MoMaher tears and stretchy pants

My mother and father in law came by early to celebrate Christmas last weekend. In true Italian style, we abandoned ourselves to drinking wine and eating Mama Anna's pizza and antipasto. My MoMaher cried her eyes out seven times, which is lucky I guess because she was so chock full of love recalling the events of the past year; the visits to and from Italy, the times spent here with the Italian cousins in October, I guess it's OK to be a maudlin at Christmas. She does that a lot. I call it the MoMaher kind of cry.

I was a little maudlin too. Not the bad kind of maudlin but the good type, because it's this time of year where J.D. and I reflect on the past year and see where the joys and sorrows have taken us. It's always a journey and in it, we usually bear the marks of the year in different ways. Sometimes, we're a little more fit, sometimes we're a little more plump. This year, we're a little more lean, but not much because I made peppermint bark and fudge for Christmas and the prime rib was really good! However, there was those six months of walking that helped a lot. The good times can best be categorized as the good jeans months and the bad can be left to stretchy pants.

What really got to me this Christmas was seeing Dad walk into my house with his walker and short leg braces. He walked all the way from the car into my house and just to see him vertical.....it was a thing of beauty...it was a gift for Christmas. Then when he lifted his arms from the walker like a little kid letting go for the first time :"look ma, no hands!" Well, it doesn't get any better than that. When he toasted mom and all the family for seeing him through his health crisis last year...we all had a MoMaher moment. He's a different person now, as we all are. We've learned to appreciate each other on such a deeper level.

J.D. & I have two married friends who've been married as long as we have. He's a teacher and she's an artist. They are two of the most wonderful people, giving in every way imaginable, who have suffered the heartbreak of never being able to have children. Their hearts have longed so much for a child and after several years of waiting, the adoption route seemed to be drying up for them. On St. Nicholas Day, their son was born and delivered into their arms just a few days before Christmas. In that respect, the world seemed to finally smile on them and of course, they are over the moon with joy...that really made me cry this Christmas...not the bad of kind of cry, but the MoMaher kind of cry...

When my Aunt Carol died this last year, there was a part of her that left me forever, but her spirit seemed to arrive this Christmas in a package from her sister, my Aunt Mary and my favorite cousin, Jeanne. It was a Christmas care package of love with little gifts that had big meanings. They brought a few MoMaher tears to my eyes because I realized Aunt Carol bonded us all closer together as a family.

As for 2007, that's up to God. He will be there, despite the joys and the sorrows; and this time next year we look back at the year with the same wonder and awe at what has changed about us and those we love. My sister is getting married...that'll be cause for MoMaher kind of tears. We will bear the marks of the year because things happen; it's inevitable. There will be more changes and more MoMaher kind of tears on the horizon. It's OK though. I have my family with me and stetchy pants.

O Holy Night!

December 14, 2006

Christmas…In the early dawn after Christ’s Birth the three chief shepherds came from their hill to the Cave of the Nativity with their presents, which they had gathered beforehand (could it have been the brightness in the sky that led them to this place?) What about the star. It was a sign, greater than they had seen in the sky on any other night. They were accustomed to watching their flocks by night. Their vision was never so clear. This night was like no other. It was a sacred night.

These presents were little animals not unlike tiny roe deer. If they were kids, those in that country look very different from ours here at home. They had long necks, very clear beautiful eyes, and were very swift and graceful. The shepherds also had strings of dead birds hanging over their shoulders and they carried live birds under their arms. When they knocked shyly at the door at the cave (whatever that was made of, a rock, stone or board) St. Joseph came towards them with a friendly greeting. They told him what the angel had announced to them that night, and how they were come to worship the Child of the Promise and to present their poor gifts to him. Joseph took their gifts with humble gratitude, and made them take the animals into the little chamber (the entrance of which is by the southern door of the cave). Then he accompanied them into the cave itself and led the three shepherds up to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was sitting on the coverlet on the ground by the Crib, holding the Infant Jesus before her on her lap. The shepherds, holding their staffs in their hands, threw themselves humbly on their knees before Jesus, weeping for joy. They had remained a long time speechless with happiness and then began to sing the angel’s hymn of praise which they had heard in the night, and as they prayed and sang the psalms of joy, they felt an inner peace they had not known before. When they got up to take their leave, the Virgin put the little Jesus into their arms one after the other. They gave Him back to her with tears and left the cave forever changed by this night, this place, their experience and the touch of the baby’s skin against their hearts, His Heart only beating on earth for less than 12 hours touched theirs inexplicably.

