Glory Ho

My parents came to see us in Bulgaria awhile back. I was so psyched for them to see me in this world! We met them in Istanbul, our airport drama on a rooftop terrace overlooking the Blue Mosque instead of Sofia’s haphazard collection of hangars. My mom with her teary eyes, soft clothing and tan skin, my Dad with his shy smile and purposeful walk, so recognizable that I can could spot him or Dustin on a crowded playground from half a mile away. As always, they were healthy, interested and full of positive energy.

It was still hard to believe they were backpacking. Only one hotel reservation on their flimsy itinerary. Nowhere to store souvenir dishes, sweatshirts or semi-precious stones mined carefully from the soil of some exotic land. Space enough for two pair of shoes each. One to wear and one to spare.

But my dad was a planner. My mom a bit of a clothes-horse. They were definitely detail-oriented! In my thirty year experience with these two people whom I thought I knew, they’d always been fond of highlighted maintenance spreadsheets and gifts purchased days ahead of the party. I had been encouraged to “begin the application now”, carefully consider outfit selection so as to make the best impression, even when traveling (you never knew you might run into!) And here they were flying by the seat of their pants, pants they had been wearing for a week!

But they were my parents. I guess they figured it best to keep me safe and structured, with a back-up plan in place, assuming that life (or perhaps a husband, in my case) could always mellow me out later. And for years, I knew them primarily in this parental capacity.

I remember a specific post-college conversation, where I got a peek at something else. In response to a suggestion I made, my Mom cheerfully said “whatever”. It sounded so strange to me. I knew her voice, her words, her phrases better than anyone’s and this just wasn’t one of them. “I guess I’ve lightened up,” she said. Maybe this was a transformation from motherhood back to self. That was years ago. This trip was simply an extension of her genuine MO.

Yes, they seemed happy, undisturbed, light enough to fly. Stories ready to spill from their smiling face about the dimly-lit room with the concave bed after five pay-phone calls in rainy Rome, the once-in-a-life-or-death ride through never-again Naples, and how life is happening at home—my cousin Julie’s pregnancy, Dustin’s outdoor cats, Philip’s new job.

We saw the Blue Mosque that day, covering skin with scarf and shedding shoes to enter the candle-lit sanctuary, hearing the call to prayer, trying desperately to learn a bit more about this religion that had torn the world apart. My mom tasted the butter in the Baklava, but they both hated the buttermilk (otherwise known as Aryan) that Michael and I adore, and we realized that the Turkish “tea” although served beautifully in red-ringed, clear-glass little cups, was little more than warm Tang. They walked the Grand Bazaar, and as we glided across the fisherman-lined Galata bridge toward Beyoglu, I probed my Dad for advice on how to spend the rest of our life. I realize, now in my 30s, that he is only human and doesn’t have all the answers. And that’s okay.

They ferried to Asia while Michael and I played backgammon against the rough and rainy waves of the Bosphorous. My mom liked the soft aubergine salad and enjoyed her Turkish Bath. That night, we navigated a maze of dark, steep alleys on our way to the action. The Istanbul we remembered, thank goodness, with its beckoning men, ogling fish and lemon-sprinkled three-for-a-lira mussels were still there, just as we’d found it last April. We ordered Tuborg from a tiny O’Darby table, met Turkish men who had immigrated to Germany back in the 70s, chose free lilies and gerber daisies from memorial wreaths that men were loading into a garbage truck, and my mom and I had one of those animated bottle-clinking, heart-to-hearts amidst the comforting clamor of Turkey.

Like every traveler, my Mom and Dad were scouring for snippets of familiarity, scooping them up in the spirit of a scavenger hunt and storing them in a safe silo of their mind for future use. Everywhere, they initiated conversation with locals. With an exceptional skill for small talk, and an inherent interest in other’s lives, it appeared effortless. Scruffy street vendors were charmed. Taxi drivers pleased to help. Carpet sellers suddenly genuine. A common ground to dance on the consistent result. They would be excellent Peace Corps Volunteers. A picture of both immersion and inclusion. I don’t know how they do it.

