Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Simpler Times, A Groetzmeier Christmas – 2014

The 1950’s and early 1960’s were simpler times allowing holidays, family traditions and faith to take their full and proper place in the hearts and minds of children, leaving fond and enduring memories for a lifetime.

Although we had a small extended family that we would see for an American style Christmas Day Dinner of ham or turkey and fixings (from where I still make my Grandmother’s (Oma’s) meat stuffing to this day), when we were young, holidays for us were primarily built around our small nuclear family… first the three of us, then four of us after a couple of years in America and ultimately the five of us.

December 24th and 25th are obviously special days for Christians and for Christian children of all ages as well as for most children in America and the western world, no matter what their faith. The traditions and heritage wrapped around those days and the Christmas Season have been interwoven into the fabric of the United States and a good part of the world. Yet each family and person has their own special memories and traditions attached to that festive season. And so it was with us. Our parents tried to combine their old world ways and traditions with the new ones of this land we now called home plus those of their European Catholic upbringing.

Putting lights up on the outside of your house was something that wasn’t done in Germany and Austria before we left there, but going to see the lighted houses in the evening after dinner was a new tradition we all enjoyed and that we built into our Christmas Holiday ritual. By the mid to late 1950’s the displays of lights and other decorations had reached their zenith having become bigger and greater every year. Whole neighborhoods would decorate in themes while others would compete between neighbors. Some neighborhoods had such spectacular decorations that there would be lines of cars for blocks or more just to drive past the houses or to find parking to walk the neighborhoods. Some neighborhoods were even sponsored like one of the favorites in the Los Angeles area where each home had Disney displays; agreeing to take part yearly was part of the real estate agreement when purchasing a house there.

A few miles from our house was an oversized corner lot with a ranch style home that went all out. It had seemingly endless lights everywhere, moving elves and reindeer, a playhouse turned into Santa’s workshop and a huge sleigh filled with wrapped presents. There were two large pine trees dripping with painted glass globes and other shaped ornaments, icicles and branches thick with snow. You could hear the Christmas music at least a block away and Santa would be out every night for the entire month between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve to talk to the children after which Mrs. Santa handed out candy canes to all who came by. It really was something to see and we never tired of going by there, throughout the season, year after year. It was always part of our last light viewing tour each Christmas Season.

Most children think their memories and their parents were the greatest, as it should be. But I have to say that my parents did an amazing job of making the holidays, especially Christmas, and other traditions like trips to yearly regular vacation spots and trips to amusement parks something very very special… much more magical than I hear in recounts from others or than I managed to create with my own children, even though I tried.

My father worked for Pacific Bell, part of the largest utility company in America at the time before the government broke it up, and my mother was a stay at home mom, like most moms in those days. On Christmas Eve my father would always come home from work early after a half day. Traditionally half of the employees would work a half day, but were paid in full, which consisted primarily of a company paid Christmas party on Christmas Eve and the other half would work half day on New Year’s Eve. People with children usually got Christmas Eve off and the young and single people tended to want New Year’s Eve.

By the time our dad got home, we were all more than anxious for the Christmas Festivities to begin. We, the kids, would have wrapped our gifts for our parents and put them under the tree; the only packages that were ever set under the live Christmas tree in our living room before Christmas Eve when Santa came. It wasn’t until sometime in the 1960’s that artificial trees popped up, and by the mid-60’s a few of the modernists were putting up silver trees made out of the same material that tinsel is made of, usually decorated with all one color round ornaments and using a color wheel to light the tree instead of strings of lights. We only ever knew one family that had one. In fact they were the only people we ever knew, growing up, that had a fake tree. We preferred the stories of trees with real candles, homemade and traditional ornaments with meaning told from our parents’ upbringing, over the idea of a futuristic Christmas.

