Remembering Aunt Miriam

My mother was the tenth of Robert and Miriam Franer's thirteen children, and the oldest of her siblings was their mother's namesake, Miriam Julia. My grandmother had a new baby every year, and so it was inevitable that the siblings grew up incredibly close, one another's best friends and defenders; and the older ones helped raise the younger ones. Together they celebrated milestones, mourned deaths, and stopped by one another's houses for no reason at all and usually without calling. I know my mom's door was always open, and there was cold pop (that's Coke or Pepsi for all you non-Midwesterners!) in the fridge for whoever was stopping by. There's no telling how many godchildren each of the siblings has. Their closeness and number ensured that their kids grew up with an experience that's becoming increasingly scarce in America--that of growing up in a village.

Miriam and her husband Jack lived a few miles away from our first home, with their two kids: Sam (Samuel), who was two years older than me, and Nancy, who was a year younger than me. My mom and her sisters would meet up often at one of their houses or another when we were little, and they'd all sit around the kitchen table while we cousins ran around. As a little girl who was at the table some of the time, I would enjoy the snacks, absorb as much of the adult conversation as I could, and snuggle my doll in imitation of the way Mom and Connie cared for their babies. It was during one of our visits at her house that she told her sisters she wanted to be known as the "beneficent aunt." If I had to guess the context, it was probably a child getting a treat that perhaps her mother didn't feel was warranted at the time.

A few of the Franer sisters on vacation in Florida in 1985, left-right: Miriam, Amy (my mom, pregnant with Anna), Liz, Ann, Connie, and my grumpy photo bomb.

I remember hiding behind the furniture in their living room, waiting to surprise my mom when she arrived from the hospital, accompanied by my aunt Maggie, with my new baby sister Anna.

When I say we vacationed together, I really do mean together--a single beach house might contain three or four siblings and their families. I have a memory of a bunch of us cousins in the loft of a beach house, and Miriam reading Nancy and me the Grimm's fairy tale Our Lady's Child at bedtime. No silly princess stories for us--it was life and death, good and evil!

My cousin Nancy and I grew up as close friends, and I slept over many times at the Flicks'. We had as much candy and snacks as we wanted, slept on air mattresses in the family room, watched scary movies, and ate Kraft macaroni and cheese at 10:00 at night. In the morning there was eggs and bacon, Cap'n Crunch, and pineapple orange juice. I remember Miriam always in a long button-down pinstripe shirt, bookish and serious, and listening to news radio in the kitchen as she worked. She said things like "cease and desist" when she wanted someone to knock it off. She would take us to Arby's, and she would go in through the church parking lot in order to avoid the Arby's intersection. Once she took Nancy and me to Joanne Fabrics when we were in our friendship bracelet-making stage, and bought us each a nice organizer that we filled with our choice of 30 rolls of embroidery floss. Life was grand!

Before we could Google things, if it couldn't be found in our old encyclopedia set, my mom would say, "Call Miriam and ask her." She probably knew.

Once, I believe it was while she was working toward her master's degree in education, she sat me down for battery of reading tests. She asked me to define reading, and she seemed inexplicably pleased by what I came up with: "It's looking at the words, and letting your eyes follow along." 

Nancy's and my Confirmation day in 1994, l-r: our cousin Sr. Marie Cecile (then Erin), Donna, Don (mom and Miriam's brother), my mom, me, my dad, Nancy, Miriam and Jack.

There was never any such thing as small talk with Miriam. Conversations were about big ideas, and every moment was a teachable one. Once, I accompanied the family on a trip to Chicago for a tour of Loyola University for Sam. I was brought along for Nancy, of course, and the two of us sat in the very back of their minivan giggling and eating Starbursts the whole way. The only thing better than sleeping over at the Flicks' was traveling with them. While we were out to dinner one night, the conversation turned political. I don't remember exactly what prompted me to say what I did, but I naively told her that I thought it would be fair if all wealth in the country was distributed equally to everyone. Who knows where I got that idea? No matter--whatever Communist leanings I might have had for five minutes, Miriam quickly set me straight. 

By the time I was a teen, my family had moved to the same neighborhood, so we saw a lot more of one another, naturally. Sometimes when there was tension at home or I was feeling misunderstood by my parents, I'd walk the half-mile or so to their house. Miriam would sympathize, but then help me understand that my parents had lot of stress in their life, with a big family and uncertainty with my dad's work. What a blessing it must have been to my parents to know that those times I stormed out of the house, I was with someone they could trust.