We ventured forth into Bulgaria, where they survived bunk beds in Veliko Turnovo, a three AM border crossing, and a very crabby cabby before we made it to Sofia. In our kitchen, I served tuna, crackers and tomatoes while they inspected the doorlocks, bathroom fixtures and lack of appliances in our home. My dad immediately sat down and began cracking hazelnuts, something our friend Greg had recently collected from his long lost grandfather’s yard in a Greek village. He reminded me of Grandpa Enright, bumping his small fat fingers on the polished kitchen table and gazing out the window into his mind. We told them about Skype and RAM and set up a hotmail account.

Sure, I took them to see Habitat, where they were welcomed with chocolate cake, questions and astonished eyes. They shopped in Traditzia. My mom found a red bake-o-lite bracelet in the crazy, Russian-inspired flea-market. They tried apple banitza, met Alexander Nevsky in the dark and drank Becks in Oborishte park, where we taught them to say “cheers” in Bulgarian, explaining that “Nastrave” sounded like “Nice Driveway” which was a lot easier to remember. But it was the moments in our apartment that I remember best. There, they absorbed my life in Sofia.

There comes a point in every child’s life, I suppose, when a full picture of their parents, as people, emerges from a protective husk. This has been happening for years, now, the visit simply a milestone.

I knew they were tough. Always have been. But I was proud of something else. They had placed faith in the universe, relying on a force other than themselves. The universe is much better off for having met them.

Here we sit, Indian, okay Native-American style, on the couch, eyes shifting toward a floor that needs sweeping and unshaved limbs that plead for a good run to wake them up. With every sideways glance at the counter, I think I might see the cock-roaches making their way toward the still-open muesli, but then I remember, they like the dark. I’ve learned, you really can get used to anything, anyway. Whatever might be at eye level every day—sardines, crack, peeling paint—it’s just a matter of time before they cease to smell, shock or bother. This morning, when we opened the curtains, Michael said, it was a high school play sort of snow. Fast, heavy, right out of a box above the curtain, with packing-peanut size flakes. Total surprise.

But this is just another minor detail about foreign city life—because we don’t read Bulgarian particularly well and don’t own a television, we’re sometimes a bit clueless: newspapers, bills, those strange signs posted on the door to our apartment building. . .we can only hope it’s nothing to do with some evacuation. The other day some woman stopped by and gave us a key. It’s now in our little grey elephant bowl. We may never know its purpose.

But I digress. Point is, we miss some stuff. Like the fact that a blizzard with six inches of snow was coming.

It’s a pity for the holiday bazaar where my organization needs shoppers to come in and buy hemp-sewn angels and bright-paint-splattered cat pins, but just the kind of day I wanted. Christmas had crept into Sofia a little like dusk settles on farmhouse horizon: subtley and without much to offer when it’s finished. Thanksgiving was only a distant memory by the time it arrived, unlike America, where toward the end of November, every store sign is an ugly rainbow of brown, orange, red and green. Here, there are crooked trees with free, red, coca-cola stamped décor, scary talking Santas outside the casinos and candle-shaped lights, trying to achieve a gas-lamp style along the streets Vendors who usually peddled wallets, books and barrettes are now up to their cigarette-hugging lips in tinsel, garland, balls and lights. . I’ll admit, a tiny part of me misses Cherry Creek. And even though it’s tough to get in the mood when my mother’s sweet potatoes, the Sinopoli guacamole and Emily and Christine’s festive enthusiasm (remember our Christmas?) are thousands of miles away, it was a good day to buy a fake tree. A good day to decorate it. A good day to pretend that it’s pretty.

Yes, I’d been feeling pretty cynical about Christmas. Sad to be without family, but perhaps simply unenthused about the whole thing. And we’d been agonizing over our plans for at least a month. Thought it felt, somehow, wrong, and entirely too self-indulgent, we were aching to spend it mostly alone with only our books, laptops, movies, wine, food, and each other. No host family visit. No volunteer gift exchange. No Bulgarian. Just a day to ourselves and then a volunteer trip to the orphanage. We were, in fact, psyched about “skipping” Christmas and all the aiming to please that went along with it. Rejoicing about the release from gift obligations, travel and family stress. Jingling our bells in anticipation for a relaxing 24th and 25th day of December.

But, let’s be clear. The above might lead you to believe that I’ve had dysfunctional Christmases or that my family is a handful. Not so!