What they came away with was a Gift greater than the small gifts they bore, however the most acceptable gift they presented was their faith. In that holy place, on this Holy Night, they bore their faith and laid it at His tiny feet. It was the most acceptable gift and as they laid their hearts bare, He blessed them and changed them in an instant and though their visit was brief, His impression on them was eternal.

May the Infant bless you and your family this Christmas and may the humble joy of the Holy Night remain with you throughout the New Year. Merry Christmas!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

If He Did It... and Oops, She Did It Again!

O.J.’s book deal went down in a ball of flames last week. Hats off to the hoards of people who hounded the network and publisher. Obviously both came to their collective senses in nixing the O.J. interview and book deal. Do I detect a smidge of decency in a sea of sewage and waste? Since we already know that he allegedly “did it”, many people , including the families of the victims, were highly offended at his narcissistic approach to capitalizing once again upon the savage murders of his ex-wife, Nicole Brown and bystander, Ronald Goldman. It’s a wonder the man can look himself in the mirror everyday with thoughts like these running through his ego maniacal and monumentally sociopathic brain. It makes me wonder what little regard he has for his own children; to peddle such useless garbage on the American public. It would be best if he kept those thoughts to himself.
Never to be told no, we can expect the usual from O.J., who will likely find another publisher. With money getting tight, he desperately needs to keep up his membership at the country club, where the search for the real killer continues. This man is definitely a national embarrassment.

Oops, she did it again. Does anyone give a rat’s phooey about Britney Spears, other than People Magazine? The little spoiled brat marries a do nothing like Kevin Federline, makes babies with him and decides she’s had enough already. So what are we supposed to do? She did it again and how many more times will this stupid little girl make the same mistake? Feel free to set your watches by the next nuptial fiasco of Britzhername.
What is amazing to me are the hoards of people who worship at the altar of Britney Spears.. Whatever. I’m sure. I’m like really irritated. These are two people who have no sense of shame so they would probably be thrilled to find their dirty laundry once again strewn across the yard of this magazine or that late night talk show.

Apparently the plague of our culture is a failure to set ourselves aside for anything or anyone. We’ve lost a sense of sacrifice. Why were my parents and grandparents able to make sacrifices and yet there are kids today who will stand outside Wal-Mart and Target for three days waiting for the PlayStation 3 to be released. Tents and sleeping-bags on the pavement for PS 3’s? Are you kidding me? How many employers lost their employees to the sick days they took for the PlayStations?

I am taking a sociology class right now and I’ve learned a lot about what is socially acceptable today versus what was socially acceptable when I was 19 years old and in college. Pretty much everything is socially acceptable, in case you were wondering. Not much is off limits anymore. We’ve pretty much accepted every little thing as a fundamental right, even a fundamental right to be wrong, stupid, careless and criminal. Right and wrong, good and bad…these are only a matter of perception. When our perspective changes, then we can change our minds, call in sick, write a book, sell our story, sell out, sell up and move on. The whole concept of sacrifice is completely lost on today’s cultural elite. The relativistic approach to life is a matter of what one values or simply doesn’t value at all. Marriage, divorce, murder, life, the right to die, free speech when the speech is politically correct, race cards, and the right to the very first PlayStation 3 darnitall anyway.

I’m waxing skeptical here folks, but the whole idea behind the “I and the Me” being fundamentally first are what plagues us more than terrorism right now. It’s the Almighty Me that put forth the O.J.’s and the Scott Peterson’s of the world onto the center stage of national debate and media sensationalism. The fact that he’s short on cash and sitting high on his pedestal is the driving force behind his “tell-all” story, “if he did it”.

O.J. write a book? Britney’s marital woes? I’d rather buy myself a nice root canal. So he did it, and she did it again. They’re made for each other and as the song goes, “they’re not that innocent.”
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Photos: Googleimages.com

Truly thankful

I want to be a rebel this Thanksgiving. What does that mean? I don’t know. There are just some years where I’m sick of turkey. I’m not much for ham either. What’s wrong with me? I usually love the whole turkey, stuffing, cranberry, potato, and gravy thing….I like it when it gets all mixed up. Not this year. I’m thinking seafood this year. I’m thinking the Italians got to me. They always do that.

