Another Year, Another Press

Yesterday, as I welcomed some new cider pressers to our house, I told them a little bit about why we host this event every year. With about five minutes until the door rang again, I found a way to compress the stories, memories, and emotion surrounding the press into a little elevator pitch. Some got snippets, some a little more elaboration, but by the end of the afternoon, I felt like everyone knew a little bit more about my Grandpa. 

***

He had a lot of land outside of Pittsburgh. And on it, he had quite a few apple trees.

We used to go his house every fall and shake the apples from the trees, load them in the wheelbarrow and cart them up to the house.

My Grandpa had assembled a cider press years and years ago, and together, we would grind up all the apples we had picked, even the ones with worms in them (he would joke). We would transport their mush into the barrel of the press, and as the apples reached the fill line, we would cap it and turn the stubborn wheel, anticipating autumn's sweet treat flowing from the slats. A couple more turns and it would pour out, down the spout and into recycled gallon containers.

The kids, my cousins and I, would line up with cups in our hands and fill them straight from the tap, being ever so careful not to get stung by the bees that had descended upon the nectar.

After we had pressed all the apples, my Grandpa would give us tractor rides, we would run around in his yard, staging relay races and massive games of hide and seek, and we'd warm up with my Grandma's cooking, drinking more cider to swish it down.

We'd leave at night with a bag full of homemade rolls, a sheet tray of stuffed cabbage (a staple permanently stocked in my Grandma's freezer), and a gallon of the good stuff. We were warned to drink while fresh.  

***

My Grandpa passed away more than six years ago. When he died, my aunts and uncles went through the storied house he shared with my grandma and their eight children, and split up many of the cherished belongings among the extended family.

My request to inherit the cider press was honored, and that summer, my parents schlepped it from Pittsburgh to Chicago. Peter reassembled it with my Grandpa looking on, and today it sits on our screened in porch, waiting for its namesake event every year.

To me, it embodies so much of my Grandpa. His uncanny ability to build and tinker. His love of his land and the fruits that it grew. His unbridled enthusiasm for life's experiences. His sense of humor. And above all, his love of family and the events that always brought his together.

So for the past six years, we've thrown a cider press party in his honor.

We pick apples, dodging bees or in my case getting stung, the week before. This year we got some help from Nana and Opa

    

We invite family and friends over; neighborhood folks, classmates, co-workers, city dwellers, suburbanites, and sometimes even the out of towner just happening to pass through.
         
 

 

We pray for good weather. Even if it's a little chilly. 

We put out a spread, stock the cooler, try to remember the paper plates and utensils (but tend to fail), and open up our back door and yard.

If you want a job, you can have one. If you want to just taste some cider, that's okay too. Come thirsty, leave happy. Over the past six years, we've added some upgrades, streamlined the processes, included some more people, and extended my Grandpa's legend a little further. 

My kids will never get to meet my Grandpa. They'll never hear his laugh or booming voice; they'll never feel the strength of a foreman and brick layer in an arm wrestling match, they'll never open a letter addressed to them in his distinct writing style, they'll never get to find one of his homegrown potatoes in an Easter egg, taste his atomic bean soup, or feel the stubble on his face. But they will know him. Through my stories and memories, and especially in the cider we make every year, they will always love my Double G.  

    

Lo.

The Good, The Bad, and the Irish

While children learn good from bad, right from wrong, at a very early age, it takes a little more maturity to introduce the concept of good guys and bad guys. I, for one, tried to put it off at first. Then it seemed like more and more subjects demanded a greater explanation and my little ones refused to settle for the answer, '... just because.'

Like when I had to explain why cousin Meghan had to go back to Iraq again.
"Well, cousin Meghan is in the Army. Which means she helps keep us safe by fighting the bad guys."

Or when they ask why they need to hold Mama's hand when we're walking through a crowd.
"Because there are a ton of people here and I don't want a bad guy to grab you."

All the Disney villains and the drama they create spark the conversation. So do police sirens and the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Commercials promoting the competition's new chicken tenders make me label one or two companies as the bad guys. And when it comes to Notre Dame football, I want so much to call them good, but sometimes, they're just plain bad.

Earlier this fall, with a five week old baby in tow, we drove down to Notre Dame to watch the 'good guys' play the 'bad guys.' The Fighting Irish were hosting the University of Georgia and seemingly they had brought the whole state with them. Everywhere we went that weekend we saw red: at the pep rally on Friday night, at the liquor store, around the bag pipe circle, in front of the dome and all over the tailgating lots. The worst of all; we were surrounded by the other side in the stadium.