Going to get our Christmas tree was always a family event, as were most Christmas related activities, but since we were city kids we did go to a tree lot which was attached to a nursery and garden shop covered with a permanent canopy in aviary fashion. Once inside the sounds and smells of Christmas were everywhere. They played non-stop carols and had somehow piped in the smell of gingerbread. Yet we were almost overcome with the smell of fresh wreaths and rows of trees which seemed to go on forever. We always seemed to look at each and every one of them in our size range before choosing, in the ultimate search for the perfect tree. About the time I turned ten or eleven, flocked trees became popular; for a few years some were even flocked in pink and light blue. We always got an unflocked Noble that our father had to trim down after we got home, because somehow it always ended up being just a bit too tall for the room. And each year on our way to the register to pay for the tree, we got to pick one new ornament from the racks where they had them individually displayed. Years later, after I was already out of the house, the family made it out to the wild a few times to actually chop down a tree, like my parents did in the old country.

Getting a tree and putting it up several weeks before Christmas was one of the changes that our folks made. In Germany, the Christ Child (das Christkindl) comes on Christmas Eve and brings the tree already decorated for the children to see for the first time the next morning. In Austria, the family puts it up, but not on until Christmas Eve Day. In Germany and Austria, Santa (St. Nicholas) comes on December 6th and brings slippers, fruit, nuts and candy. In the country areas he often brings a dark character with him, der Krampus, who threatens to take the bad children and stick them into his sack, or he leaves them just a lump of coal. My dad grew up after World War I in a small town in Austria without a father. They got lots of snow and used cross country skis to get to school. Many of the women raised four, five , six or more children on their own with very little money or help after losing their husbands in the war. My father said he remembered more than once, knowing of a pre-teenage boy that was giving his mother a hard time that was picked up by the Krampus and taken on a scary ski ride at night in a big sack. Those are among the traditions and memories my parents left behind, but kept alive by telling stories of their childhood and having an Advent Calendar that included a story or telling of a memory with each day’s opening.

One of our favorite stories was always about the Kaufladen. It was a homemade storefront or kiosk type set-up made completely out of wood for my mother and her sister to play store. It was made with dozens of small apothecary type drawers that were filled every year with new dried beans, peas and lentils, candies, and other items that they could sell, taking turns being the merchant and the customer. It actually survived and went on to our cousins in Germany, and then to their children.

Getting the tree and decorating it was always a special day. Although my parents left pretty much everything behind when we moved here after having already lost virtually everything they had from their childhoods during the destruction of the war (WWII), they managed to pick up some European style decorations here and there that were interspersed between those purchased primarily at Sears and Roebuck, whose Christmas Wishbook was tattered and tagged throughout by us kids for months before Christmas. I remember going to a German store or special exhibit a couple of times that had handmade wooden and glass German ornaments; each crafted and painted by hand, so they were special, but not cookie cutter perfect like those that came out of the boxes here. I remember buying a little skier and a couple brightly colored mushrooms. They were always my favorites. In Germany many people still put real candles on their trees or the spritzers, where the colored water bubbles in the middle of each light; both only impressions in my memory from the stories my parents told.

As we decorated we would play both German and English Christmas carols on my parents hi-fi on vinyl singles or 45’s, as they were called, that you constantly had to change. We sang along enthusiastically to White Christmas by Bing Crosby and Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer by Gene Autry, the singing cowboy, as well as to Silent Night and O Tannenbaum in both English and German. My mom always had a batch of her homemade spiked egg nog made-up that we were allowed a sip of and there were always a few special German chocolates and marzipan piglets, as well as cookies and stolen from the German butcher shop. And some years there were goodies out from our Aunt Lisbeth and family in Frechen, Germany, like Printen or Speculatius, plus a fresh homemade batch of American style chocolate chip and sugar cookies. My dad would have a variety of shelled nuts out, that always included walnuts, that he would open for us with his nutcracker. There would also always be a platter of figs and dates, persimmons, pomegranates, tangerines and some type of fruit cake, rum cake or special bread, which he and his brothers and sister considered special treats as they grew up. Those were the days of the strings of lights that would not work if one or more were burned out, so sometimes it could be a huge project just to get the lights working. And after all the ornaments and garland were hung, the tinsel would go on last one strand at a time, so it would shine and sparkle without unsightly lumps scattered about the tree. We always had a big star as the topper with a spot in the middle for a light. Placing the topper was Daddy’s job. Tinsel duty and later supervision as we became older and helped to put it on, was Mom’s. We would end the day with a light German style meal and then go for a Christmas light viewing drive after dinner, as we would several more times during the season and one last time on Christmas Eve.