They’re great. And funny and flexible, warm, accommodating and generous. Any my Christmas memories are full of rich, creamy goodness with a little bickering and competition thrown in to keep you from hating us. My optimistic, flexible Mother could have written a book about how to make holidays, or even you-were-nominated-to-Student Council-days as comforting and encouraging as the Smuckers voice, the Home Valley Ranch countryside and a Kool-aid commercial all rolled into one. And yet, thankfully, she didn’t make you ill with her cheer. She abhorred bows and never hung any sort of country goose in the hallway. And I’ve yet to see anyone combine such a sense of grace with such a sense of speed. Never running out of steam or safety pins of black purses or lip liner or recipes for a last minute appetizer, she strived to balance the presents, pined for space in neighbor’s closets to avoid our snooping and was a master at creating memories. Her and my Dad’s gifts always made me feel loved, confident and bound for well-dressed success. And then there was our high-strung, semi-friendly sibling rivalry. Every year, my brothers and I received a new ornament—usually one chosen specifically for some current obsession—unicorns, matchbox cars, water sports, whatever. So, as my parents trimmed with garland, I mean, tinsel (one at a time!), we removed the Younkers box tops and hung our bits of sequins, porcelain, feathers and popsicle sticks from the pine needles. That’s when the battle for prominent tree placement began. The rub was that there was no rule against “moving” ornaments, hours, or even days after the ceremonial event. For example, the next night, I might find my sparkled spider web sagging on a limp branch, smashed against the back wall, with Dustin’s British phone booth, now in center position. And then, days later, he would search for his legendary red-coated Mickey Mouse, only to discover Mickey’s poor head tangled between a string of lights next to the trunk and my pink-ribboned heart of glass now near the top. Finally, on Christmas Eve, Philip would look up to gaze at his hanging hockey player, and see my name-engraved, gowned and crowned little girl, its brass tarnished from years of storage, dull but still reflective, in its place.

Then there was the Angel. We took turns every year. When I was young, I loved being lifted by my Dad to place her hard plastic hollow body, gold-sparkled wings, Princess Lea buns and cotton trim at the top of the tree. Due to all the arguing over whose turn it might be now, next year and in 2030, my Dad, always quick with a sharpie, began using file folder labels to record and project the angel events. And you might be surprised to realize how old we became before losing interest in this seemingly insignificant privilege. Perhaps we were subconsciously holding onto tradition.

But these rituals have a way of changing with the never-so-beautifully-flowing-as-in-that-hourglass sands of time. As we matured, and “coming home” began to include rental cars, dish warmers and spare room occupancy, tree night became an appointment not everyone could keep. Mom and Dad decorated. A little less. And, perhaps in place of the angel and ornament ceremony, my brothers played an annual practical joke. On me. At the bottom of my stocking on Christmas morning, I would find a roughly-cut wooden block, with black-markered insults scrawled all over its surface. The main message was always: “You suck! Love, Mom and Dad.” My brothers think this is endlessly hilarious and howl, quite scarily, each time I pull it out. (FYI: They are both in their 20s.)

Now, too there’s the Ugliest Ornament Gift Contest, started in 2003 by my brother, Dustin and his wife Christine. It’s a match between them and us. Granted, taste (or lack of) is subjective, but seriously, you should see some of these. . .

In addition, though I can’t speak for Michael’s memories, there’s enough warmth and fuzziness from tale after tale of his past holiday extravaganzas to crochet a big blanket; midnight mass (at their house!) nativity plays, Santa impersonations, clam linguini and lots of wine. And the Sinopoli clan has taken me in–I am now a member of their family as well. I’ve only known Peg for five years, but I loved her too and I will miss her.

