But on the rare occasion she needed a man to step up to the plate—to play enforcer or to put the fear of God in someone, she had only to call upon Kenny D.

Everyone I knew in the projects was terrified of Kenny D. Think Paul Bunyan with dark skin and a look that said, “Don’t you mess with me!”

And yet, I wasn’t afraid of him. To me, he was like one oversized teddy bear that hadn’t been quite worn in. I knew that he was there to protect us, not cause harm. And I knew, that should my sister or I get out of line, he would be right there to put us back in our place.

He was a good friend to my mother. He didn’t abuse her, he didn’t take advantage of her, he didn’t threaten her kids to get what he wanted from her. He simply showed her compassion, kindness, and what it was like to feel respected. He also showed her love— the kind of love a brother would show a sister.

He knew that she was all alone in the projects. He knew that it was hard for her to admit that she needed help; especially from a male figure. And he knew that she had a stubborn streak about her that made it damn near impossible for anyone to win an argument with her . And yet, he found a way around all her defenses.

Though he moved away before we had a chance to move out of the projects, he never forgot her—or us. Every few years, he made a special trip to see my mom just so he could “really” see how she was doing, and get her to open up and share things only he could get her to talk about. And he always asked us if we were “being good”.

It’s been 20 years since I’ve moved out of my mother’s house, and 3 years since she passed away—and yet, Kenny D still manages to call me every couple of years just to ask if I am “being good”.

The conversations are never more than 20 minutes long, and he never provides much detail on what’s happening in his neck of the woods—but he always manages to get me to spill the beans about what’s happening in mine.

Two weeks ago, Kenny D., at the ripe young age of 79, called to ask “if I was being good”—and why the hell my sister and I aren’t talking! His voice is raspier this year, but his mind is as sharp as a tack, and his heart is still as big as the ocean is blue. He’s retiring, and moving back to his wife’s hometown—and with any luck, he’ll be able to stop by on his way through.

After I hung up the phone, I realized that yes, it had been a few years since I last heard his voice—and I realized that the call, this time, was not so much about “how I was doing” as it was about somehow staying connected to my mom.

He had known my mother for over thirty years. And though they lived far away and their phone calls grew less over time, they were still good friends. I can’t imagine the loss he must feel over losing someone who felt like his kid sister.

But I can say this much, it blesses my heart to know that my mother had a male friend like him—and that, in a subtle way, my sister and I got to see what a good, platonic, male/female relationship could be like.

And it blesses my heart to know that he still prays for me and my sister, and that we are still on his mind. I am grateful for his check-ups. I am grateful to hear his voice and to be reminded that not all things in the projects were bad—that some good came from that life, like Kenny D.

Give thanks…

Awhile back, I read about a couple of homebased businesswomen who felt so isolated in their worlds, that they found themselves far less productive than they could be. They missed chatting by the water cooler at work, they missed meeting up with co-workers at lunch to shoot the breeze, and they missed those dreaded business meetings—you know the kind…brainstorming new ideas, talking about what worked and what didn’t, and of course, planning for the next quarter.

Realizing that they needed stimulation that didn’t come from internet chat rooms, emails, and text messages, they set out to find someone local to hang out with. Unfortunately, they hit a roadblock.

Sure there were Toastmasters meetings once a week, women’s bible study groups every Tuesday, book clubs every Friday night, and even a local chamber of commerce meeting, but what they were looking for didn’t seem to exist. They longed for a deeper bond with an individual person who would allow them to be real and not have to put on a show of success, or be careful of what came out of their mouths, and they wanted the ability to balance talking shop and talking about home life.

Then one day, while chatting with each other, they realized that though they were miles away, they could still have that bond with each other—via the telephone. Sure, it wouldn’t be the same as when they lived next to each other and could meet up in person. But they realized that the distance between them didn’t have to be an end all to what was once a great, working relationship.

And so, they began weekly chats with each other on the phone, and those chats grew into daily chats. Soon, they realized that a time limit was needed on their chats, or they’d waste their entire days dreaming and concocting plans, and lifting each other up and get absolutely nothing done. That’s when they came up with the 30 minute rule.

Every day one would call the other, and they’d start their days with a 30 minute chat about whatever came to mind. When the timer went off, they’d finish their sentences, then say good-bye. Even if they wanted to chat longer, even if they still felt they had so much more to say, they’d hang up and save the rest of the chat for “tomorrow”. Slowly but surely, they felt less isolated, and their days became more productive—all because of a simple phone call.

A Photo Excursion © Alyice Edrich, 2010

The other day, as I was chatting with my friend, Tina, I realized that we were experiencing the same problems as these two women, and so I suggested that we give their idea a try.

Tina and I have known each other for nearly ten years. Ironically, we met in a women’s freelance writing group online. Then when I was ready to move out of state, she suggested we pack our bags and move out by her. Something about that decision just seemed right and so my family and I moved to Wisconsin where my husband returned to college full-time.

During our stay in Wisconsin, Tina and I weathered a bad marriage, the death of a family member, the ups and downs of running a homebased business, seasonal depression, the dreaded teenage years, and the awkwardness of learning to deal with someone who was just as “controlling” and “moody” and “stubborn” and “creative” and “caring” as the other.

Over the next three years, we learned, not always tactfully, when it was important to push the other person to move past her comfort zone, when it was necessary to “back off”, and how vitally important it was to have someone you could essentially go ballistic on and still know that the friendship would survive.

When it came time to move out of Wisconsin so that my husband could obtain work, I chose to leave while Tina was on a road trip with her husband—simply because leaving that friendship behind was probably one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life. And I knew I couldn’t do it if she were around.