On Christmas Eve we would all be dressed up a bit more than usual for dinner. And dinner would always be traditional German or Austrian fare. Many years it was a variety of sausages: Bratwurst, Weisswurst, and Blutwurst, mashed potatoes and red and white cabbage (rot kohl and sauerkraut) or cucumbers in vinegar and oil. Some years it would be Weiner Schnitzel with white asparagus instead of the sausages and kraut. We kids, of course, would be squirming around in our seats, much too excited to eat.

As soon as we were done eating, my father would say, “How about we get into the car and go look at the lights one last time? And who knows, maybe Santa will stop by while we are gone?” …same exact words every year, even when we were teenagers. At the last minute, as we were putting on our sweaters, my mom would always say, “You know, maybe I won’t go and get this kitchen cleaned up?” We would always protest and Dad would say, “Yah Maria, that is probably a good idea and we won’t be gone long anyway!”

We would pile into the car. I would get to sit in front because I was the oldest and we would head out. We would basically take a tour of our favorite lighted houses, which normally ended way too soon for us. But on Christmas Eve, it always seemed like we were gone forever, even though I’m sure it wasn’t nearly long enough for Santa! ;-)

We would get back and run to the back door where we entered from the garage. My mom would be changed from what she was wearing at dinner, have the kitchen completely cleaned up and as we entered the kitchen we’d all be asking, “Was he here? Was he here?” She would always respond with, “No I don’t think so. I didn’t hear a thing in there!” We lived in a small two bedroom duplex until I was a junior in high school and she certainly would have heard!! We would open the sliding door into the living room and in that short span of a time it had been transformed into what seemed to us like Santa’s workshop: packages everywhere, with at least one or more items that had to be assembled ready to go, platters of homemade goodies and goodies sent from Europe with Christmas Carols playing in the background. To us it was a miracle!! And now looking back it was even more of a miracle than we realized, that our mom could have done all of that in such a short time! My sister and I tried to duplicate all of that with our kids and pass those traditions along. And with two of us playing Santa and usually not having a whole kitchen to clean, we were barely able to get it done! And then there is the question of where was all that stored before that night in that little place?!?

Our parents wrapped every pair of socks separately and we loved every gift (no electronics then). After all, we had spent months leafing through the Sears Christmas Wishbook Catalog hoping and making out our lists and letters to Santa. By the time we were through unwrapping and sampling the goodies it seemed like there was barely enough time to put on our new outfits, that were part of our gifts, and head to mid-night mass where we met up with family friends whose kids were all wearing their newly unwrapped Christmas outfits as well.

Both our parents grew up poor in a one parent home between World War 1 and World War II and although their parents did their best, their childhoods were tough and their Christmases and holidays were scant with gifts so they went out of their way to make ours extra special.

My mother grew up living in a small apartment with just her mother, until she remarried, above the town movie theatre where our mom fell asleep listening to the soundtrack seep up through the floorboards. She had a doll with a porcelain face and a real hair wig. Each year the doll would get a new head for Christmas because every year our mother would take the doll downstairs to play with other kids from the neighborhood and invariably she would allow someone to hold the doll after endless prompting, and the next thing she knew someone would drop and break her, after which the doll (one of her main gifts) was put away until next Christmas.

By the time we got home from church it was always very late so after another look at our stash we all went to bed and everybody could get up as early or as late as they wanted to play with and organize their gifts. Then by noon or so we’d head off to Oma and Opa’s (Grandma and Grandpa’s) each year, until they moved up North, for Christmas dinner with our cousins and family.  After that our mom would fix a Christmas goose at home each year since we had turkey for Thanksgiving.

Now that my kids and nieces and nephews are grown and my Christmas experience is made up of generations of tradition and varied experiences intertwined, I realize that those growing up years and then the ‘early years’ with my own children and nieces and nephews, who are all about the same age, were the best and are the years that come to mind first when Christmas and Christmas Eve are mentioned. I am grateful for the love my parents put into those holidays and other special events and occasions, and although I tried my best to pass on those special traditions and create new ones along side them, I can only say, “Thanks, Mom and Dad, I wish I could have done as well…”

By Marion Groetzmeier Algier from her book in progress (Working title: The Groeztmeiers) – Originally Posted at Ask Marion in 2010.

