Yippeeee! The E's are finshed!

I've just completed the E pages for that ABC Book I'm working on for my grandchildren.  As you can see, this elephant is filled with Easter spirit.

 

I love elephants, don't you?  There is something so sweet and cute about them.  My granddaughters surely love them, too, which doesn't surprise me a bit--because their daddy went through a serious Dumbo phase when he was about their age.  So no ABC book would ever be complete if there was not an "E is for elephant" component to it.

 

I'm not quite sure why I put the arrows on that page.  I didn't do it on any of the previous pages, knowing that my girls are plenty smart enough to pick out the objects on their own.  (They're Mensa-like.  Seriously.  No Grammy bragging going on here.)  But since I felt the need to point out the egg and the ears on that page, I decided to have the lass on the next page pointing to her elbow.

For the first time since I started this project a couple of years ago, I am exceedingly motivated to finish.  For the longest time, I was in extreme procrastination mode; but now when I complete one page, I can hardly wait to get to work on another.

But the ABC Book will have to be put on hold for the next week-and-a-half or so, because today I'm flying down to NYC and meeting up with my husband (who's returning from a trip to London).  Then we'll fly together from the Big Apple down to VA, to spend Easter with son #3 and his bride...and then it's on to WI to pick up our oldest son's second car and drive it down to his new home in MI, where he and his family are moving the day after Easter.  So...at the end of all those travels, we'll get to spend some time with our three granddaughters.  Yippeeee!   And I'm sure just being with them will get me even more excited to keep working on this project once we return home.

Well, time to pack.  Have a blessed Easter, and I'll see you next week.

Our Boys' Life Coach

My husband was always very involved in anything that interested our boys; one thing was football (something he'd played himself in his younger days), and another was lacrosse (which he hadn't)

He arranged his work schedule so that he could help to coach their Pee Wee and junior high football teams, and he even did a stint as a freshman football coach when one was needed during their high school years.  As an airline pilot, he was usually able to bunch his trips together so that he could be off and available for game day, and for as many weekday practices as possible.

When our boys discovered lacrosse, this man of mine ("my hero," as I like to call him) became such a knowledgeable student and true die hard fan of the "fastest game on two feet" that he ended up becoming an assistant lax coach as well, dealing mostly with the defense, throughout our sons' youth lacrosse years.  The head coach, a good friend of ours, saw early on how well he understood the game just from watching the action on the sidelines and asked him to join the coaching staff.  My husband reminded him that he'd never played lacrosse himself, and our friend replied, "That's perfect.  I can mold you."  From there, my husband eventually went on to become the head defense coach at our boys' Catholic high school, and for the many years he was in that role (and later he and our second oldest son--as the greatest defensive coaching duo NH high school lacrosse has ever known, in my learned opinion), he led the squads under his tutelage so well that our boys' teams were always ranked at the top of the pack defensively.

By the end of his youth lacrosse days, our oldest son had made a bit of a name for himself.  The summer after 8th grade, the head coach at the high school he was going to attend got wind of this, and he invited our boy--a mere incoming freshman--to go to a lacrosse camp at Johns Hopkins University with a group of older players who would be his teammates the following spring.  It was kind of a big deal for him to be asked to join them, and he was terribly excited.  There was just one problem: the camp was going to run for five days, from Thursday to Monday.  How was our son going to get himself to Sunday Mass, if the camp was on a secular university's campus and he couldn't find a church in Baltimore that was convenient to get to?  And if his coach was working as an instructor at the camp and couldn't manage to carve time out of his schedule to get him there, who would take him?  My husband voiced these concerns to the coach, who said, "Oh, don't worry, Mr. Pearl.  I'll see that the boys get to church."  Now in his defense, we did believe the coach had good intentions.  But we also knew that many, if not all, of the other players--despite the fact that they were for the most part Catholics--would use the traveler's dispensation, since it would probably be a big hassle getting to Mass.  (Not to mention that doing so would mean they'd have to miss a drill or a scrimmage.)  If our son was the only one who cared about going, chances are it wasn't going to happen.

Coach Pearl, with his two oldest sons.

The more he thought about it, the more this situation ate away at my husband.

[A quick aside: why do five-day sports camps always include Sundays?  I realize that lots of the coaches have other day jobs and maybe weekends need to be involved.  But couldn't some drills be postponed until later in the day on Sunday, so that those who want to can make it to church?  Okay, back to the story now.] 

