Hitting the One Year Milestone

Well, today marks the one year anniversary of my humble little blog, which I created on March 7, 2011 with the encouragement of my wonderful daughter-in-law. My very first post titled "Ready, set, go!" was nothing to write home about (it was very short, without pictures); but at that point, I was just amazed and thrilled that I'd figured out how to get the ball rolling. If you knew how terrible my computer skills are, you'd be amazed, too.

In the past year, "String of Pearls" has amassed an enormous stable of loyal followers--18 in all! Thanks, family!--and I have published 352 posts (counting this one). I've tried to blog daily, but there have been times when I've been on the road, without Internet access and/or my trusty laptop, so I've missed a few days here and there. But because blogging has become such an enjoyable and satisfying activity for me (it's a little bit of brain exercise that makes my day feel complete), a day without blogging seems like a day without sunshine.

Not really, but I do enjoy it.

I don't know why blogging is so much fun, but it is. Most of us former English majors are closet would-be novelists, so there's nothing more empowering than being able to simply push a "Publish Post" button and see a professional-looking piece of writing--something that looks almost like a page from a book or a magazine--appear on the computer screen. I'm living out a fantasy here. But it's more than that. When I started this blog, I had the intention of putting down some family history and family memories in black and white for my children, as well as striving whenever possible to glorify God and the Catholic Faith--thereby using the Internet, so often a vehicle for spreading evil content, for good.

At the beginning, I set out to make my blog very eclectic (sort of like a women's magazine), touching on a variety of areas that interest me: I was going to post recipes and craft project ideas, reviews of books I'd read and movies I'd seen, tidbits about fashion and home decor, information about the lives of the saints and other subjects having to do with the Faith, and humorous or heart-warming family anecdotes. I have not been as eclectic as I'd planned, however; out of the 352 posts I've published so far, 97 can be found under the category of "family." The category that comes in second is "Faith," with 45 blog posts. Aside from the catch-all category "misc.," each of the other specific categories--on a list that includes everything from art to animals, sewing to sports, and travel to T.V. shows--has considerably fewer posts. So if you read this blog much, you know what my two favorite topics are.

And you may be getting sick of hearing about my family!

But I'll never get tired of talking about my handsome, heroic husband, my sweet, sensational sons, my darling, delightful daughter-in-law, and my gorgeous, gladsome granddaughters. (How's that for alliteration? I wasn't an English major for nothin'.) So if I make it through another year of blogging, there will probably be a hundred or so new opportunities for bragging about my peeps, my string of Pearls. Hopefully, though, I can increase the number of posts dedicated to matters pertaining to the Faith. And maybe I should throw in a few more recipes.

I'm going to celebrate this anniversary by attempting to set up my very own Facebook page. I've been sharing one with my husband, under his name--but I think it's about time I get into the social media pipeline like the rest of the known world. (I hope it's not a whole lot harder to get a Facebook account up and running than it was to set up this blog.)

To those of you who've been reading "String of Pearls" during the past year, thanks so much for your support!

Miniature "Coffee Cup Pigs"

Have you ever heard of "teacup pigs," the adorable miniature potbelly pigs that are such a hit with the Brits these days? When I was talking to one of my sons on the phone a week or two ago, he told me about them and I immediately went on-line to check them out. Oh. My. GOODNESS! I don't believe I've ever seen anything cuter in my life. (Scratch that. My twin granddaughters are much cuter. But as far as animals go, they're the cutest.)
When I saw pictures of teacup pigs, my only thought was, "I want one!" I have an obsession with pigs, which has been duly documented on this blog (April 4, 2011: "Oh, For Pigs' Sake!"). I have pig art on my kitchen walls and pig figurines all over the place. I never thought I'd actually want one for a pet, though, until I saw these teeny, tiny oinkers. Wouldn't that be fun to have a teacup-sized little piggy around? Only I would call mine a "coffee cup pig" because despite my English heritage, I am not a huge fan of tea.

Teacup pigs go by a number of names, including miniature pigs, pixie pigs, pocket pigs, potbelly pigs, miniature potbelly pigs, and teacup potbelly pigs. And now, they go by coffee cup pigs, thanks to yours truly.