That was then… And this is now:

The Digital Story of the Nativity – Video: The Digital Story of the Nativity  and Video: The History of Christmas Tree Lights on the Internet

Plus NORAD Tracks Santa on Christmas Eve

For more than 50 years, NORAD and its predecessor, the Continental Air Defense Command (CONAD) have tracked Santa’s flight.

The tradition began in 1955 after a Colorado Springs-based Sears Roebuck & Co. advertisement for children to call Santa misprinted the telephone number. Instead of reaching Santa, the phone number put kids through to the CONAD Commander-in-Chief’s operations “hotline.” The Director of Operations at the time, Colonel Harry Shoup, had his staff check the radar for indications of Santa making his way south from the North Pole. Children who called were given updates on his location, and a tradition was born. LINK: NORAD tracks Santa on Facebook

In 1958, the governments of Canada and the United States created a bi-national air defense command for North America called the North American Aerospace Defense Command, also known as NORAD, which then took on the tradition of tracking Santa.

Since that time, NORAD men, women, family and friends have selflessly volunteered their time to personally respond to phone calls and emails from children all around the world. In addition, we now track Santa using the internet. Millions of people who want to know Santa’s whereabouts now visit the NORAD Tracks Santa website.

Finally, media from all over the world rely on NORAD as a trusted source to provide updates on Santa’s journey.

Santa Tracker Christmas or Santa Tracker

Merry Christmas! : Celebrating America’s Greatest Holiday

A great book on Losing Our Religion by atheist S. E. Cupp, who says she is he perfect person for this book because she has no dog in the hunt, takes on the all too often avoided question and discussion of religion in America…

The Battle for Christmas & The War on Christmas

The Snow Angel

Also check out:

The Reason For the Season 

Ben Stein on Christmas

 Merry Christmas 2014 From Just One More Pet

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Memorial Day and Summer Cautions and Safety Tips For Pet Owners

JOMP:  Memorial Day is generally considered the unofficial start of summer.  It is a season of fun and leisure but can also be a time when pets are forgotten or injured, amidst the fun, games, activates and heat.  Our pets our family members and all animals under our car are our responsibility so this is a quick reminder that  pet (animal) health should be kept in the forefront of our minds to help ensure a safe season for all.

Memorial Day is often filled with travel, parties, parades that often include pets and fun under the sun, so  while it is fun to include our pets in our activates, we can't forget to take the extra steps to make sure they' are safe and protected.

Below are the top five top safety tips from the ASPCA that pet owners need to remember this summer:

  • Travel in Style: Traveling can be highly stressful for our pets. If you're planning a road trip, prep your pet in advance by taking short rides in the car and getting them used to riding in a crate or car harness. "Pet owners should never leave their animals unattended in a parked vehicle," said Dr. Louise Murray, vice president of the ASPCA Animal Hospital. "Parked cars, even with windows open, become very hot in a short amount of time, and this can lead to heatstroke or death." If you must travel by air, putting your pet in cargo isn't ideal. If this is unavoidable, take great care to purchase the required crate and tell every airline employee you are traveling with a pet in cargo to avoid your pet being left on the tarmac or outside during extreme weather.
  • Keep Cool: Dogs and cats can become dehydrated quickly, so give them plenty of water when is the weather is hot.. Also, make sure your pet has a shady place to escape the sun and don't let your dog linger outdoors, especially on hot asphalt. Being so close to the ground, your dog's body can heat up quickly, and sensitive paw pads can get burned.
  • Watch What They Eat:  Summertime can be perfect for backyard barbecues or parties, but remember that the food and drink you serve your guests may be poisonous to pets. Keep alcoholic beverages away from pets, and remember that the snacks you serve your friends should not be treats for your pet. Any change of diet - even for one meal - may give your dog or cat severe digestive ailments. Make sure to avoid raisins, grapes, onions, chocolate and products with the sweetener xylitol, since these are poisonous to pets, the no-no foods for pets.
  • Beware of "High-Rise Syndrome": During warmer months, many animal hospitals and veterinarians see an increase in injured animals as a result of "High-Rise Syndrome," which is when pets fall or jump out of windows and are seriously or fatally injured. Keep all unscreened windows in your home closed and make sure screens are tightly secured.
  • Love the Leash: Warm weather can inspire longer walks, but while this is exciting for both dog and owner, it's important that dogs are always kept on leashes with collars and up-to-date ID tags to protect them from getting loose and injuring themselves or others.