Well, my husband decided to fly down to Baltimore on Saturday, rent a car, and book a room for the night at a hotel--all so that he could be there on Sunday morning to get his firstborn son to Mass.  It was just the two of them, and it was totally worth it.  Then he dropped our boy back off at camp and flew back home.

And I know what you're thinking--the fact that he can fly stand-by for free, one of the great perks of his job, made this sacrifice a whole lot easier than if he'd had to buy an expensive airline ticket.  That's very true.  But it was a sacrifice nonetheless; because if you were married to an airline pilot (or at least to my airline pilot), you would understand that the last place he ever wants to be on his days off is at an airport or on an airplane.  That feels too much like work.  Pilots are away from home too much as it is, and they guard their days at home, and their glorious nights sleeping in their own beds, quite jealously.  Where my pilot wanted to be was not on a plane heading down to MD, but relaxing at home with our four younger sons and me.  However, when it comes to the devout practice of the Catholic Faith and the role of Christian fatherhood--which means that the father is responsible for passing the Faith on to his children, so that they truly know just how important it needs to be in their lives--there is no sacrifice so great that my husband wouldn't make it for the good of his family.

Fast-forward to the following summer: our second oldest son, following directly in the cleat steps of his older brother, had made a bit of a name for himself in the youth lacrosse world, and the high school head coach decided to invite yet another incoming freshman Pearl to join a group of future teammates (one of them being his brother) down to Johns Hopkins for a five-day lacrosse camp.  The funny thing was that right away, the coach said to my husband, "And don't worry, Mr. Pearl.  I've got it all set up and I'll see that the boys get to church."

Do you think my husband heaved a sigh of relief and stayed home, or do you think he flew down to Baltimore again to make absolutely sure his sons were able to attend Sunday Mass?

If you guessed the latter, you are right.  He just couldn't leave it to chance.  But this time, at least, the coach really had made arrangements ahead of time to have someone take the group to church.  Since he was there anyway, however, that someone ended up being my husband.  And if I remember correctly, there were a couple of other lads on the team who joined the Pearls for Mass that day.

Some people might think this is the story of a dad who went above and beyond what's expected or necessary.  But I don't think there's any way our boys can look at those two trips their father took, when he would have much rather been enjoying his days off at home, and not realize just how important the Mass is supposed to be to faithful Catholics.  During those teen years, so many of our boys' peers were questioning the Faith--and their parents stepped back and let them figure out their own paths on their own "faith journeys," even if that meant watching them miss Mass every weekend.  My husband never had to lecture or harangue our kids about attending Mass.  They just did it because they saw through his example that this is what Catholics do; and Pearls are Catholics, so it's what we do.  Some kids might have been embarrassed to have their dads show up at lacrosse camp to take them to Mass; but to our boys, that was just Dad being Dad.  And accepting--without resentment or embarrassment--that he was there to get them to church on time was just them being them.  He showed those sons of his with his very loud actions that there are some things that take precedence over even your most beloved team sport.  God before lacrosse, that's just how it is. 

It should come as no surprise to anyone, then, that when several of our sons weren't meeting the kind of young women who were "wife material," they went on CatholicMatch.com and found soul mates who shared their Faith, morals, and values.  All three of our married sons met their spouses that way.  It should also come as no surprise that all five of them still go to Mass every Sunday.  Or that our three little granddaughters (who go by non-saintly aliases on this blog) were given the strong and beautiful names of some of the most eminent saints in the Catholic Church.  The Faith is simply part of who our boys (and now their spouses) are.

Our boys are were football and lacrosse players.  They are (or will be) sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers.  But above all, they are Catholics.

I give all of the credit for the way our boys embrace and live their Faith to their father.  He was once their football and lacrosse coach...but he has always been their life coach.

Proms and Party Shoes and Whatnot

I'm seeing a lot of glittery, glitzy dresses in the stores these days, so it's obvious that prom time is almost here.  Have you heard of something called "promposals," which are a real thing in our nation's high schools these days?  Young fellas now feel required to come up with marriage proposal-style ways of asking girls to be their dates for the prom.  I read about this new phenomenon in a blog and, thinking this had to be some kind of joke, I mentioned it to my #2 son, a high school math teacher.  He assured me that yes, it's really happening.  (Then he rolled his eyes, and said it sure wasn't like that back in his day.)

 

If things have changed that much since the 1990's  and early 00's, imagine how much they've changed since the 1970's!  Things were a bit simpler then, to put it mildly.