Most of what I read about teacup pigs made them sound like perfect little pets. Apparently, they're quite affectionate: they like to have their bellies rubbed, just like my sons' dogs Allie and Finny. They're intelligent, too; in fact, their intelligence is thought to rival that of dogs. They're reported to be playful, clean, and easy to maintain. They can be trained to use a litter box in a matter of days and live to be 15-20 years old. Don't they sound divine so far? But the more I researched, the more I realized that having a teacup pig for a pet might be a bit of a pain in the neck at times. I guess these little critters are constantly in search of food and will overeat if allowed (the little pigs!). They use their vaunted intelligence to spend pretty much every waking hour trying to figure out how to get more food. Owners have to pig-proof their homes the way they would child-proof for a 2-year-old, or the little eating machines will get their snouts into everything and wreak havoc. Like all animals, teacup pigs are prone to laziness and aggression if they aren't adequately exercised and socialized. Hmmm...perhaps they wouldn't make the most perfect pets after all...

But they're so cute! And so little! It's their littleness that really gets me.

Regarding their size, here's what else I discovered about these irresistible little critters: teacup pigs don't stay teacup-(or coffee cup-)sized forever. Aww, nuts! I knew they sounded too good to be true. They are potbelly pigs that have been bred to be smaller than normal, but normal is rather large. Your average farmyard pig weighs 600-800 pounds as an adult; a regular-sized potbelly pig is a good bit smaller, and tops out at 120-200 pounds. By 2 or 3 years old, these wee teacup cuties are full-grown and weigh only 30-65 pounds, making them about the size of a cocker spaniel. That's small for a pig, surely; but I wanted a miniature pig--one that would never get bigger than a coffee cup. The piggies in the above picture are newborn, and that's why they're so tiny. I guess that in reality, what I wanted was to own a newborn teacup pig for about a month or two (and do a photo shoot with it sitting in one of my coffee cups), and then give it to some nice farmer to raise. Oh, well...

Along with all the many other good reasons NOT to get a teacup pig, they don't come cheap. I saw one in an English advertisement that was priced at a whopping 1,100 pounds. That's a lot of dollars to shell out for a pet that will probably end up eating you out of house and home. So I suppose I'll just have to be satisfied with looking at adorable pictures of this newest pet sensation on-line, and leave pig ownership to braver souls than I.

Two Thumb's Up for The Help

Recently, I finally got around to reading The Help, the best-selling book that was made into a blockbuster, Oscar-nominated movie in 2011. Kathryn Stockett's novel has been around since 2009, but I hadn't been aware of it before all of the recent buzz generated by its Hollywood adaptation. Had I known how good this book was, I would have read it so much sooner!

A couple of weeks ago, I was down in AL, doing my best to lend a helping hand while my son and his wife were moving into their new home. With twin baby girls to care for, mountains of boxes to unpack, and thousands of sheets of packing paper to compress and dispose of, they needed all the help they could get! During my stay with them, I certainly had no time to read during the day; not with eight-and-a-half-month-old twin granddaughters (who had just decided they'd like to become more mobile, and found a whole new lease on life once Daddy brought home two new walker chairs) on the premises. But I was happy to read to my granddaughters, or feed them, or take them for walks, or sing to them--off-key, but with enthusiasm--throughout the daytime hours. Grammy was thrilled to play the role of "the help" in a home where any work I did was by my own choice, and I knew that I was loved and appreciated.

Once I hit the sack at the end of the day, though, I looked forward to spending a little time each night reading this wonderful book--about a whole different way of life than any I could ever imagine--by talented writer Kathryn Stockett, devouring its compelling prose until my eyelids grew too heavy to go on. There's nothing like having a good book going (don't you agree?), and every night when I began a new chapter, I could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next. The Help somehow manages to be heart-breaking yet funny, poignantly moving yet sharp-witted. For the week that I spent getting through it, a little bit at a time each night, I felt I inhabited the very real world Stockett has skillfully created. I felt I knew her characters; they became real people to me. As USA Today reported, "You can't stop reading until you've devoured the last word. Its characters jump off the page and into your heart."