Another time, in a completely different sort of conversation, Miriam reassured me when I told her I don't feel like I get anything out of going to Mass; I just didn't feel anything when I was there. Miriam told me that she didn't feel things at church either, and that the absence or presence of feelings doesn't actually matter. We don't go to Mass because of whatever we feel we are "getting out of it." Of course she was not the only one to tell me this, but she had a way of putting it that maybe resonated more.

She was never again to play as prominent a role in my life as she did when I was growing up, but I never forgot everything she told me or the kindness she showed me. On Sunday, October 12, she passed away at 79, and was laid to rest the following Friday.

Ever since I got the news, I've been thinking about how being born into a family like the Franers is a form of abundance. It would take forever to list the gifts both tangible and intangible that I have received from my aunts, uncles and cousins, nearly all of whom still live in the Cincinnati area. The original village has split off into many new ones as the siblings' children have grown up and had their own families. When I visit mine, no matter how long it's been, I experience a unique feeling of belonging. My niece Elise once asked me, "How can you stand living so far away?" She was only maybe 6 at the time, and looking at me with her big brown eyes, it was like seeing her mother Grace completely unfiltered. I didn't even know how to answer. 

I pray for the repose of her soul and peace for her dear ones left behind; and I reflect with gratitude on how my life was immeasurably enriched by having an aunt like Miriam around when I was growing up.

The best of summer so far

 It's the dog days of summer, nauseatingly hot and sticky, when I tend to stay inside and just look out my windows a lot. The control panel of the pool chiller is broken, and as fixing it is not a priority, our pool is now a gigantic hot tub and the kids can't get enough of it. In late spring and early summer it was me you'd see floating blissfully around in the cold water and warm sun, the kids not so much.

It seems like a good time to look at the season's highlight reel. Delaney graduated high school in May. Was that really not even two months ago?!

We went on our annual Topsail vacation with my side of the family. We stayed in the same triplex as last year.

My mom and dad stayed at our house for a few days afterward.

We had a profusion of blooms after the rainiest June I can remember having here in eastern North Carolina.

Tim, Delaney, Annie and Joey went to Delaney's orientation at Appalachian State, and did some hiking too. 

We made our annual summer trek to visit Tim's parents and sisters in Massachusetts. It was kind of a whirlwind few days, with lots of memories made.

In front of Paul Revere's house

Alexa has been working and saving to buy her own house since she was 16. She's 21 now, and just closed on her home purchase a week or two before we arrived. It's a nice little house with a big back yard for her dog and all the others she takes care of with her own dog-sitting and boarding business. An entrepreneur and homeowner at 21--pretty impressive!

We gathered there for a housewarming, had sushi for dinner, and played bingo, per Grandma's request. It was fun. I think sushi and bingo at Alexa's should be a new tradition. 

The next morning we drove home. The three oldest kids flew both ways. 

Thomas has come a long way in his swimming. It's hard to believe this is the same kid who cried every lesson and asked to be done.

Usually by this point in the summer, we would have taken a family picture either at the beach or in Massachusetts, but for some reason we hadn't this year. I decided that for this summer, what better setting than our own backyard. I put it on the calendar, and on the appointed day at the appointed time we got a little dressed up and went outside for a photo with the camera on a tripod with a timer. I am grateful that everyone was so cooperative for me, and that we have this great photo before Delaney heads off to college. Sidenote: since when is Timmy taller than me?

Haircuts, not again:/

Boys are a lot less maintenance than girls. Or so you would think. Their clothing needs are minimal; they wear the same few things again and again, and they don't care what it is as long as it's comfortable, and it's not jeans. We get them some new uniform items or some sports stuff once and awhile. They don't need much in the way of hygiene products besides body wash. 

But there is one area where boys are much higher maintenance, and it is one for which we remain unable to find any lasting solution: oft-needed haircuts.