 

In 1975, I went to the junior prom with my cute high school boyfriend, who did not prompose to me by presenting flowers on bended knee, or with the release of helium balloons from my locker, or with a cupcake delivered to my seat at the cafeteria lunch table with "Prom?" written on it in icing.  We were dating, so it was something like," Um, obviously we're going to go to the prom together, right?"  Had we not been dating, this is the way he would have asked: "Will you go to the prom with me?"  Boom.  Simple.  That's the way things were, and they seemed quite all right.

 

For the big night, here's what I wore: a modest little gown that was made by my mother; a painful sunburn from lying out in the sun THE MORNING OF THE PROM, thinking I would be a bronze goddess by that evening; and a red velvet bow in my hair (which was in the awkward growing-out stage, after I'd had my hair cut short and almost immediately regretted it).  The main thing I had going for me on prom night, beauty-wise, was youth!  Polished, sophisticated, and red carpet-ready I was NOT.  But that boy I was dating liked me enough to see pretty where I only saw flaws.  (God bless him; 33 years later, he's still doing it.)

Okay, now let's break down my boyfriend's prom get-up.  Eschewing the whole tux rental routine (which was probably a wise choice, given that in 1975 the popular colors for tuxes were yellow, burgundy, and powder blue), my husband wore a white sport coat with his dad's tux pants and bow tie (which, coincidentally, he wore again--along with his dad's matching tuxedo coat--when our firstborn son got married in 2009).  He did rent his groovy raspberry-colored ruffled shirt from the tux place, though.  But the piece de resistance of his ensemble was a pair of shiny black and white platform shoes.  Elton John had nothing on him, let me tell you.  Those babies were stylin'.

 

When son #4 got married in February, my husband thought about renting a fun pair of kicks eerily similar to those legendary prom shoes; but unfortunately the groom-to-be (let's call him "a chip off the old block") had already beaten him to the punch and chosen the exact same pair to wear himself on his big day.  So my husband stepped aside and wore plain old black, but his boy showed beyond a shadow of a doubt that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to fashion sense.

What goes around surely comes around.  First, I posed for a picture standing next to a handsome boy wearing crazy-awesome shoes.   And then 39 years later, I posed for a picture standing next to his handsome son wearing crazy-awesome shoes--a son who was 9 years older than his father was in that prom picture (yikes, how does that happen?).  Life is simply amazing, isn't it?

If that young girl with a sunburned face and a ribbon in her hair could have peeked into the future and seen herself married to that good-looking prom date of hers (and not only that, but surrounded by their five grown sons), how ecstatic she would have been!  Because even back then, she thought he was "the one," and she hoped and prayed that she hadn't met him way too early.

Now for you moms of teenagers, I urge you to encourage them to fight the current trends in prom etiquette.  If you have sons, let them be the ones who nervously ask (with sweaty palms and lots of "um's"), "Would you be my date for the prom?"  To me, that seems so much more endearing than the over-the-top gestures boys feel they need to make, if only to keep up with the Joneses.  If everything is so big--and so WOW!!--when they're only in high school, how can the much bigger, much more important milestones of life (actual marriage proposals, for instance) ever measure up?

A Quick Reminder

I just thought I'd post a little reminder today about the Easter discount that was offered to you, dear readers, by the faith-filled folks at The Nativity Stones Collection--because there's only one week left to use it.  When you place your order, you can use the coupon code FAITH15, and you will receive a 15% discount.

Nativity Stones Crosses are beautifully made.  Each piece contains a bit of stone taken from the Cave of the Nativity in Bethelem and comes with a certificate of authenticity.  These inspirational necklaces are not only beautiful to look at--they carry rare and precious souvenirs from the very birthplace of Jesus.

I just love the dazzling Classic Nativity Stones Cross that I received from the company as a gift.  It is an ornate beauty layered in 18K gold and hanging from a 22" chain.

If you decide to get one of these unique crosses for yourself (or someone you love), I don't think you'll be disappointed!

I was so excited a few days ago when I got a Facebook message from an old high school classmate (one I haven't seen in many years) who happened to visit my blog and ended up ordering a Nativity Stones Cross as a First Holy Communion present for his niece.  It meant that this little old blog of mine was able to lead at least one new customer to a website I am proud to promote.

Here's wishing you peace and joy as you prepare to celebrate the Risen Christ next Sunday.  God bless you!

