All It Takes Is A Little Love

Pat Weimer was the big sister that I had often dreamed of having. She introduced me to so many wonderful aspects of living that I had never before encountered. I saw chick flicks for the first time with her, movies that my brothers and my husband would never have considered viewing. She loved shopping for hours and going on spur of the moment adventures. She and I attended musicals and live performances together. Her door was always open. There was no need to call first to see if she was amenable to the idea of a visitor. She made life fun, but she was also someone with whom I was able to discuss anything. I did not need to filter my thoughts or comments with her. She allowed me to vent and I reciprocated with her. Our bond was sacred and incredibly special. 

Pat was a great wife as well. She created a hard and fast tradition that she believed every couple should enjoy. She and her husband had a date night at least once every single week. She found that Thursdays worked well because it was easier to get babysitters on a week night than on the weekend. She had a regular reservation with a young girl from the neighborhood. She and her husband went to dinner or saw a movie or just spent time sipping on coffee and talking about their jobs, their family, their dreams. 

In spite of my feeling that Pat’s date night idea was fantastic I was never quite able to follow her lead with my husband, Mike. There always seemed to be something that prevented us from keeping such a routine alive, but in the back of my mind I always believed that we should have worked a bit harder to make it happen like Pat had always done. She set alone time with her husband as a priority whereas I viewed it more as a fling if we happened to have the spare time. More often than not date night took a back seat to something that seemed more pressing at the time.

Pat died several years back and her husband has also gone. Now I find myself thinking that she was brilliant to make those date nights one of the most important routines of her daily life. I know that she glowed with joy whenever she described them. I suspect that they had sent the message to her husband that he was the most important person in her world. Theirs was a beautiful partnership that any of us would do well to emulate.

I have to admit that I have all too often pushed other responsibilities to the forefront of my calendar. First I was raising my children. Then my datebook became crowded with the needs of all of my students as well as those of my mother. There was hardly time to sleep much less indulge in the luxury of a regular time spent alone with my husband. It was not until my daughters were grown, my mother had died, and I had retired from my full time job of teaching that I found myself with enough freedom to just have fun with my husband. It was as though we were meeting each other all over again. For a time we had an almost daily adventure from the moment we awoke until we fell asleep at night. We were dedicated to making up for the years when our focus seemed to always be on other members of the family or work. 

All of that freedom came to a screeching halt when my father-in-law came to live with us a year and a half ago. Suddenly it takes great planning to go out for an evening or to take a trip. Nothing can be random anymore. It is like moving backward into a time when we were too tired to even try to have a regular date night like Pat had urged us to do. Since we did not choose to create a regular time alone together back then, we somehow struggle to pull it off now. We let other responsibilities push such times from our calendar. 

If I have one resolution for the impending new year it will be to finally get serious about putting my marital relationship before all others. I am going to do everything in my power to assure that our calendar includes a regular date night each and every week. When we have randomly experienced such a thing since our home life changed so drastically, we have returned to our duties refreshed and less stressed over our caretaker role. 

I’m seventy five now and my husband is seventy six. When my father-in-law was in our age range he met a lovely woman and married for a second time. The two of them travelled all over the world and regularly went out to movies and restaurants. They lived life to the maximum and it rejuvenated him at a time when he had seemed almost near death. Being with his new love filled him with joy for almost twenty years. Now he is ninety-four and content to sleep late, eat at the same times each day, follow an exercise routine without exception and and use the exact same schedule day in and day out. We help him to do that and to chase away his loneliness, but we can’t put our lives on hold either. The clock is ticking for all of us, and I think that my husband and I need to stop it’s progress at least once a week with a regular night out for just the two of us. 

I miss Pat’s wise counsel. I feel that I know what she would tell me if she were still here. She was not one to allow her troubles to steal her fun. She was always finding ways to make ordinary days seem exciting. She would look me in the eye and reiterate how important those date nights are. I think it’s well past time for me to get serious about such a tradition in my own life. The kids and the parents and everyone we know will be alright while Mike and I slip away for a few hours each week. Pat showed me how to do it. Now it is time. 