But, it was about five years ago when I feel Christmas finally burst, resulting in so many missed sparkles across the post-holiday, vacuum-lined carpet. There was no tragedy. I just realized what a hassle it had become and how little payoff I received (remember, I don’t have kids yet). Gifts were harder and harder to buy. If it was my family’s “year to host” we absorbed understandable guilt from Michael’s clan and vice versa. I sensed neighborhood pressure to put up lights (then quickly transferred that to Michael) and at some point suffered from complete hostess-hell if I didn’t decorate—mistletoe, mantelpiece strategies, red dish towels and all (damn Pottery Barn catalogs). Christmases in Denver were always a festive, face-stuffing and footloose party (love the dancing!). And I’m grateful that I inherited such a closeknit group of individuals. But those events always left me missing home. Visits to my own family were full of shopping, late night conversations, cheese on chips and movie-quoting, but always too long. There was me, interested in keeping both my husband and my parents happy, and, therefore, jumping to fill conversation silences; my mother practicing the exact same behavior (where do you think I got it?); and Michael and my Dad, perfectly content, chewing or staring into the distance, oblivious or bewildered by our fuss. And then, more guilt and anxiety (all my own doing, by the way,). Did I stop by to see Grandma? What about the other Grandma? How is the nose-ring going over? Have they seen the tattoo? (kidding) Where were my ornaments placed on the tree???

So, to state the painfully obvious, we’re in a pretty strange position this year. We get to skip the stress, but we’ll be missing the glories, too. And I think that creates justification for doing our own thing.

However, if you happen to be in America, here’s my advice:

Let go of the guilt. Remember the good times. Be grateful. Take care of your parents. Laugh, live, talk, visit, endure and just be, if nothing else, with your family or friends. Lower your expectations. Keep it short and sweet. Appreciate America. Please yourself. Please a couple of others. Do a good deed. Call it a day. Scare away the guilt with a nearby ugly ornament and start being the master of your own holiday destiny.

* * * * * * * * * *
As it turns out, since I began writing this blog, our plans have changed. A little. On Christmas Eve, we will make Bulgarian banitza, watch movies, read out loud and cook up some Indian lamb saag. Ahhhh. Then, on Christmas day, we were invited by a Traditzia Board member, (the wife of a British diplomat,) to her home, for a nice walk through their nearby woods, a few glasses of wine and some mincemeat pie before our orphanage outing.

Merry Christmas—here’s to Mom, Dad, Dust, Christine and Phil. Thanks for making my Christmas memories amazing. Love you all so very much and I wouldn’t be *here* without you.

My Grandmother, died at about 11:30 PM December 21nd, Denver time. My Mom sent Andrea and I the following email, about an hour later:

“Grandma passed away at 11:30 PM Dec 21st, she was having trouble breathing and just stopped. She will be spending Christmas with Grandpa and her sister and Uncle Billy. I am sure it will be a wonderful one. I left her about 10:30, Janice and Teri spent the night, they were all settled in and Grandma was sleeping so I kissed her goodnight and told her I loved her and left them. Janice woke shortly and did not hear her breathing any more, woke Teri and they called the nurse. We will be making arrangements tomorrow. Paul will be here on Sat along with Rebecca and Luke. Joe and Jake are in Texas with Simone. I love you both.”

My Grandma was the Matriarch of The Sinopoli Clan (TSC). TSC consists of my grandparents nine children, in addition to their spouses and their children. BOOKS could be written about TSC – suffice to say now that it’s a spirited family group which has swelled to about 30 laughing, crying, angry, generous, infuriating, funny, passionate people. With very few exceptions, the family hasn’t strayed far from the Denver metro area, and with very few exceptions, they are wonderful cooks. Historically the whole group has gathered for all the major holidays (Bronco play-off games count). But for my ENTIRE life, Christmas Eve has been the high point of celebration, tradition and belonging – not to mention eating and drinking. Our family priest, Father Banigan used to conduct a complete mass, including music and communion; one year, we had a nativity play, with three acts; of course Santa Claus ALWAYS came and ALL the grandchildren HAD to sit on Santa’s lap for a few pictures, and a bit of humiliation.

Margaret Sinopoli and the late Louis Sinopoli were the raison d’etre of these celebrations, and for Grandma to pass so soon before Christmas Eve this year amplifies the symbolic significants of her passing – for now their children will have to carry on without them. The decendants of Margaret and Louis have long ago become the household care-givers – but symbolically, we now look up to find the roof missing.

I will remember my Grandma for her clever sense of humor; for her lovely singing voice, and for her chuckling Irish accent which endured despite living more than 60 years in the United States. Although she is known by others as having a strong and sometimes firey personality, I’ll remember her best by her perpetual good nature – even when proclaiming “It’s bloody cold outside! When does it get warm?!”

Goodbye Grandma, I love you, and I’ll miss you.