees. When the pair came into view of Kerr's Sweet Shop, Gar suddenly left the boy's side and dashed across Main Street. Pausing at the far corner, he glanced back, as if imploring his owner to follow. So the boy did -- he followed Gar right up through the door into the ice cream parlor.

The boy walked up to the counter, asked for "the usual," and sifted through change in his pocket to pay. But instead of "the usual" ten cents -- a nickel for each cone -- the man working as ice cream scooper said the boy owed a quarter.

The boy was confused. He ordered only two single-scoop cones: one vanilla, one chocolate, just as he always did -- that should be a dime. The man smiled and said, "Well, your dog there's been comin' in the past few afternoons around this time, and he kept barkin' and barkin' and wouldn't stop. We figured since you always get a vanilla cone for 'im, and he likes 'em so well, that we'd just give 'im some ice cream even if you weren't with 'im. So we've sorta been keepin' a tab for 'im here. I hope that's okay."

The boy laughed and assured the man it certainly was. In fact, he told them to keep the tab running if Gar came in again by himself -- which the dog occasionally did. Even years later, the boy still got a kick out of telling the story about his crazy dog with its very own charge account at the local ice cream parlor.

***

My grandpa -- "Gramps" I affectionately call him -- was that young boy and his story about Gar and the ice cream parlor is one of my favorites. Ever since I was a little girl, I have begged him to tell that story over and over again, wishing I had a Boxer dog just like his beloved Gar, a dog I would raise from a puppy and take for walks around town and get ice cream with, a dog who would sleep at the foot of my bed at night and be my best friend.

My dad grew up listening to the same stories, and while he was open to the idea of getting a Boxer, we lived in a small condominium -- way too cramped for a big dog that loves to run around and play. Then, during the summer before I went into the third grade, we moved to a bigger house -- with a backyard -- and suddenly my dream of owning a Boxer seemed wonderfully within reach.

That year, as with previous years, a Boxer puppy was at the top of my birthday wish list. I never really expected to get one, at least when we lived in the condo, but when my first birthday arrived in our new house -- I was ten years old -- Gramps came over for dinner to celebrate. He gave me the last present himself: a book about caring for your Boxer puppy. I lifted the cover to find a note written inside: "The real thing will be coming in a few weeks." And sure enough, on a sunny spring day a short time later, I played fetch with my new puppy, Gar, for the first time.

Gar soon lived up to his namesake's reputation as quite a goofy character. He doesn't much care for ice cream, but he does love oatmeal cookies -- not chocolate chip, though, because Gramps was quick to tell me that chocolate is bad for dogs. And Gar often "works on his tan" while napping on the porch in the afternoon sunshine. Gramps refers to Gar as my "brother" and spoils him like he is indeed another grandchild, and so it is no surprise that Gar absolutely adores his "grandfather."

Another thing Gar adores is going for walks around the neighborhood. If I even whisper the word "walk" he will immediately start jumping around frantically, scratching at the front door in excited anticipation. If I am later than usual in asking, he lets me know he's ready to go by whining at the cupboard drawer where his leash is kept.

Every evening, I take Gar out for a two-mile walk around our neighborhood, and though I tell him I am doing him a favor, the truth is it has become one of my favorite parts of the day, too. It is time all to myself, to escape from the hectic routines of the day and take a few minutes to think and reflect upon my life and my dreams. Gar and I walk on a path that runs alongside an orange grove, with a view of rows upon rows of green trees stretching towards the distant hills and shimmering Pacific Ocean. My favorite time of the day to take a walk is just before dusk, when the sun is beginning to set and the California sky is filled with warm, soothing pinks and reds and golds.

Some teenagers' special place is their room or a specific hideout, but my sanctuary moves -- it is anywhere beside my dog. Walks with Gar keep me grounded and sane and content, able to enjoy the quiet moments of life that make it so miraculous: a tiny yellow flower blooming through a crack in the sidewalk; the innocent, gleeful laughter of children playing in the neighborhood cul-de-sac; the slobbery wet kiss of a dog as he looks at you with unconditional love and devotion. Especially when I am worried or stressed or sad, walking along beside -- or rather, being pulled along behind -- my wacky, exuberant, eighty-six "pounds of pure muscle" somehow always makes me feel better. It is a place for me to reflect upon my many blessings and be thankful for all I have.

Sometimes it is easy to get sucked in by the nerve-wracking, unimportant minutiae of life while forgetting about what's really important: the love of family and friends, the freedom to be yourself, the quiet tranquility of evening walks with the best birthday present ever -- and, yes, the occasional chocolate and vanilla ice cream cones.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2009/11/Dog-Sanctuary.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER

Al Fresco

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family

BY: By Marianne LaValle-Vincent

The trouble with eating Italian food is that five or six days later you're hungry again.
~George Miller

Every few years, my entire family gets together for a huge reunion. Relatives come from everywhere to hug, kiss and eat. It's an Italian fiasco.