How true that is! The characters really do come to life in this book. They practically breathe. The NY Times said, "The two principal characters [Aibileen and Minny] leap off the page in all their warm, three-dimensional glory." Entertainment Weekly called The Help "compulsively readable." NY Daily News gave its endorsement of the book, deeming it "a good old-fashioned novel." I have to agree with all of these reviews found on the back cover of the paperback copy I bought. The Help is a good old-fashioned novel. It's a page-turner that makes you care about everyone in it. And it's that rarest of animals: a work of modern fiction that tells a great tale, and even includes a love story, without relying on blush-inducing scenes of sexual intimacy. As Siskel & Ebert used to say when rating movies on their old T.V. show, I give it "two enthusiastic thumb's up."

I don't want to give too much away, but here are a few tidbits. Low-key Aibileen, one of the maids who works for a white family, is thoroughly lovable--and whenever she talks about her relationship with her young charge, Mae Mobley, she gives a perfect description of the unconditional love of a mother for her child. I was very moved by all the scenes between Aibileen and that little girl. Sharp-tongued Minny, another one of the maids, is uncompromising, fearless, and hilarious--and all I can say is that after reading this book, you'll never look at chocolate pie the same way again. Skeeter, the self-deprecating young white woman who sets out to write a tell-all book from the point of view of the help--in the 60's, in Mississippi, meaning this is a move that will make her a pariah with her social set if they ever find out about it--is an extremely likable character, too (not to mention funny and courageous). You'll find yourself pulling for her as she sets out to acccomplish her goal, and holding your breath whenever her secret project is in danger of being exposed.

You'll be on a roller coaster of emotions as you read The Help: you'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll want to cheer out loud. I've never been involved in a book club before; but after reading it, I'm thinking about starting one here on my street, and having this be the first book on our list--just so I can talk about it with others who've enjoyed it as much as I have! Get it. Read it. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

(Oh, and by the way, when I got back from AL, my husband and I watched the movie version on pay-per-view. It was very good. But the book is so much better!)

Counting My Blessings

Sunday is always a good day to count your blessings, and that's what I find myself doing today. On this very date twenty-four years ago, my husband began his career as an airline pilot for a major airline. It's a good job--but not a perfect one (if there is such a thing), because it takes him away from home too much. However, in this day and age, when being employed by the same company over a number of decades is becoming a rarity, he feels lucky to have had job security for so long.

And I feel lucky to have him. We began dating when we were both fifteen, and I knew almost from the start that he was the only one for me. He was my first love, my first serious boyfriend. And thirty-one years ago, we two became one in the Sacrament of Matrimony.

When we got married, my hubby was in Navy flight school. While we were still a couple of bright-eyed newlyweds, he earned his wings and became a Naval Aviator, a pilot of supersonic fighter jets. I tell you, when he put on that green flight suit...be still my heart! The word "dashing" doesn't begin to describe it. He was like a real-life action hero. (He was! No chuckling from the peanut gallery; and by the peanut gallery, I mean my sons. Deal with it: your dad is a hero!)

After seven years of marriage and the birth of son #4, my husband decided to get out of the military so that our family could set down roots, and it was then that he began his career as an airline pilot. Twenty-one years ago, we bought a Colonial-style house in New England, which we still own and love, and not long after that, we welcomed son #5 to our brood. While our boys were growing up, my husband was always a loving, hands-on, involved dad (not to mention their Pee Wee football coach, their youth lacrosse coach, and their high school lacrosse coach). He had to be gone for a few days at a time for his airline job; but when he was with us, he was there 100%--for the boys and for me.

This heroic husband of mine has always supported and encouraged me in everything I do, and he looks beyond my many faults and sees only good things. He makes me feel safe, cherished, and loved more than I deserve to be loved. He makes me laugh. He truly does treat me like a queen, and he's taught his sons to treat me with the same respect. (From the time they were sprouts, they knew they'd better--or Heaven help them!) Because of his fine example, I now have grown sons who are so sweet in their dealings with me that sometimes, just thinking about the five of them reduces me to tears.

Yes, I am inordinately blessed. God has been so good to me, and I thank Him profusely. I thank Him most for giving me the man in the picture above, because all of my earthly happiness begins and ends with that handsome pilot. [Sigh] He's my hero.