J.D.’s Italian cousins visited from Como in October and you would know they were here because of several evidentiary points. 1. We went through approximately 2.5 liters of olive oil, 2. We drank approximately one case of wine, 3. Two blocks of parmesan are missing from the refrigerator, 4. Several jars of antipasto are missing, 5. The grappa bottle is almost empty and 6. There are wine corks with toothpicks everywhere in this house and the card decks are missing a few face cards.


I know none of this makes any sense to non-Italians, but those of you with two milliliters of northern Italian red corpuscles running through your veins know exactly what I’m talking about. Many of you know I claim this heritage by contamination only, but when it comes to cooking, drinking and celebrating, I’d go Italian every time. When the cousins left, my kids were in tears, my broken English sounded horrible and my broken Italian worse. If someone actually recorded the way we all talked while they were here, it could be a sitcom. Golly, it was fun.

Piero returned to visit with his son Mauro and daughter-in-law Sara. Mauro and Sara had never been to the U.S. before so it was their inaugural visit. MoMaher had a reunion festa to end all festas and even the Irish relatives became Italian for a day. J.D’s brothers flew in from Utah and Washington and the cousins were together again. The bittersweet moment for me was in greeting Piero again for the first time since his wife Guiliana passed away in 2004. I cannot describe in words what that wonderful woman meant to me, so I will leave it at that. She was here in spirit because I felt her the whole time they were here.

J.D. pulled out the old pictures and videos from the last time they were in California in 1998. It was the first trek for Piero’s family to the United States and like their pilgrim cousins who immigrated here in the early 20’s; they made the journey with the faith that something exciting was on the other side. American cousins came out of the woodwork for that reunion, including Lenny and Ronny with their accordions and the music was fantastic. I looked back on that time as such a great family memory. I’ve never seen my mother in law look so youthful and happy, while the rest of us slowly succumbed to the inevitability that we were all truly Italian. It was the start of a decade of travel exchanges to and from Italy with MoMaher and her sons. It took almost 80 years, but hey, who’s counting. Nonno Giuseppe is smiling from heaven.

I know I won’t be able to talk my parents into eating fish this year for Thanksgiving, so as we sit down to our traditional Thanksgiving meal, I am reminded of why I am truly thankful. I want to thank the readers of this newspaper for the time you took over the last year to express your encouragement and prayers for my Dad’s recovery. I am happy to report that Pop is getting close to not needing his wheelchair as much, and he emphatically plans to walk my sister down the aisle next May for her wedding, even if it’s with his walker. He is truly a survivor. I expect miracles, perhaps a golf game in ‘07 because God has been so good and gracious to us. These are the rare priceless times of life to be truly thankful; and I am most thankful for my irreplaceable family.

In that vein, enjoy your Thanksgiving with friends and family, eat whatever you want e rendiamo grazie a Dio.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Would you want to know?

Does it make you uneasy to consider the possibility that in California today, your daughter could be removed from school by a “counselor” you’ve never met, who has secured financial arrangements on her behalf, to procure a surgery you do not “know” about? Would you want to know?
That is the fundamental question facing voters next week when confronting Proposition 85, otherwise known as the “parental notification” proposition. The subject of this proposition deals with fundamental legal issues involving the protection of minor girls, not a woman’s right to choose an abortion. Don’t be fooled. Proposition 85 involves minor children, not legally adult women seeking a legal abortion. Opponents of the proposition stand to lose a lot of tax money if it passes, so their “business” is at stake. What is being requested in this legislation is a law to ensure that a parent of a young girl possesses a legal right to know when surgery is being performed on her and/or whether abortive medications have been administered to her. Before you vote on Tuesday, I would urge you to consider a single question. Would you want to know?

If passed, nothing changes, except maybe the amount of cash pocketed by abortion mills. A parent could technically get notified and consent to an abortion for their child. Nothing is changing as far as “abortion rights” for children. If a minor in an abusive home is seeking remedy from parental notification, there are waivers which are afforded to these minors by the courts within this proposition. The opponents of the proposition don’t want you to know that. They’ve launched a costly campaign to defeat your right to know on Nov. 7 because they stand to lose money. For children in an abusive environment, three protections within the proposition are in place. First, if the court determines that a child’s parents would abuse her, the court will order an abortion without parental notification. Secondly, if the court determines that a minor girl is mature enough to give informed consent, the state will waive notification. Lastly, if there is a medical emergency, the abortion can be performed immediately. There are no loop holes here, just a law that would make it a requirement for abortion providers to notify you when your minor child is seeking an abortion. Would you want to know?