Because we had two tickets and no babysitter, I took a very hopeful Mary to the game. Right before kick off, I strollered her past the drunks, lumbering to their next watering hole, and pushed her through the storied entrance to the stadium. We walked under the aging championship banners, up the stairs and through the little tunnel to our section. The illuminated field was roaring with the bands' revered marches, the cheerleaders ran across the field with I-R-I-S-H blowing in the night's chilly air, the announcer yelled, 'here come the Irish', and the golden helmets of Notre Dame's football team emerged from the tunnel. My heart swelled and Mary was beaming from ear to ear. So good.

We took our seat, stadium popcorn in tow, ready to cheer the good guys to victory. But then we looked to our right, to our left and then all around the stadium. We were seemingly outnumbered; red masses were littering every section.

I could tell that Mary, surrounded by all this red, was a little nervous. She asked, "Why are there bad guys next to us?"
"Because the Irish fans sold their tickets I guess."
Fifteen minutes and half a box of popcorn later ...
"I need water ... and why are there so many bad guys in here?"
"Well, they're not really bad, honey. They're just cheering for the other team."
"Oh."
And the next morning, after Notre Dame recorded its first loss of the season.
"Did Notre Dame win, Mama?"
"No we lost. The red team won."
"How come the bad guys won?"
"Because we weren't good enough."

Over the past month, I've thought a lot about that game. And how Mary must have felt, surrounded by the 'bad guys,' especially the ones that were so vocal when a call didn't go their way. I imagine she was questioning the number of people rooting in red and whether we were even cheering for the right team. (Mary, Uncle Adam questions that all the time.)

Outside of this terrible football metaphor, I think these feelings surface a lot in this day and age. I find myself overcome, and yes, scared by all the bad stuff and guys out there. And I hate having to keep coming up with explanations for it, because all too often, there isn't one.

***

Last weekend, we went back to Notre Dame for another college football classic: The Fighting Irish versus the USC Trojans. Born and raised in a Notre Dame family, married into another one, this is the perennial good versus bad guy match up. It was a pristine college football weekend. The campus was covered in mums, the smell of charcoal and brats wafted through the air, mini cheerleaders practiced their moves in hopes of joining the elite squad someday, footballs flew across the lots, holy water sprinkled the Church's newest Catholic and future Domer, and families and friends spanning the generations soaked up a winning atmosphere dressed in the Bookstore's latest looks.

 

          

    
 

But unlike the Georgia game, I saw nothing but blue and gold all weekend. Low and behold, the Irish creamed Southern Cal for the first time in as long as I can remember. Maybe they really are that good, Maybe they'll build momentum from here on out. Maybe the team just needed more people believing in the good, and less people trying to make more money off of them.

***

Inevitably, the further down any good guy versus bad guy conversation I get with my kids, the harder it is for me to answer their questions. The black and white of it aren't so obvious; the lines blurs; the rationale is harder to rationalize. And I can see them wondering how a bad guy can really be all bad?

Mary asked me on the way to Notre Dame last weekend if there were any bad guys in heaven. I said no, but then I hesitated ...
'Actually, there might be people in heaven that did some bad things, but when they get to the Gates, they're forgiven. So now they're good guys.'
She thought about this for a while. And then told me, 'I wish they could be good on Earth too.'
'I do too, honey.'
Convincingly she stated, 'Well, I'm going to pray for them.'

It was the perfect way to end any conversation about the bad guys. Prayer it is.
Pray for the bad guys.
Pray for more good guys.
Pray that the Irish keep getting better.

Lo.

The Matron

Last Tuesday, I flew to Pittsburgh so I could fulfill my duties as matron of honor in my sister's wedding. She told me that she would refer to me as her maid of honor in the program though; that she never liked the alternate title.

However, as a mother of three, I kind of liked the distinction. Despite how dowdy it can make you feel, I believe matrons bring a certain level of expertise to the table unlike their maidenly counterparts.

That is, when asked to move chairs around the altar at variance points in the wedding ceremony, you incredulously accept your role, but then perform it with grace. Because hey, you've been practicing for this for weeks by carrying a 37 pound little boy up the stairs ten times a day to go potty.

You are also really good at helping the photographer get more oomph out of the bride and groom. When she asks them to nuzzle noses you make comments like, 'ugga mugga' because Daniel Tiger and his Mom do that really well. Or when the photographer says that's a wrap, you burst out in 'we did it, we did it, we did it, yeah!' because Dora and Boots have the best celebration dance of all.

You are really good at bustling on the fly because finding little hooks and clasps and fastening them as quickly as possible is one of your fortes as a mom.

You show a little more emotion in church because you know what it took to make two paths come together and become one, you know that love, even after six years, is truly patient and kind, and that bear hugs are always better than a hug from a gazelle. You take as many pictures as possible, because you know how fast it all goes. And when you give a speech, you speak with a little more maturity and a lot more sobriety.