Also, be sure to carry the numbers for your dog(s), cat(s) and other pets’ local veterinarian, the 24-Hour emergency pet clinic and the ASPCA's Animal Poison Control Center at (888) 426-4435 for immediate assistance if needed.

Below are some fun Memorial Day pet fun photos from 2013:

Fun Patriotic Memorial Day Pet Photos

Saucy Lady

Patriotic Horse

All American Dog

Patriotic Ferret

Is This Good

Patriotic Kitten

Patriotic Dachsies

Patriotic Gilla Monster

Festive Fido

Cool Patriotic Cat

Patriotic Bull Dog

Patriotic Donkey

Patriotic Cool Dude

Patriotic-Parrot 2

Patriotic Dog 3

Patriotic Piggie

Patriotic Retreiver

Patriotic Cat

Patriotic Doggie

Yeepet gallery Pets

Patriotic Chi

Yeepet gallery Pets

By Marion Algier – Just One More Pet (JOMP) – UCLA Shutterbug 

Ronald Reagan Honors America and Our Troops Past and Present 

Memorial Day 2014 

Photos From the Frontlines – The Dogs of War

Hero Dogs of 9/11 

Memorial Day Weekend Health Safety Tip Reminders 

Nation's oldest Memorial Day Parade returns to Bay Ridge

Military Heroes and Their Dogs

Sergeant Stubby

1st national monument for war dogs honors four-legged pup soldiers of World War II and beyond

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Forum: What’s Your Earliest Childhood Memory?

The Council Forum: Every week on Monday morning, the Council and our invited guests weigh in at the Watcher’s Forum, short takes on a major issue of the day,the culture or something that’s just fun. This week’s question was: What’s Your Earliest Childhood Memory?

The Razor: Memories have been scientifically proven to be quite fallible, especially those of children, so I’m not sure how accurate my memory is. It is possible I saw the video later, but there is no way to prove it either way. Nevertheless I have always believed that my earliest memory is, at the age of 20 months, seeing the video of Robert F. Kennedy getting shot.

My family was Irish-Catholic New Deal Democrats. The Kennedy family was the embodiment of the American Dream combined with enlightened leadership, and the Kennedys were spoken with almost as much reverence as the Pope and the Holy Church. It wasn’t until I was in college that I was old enough to assess the Kennedy legacy subjectively, and even today, as a registered Republican and libertarian, I still hold JFK and RFK is higher regard than most. The assassinations struck my family hard, and I remember what to me were the sound of balloons popping and everyone around me crying. How accurate is this memory? I wish I could say, but it’s the earliest one I can date.

Another early political memory is of President Nixon’s visit to China. I was a little over 5 years old at the time playing with my infant niece. I remember saying “Peking!” and making her laugh while watching televised footage of the visit. Over and over I said “Peking!” and she laughed that rugged laugh of the infant that they quickly grow out of yet is so wonderful to elicit, especially when one is a child himself.

GrEaT sAtAn”S gIrLfRiEnD:  Whee… Mom n dad’s date night…

Bookworm Room: Two words:  Kennedy’s assassination.  I was just over two at the time, and my next memories don’t kick in for another two years, when I was about four.

The Colossus of Rhodey: The ambulance taking my mom to the hospital for the birth of my youngest sister. I was three.

JoshuaPundit: The earliest memory I have would have to be from when I couldn’t have been more than  two. One of the first places we lived was an apartment in Santa Monica, California. It had an eat in kitchen and a black and white checkered floor and I have a real clear member of me and my Day (Z”l) playing ball with a pair of balled up socks…him rolling the ball towards me and me going after it and laughing a lot. From around the same time, I also recall a favorite toy, a stuffed monkey I called (of course) Mr. Monkey. He looked vaguely like Curious George, only with black fur and red overalls.

The Independent Sentinel: My earliest memory was when I couldn’t breathe while suffering from the whooping cough.

My mother took me by the feet, held me upside down, and hit my back hard several times. She later said I turned blue.