Tim has mentioned at some point that his father used to take him for a haircut on the weekends, and it wasn't any big deal. I imagine them driving to the center of their Norman Rockwell-esque small New England town, and maybe parking on the street in front of a tiny barbershop that probably had one of those barber poles spinning around outside. The barber probably addressed him as "young man," but mostly conversed with his father, my husband probably having had little or no say in the style of the haircut he'd be receiving. With a snap, he opened a cape, fastened it around his neck and got to work. Tim Sr sat nearby thumbing through a magazine or making small talk with the barber about the Red Sox or work or mutual friends they'd gone to school with. Maybe he got a haircut too. From start to finish, it was 20 minutes or less, and for the two of them it probably cost less than what they spend for a dozen eggs today.

My dad and brother had Aunt Liz for a barber, and she made house calls.

Never, I believe, was either scenario ever as fraught as it increasingly is for our household. 

Yes I know, it is different for us having three boys instead of just one. But I'm sure Tim's barber back in the day could have handled all of them assembly line-style like it was nothing. He probably did it all the time! Tim would be so happy to have comfortable routine for getting haircuts, without the fuss and the drama. We've tried a lot. It's time-consuming, usually expensive, and the results are unpredictable. This husband of mine rises at 5 a.m. grateful to be alive, seizes the day with a one-mile walk, has a full time day job, and spends his leisure time schlepping kids around. The only time I see him look tired is when we talk about boys' haircuts.

A few years ago, I asked Joey's friend Camden's mom where they got his hair cut, because we think he always looks nice. "Jeff," she told us. That recommendation was echoed by the parents of Timmy's schoolmates, and by now he was going to Catholic school where the haircuts are mandatory. Jeff was the it barber, so of course without hesitation we made an appointment for Timmy and Joey. I could understand why Jeff was so popular, observing his jovial manner with my boys. He let Joey squirt him with the water bottle. He very much enjoyed being the kids' buddy, which was great except that when all was said and done he did not end up cutting off very much hair--just cleaned things up mostly. He was trying to hard to make them (especially Timmy) happy, and me happy, and that's a delicate balance. But the thing is, for what Jeff was charging (think maybe three dozen eggs' worth per boy), we didn't want to be back in three weeks. Timmy is basically like Harry Potter, as fast as his hair grows. Jeff did an ok job, but he wasn't taking off enough hair to make it worth our while. He seemed sensitive to the feelings of whoever was in his chair--he saw those puppy dog eyes in the mirror, and he wanted everyone happy--but he erred more on their side, and they're not the ones paying.

I have also tried taking them, or at least Timmy, to the same girl who does his sisters' and my hair. I really enjoy going to her, so I was reluctant to muddy those waters, but at this point we really needed to try something new. They had had had home haircuts from Tim, and also haircuts at places like Great Clips, with mixed (mostly bad results). There, Tim would and the boys would wait a long while for their turn, and then roll the dice with who's cutting their hair and whether they have any idea what they're doing. It's a half-day excursion after which they need the other half of the day to recover. There are some sad boys afterward, that's for sure. Especially poor Timmy--it's almost criminal the way they hack at his hair. When Tim opts to do it himself, he does what he can, but he's not a barber. Sometimes it comes out well enough; other times, yikes. The fade is really hard for him. But at least when he does it, however it turns out, it's free! 

So as I was saying, I took them to my hairstylist, and unfortunately, she doesn't seem to have the knack when it comes to boys. It was worth a try. The girls and I continue to go to her every few months, and the rest of the time, we just don't think much about it.

But boys' haircuts preoccupy us. First comes the week to ten days beforehand where we remind them and one another at least three times a day, "You need a haircut soon." "He needs a haircut soon." The dread descends on us all. Tim and his father could have each gotten seven haircuts in the time we spend just thinking about how it's about that time.

After that, we have to get serious about those haircuts because the boys are getting pretty shaggy, and two of them go to Catholic school and are expected to be better groomed than that. The principal will from time to time issue a friendly reminder to all the families because he's not naming names. At this next stage we look at our schedule for the upcoming week and decide which morning or afternoon we can sacrifice. 

Today we took advantage of a day off school and work, and Tim took the two older boys to Sport Clips. They will both be able to pass for awhile at school, although one of them is very unhappy and has yet to surface several hours later. The other one I have seen, and his is the sort of haircut you squint at and say, "Maybe in a day or two it will look nice." Tim gave Thomas a reasonably good trim, and fortunately the hardest thing with Thomas is just getting him to sit still; he has not yet developed any ideas about how his hair ought to look.