There is a special bond between siblings. We spend the first years of our lives living with brothers or sisters who probably know us as well as anyone ever will. I was the eldest child in my family and the only girl. While I often wished for a sister, that was not to be. Instead I had two brothers who became two of the most important people that I will ever know. I vividly remember the birth of each of them even though it seems almost impossible with regard to the first one who came along since I was only three years old. Somehow I nonetheless recall seeing him in his bassinet and later in a wicker basket that my mother sometimes used to carry him into the yard for sunning. 

Jack Michael was born on January 6, Three Kings Day, while we were living on Kingsbury Street in Southeast Houston. He was a dark haired dark eyed little boy who slept most of the time and was often quite sick. I suppose I recall his early years mostly because my mother would often be fretting over him as he developed fevers that raised his body temperature to disturbing levels. He had asthma and many allergies that prompted our family physician, Dr. J. Forrest Jorns to make house calls to our home. I watched my mother place Michael, as we came to call him, on the kitchen table while the good doctor listened to my brother’s breathing. He usually ended the visit by providing Mama with medication for m baby brother and giving directions for what to do if Michael’s condition worsened. 

Michael was a curious soul who always seemed to be exploring the world around him as he began to toddle around the house. One time he got into an ant bed and was soon covered with painful whelps. Another time I witnessed him putting a screw into his nose. That incident prompted a visit to the hospital where his tonsils and adenoids were removed. By then I had learned that sometimes he had to go inside the bathroom where our mother ran hot water to make steam to help with his breathing. I often worried about him as much as my mother did. 

When Michael was three and I was five our brother William Patrick was born. In keeping with an unexplained tradition he became known by his middle name just as Michael was. I always wondered how I had kept my own first name instead of being called Dianne. Anyway I was annoyed when I learned that instead of a sister my mother was brining home another boy. At first I petulantly refused to even go see him as he lay in the same bassinet where Michael had been. Curiosity got the best of me so I snuck into the room where he was sleeping and instantly fell in love with him because he was the most beautiful infant that I had ever seen. 

Patrick was like me. He hardly ever got sick but he tended to be so energetic that he had a number of accidents. I always thought of myself as being his second mom and I felt guilty whenever he was hurt. Somehow I thought that I was responsible for the cuts and bruises that often appeared on his knees from his adventurous play. 

I was only eight when our father died and my brothers were five and two respectively. I took it on myself to constantly watch over them from that day forward. I tried to tell them what our father had been like. I thought it was important for them to know how wonderful our Daddy had been. Michael had a few rather vivid memories that complimented mine, but Patrick had no real recollection of the man that he would always so closely resemble. 

Our mother was determined to allow each of us to develop our own unique personalities and talents. We ended up all being good people but incredibly unalike. Michael was the mathematician that he said he would be who awed us with his intellect. Patrick was a charismatic soul who charmed people wherever he went and would end up being a leader in the community. I became a teacher and a dreamer who still imagines that one day my writing will become known across the world. 

The three of us were as devoted to each other as any brothers and a sister might be. We stayed close to each other over the years and eventually joined forces in caring for our beloved mother who had sacrificed so much for us. Michael worked at Boeing designing the navigational system for the International Space Station. Patrick became a Houston firefighter eventually rising to Head of the Fire Training Academy and then a Regional Fire Chief. I taught mathematics and became the Dean of Faculty in a local high school. Our mother continued to dote on each of us until her death and she remains the heart of our family to this day. 

At this time of year nothing pleases me more than being with my brothers. Now our gatherings include our children, their spouses and our grandchildren. It is always a happy time with love oozing out of the room. I now have sisters, Becky and Allison, who married my brothers. They are exactly what I had hoped to find in a little sister growing up. I can’t imagine my life without my siblings and I hope they can’t imagine one without me. We are best friends and my love for them is immeasurable. The sibling relationship is one of the most special in life and I am so glad that my parents gave me the gift of two wonderful brothers.  