We promised each other that we’d meet up every six months, but the economy took a turn for the worse and every six months became every few years.

There have been times when I worried that our friendship was drifting apart—we talked less and less on the phone as the years passed, and I found out things months after they happened instead of within hours or days. But somehow, our friendship has managed to survive.

Which brings me back to those two inspirational businesswomen. They sounded so much like Tina and I—what we had and what we’re missing—that I shared their story with her.

It was then that I discovered an ugly truth. Tina loved and missed our conversations, but because they lasted so long they took huge chunks out of her day, making her less productive. And so she’d put off chatting, until it was “convenient”—and we all know that there never really is a “convenient” time for the pleasures of life when so many deadlines are looming over our heads and we feel pulled in far too many directions.

So I suggested that we give this 30 minute phone call idea a try.

Sure, it’s not the same as meeting up for a cup of java at the local café, and it’s not the same as taking turns treating each other to lunch once a week, and it’s definitely not the same as dragging the other one out of the house kicking and screaming for a few hours of outdoor photo shoots, or bicycling along a rugged path, or taking a winter walk at the local indoor arena.

But it sure as hell had to be better than feeling so isolated and alone during the day.

To both our surprise, it worked! It actually made us more productive throughout the day—and in some small way, made us feel accountable to each other. It didn’t matter if we were only able to check off one thing on our “to do” list; if we accomplished just one thing and were in a more positive frame of mind doing it, then the phone call was worth it.

There’s just something about hearing the voice of another person in the morning, being able to just blow off steam or bounce off ideas or talk about absolutely nothing in particular and know that someone actually cares enough to listen, cares enough to make the time, that makes the day feel so much better.

So if you’re a work-at-home parent, and you’ve found your energy levels dwindling—and that once a week meeting outside the home isn’t enough, or those client visits aren’t the right kind of stimulation, then maybe it’s time for you, too—to find a phone call buddy.

Give thanks…

When I was a little girl, my mother and I would watch the parade together. It was the one time of year I truly felt a bond with her; it was the one time of year that was just about “me and her”. She’d wake up early to make a New Year’s Day meal which often consisted of red kidney beans and hammock with corn bread, and I’d sit in front of the television anxiously awaiting the start of the parade.

Mom Decorating King Kong Float © Alyice Edrich, 1986

Since my mom worked for American Honda, at the time, she’d build up the excitement by having me keep an eye out for their float. She’d tell me what she learned about the float, and what to expect. During the parade, we’d talk about what we liked best about each float, and whether or not we liked last year’s float better; then we’d do our own voting on which float we thought was the best and why we’d rate it the best.

After the parade ended, we’d head over to Roz’s house (her best friend at the time) for homemade collard greens, black-eyed peas, and pork. Black-eyed peas were a tradition in Roz’s house as they were said to bring prosperity and good luck into the New Year. What I loved about going to Roz’s house, was the camaraderie amongst friends—her home was always filled with conversation, laughter, and good food.

When we moved out of the projects, we continued the tradition of watching the parade together, and sharing a meal of beans and cornbread, though we never got into cooking collard greens and black-eyed peas as my mom wasn’t fond of the fowl smell that often came from cooking collard greens.

Me Decorating King Kong Float © Alyice Edrich, 1986

Fast forward a few years. Married, with a family of my own, I was excited to carry over the tradition. Unfortunately, my husband and children just never “got it”. They’d rather sleep in than watch a bunch of “boring flower covered floats” with “lame announcers trying to make lame jokes”. And though you can now buy yummy collard greens in a can—without the smell—they’ve never been fond of collard greens or black-eyed peas. In fact, I’m lucky I can get them to watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve celebration—which my daughter enjoys due to all the entertainment.

That being said, we found a compromise. New Year’s Eve is about staying home, playing board games, and bringing in the New Year as a family—with Dick Clark on the sideline. New Year’s Day is about letting the kids sleep in while I watch the parade, then letting hubby watch a bit of football before we all head out to the local theatre to watch one of the year’s newest films. And if I’m lucky, we get in a few card games, like Pinochle, Poker, and Solitaire Frenzy.

It’s sad that they don’t like the parade. It’s not as fun watching it alone, and though mom and I tried to watch the parade together, via the phone, it just wasn’t the same. Still, I can’t “not watch” the parade. It’s a tradition—even if I have to do it alone. And while some of the magic has disappeared since I was a child, I still get a kick out of seeing what they come up with year after year.

Did you know that the first Tournament of Roses Parade took place in 1890, along a 5.5 mile stretch on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena, California, with horse drawn carriages covered with flowers? It still amazes me that the first float started out without any computerized gimmicks, just a love of flowers. Or that the parade has continued to grow and prosper all these years and is now over 100 years old.

Today the parade includes marching bands from around the globe, equestrians, and spectacular computerized/mechanical floats covered in exotic natural materials. The festivities include a pre-parade equestrian showcase, a post-season college football game, a one-day post-parade viewing of the floats, and the official judging of the floats. Each float is judged on creativity, computerized animation, thematic interpretation, dramatic impact, and floral craftsmanship and every inch of the float must be covered with all-natural material— bark, flowers, nuts, plants, seaweed, vegetables, etc.

Though I was lucky enough to go behind the scenes one year and put a few flowers on a float, I’ve never actually seen the parade in person. One year, I’d like to do that. But for now, I’m quite content with watching it on the television, in the warmth of my own home, surrounded by those who matter most.

What are your family traditions?

Give thanks…

P.S.

May this year bring you contentment, joy, happiness, good health, and yes, prosperity.