And now we are done, and I am off to enjoy the respite before we start talking boys' hair again. For Timmy, that might be just a few days...

Letter to my younger self: low-rise jeans

One day I was looking through some very old posts, and thought it would be fun to revisit them by replying with a letter to my younger self. Here is one from 2009, when I was a frustrated young mom trying not to look frumpy at least some of the time. You'll have to bear with me through the sheer frivolity of it, and the bad grammar. I couldn't make up my mind whether to use first person plural or second person when talking about my current self and younger self, so I did both.

Oh my goodness! We got home from the Fair Oaks Mall in Fairfax, VA, about an hour ago. We were there for four hours +, I've never seen so much denim in my life, and we came home with nothing!

I have been wishing for a nice, flattering, comfortable pair of jeans that are casual enough to be worn every day, but can be dressed up a little with nice boots and a top. All my jeans sag on my butt. They are not cute, they are raggedy. I have a hole in the knee of my Old Navy jeans that I bought a couple years ago, not because I really liked them, but because they'd do, and they were dirt-cheap. Well, they did their time. I won't even go into all the other pairs of jeans I have and hate for one reason or another. I have bought so many pairs of jeans in the last 15 years, and I don't think I've ever had even one good pair.

During our hour-long drive to the biggest mall around, I told Tim I would walk away today, rather than waste money on another pair of jeans that is less than perfect. I never in a million years thought that that's exactly what would happen!

I must have tried on 25 pairs of jeans, and looked at 100 more. I kept throwing them on and strutting out to show Tim. Uh-uh. Uh-uh. No way, get back in there!

I'm in a real conundrum. Whenever I shop in the "grownup" departments, or stores like the Gap, Express, Banana Republic, etc., they didn't carry anything small enough for me. Or maybe they were all sold out of them that day. Everything is too roomy. I know that I ought to be thanking my lucky stars for this, as a 30-year-old who's given birth twice, but I'm frustrated.

So the solution ought to be in the junior departments, or stores like American Eagle or Aeropostale, you'd think. Well, someone decided that all teenagers need to wear ultra low-rise jeans, that barely come up over the crack. These jeans hug me the way I want, but they are not meant to be worn while changing a diaper on the floor. Why can't any of them come up any higher? I want a pair of jeans that will not give me a muffin-top, is that too much to ask?

Tim thinks I ought to just suck it up and wear low-rise jeans because he thinks they flatter me, but I say, no way! I am not settling for jeans I'm not comfortable in, and I don't care what they look like.

Dear Rachael from 2009,

Oh my goodness! You were not being dramatic. It really was that bad, and I've seen a lot of things come and go since then. There ought to be a class-action lawsuit for all of us who were victimized by low-rise jeans.

I've got good news and bad news from 2025. The good news: it gets SO much better. The bad news? Buckle up because it gets a lot worse first.

You're going to phase out your low rise bootcuts and flares in favor of low rise skinny jeans, and that will be it for awhile. They'll look good with tall boots, and you'll feel really put together for your date nights, fun family outings and school events when you throw on a long top or sweater over that combo. And your top will really need to be long, better yet kind of loose too, because that low-rise waistband creates a muffin top. Sometimes you'll pull the look off well, and other times the proportions will be a little off. Your super-duper low-rise jeans and your super long top will elongate your torso and make your legs look shorter.

When you get home from whatever it was you needed real clothes for, you will waste no time peeling the shrink-wrap off your calves and you'll exhale with relief when you're wearing something comfy. Fortunately for us, we can mostly get by with comfy clothes or workout clothes, which often double as comfy clothes. The word "athleisure" will enter your vocabulary at some point.

You're never going to be a paragon of fashion, and that's perfectly OK. Sometimes you just want to look presentable and feel good about yourself, and right now that is really hard for you. You only have a couple things in your closet that look nice, and you hate wearing them. Most days it's the same old yoga pants and ponytail; it's hard to make an effort when you're wrangling toddlers.😬

But hang in there, I promise things are going to start to turn around.