I remember the doctor who came to the house. He was nice but looked sad. There were people whispering outside the bedroom.

My mother later said I was a year-and-a-half old. I don’t know if she was right about that but I didn’t have the language to find out what was going on so I must have been very young.

My mother said at the time that I would forget all about the episode so I decided to remember it.

I’m a rebel.

The Glittering Eye: I’ve been wracking my brains such as they are, trying to identify my earliest distinct memory. Since I’m probably the oldest member of the Council, as you might imagine, that would be from quite a while ago—from before most of my fellow Council members were born.

Like many people I have many memories from when I was five or six or more years old. For example, I remember Eisenhower’s first election campaign, MacArthur’s farewell speech, and so on but those aren’t my earliest memories. Oddly, I don’t remember Truman as having been president. Since he had once asked my dad to be his campaign manager I would have thought I might have remembered it.

My dad was what is now called an “early adopter” so I don’t remember a time without television. That means that I can date certain early memories by television shows that were only shown when I was four years old or younger and never shown in syndication. I can remember several of those.

I am the oldest of five siblings. I can remember when the third child was born and at that point I was less than four then. I can also remember being potty-trained and when I was moved from a bed with sides to one you slept on top of, something that struck me at the time as a dangerously unsafe state of affairs (I’m used to it now). Those must have been when I was between two and four years of age.

None of that compares with my wife’s earliest distinct recollections when she was less than two years old. I have learned that she never forgets anything ;-)

Nice Deb: My first memory is of being locked in the bathroom when I was 1 1/2. I remember my mother was outside the door in the hallway, trying to explain to me how to unlock it, but I just wasn’t getting it, and I was crying out of frustration and fear. My dad was at work so she called the fire dept. for help. They came with a big hook and ladder truck, sirens blaring which surprised my mother. She was a bit overwhelmed, not expecting such a big to-do. A fireman climbed up the ladder and broke through the bathroom window. He snatched me up, opened the door from the inside and handed me to my mother, “here ya go, ma’am.”

Mrs. Joshuapundit: I was about three and a half when my younger sister was born. My earliest memory is my mom throwing me a present she got for me out of the window of the hospital.

Ask Marion: My first memory is a bit blurry; I was 23-months old.  It is of walking down the gang-plank at the end of our sail, from Austria, by way of Germany to America.  I think the only reason I remember that from such a young age is that it must have been so important and momentous to my parents… leaving their former life behind and seeing the Statue of Liberty with a new future in front of them that it left a huge imprint on my mind even at that young age.

My next, clearer memory, was at age 31/2 when my mother and I walked to Alexander’s Market in Burbank, CA.  She was nine months pregnant. I, as I did every time we passed that counter, asked to get a banana split at the ice parlor at the entrance to the market.  The answer was generally no; I certainly couldn’t eat one on my own.  That afternoon my mom said yes and of course she had to eat the lion’s share.  Within two hours after that special treat and our walk home, my mother went into labor for which I felt responsible. I have always loved banana splits, but after that day I didn’t ask for another one for a long time.

Sharing our thoughts and memories is critical to the process of maintaining our family and cultural heritage.  Sitting and really talking is something Americans don’t do enough these days.  Make if part of your holiday season and New Years’ resolution list.  Looking back helps us as we move forward; it gives us perspective and often even answers, as long as we don’t get stuck there.  The question made me think of the Charles Krauthammer’s book: Things That Matter (Kindle)

Books, Knowledge, History, Memories… How Erasing Them Changes Cultures, Countries, The World – Updated 

Simpler Times – A Groetzmeier Christmas 

Happy 100th Birthday, Daddy

Well, there you have it.

Make sure to tune in every Monday for the Watcher’s Forum. And remember, every Wednesday, the Council has its weekly contest with the members nominating two posts each, one written by themselves and one written by someone from outside the group for consideration by the whole Council. The votes are cast by the Council, and the results are posted on Friday morning.

It’s a weekly magazine of some of the best stuff written in the blogosphere, and you won’t want to miss it.

And don’t forget to like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter..’cause we’re cool like that, y’know?

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Remember 'The Girls' - Views by Ann Hood

Views by Ann Hood: Remember 'The Girls'

Photo: Tim Klein/Gallery Stock

ParadeLoyal, loud, tough-talking—these were friends impossible to replace.

