We Remember Moments...

How many of those special little moments of your life can you recall? I'm not talking about something big like our recent trip to Italy. I'm talking about something that seemed so small at the time that it might not even be worth remembering. But that moment in time lives forever in your memory.

Some small little moments in my life...

The time a sweet nun offered me a quarter to spend at the school carnival.

"Ode" Perry sitting in his old easy chair, singing hymns while my little sister sat in his lap.

Burning popcycle papers in a hole in our concrete steps on Rural Street in Indy.

Me telling my dear Grandpa Cissell "Don't put pepper on my leg" while he fried chicken on the front porch of his house.


I witnessed such a moment when my two new granddaughters had their nails (fingers and toes) painted a beautiful, bright red. The "nail artists" were my sister and my niece. Both of the little girls loved the experience. They both sat very quietly and patiently while their nails were being done. And they did a pretty good job letting the nails dry too.

We were just finishing up a big weekend. My "adopted" son from India was visiting, and he wanted to have a big get-together to celebrate my daughter's birthday and to welcome the new nieces he now had. The girls met cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and neighbors. And they loved everyone they met. They now have a pretty good-sized family, and took it all in stride. You would've thought they'd known us all of their lives.

I'm not sure what actually started the nail-painting spree, but that's exactly how treasured memories are born--something simple, something not planned. Capturing the moment digitally is nice, but unnecessary for those that were there. You can't capture the smell of the polish, the tickle of the toes, or the feel of the soft little fingers in your hand. But who knows...sometime many years from now, just the smell of nail polish might bring this sweet memory back to life for these girls.

So don't be surprised when some tiny little hint brings back a treasured memory, or looking into the beautiful blue eyes of a teasing four-year-old reminds you of your father's blue eyes.

Again, welcome to the family girls. All of us have been waiting for you for a very long time. Thanks for bringing your sweet sunshine with you.

We love you very much.

Grandma and Grandpa

Running Bear

On the bank of the river
Stood Running Bear
Young Indian brave
On the other side of the river
Stood his lovely Indian maid
Little White Dove was her name
Such a lovely sight to see
But their tribes fought with each other
So their love could never be

Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love big as the sky
Running Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love that couldn't die

Every time I run across this photo, I'm transported to North Rural Street in Indianapolis around 1960. That's when Johnny Preston had the hit song "Running Bear". When that song was playing, not only us kids acted like "Indians"...so did our neighbor Ginny and my mom. The photo shows Ginny sporting her son's Indian headdress and some warpaint--which was probably makeup. I think she's shooting a make-believe bow. My mom's on the left.

We played that song all afternoon, with kids and moms whooping and dancing like we were possessed by Geronimo. Based on the beer bottle in the photo, I think Ginny and Mom had a little "persuasion" for their warrior bravery. The last photo confirms my feeling that we had a record with this song on it. I don't know how the record kept from skipping with five kids and two adults stomping around the room.

Of course, this happened before Pong, Nintendo, Atari, and now Wii were invented. My favorite toy was my Etch-a-Sketch. That's about as advanced as civilization was in the late 50s/early 60s, but maybe we were better off. We used our imaginations and didn't rely on the imaginations of computer game programmers and analysts. We didn't spend hours staring at a screen, only exercising our thumbs.

Isn't it funny how something as simple as our little war dance made a memory that has lasted almost 50 years? You have no way of knowing what will make a memory for your children. Try to make them all good memories.

Christmas Memories

The Riley kids had a wonderful Christmas every year. On Christmas morning, our tree would overflow with baby dolls, toy guns, and sparkley paint sets. We’d rip those packages open like little madmen. Santa somehow always managed to make it to the poorer side of town to bring us those toys. We have nothing but great memories of those Christmases.

Recently an email from my nephew Pat sparked a long-forgotten memory when he told me he appreciated the money we gave him for installing a couple of ceiling fans for us. He said it would help them make a nice Christmas for his three girls. I thought about how that was just like Pat…to do some odd jobs to make extra money for Christmas presents. As I read Pat’s email, the memory hit me out of nowhere.

We were in the car with Mom traveling somewhere through the middle of Indianapolis, probably in the late 1950s. It was dark and it was cold. We passed by some dimly-lit building. Mom told us that place was the post office and our dad was there working. By day, Dad was a mechanic at the downtown Sears location. But during Christmas season, he would take a second job at night working at the post office lugging mail and packages. I don’t know how many years he did that, but I know there was at least one.

Being just a little kid that believed in Santa, I didn’t realize that Dad worked that second job to make money to give his kids a good Christmas. In 1931, Dad was a Christmas Day addition to an already-large family. With over a dozen kids, money was tight. Dad once told us every year he would open up his Christmas present, which was always a pair of pants. Then he was told that the pants were also his birthday present. I think it broke his heart every year. My grandparents did the best they could, but just one present for each kid was a burden—even if the present was something practical like a pair of pants.

Somewhere along the way, Dad and Mom decided their kids would have much better Christmases than they had. I’m sure Dad was dead-tired after being on his feet all day long, but then he would go to his temporary Christmas job at the post office. It had to be exhausting, but I bet he thought it was worth it on Christmas morning.

That sudden memory was followed by tears. I’ll never stop missing my dad. But mostly the tears were for a little boy that never received a toy, but always got a pair of pants as a combined Christmas/birthday present. And they were tears of sadness. I wish this memory had come along when Dad was alive. I would’ve thanked him for his efforts to make sure our Christmas trees were never bare. I know Mom did the scrimping, saving, and shopping, and we owe her our thanks for everything she did as well. (Thanks, Mom!)

The Christmas I was a sophomore in high school, it finally hit me how much Mom and Dad did for us every Christmas. I had just opened my three presents…a set of hot curlers, a makeup mirror, and I can’t even remember the third gift, but I know it was something “girlie”. Like every 15-year-old girl, I had wanted those three things so badly, but how did they know? And how did they afford all those gifts for me and my brothers and sister? I broke into tears right about the time Mom snapped a photo of me. I finally realized how much our parents sacrificed for us.

The “memory” above shows my dad playing with a race set. I assume “Grandma and Grandpa Riley” had bought it for my son Brian since he was the only grandson at that time. Every Christmas Dad would eventually make his way over to the race set, or the electric train—whatever my brothers got that year. He’d sit and play for a long time. There was still a little boy inside that grandpa, and at Christmas, he would change into that little boy long enough to play with toys.

I thought it was important to share this memory with you. More than likely, Mike and Mark were too young to remember, and Rita was just a twinkle in my father’s eye. But I can play that post office memory in my head like it was yesterday. It’s been hidden for many years, but I doubt I’ll ever tuck it away in the cobwebs of my mind again. Thank you, Pat, for that one little statement that woke up this memory.

I know Dad is always with us in spirit during Christmas to celebrate the birth of Jesus and the birth of a baby boy in Newton Stewart. Bless all of you, and I hope this message causes you to think back to a special Christmas when you were just a kid.

Merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.