I teach or tutor around ten students in mathematics each week. I use the funds that I earn to give my daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren nice gifts for birthdays and Christmas. I sent out text messages in October asking them what kind of things they wanted or needed that I might purchase for them for the holiday season. Much like my mother I believe in sharing my good fortune now rather than storing it away for some future day when I am gone. So, the requests flowed in and I did my best to fulfill the wish lists that came my way.

The requested items seemed to nicely reflect the personalities of each individual. The grandson who cooks for a hobby wanted a better quality cookware to add to the hand me downs he had been using. The young man who used to have little interest in clothing has become more aware of fashion trends as he inches toward completing a college degree, so he chose a few pieces that will enhance his style. Another grandson wanted a dress watch to go with his newly acquired position as a leader at his university. Another is thinking ahead to next fall when he will be moving from dorm life to an apartment. He wanted anything having to do with stocking a kitchen. One grandchild simply wanted to enrich the savings account that he has steadily increased over the years by squirreling away earned and gifted cash. A daughter eyed a chair that she thought might be nice for reading. The other daughter created a wish list of quite ordinary items that ranged from Little House on the Prairie books to tea and honey. Happily I was able fulfill all of their wishes which made me feel quite content and happy. 

I don’t think of Christmas as being only about gifts. It is so much more than that. It is about hope and love and the importance of family. It is about sharing stories and time with loved ones. It is about remembering those who are gone. The gifts that I give are designed to lift spirits and make a small investment in providing something special that each person might otherwise not have. The work I do in my spare time is also my gift to the young people who need to learn the workings of mathematics. The gift they provide me is a feeling that I have done something that has a profound purpose. The intertwining of joy that comes from my lessons radiates out in many directions and sometimes ends up in wrapped packages under my Christmas tree. 

From the time I married my husband, Mike, I heard stories of his grandparents. I was not fortunate enough to meet them because both of them had died long before I met my future spouse. Nonetheless I learned of their generosity from the stories of those who loved and admired them. My mother-in-law often related how her father had once boasted that his goal was to make his only grandson’s life so wonderful that the boy’s only worry would be how to store the motor on the boat that he would surely one day own. That grandfather had already purchased a toy fire engine for his Mike to drive around the neighborhood. He imagined a lifetime of sharing his own good fortune with the little boy that he hoped to mentor into becoming a great man. Sadly Mike’s grandfather died in his forties when Mike was only a five years old, but family lore kept his love and devotion to his grandchild alive. 

Mike’s grandmother was a young widow who somehow pulled herself together and successfully steadied the business that her husband had once run. She would finance Mike’s education in private schools like St. Thomas High School. She provided him with his first car, a used Chevy that seemed to be as wonderful to him as a brand new Camaro might have been. She appeared to take great joy in providing him with little perks that he might otherwise not have had. He in turn spent endless hours with her, enjoying her generous scoops of love and understanding. Unfortunately she would die when he was only fifteen and he would still be grieving that loss when I met him four years later. 

I like to think that I pattern myself after generous people. I may not recall each gift that they gave me, but I remember the very special feelings I had in receiving something from them. My mother purchased the first pots and pans that I ever had and I still cook with them to this very day even though they are almost sixty years old. I treasure the books that my grandfather gave me. My favorite perfume is still Estee Lauder’s Youth Dew because my mother’s friend, Edith Barry, gave me that fragrance as a gift when I was thirteen years old. My home and my memories are filled with reminders of the generosity and indicators of love that even the smallest gift provided me. There is something incredibly moving about knowing that someone took the time and money to give me a present. This is why I would rather use my extra earnings now to provide those I love with tokens of my feelings for them rather than banking those dollars and making them wait for a time when I am gone to share whatever wealth I will have. 

My mother and I developed a tradition of spending an evening together each Friday. We first went out to eat and then went shopping. Mama was perennially searching for gifts for her children and grandchildren. She hunted sales and walked up and down the aisles of stores hoping to find wonderful treasures. She kept her treasures in a closet in her home with labels detailing who would receive them. She kept track of birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, graduations, weddings, baby showers and purchased gifts in advance of the many special occasions. When she died she had already wrapped a present for my retirement. Her closet was filled with items intended for many celebrations to come. She did this in spite of a meager income that would have been insufficient for most people. She was a genius at balancing a precarious budget and still seeming like Santa Claus when it came to her largess. 