Battling Aviophobia

Isn't this shrine to Our Blessed Mother magnificent?! My husband and I went to see it last Sunday afternoon on our way back from the airport in Boston (the day after our "date night" in Atlanta, when my husband flew down to meet me because I got stuck there as I was making my way back home from our oldest son's home in AL).

For the past 21 years, every time we've driven to or from the airport, we've passed a huge billboard sign that reads: "ON THIS HISTORICAL SITE, 35 FT. STATUE, Madonna Queen, National Shrine, TURN NEXT RIGHT."

I can't count the number of times I've said to my husband, "I wonder what that's all about. I really want to see that statue someday." But usually, we're in a hurry to get where we're going, so we'll decide to do it another time. Well, that time finally came last Sunday...and I have to tell you, it was spectacular. The above photo doesn't begin to do it justice; you have to see it in person to get the full effect. This gigantic floating image of Mary the Queen of Heaven is framed by bricks and "crowned" in gold, and it sits on a hill that overlooks the city. It's enormous and beautiful and absolutely awe-inspiring. Hard to describe, really. So if you're ever in the vicinity of East Boston, MA, you should check it out.

I thought I was going to be passing that big blue and white sign once again this morning, because I had decided to accompany my husband on a three-day trip to Amsterdam. I'd rather avoid flying at all costs; but now that our kids are grown and out of the house, I want to spend as much time with my guy as I can. Since he has to live so much of his life out of a suitcase--and has done so throughout his long airline career, sacrificing all that time away from home to provide for his sons and me--I'm trying to learn to become a frequent flier. (You know, for the team.) I'm sure that most people would think I was a complete fool if I hesitated for even a minute to go on an all-expenses-paid trip to Amsterdam. However, I was feeling a little nervous about today's flight; I even thought about coming up with excuses for why I shouldn't go. I'm sure if I tried hard enough, I could come up with a plethora of plausible excuses.

Part of me was excited about the trip. Even though I'd just accompanied my husband to Amsterdam back in late January, I was looking forward to the royal treatment in business class on the way over (because that's how I roll, people), and to attending a Latin High Mass with him tomorrow at a Catholic church near the crew hotel. I was also looking forward to another top-notch Italian dinner tomorrow night at San Remo's--and checking in on the restaurant's cat-in-residence (the one I wrote about in a blog post on February 2, 2012). My husband has been to Amsterdam since our trip together, and he says our little feline dinner companion is still prowling the San Remo's dining room.

Yet part of me, as always, was getting the jitters. (Remember that scene from the slapstick comedy "Airplane," where the plane is going down, and the passengers are watching a movie showing a plane crashing and bursting into flames? That's the very movie that was playing in my head last night.)

I guess you could say I dodged a bullet, though; my husband woke up feeling under the weather this morning and had to call in sick for this trip. I'm a bit relieved, because I'd rather spend time with him--nursing him, if necessary--right here in our house...on the ground, where we belong. But I'm also surprised to find myself feeling slightly bummed out that I won't be going to Amsterdam today. Do you suppose that means I'm beginning to conquer my aviophobia?

I'm going to keep battling it, that's for sure. And every time we drive past that billboard on the way to the airport, I'm going to remember this beautiful shrine with the 35 ft. Madonna Queen statue. And it will remind me to pray to Mother Mary, asking Her to give me faith and courage when I travel by plane.

Even When They Walk, They Do a Kind of Dance

I've always been so proud to be able to say that I am the mother of five sons.

I was busy raising four little guys when one of my husband's sisters got serious with a young man (now her husband) who was the baby in a family of five boys. As soon as I heard that about him, I thought his mother was so lucky, and I became enchanted with the idea of having another boy.

Well, Somebody up there was listening, because before long, I was pregnant. From the get-go, my husband and I were pretty sure it was a boy--by that point, we figured that boys were just what we do--and when a sonogram confirmed this, I was actually thrilled with the news. People inevitably thought that we were "trying for our girl" and must be disappointed about the sonogram results, but we were absolutely fine. I had had this idea of a fifth son in my head ever since I'd met my sister-in-law's husband, so as far as I was concerned, things were happening exactly the way they should.