Somewhere around 2014 or 2015, you'll start to follow a blog that will change your life. It's called Putting Me Together, and the lovely Audrey is going to help you dress for your body type, build a mix-and-match wardrobe, and even point you in the direction of a pair of jeans that isn't torture to wear. You'll order them from Nordstrom, free shipping both ways. Yes, it will be a little spendier than you're used to, but one good pair of jeans is worth more than a closet full of cheap, crappy ones, trust me. At some point soon after that, low rise will yield to midrise and even higher. Best of all, within another few years, skinny jeans will become just one option of MANY.

You'll be a kid in a candy store with all the possibilities. There's mid-rise, high-rise, and sky-high-rise; full length and cropped, straight, wide, flare, bootcut, and trouser. There are mom jeans, dad jeans, girlfriend and boyfriend jeans. Only a select few are in our closet; in fact I have to remind myself I don't need them all. But every pair I do own passes the "changing a diaper on the floor" test. Ask me how I know.😉 

Sincerely,

Rachael from 2025

Cropped raw hem jeans with Birkenstocks forever!

Merry & Bright

I am now back to blogging about prettier things. For now.😊

I had so much fun decorating for Christmas this year. I had some extra motivation too, since we hosted Tim's work Christmas party earlier this month. I'm so happy with how it all came together. We had Annie take this picture of us a couple hours before the party. It was a very casual affair as you can see. Tim slaved at the stove all afternoon, making pasta sauce and shrimp casserole (not shrimp this time, I remember now. His assistant is allergic to them. I can't remember what he used instead, but it was good). My contribution was the 70 meatballs I made the weekend before, which was a big overestimation of how much we needed. We'll have meatballs for a good long time.

While not decorations per se, I had to snap some pictures of some of our plants that are at their best in December. The camellias bloomed beautifully, died when they were hit with frost a couple weeks ago, and then bloomed again. I don't know if they'll make it through the next couple of freezing nights, but they're always so lovely while they last. Some of the grasses have been changing colors too. 

I gave our old snowman door hanger a makeover.

A camellia

I took an old wreath I thought I didn't like anymore, and added some arborvitae clippings, berry picks and a bow. Amazing!

We went to a Christmas event at a farm right after Thanksgiving, and I took home this little bouquet. It lasted me weeks, and I replaced some of the stems throughout, but it was perfect for this little corner behind the sink. I think I'd always like to see some sort of floral arrangement in this corner.

I don't know what the red berry-looking things are, but they were my favorite. They lasted a good long while, then turned black and I threw them away.

I need to be more careful about what I put on this board. These past couple weeks have seen me overwhelmed by the simplest of tasks. Just the other day I had to run out last-minute for the bread and juice boxes I said I'd provide for the boys' class Christmas parties. I could have had Tim grab them while he was out the night before, but I couldn't even manage that. I also broke the little glass bottle in the picture while I was cleaning up the counter. So far no one has even asked where it is.

I went around tying ribbons on everything one day. I warned my family that if anyone stood still for long enough, they'd end up wearing one too. It was kind of a trend on Instagram, but you know, ribbons have been a staple of Christmastime for many, many years.

He would always rather not be wearing pants.

For the first time since Okinawa, we (what's the past tense of "forego?" "Forewent?") decided to forego a real Christmas tree, and we splurged on a nine foot Balsam Hill one during Black Friday. I had been saying for years it was time to replace the crappy old fake tree that had been setting up in the office; I wanted a nice big one that would fill that fill that window. So there was that factor. Another thing was that Tim permanently extended our kitchen table after Thomas started using a regular chair. When I say it is permanently extended, I mean he put in the leaf and reinforced it from the bottom, and used glue and made sure that the cracks are sealed, and it will never ever go back to the smaller size. That means there's less space on either side of the table, and the only spot that made sense for our main Christmas tree to go in the past is no more. The tree in the office is now THE Christmas tree. I also added another skinny fake Christmas tree to a corner in the dining room. I'm not sure how I feel about having no Christmas tree in our main living area. The one in the office is gorgeous, but so far away. I also miss the smell of a real tree, and I might have scrounged at Lowe's for some Fraser fir clippings that I could put in water and simmer on the stove.

So far away!

This is what is occupying the spot where we used to put a seven foot real Christmas tree. In this picture it has the little gifts for the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society volunteers on it. As much as I miss having a Christmas tree here, I really like the way this looks.

My work is 99.9 percent of the way done, and now I can just enjoy. We will be right here on Christmas Day for the first time in three years (I think?), and I'm looking forward to that.