We begin cooking weeks before the gathering. It's a "picnic" of sorts, but if you're Italian, you know there's no such animal. Normally, picnics consist of hot dogs, burgers, etc. We Italians are incapable of eating such foods unless accompanied by staples such as antipasto with assorted home-cured meats, shrimp and fried calamari, olives, polenta, soup (regardless of weather... it can be ninety-five degrees, but gotta have soup), greens and beans, sauce and about eighteen pounds of assorted pasta cooked al dente, along with meatballs, sausage and bracciole, wine, roasted chicken and potatoes, about a hundred loaves of hot Italian bread, and more wine and beer (has to be Molson; one uncle is from Canada). Add to this a few ears of corn on the cob and salt potatoes -- after all, it is a picnic! And then the desserts follow: about seventy-five pounds of assorted homemade Italian cookies, fruited Jell-O with heavy cream (for the uncles with no teeth), ricotta pies, cannoli, biscotti, pasticciotto and sfogliatelle. Then comes the coffee, sambuca, anisette and Galliano, just in case you haven't had enough wine or beer.

The hardest part is getting all this food to the designated picnic spot. Each family is responsible for lugging their own prepared food, and you MUST bring ice and a cooler. There are no paper plates or plastic utensils allowed at this shindig, so we all bring our own china, silverware and linen napkins. (Paper anything is wasteful.)

On the day of the reunion, we start gathering about 7:00 A.M. We bring banquet tables and folding chairs (Uncle Rocky borrows them from the funeral home), and the men start unloading. This takes roughly three hours. Meanwhile, the women are getting the grills ready. The sauce is already simmering, and the cousins start arriving in droves. Breakfast is served: frittatas made to order.

Since no one believes in birth control, large numbers of children run wild, and there is more hair-pulling and hand-biting than you can possibly imagine. My grandmother and grandfather are immediately seated in "lounge chairs" in a shady spot and remain there for the duration of the gathering. They are asleep in five minutes and don't awaken until they smell the fried calamari.

Each family is thoroughly cross-examined by the others, and the stories run wild. There are at least fifteen family members with a back problem, and another twenty-five or so with hemorrhoids. Three or four of the older aunts have dementia, and a large majority of the day is spent re-orienting them. They each carry a purse that weighs about forty-seven pounds, an umbrella and rosary beads. Aunt Palma carries a shopping bag full of other shopping bags. No one questions her; she's the oldest.

Uncle Richard is a bookie, so he's taking bets on what time the cousins from Utica will arrive. Every obscene Italian gesture and cuss word is used in voices that could wake the dead. Uncle Vito brings his keyboard and does a poor impression of Pavarotti. Uncle Nunzio joins him on the accordion. Laurie's daughter is choking on a quarter, and Nicole's kids are running through the park buck naked. At this point, we pretend to "not be related to anyone near the sauce pots." My sisters and I stare at the aunts' mustaches and pray we don't follow in this horrible hormonal tradition. Our eyes are burning from the cigar smoke, so we decide to take a walk by the water.

We bump into Patty Anne on the path. She was recently divorced (an unforgivable sin) and has taken up with her butcher. They are, as my aunts so astutely put it, "living in sin right under God's face." She and Shawn, a non-Italian, are sucking face like a couple of dogs in heat. Aunt Nunni is telling everyone that Patty Anne has shamed the entire family, and that if her mother were still alive, this would have finished her off. It's bad enough they're living together, but he's not even Italian. I pick this moment to tell everyone that his last name is Murphy. Aunt Nancy faints. (I decide this is not a good time to tell them that Cousin Concetta is pregnant with Jake Goldstein's kid. They'll find out soon enough. Concetta is knitting mohair yarmulkes.)

Uncle Louie says grace, and dinner is finally served. We eat for what seems like hours, and my legs hurt from walking up and down the hill to bring food to my grandparents. Other picnickers are looking at us as if we are aliens. While they enjoy hot dogs on paper plates, we are sweating from the steam of the minestrone soup. Heads are being slapped everywhere, and cousins Gino and Michelle are missing. By this time, I am more than ready for alcohol. I start drinking Uncle Tony's homemade grappa. This is no easy task since it tastes like kerosene, but it grows on you. After two glasses, it goes down like champagne. No women drink the homemade red wine because it permanently stains the teeth a deep shade of maroon.

We take the china and silverware to the lake for a quick rinse before dessert is served. The coffee and after-dinner drinks are passed around, and Aunt Nancy starts telling stories about the "Old Country." Everyone starts laughing like crazy. This hilarity doesn't last too long because someone inevitably speaks of Uncle John and Uncle Mikey, who were killed in a train wreck right after arriving in America. The laughter turns to tears, and the novenas flow. The older relatives are making the sign of the cross and looking upward when one of the aunts spots Gino and Michelle. Gino is grinning like the Cheshire cat, and Michelle's hair looks as if it were caught in a monsoon. Uncle Vito slaps Gino in the head, and then hugs him. Aunt Ida bites her hand and asks Michelle if she wants to end up like Patty Anne. Michelle sees Patty Anne and Shawn still locking lips and nods yes.

My aunts have now infiltrated the entire park by "passing the cookie trays," and strangers of every nationality are joining us. It's starting to get dark, so they figure it's time to re-heat everything. Now the crowd gets even bigger.

At about midnight (or when I have about thirty-six mosquito bites), the party breaks up. Dishes are washed and packed along with the cleaned and polished silverware. Promises are made to keep in touch, and kisses fly everywhere. Of course, we won't see half of them for another four or five years. (This is NOT a bad thing.)

In bed later that night, I think of the next reunion. My sisters and I will be considered "The Aunts" by then. I wonder if we'll be sporting any facial hair. Oh, well. In a few years, Pops and I will be sitting in the "Lounge Chairs" on the hill. Life is good.

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