God-Given Talents

I wasn't even sure I should blog today.  I published a post yesterday, then a few hours later removed it from my site because I realized that I'd gone a little overboard with the self-deprecating comments (something I have a tendency to do, and I know it's an unattractive trait that seems like a desperate attempt to fish for compliments).  If you read that post, try to erase it from your memory banks.  If you didn't, it was about art--a subject near and dear to my heart--and how sub-par my own attempts at creating it are when you put them next to Michelangelo's.  (Well, duh!  Almost everybody's attempts would fall into that category!)

What I need to remember is that God gave me a deep desire to draw and paint--and even though He didn't give me the same degree of talent that He gave the Masters, He gave me some.  He gave me what He thought I'd need.  He gave me enough to do with it the things that I was meant to do--and I'm hoping that one of them is to finish that ABC Book I'm working on for my grandchildren.  He gave me enough so that I would enjoy the creative process, that I would experience such an indescribable joy while wielding a paintbrush or a pastel crayon or a colored pencil, it would make my heart soar--the way I assume one's heart soars when he can play the piano or sing like an angel (two talents that I can't even conceive of having).  God gave me just enough artistic talent so that I would be capable of producing gifts of handmade love for my wonderful, non-critical family members and friends, and donating my time to paint murals on the walls of my sons' Catholic elementary school...and making that ABC Book, of course.

There is a fine line between humility and disrespect when it comes to acknowledging God-given gifts, and I hope I don't cross it too often.  Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to say that I thank God every day for giving me something that has brought such happiness and purpose to my life.  I truly do.

Now you're probably saying, "Look at her, getting all full of herself.  She's really not that good!"  [Insert smiley face emoticon here.]

I have used my artistic talent, such as it is, to paint all kinds of crazy trompe l'oeil thingys on the walls of my house (animals, mostly).  While I'm aware that this habit of mine might lessen the resale value (but hey, you can always paint over them!), I think this unusual wall art gives our home an endearing touch of whimsy.

Just recently, I was bemoaning the fact that we probably can't afford to update our dated and worn-out kitchen cabinets--the ones original to the house, which we bought in 1990--anytime soon.  So I decided, you know what, I can do whatever I want to these cabinets!  Who's going to stop me?  If we have to sell our house, the new owners are bound to gut the kitchen anyway!  I've decided that I'm going to think of all those cream-colored door and drawer fronts as blank canvases.

And so it begins.

Now if houseguests are wondering where the silverware drawer is, they'll have this handy clue.

When my husband and second oldest son first saw this little painting of a spoon, they thought it was some sort of stick-on decal I'd bought.  I considered that the greatest compliment ever!  To me, it was like having a successful art show at a gallery.

So I'll end here by urging you to use those talents God gave you, whatever they are and in whatever degree He gave them, to make your own life happier and to spread joy to others.  Have fun with them.  Don't compare them to the talents of others (something yours truly would never, ever do!).  And I'm not sure if the spoon I just showed you really accomplishes this...but use them for His greater glory, too, whenever and wherever you can.

That's Right, You Heard Correctly: We're the "Wild Ones"

A couple of years ago at my niece's wedding, the bride was asking all of her aunts and uncles to name the songs they'd chosen for their first dances at their own weddings.  Then she had the DJ play them and the old married couples got out there one by one and danced to them again, with a big circle formed around them to watch.

When it came time for us, I blanked.  "I really don't know what we danced to!" I said.  My husband came up as empty-handed as I.

"Maybe it was Just You and Me, by Chicago?" I tried, not at all convinced.  We had gone to the junior prom together in high school, and that had been the prom's theme song; so that was as good a guess as any, I supposed.  But my husband and I truly have no recollection of the actual song we danced to for the first time as a married couple.


No idea what song was playing in the background here.  Not a clue.

Is that pathetic and sad?

Before you answer that, keep in mind that when we got married in 1980, it was normal to have a live band (which we did) rather than a DJ, and their repertoire was limited.  I believe that what probably happened is the bandleader said, "Hey, this is the song we usually play when the couple has their first dance together," and my husband-to-be and I just said, "Whatever, that sounds good."  We really didn't have a song that we considered "our song," and we were just so incredibly excited to be getting married--after 7-and-a-1/2 years of dating, starting at the age of 15.  We would have danced to anything.

Anyway, back to our niece's wedding: a couple of my Pearl sisters-in-law decided to have some fun by bestowing upon us a song that would thenceforth be forever ours, and they informed the DJ of their oh-so-hilarious choice. 

They picked "Wild Ones," by Flo Rida, and we got out there and boogied down with our bad selves, laughing the whole time.