Every Friday night, they gathered at one of their houses in a cloud of cigarette smoke and Aqua Net. They came in twos or threes, dressed in velour sweat suits, skirts with matching sweaters, elastic-waist jeans, and shirts that said BEST MOM or DECK THE HALLS. In their hands: coffee cans filled with pennies that clanked as they walked. Some wore wigs, big bubbles of fake hair. Or wiglets or falls, bobby-pinned in place like the mantillas they wore to church on Sunday. There were 12 in all. The Dirty Dozen, they called themselves. But more often, they were just The Girls.

Most had grown up together in Natick, R.I., a small village in a small state. Their houses all sat within a mile of each other. Yet they arrived in station wagons, the ones they drove to and from school, the beach, and the park, overloaded with kids.

Their husbands were foremen in factories. Others worked on the army base or ran the produce department or the deli counter at the local store. One of The Girls—no one could remember how she came to join them—was married to a doctor. She wore a blond fall, cat-eye glasses, drank Chablis. She didn't fit in, really. The Girls married young and stayed married. This one had an affair and left town. Then they were 11 around the kitchen tables covered with plastic cloths.
My mother was part of this group. For as long as I can remember, Friday nights were sacred, hers. The hurried dinner—maybe tuna casserole, eggs in purgatory, fish and chips from the takeout place. Then her disappearance to get ready. She left my father in charge for the evening, which meant popcorn and Dr. Pepper and staying up late. But never late enough for me to hear her come home.

Best was when it was my mother's turn to host. She began cooking on Wednesday. Marinating. Peeling. Simmering. Friday we were banished to the TV room so she could set up metal trays with small bowls of chips and dip, platters of cold cuts or fried chicken or meat loaf. Always a salad. Always cake or pie.

On my mother's nights, it was impossible to fall asleep. The excitement of The Girls, so many of them! All squeezed around our small table, laughing and smoking and playing poker. I would creep down the stairs and sit on the harvest gold carpet, listening. They shared worries: about husbands and children and money, always money because there was never enough. They told each other "I hate you" and "I love you" with equal passion and frequency. They were not like mothers on television. No, they were rough around the edges, high school dropouts, secretaries, and assembly-line workers. They spoke with a hard accent that dropped r's and added s's. Kmahts, they said, instead of Kmart. "Your deals" instead of "your deal."

Years of Friday nights passed. Three of The Girls moved away. Then cancer struck. Colon. Lung, twice. The Girls dwindled from 11 to eight to five. Alzheimer's dropped them to four. They broke hips and had cataract surgeries, knee replacements, and lumpectomies. Still, they met every Friday night.

After their families were grown, they took trips. To Atlantic City. To Foxwoods casino in Connecticut. Overnights and weekends and afternoons. They met for coffee and counted their pennies and planned more trips to more casinos.

Then one day, one of them was driving home from my mother's when she was hit broadside by a teenager in his brand-new car. She died instantly. That Friday was the first Friday that The Girls didn't play. The next week, another one was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer; she lived only four months.

Unsure how to help my mother heal, I signed us up for bridge classes with my 19-year-old son. I imagined finding a fourth player, setting a new routine. I imagined I could convince her that things weren't as bad as they seemed, even though I knew they were.

The day before the last class, the teacher announced that we were all bridge players now. "You can go home and teach your friends," he said triumphantly.

"My friends are all dead," my mother said softly.

I glanced over at her. She had turned her head so that no one could see her crying. How foolish I was to think that a new foursome, could replace The Girls. I realized in that moment that there are some things for which there are no substitutes. There are some things that we must mourn and cherish and say goodbye to.

Every so often now, on a Friday night, I drive to my mother's. I bring her treats that make her smile: a bouquet of zinnias, an apple pie warm from the oven, a bunch of flat-leaf parsley. I drink coffee with her and talk about things that don't matter. She'll look around the empty table and say, in a voice filled with wonder, "Just yesterday, we were all here playing cards." I take her hand, bent with arthritis, rough from hard work, and I hold on tight. Or as tight as I can before I let go.

By Ann Hood  Her new novel: The Obituary Writer.

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