I sense that it is time for me to share even more than I ever have done. I am contentedly supplied with all that I need for comfort, but the younger members of my family are just beginning the process of adulting. My teaching provides me with the ability to give them a bit more than I otherwise might have been able to do. I want to share that good fortune now. I see no reason to wait.

Christmas is a time when the music, the movies, the lights and the tinsel stir our memories. We find ourselves suddenly inside a corner of our minds that brings precious moments of long ago back to life. It feels as though we have suddenly and unexplainably been transported back to a time of unadulterated joy. 

I’ve certainly been enjoying the sudden flashbacks that have greeted me this season. I was watching A Charlie Brown Christmas when I thought of how my mother-in-law always called to remind me that the cartoon was going to be aired on television. I’d tune in and sit down to watch the show with my little girls and each year I would shed sentimental tears when Charlie Brown suddenly understood the meaning of Christmas. As I continue to faithfully watch the short feature film every year I find myself wanting to hear my phone ring. I think of how lovely it would be to hear my mother-in-law’s voice one more time. 

My husband, Mike, and I were on one of our date nights this week when we listened to Christmas music as we drove around looking at the seasonal lights that are all around town. Suddenly one of the many versions of The Little Drummer Boy was playing and I found my thoughts vividly returning to my childhood home. I was there with my mother and my two brothers under the lights of our Christmas tree. Mama was teaching us how to sing the song in four part harmony and it was beautiful. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir could not have done a better job.

We circled around Houston seeing some extravagant displays of light, but it was on a street with tiny homes much like my grandmother’s that I felt the spirit of Christmas filling my heart. They reminded me of Christmas Eve visits to Grandma’s home which was located in east Houston just off of Navigation Avenue. Her tiny house and those of her neighbors would be festooned with multi-colored lights that seemed to announce a welcome to the love and joy that waited for us inside. I knew that my grandmother’s gas space heater would be warming the rooms and that she would already have a big enamel pot of coffee ready to serve to us. 

I always think of the special people in my life who have left this earth. A drive through he downtown area took us past the San Jose Clinic and I immediately thought of our uncle, Dr. Efrain Garcia, who worked there helping the indigent of the city with their diseases of the heart. Losing him this year was sorrowful for all of the world. A great and generous man was lost not just to our family but to all of Houston. Somehow things just don’t feel right without him and his beautiful and generous wife, Rosemary, modeling the essence of how we all should live. We feel such an ache when someone we loved is gone for the first time we gather to celebrate the season.

My corner of the world seems to have come back to life this year after the difficult times when Covid kept us isolated from one another. The streets are more festive than ever. The stores and the restaurants and theaters and churches are filled with revellers celebrating the good fortune of seeing another Christmas with family and friends. Dormant yuletide traditions have come back alive in full force. Social media is filled with the happy faces of people once again feeling free to hug and embrace each other, but also to remember those whom we lost during that time for whatever reason. Our emotions are a mixture of joy and remembrance.  

My neighbors have decorated their yards with great care this year. Anyone entering our section of the neighborhood will be greeted with a spectacular show of lights and goodwill. We seem to be a kind of microcosm of what is best about the world. We come from many races, many nations, many backgrounds. What we share is a goodness of heart and a willingness to love each other without judgement. We’ve exchanged little gifts of baked goods and candy and candles. Mostly we have laughed and smiled together and watched to make sure that everyone is safe and comfortable this year. We’ve travelled together in both the good and bad times and our bonds are strong. I can’t imagine that there is a better place to live anywhere than right here on my own street.

There won’t be snow this year. There rarely is in our almost tropical climate. We’ll have some rain but it won’t dampen our spirits. Christmas has a way of reminding us of what is most important. The birth of Jesus brought the world hope and love. Our little traditions keep that spirit alive no matter what our beliefs might be. All is calm and bright on my street this year. My wish is that those in places of war and turmoil will soon find the kind of peace that I enjoy. Merry Christmas to all!