So..."Wild Ones" is now "our wedding dance song."   And at every single Pearl wedding since that niece's (and there have been a number of them), that's what we've danced to.  Our brothers- and sisters-in-law slow dance to sweet, touching love ballads...and we are the Wild Ones.  Oooh  oooh oooh oooh.  So you heard we were the Wild Ones?  That's right.  That's so us.  No ballads for this old couple, no way-no how; we dance to a RAP song (Heaven help us!).


Dancing to "our song" at son #4's wedding in February.

And if you knew how NOT us that really is, it would make this choice of a "wedding song" for my husband and me even more funny than it is already.  You gotta love our family; if there's one thing it has, it's a sense of humor.

Now check out the Wedding Song Dance Along at Camp Patton, where the songs are bound to be much more first dance-appropriate than ours.

WWRW: Tyringham Park

I know it's Thursday, and this is a Wednesday link-up...but here is my Goodreads/Amazon review of Rosemary McLoughlin's Tyringham Park, which kept me very engrossed most of the time I was in the air on a recent trip to San Juan and back with my husband.  I kept it on my tray table, along with my ever-present St. Joseph's prayer card and my Styrofoam cup of ever-satisfying airline coffee.  Yep, that's what my in-flight security blanket is composed of: the Unfailing Petition to St. Joseph, a cup 'o Joe, and a good, long book.  I'll admit that I did take a break from reading on the way over, in order to watch "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" (which is a great movie, by the bye); but otherwise this sophisticated soap opera of a novel was sort of  very hard to put down.

Okay, now for that review:

 

When I looked at the back cover of Tyringham Park and saw a blurb that described it as "an Irish Downton Abbey," I was convinced it would be just my cup of tea. This novel about the secret goings-on and inner workings of a grand Irish estate, and the relationships between the wealthy landowners who inhabit it and the people who serve them, is a well-written page-turner. It got to the point where I couldn't wait to see what was going to happen next and I simply couldn't put it down. McLoughlin really knows how to keep the reader's attention, that's for sure.

Tyringham Park has a Gothic feel to it that is reminiscent of the works of Daphne du Maurier or Victoria Holt. For me, that means I get reeled in and my heart beats a bit faster with every turn of the page; but it also means that it's all a little too dark for my taste. If I had my druthers, every work of fiction would feature at least one main character who's a lovable hero or heroine with a heart of gold and it would end happily. This book isn't like that at all. There's a lot of treachery and evildoing, a lot of angst. I thought that at least Manus, the kind-hearted stable manager, would have a squeaky clean past; but he has his secrets, too.

The story begins during the WWI years and centers around the mysterious disappearance of the toddler daughter of Lord and Lady Blackshaw, whose loveless marriage has produced two daughters. Little Victoria is the more beautiful of the two, and she is the clear favorite of her mother as well as most of the staff. The book follows her plain older sister Charlotte, whose life is forever haunted by that one heartbreaking childhood incident. Love-starved and mistreated, Charlotte seems destined to live a tragically lonely existence.

It's hard to describe how many twists and turns are packed into the plot of this ambitious novel-- you name it, you'll find it: passionate inter- and intra-class trysts (although the reader is spared any voyeuristic details), family secrets, skeletons in closets, jealousies and lies, kidnappings, unrequited loves, mental illnesses...I could go on and on. You'll travel from Ireland to Australia and then back to Ireland again. And then you'll finally get to the ending, hoping for a satisfying conclusion. But there are some pretty significant loose ends that don't get tied up and you'll be left hanging. (I went on the author's website to see if there's a sequel planned, and there definitely is.)

I struggled between 3 stars and 4 for this book (out of 5), because although the writing is very articulate and I couldn't put it down, I didn't always enjoy the experience of getting into the heads of its cruel and scheming characters. It's a bit depressing, actually! So I decided to give it 3. But if you're a huge fan of the Gothic romance novel, you might rate it higher.

I know this review makes it sound as if there were no morally admirable characters whatsoever in this book, but that's not completely true.  There is a character named Miss East who will remind Downton fans of the estimable Mrs. Hughes; and there are several other kind-hearted folks.  So the book isn't unrelentingly gloomy--but still, much too gloomy for me.

Also, I mentioned I was reading The Book Thief  in a previous WWRW post, and that a review would be forthcoming.  I haven't been able to put together much for that literary masterpiece (I'm too overwhelmed!), but I did post a few words about it over at Goodreads, if you're interested.

Now skedaddle on over to Jessica's for more book talk.