Matrons also earn a little slack, which I needed here and there. Say, when you ask to buy a dress at the very last minute because your body seems to change its shape by the hour. Or when the bride generously offers to pay for your professional makeup application (thank you so much) because the circles under your eyes need a miracle. And when you are MIA, it is assumed you are nursing your baby when actually you might be sneaking another glass of wine so you can lead the Love Train with as much courage as possible.

So I called myself matron, and did my best to honor my beautiful sister and her handsome hubby throughout their wedding weekend. (A big thank you to Peter and Eva for helping me do that.) Being witness, support, fluffer and bustler, amateur photographer, speaker, blessing giver, flower girl and ring bearer wrangler, dancer, best friend and little sister was an amazing experience, captured best in the photos that follow.

One final view point though; one that a photo just can't capture. As the matron of honor, you get to stand right up front and watch the bride walk down the aisle as the groom lovingly looks on. Watching Joe see the love of his life walk to him, inching closer as her dress swished, her eyes beamed and her smile shined brighter than the little tiara in her hair, was pure magic. For a guy who spends so much time in back of a camera, I didn't see him take out his favorite tool once all day. He was completely and utterly present, letting his eyes take all the photos he needed of his beautiful bride on their special day.

Lo.

The Bridal Luncheon

      

Rehearsal

   
 

            

Wedding Day

     

   

The Brunch

***
The Matron of Honor Speech 

I am Erin's little sister. And I am also a mother of three. I have Mary, Bobby and Margaret.

Recently, my four year old and first born, Mary, was having a tough day. I put her to bed with tears in her eyes that night. She gave me a hug and said (in her ever dramatic fashion), I don’t want to be the big sister anymore. It’s too hard. I just can’t do it.

I told her that ‘God chose you to be the big sister … just like God chose Aunt Erin to be the big sister in my family.’

Her response was comical … she said, 'I don’t want to be the chosen one.’

First of all, I laughed. Then I took the time to tell her a little bit more about how Aunt Erin was the best big sister ever. And how we can learn from her.

She was a big helper, like big sisters have to be. She listened and did what Nana and Opa asked her to do. She helped them take care of Uncle Adam and me, making sure we were safe and sound. Legend has it, that when we lived on Bartlett Street, I was riding my bike down our very steep driveway, gaining speed by the second. My sister rushed over and pushed me over, bike and all. Sure, I was bruised and scraped, but she proudly touted that she had saved my life.

She was such a big help and great teacher to Adam and me, that later on in life, she saw that hard work pay off. See after dinner, my Mom and Dad would linger at the table to finish their conversation. And all of three of us would be put to work; washing and drying dishes. Adam and I would start while Erin politely excused herself to go to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she would return and feign surprise that the chores were already finished. Well, nothing left for her to do I guess.

She was a fearless leader for us kids, like big sisters have to be. She was outspoken, always having a point of view that needed to be shared. She liked to get the last word in, as my mom would say. There were times when my Mom would discipline us for some reason, and my sister did not want to accept the punishment without sharing her side of the story. I would pull her aside and say, Erin, come on, do you really want to get in even more trouble? She would push me away and start to argue the defense, only to have the Judge reprimand her more and double her sentence. In our rooms later that night, she would smile, laugh a little, and tell me it had to be said. Mom can be so exasperating at times.

She was really smart, like big sisters have to be. And just like Belle, she was an avid reader. In the time it took me to read one book, she could read every volume of the Baby Sitters Club. And for a girl who got a Needs Improvement in reading growing up, I loved that she would take the time to read to me. We shared a room growing up, and many nights, she would invite me into her bed, telling me to bring as many books as I could. We would pile up stories and one by one she would read to me until I fell asleep.

She was beautiful inside and out, like big sisters have to be. Just like Snow White, she had skin as white as snow. And like you, she tends to burn easily in the sun. Through the years, she’s gotten more and more beautiful, and better and better as posing for pictures. Rumor has it, she even invented the classic hand on hip pose.

Just like Sleeping Beauty, she was given the gift of song. A voice so beautiful, that my Dad would encourage her to sing with him many nights of the week as he accompanied her on the piano. She sang through grade school, high school and even college. And today, gives back so graciously to the St. Bede’s community as a cantor and member of their choir. I was envious of that natural, raw talent, particularly when I asked to sing with my dad and received the coaching that I was flat and changing key, yet again.

Most importantly though, just like Cinderella, she has always remained kind, caring, and a believer in happily ever after. Even when she faced ugliness in life, hardships, and a heart that was grieving, she had faith that true love would find her. And it did, A Prince, artist, Pitt super fan, lover of life and all of its ticketed events, named Joe came along on a kayak with the kind of spirited and selfless love that my sister needed. Because just like you, Mary, big sisters can have tough days, and sometimes they need a Mommy or Prince Charming to lift them up again.

Joe - I have never seen my sister so happy. She is glowing, not just today, but every day since the two of you met. Thank you for that.

I wish you a happily ever after today and all the days of your life.