It's interesting, being surrounded by all males--I will say that. Never a dull moment. Never boring. For instance, here are some rejects (the photos, not the kids!) from a photo shoot in 2000, when I was trying to get a nice picture of the boys for our family Christmas card.
I did eventually get a nice, normal picture, with all of them looking at the camera, smiling like the angels they were...but we had to go through this for awhile first.

One of the most touching books I've ever read is a work of non-fiction called Of Time and Memory, by Don J. Snyder. The author's mother died at nineteen, shortly after giving birth to him and his twin brother. He was told little about her by his father, who was devastated by her death. In his forties, Snyder goes back to her old hometown to find people who knew her during her short life, and he begins to not only come to know his mother, but also to learn about his parents' poignant love story. While he's interviewing all of her old relatives and friends, he finds out that his mother once confided to a friend that she wanted to have six boys. She babysat often for her young nephews, whom she adored, and here is how Snyder describes this love she had for boys: "Boys; she loved their inexhaustible energy. The way their imaginations were just beginning to take hold--explorers sliding their canoes into the clear, cold water. They were always moving; even when they walked they were doing a kind of dance. She liked boys emphatically, felt she understood them...She admired the way they disdained convention, defied time, challenged even the force of gravity. Boys, not girls, because a daughter might inherit her fears, be too much like her." That passage always makes me get a lump in my throat. I feel like Snyder is describing me when he talks about his mother.

That being said, I have finally been blessed with "my girls": my twin baby granddaughters Bonny and Kewpie. And I wouldn't trade a moment of those years raising my boys--but now I feel that my life is truly complete. Now I get to enjoy the kinds of things that were missing in my rough-and-tumble household, like sugar and spice and everything nice. Like dolls, tea parties, frilly dresses, hair ribbons, patent leather shoes, and high-pitched little mousie voices. Like lots of pink and purple. And someday, hopefully, girls-only activities like shopping expeditions and coffee klatsches!

But I do adore those five boys of mine, and I hope they know it.

Winter Blues

After one of the least snowy winters that I can remember, we are getting buried in the white stuff today. We did have a white Halloween, due to a freakishly early major storm; then we had a brown Christmas, followed by relatively mild weather throughout January and February; but now, wouldn't you know, just as all of us New Englanders were ready to breathe a sigh of relief and start looking forward to springtime, Old Man Winter decided to make his presence known with a vengeance.

Whom can we blame? Punxsutawney Phil? (Speaking of good old Phil, don't you love the movie "Groundhog Day"? But I digress...)

That's my second oldest son's car parked in our driveway, blanketed with snow. He's on a week-long winter break from his high school teaching job, and he came over on Tuesday to spend a little time with his father and me. He had planned to leave this morning, but the roadways around here are extremely treacherous--so it looks like he's going to be stuck for another day. As much as I love having him around, I feel terrible that this rassa-frassin' New England weather is keeping him from getting back home to his apartment about an hour south of here. He had some things he had to take care of, and now he'll have to put them off for another day.

Selfishly, I must admit, I'm glad that I'm going to have some manpower around to help me dig out when the snow finally stops falling. Before he left for a two-day trip this morning, my husband got up at the crack of dawn to snowblow the driveway, which already had about five inches of accumulation; but there's been no let-up since then, and there's definitely going to be a round two as far as snow removal. My pathetic arm muscles, capable of only about a dozen girls' push-ups at a time before they need a rest, don't have the strength to budge the snowblower, so I was planning on a couple of grueling hours of shoveling. When my son decided he'd probably stay until tomorrow, my spirit rejoiced. He's got the upper body strength to work that blessed snowblower.

Two of my sons have moved to VA in recent years, where the weather is much friendlier. (One son and his wife are also currently living in Alabama, although that's more the Army's choice than theirs.) They're probably thinking, "Thank goodness we don't have to deal with all that nonsense down here!" But the snow is beautiful. And it's not so bad, as long as you can afford to hole up in your cozy nest while the storm rages and ride it out...in a bathrobe...with a good book...preferably with a fire in the fireplace...

Some winters, we get pounded by so many Nor'easters that by now, we've all got the winter blues. But since this winter has been so kind to us so far, I'm going to try to keep my complaining to a minimum!