Christmas is a time when families and friends come together to celebrate traditions. There is an ebb and flow in those gatherings as cherished loved ones die and new life infuses our joy as well. There is an inevitability in life that things will change even as we so often strive to keep everything the same. Each of us has a limited time on this earth regardless of how well we live life. No amount of exercise or healthy habits will forestall our eventual demise. We literally live on borrowed time from the day that we are born. Christmas should remind us to embrace those we love with joy and appreciation every single day of every single year. 

There will be important people missing from the merrymaking this holiday season. Some enjoyed decades of time with us, while others were pulled from us all too soon. In spite of our realization that any of us might end our sojourn on this earth at any moment, we somehow don’t live as though every day and every encounter is important. 

We think about people and places and events that changed us for the better, but all too often never really express our gratitude for such things. We busy ourselves with the mundane rather than pausing long enough to tell the person next to us how much he or she means to us. We wait until a memorial service before finding the words to praise an individual who meant the world to us. 

I find myself talking in my head to my mother during this time of year. I was so focused on her mental illness that I rarely took the time to marvel at her wisdom, strength and loving nature. Of course I needed to protect her, take her to doctors, dispense her medications, but how much more wonderful it would have been if I had told her why I love her so. She needed to hear my admiration of her, not just my commands. 

I wrote about a great man who died this year, Dr. Efrain Garcia. He was a giant in my estimation and yet I realize that I never once told him how impactful his presence in my life had been for me. He inspired me to be a better person, to dedicate myself more to doing acts of kindness. I was so in awe of him that I never told him how wonderful I believed he was. 

Long ago I wrote a letter to a college professor who had changed my view of myself and my duties as an educator. I believed that he had set me on a life fulfilling course, so I sent him a thank you note and opened my heart to him. I never thought I would see him again but one day by happenstance I encountered him in a parking lot at the University of Houston. He was old and bent, walking with a cane. I did not recognize him at first, but he knew me. He called out my name and reminded me who he was. He then explained how important my letter to him had been. He had actually taped it to the bottom of a drawer in his desk. He said that he would open that drawer and reread my letter whenever he became discouraged. I cried and hugged him. Somehow both of us were connected and revitalized in that moment. 

We busy ourselves with the least important tasks of living and rarely get around to expressing our feelings to the people who have most impacted our lives. We know we should do those things. We know how wonderful it feels whenever we receive a random and unexpected pat on the back. It elevates our happiness and reminds us that perhaps we really are doing the right things at least now and again. 

I send out around a hundred Christmas cards each year. I always tell myself that I am going to begin signing and addressing them early enough to include a personal note, not about what I am doing, but about why I care about the person or family who will receive the card. Somehow I get rushed and just sign my name even as I think about each of the people as I address the cards. 

We all live on borrowed time and yet we too often live as though we have all of the time in the world to express our appreciation and love. We assume that people know how we feel when in reality they may never actually understand how they have impacted us. Then over and over again we lose someone and regret that we never gave them the gift of knowing their importance. 

Perhaps we need not wait for a special occasion to begin the process of spreading our good feelings. My mother had a routine in the later years of her life that exemplified her brilliance. She spent time each morning reading passages from her Bible, just a few lines here and there, enough to inspire her prayers and to focus her thoughts. Then she called her sisters just to see how they were doing. The conversations never lasted more than five minutes, but they were long enough to show that she was thinking of them. The best part of her day was spent in selecting one person to receive the gift of her love and admiration. She told people what they meant to her. She openly expressed her love of them. She touched a human heart each day. 

I celebrated my seventy fifth journey around the sun last month. This will be my seventy fifth celebration of Christmas. I resolve to stick with my plan to contact the people who have made my life so wonderful and tell them how important they have been in the making of the person I am today. This time I hope to make it the most important part of my routine just like my mother did. I’ve borrowed a great deal of time. Now I must get busy returning the love and inspiration that has brought me this far.