What does it mean for you to know that most abortions performed on minors are paid for by the state or other adults not legally responsible for the health and well-being of your child? What opponents don’t want you to know is even more disturbing. Technically speaking, child abuse and statutory rape can occur in cases where abortions are secretly performed on minors and parents are the last to know because the abortion provider is not legally required to notify a minor’s parent. Planned Parenthood claims to be fully compliant with mandatory reporting of child abuse crimes, but one need only to listen to the tape-recorded telephone conversations which are available on the web at www.yeson85.net between their clinics and a “13 year old girl” to understand how little protection is in place for a child in this situation. If you’re not disturbed, then something is wrong with you.

Post operative complications from performing abortions on young girls include infections, infertility and in some cases, death. The child suffers the consequences of a decision made in fear, and the parent is unable to help because they have not been notified. Opponents vehemently want the status quo because of money and the politics over legal abortion.

Let’s suppose you work full-time with two daughters attending the local middle and high schools. Tomorrow one of them will be taken by someone you’ve never met to an abortion center for surgery. Pre-operative pelvic examinations and lab tests are done on her, IV’s are started, general or local anesthesia is administered to her, invasive gynecological surgery takes place and then it’s over. Your daughter is transported to and from school to this facility and discharged with little if any post operative care because all of this happened in a single afternoon. What if she developed an infection? Would she have the presence of mind with a high fever to know that she needed to be in the hospital because of a terrible post op infection? How many girls neglect their health because of “their secret”? Who loves your child more than you do; a school counselor, a school nurse, or the abortion provider who sees her one time? The abortion center stands to gain between $300- $400 for surgery funded entirely by your tax dollars and mine. What do they stand to lose from not notifying you? That’s the real question.

My daughter was hospitalized last year after two knee surgeries with unexpected complications from secondary health issues, including the surgery. It wasn’t even a question of our participation in her care; it was expected. Her father and I were her primary advocates. Why are we excluded in a crisis pregnancy? Follow the politics, follow the money. At least 30 states in the United States have “notification” laws in place to protect minors. Why is California among the last to adopt these protections? It’s because the largest percentage of abortions performed on minors are performed in New York and California and abortion providers are the strongest lobby against your right to know.

In a state that has laws prohibiting minors from taking aspirin at school without parental oversight, we are still not allowed to know when that same child seeks a surgical procedure that could affect her health physically and emotionally for the rest of her life.

Prop 85 is not about consent. Your “Yes” vote is about your right to raise your own child. Read through the rhetoric and make an informed decision next week. Would you want to know?

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

So you wanna marry my sister?

Published October 19, 2006


Michael- I heard through the grapevine that you want to marry my sister. There are a few things that I think you need to know before you ask her. Not that you asked me, but hey, you know this family, we have our noses in everything.

Tricia came into the world not waiting for anyone to deliver her. She wasn’t waiting for our mother, and she wasn’t waiting for any doctor, no, not her. She arrived on her own terms and made quite the entrance. So expect a lot of drama and adventure in your marriage. Not the bad kind, but the spontaneous kind. For instance…”Honey, I booked us this nice little adventure in the outback and we’re leaving tomorrow morning”, or “Merry Christmas, we are all going hiking in Tibet!” I know there is some crazy Southern European blood coursing through her veins, which is probably why she ended up with the mysterious brown eyes and great hair, so you have one wild woman on your hands, but let me tell you something, she’s all heart. If she loves you, it’ll be forever. So guard that heart with your life. We know where you live.

Some pointers, not that you need them… but make sure you take the lead in this relationship. You’ll want to be romantic because she is very romantic. Her happiness is in being with you and making a life with you. Be thoughtful because she is very thoughtful. Take care of her, because she cares so much for you. One of the things I most admire about you is that you have put God first in your relationship with my sister. That will sustain you both through the years as you build your life together. So in that regard, you are out of the ballpark. Good job.

It might be none of my bees wax, but when you ask her to marry you, be sentimental about it. She’ll love it, plus it garners all kinds of extra points with us. You see Michael, when you make our sister happy, you make the whole family happy…I’m not trying to go all Corleoni on you, but we’re watching you. Make that marriage proposal worth talking about at Christmas, because we’re all tired of talking about the Europe trip of ’83.

For the record, when you marry my sister, we’re family…blood and guts…until the end, which means that if we show up at the delivery room with the video camera and pizza, don’t be too offended. We’re pretty loud and we like a good party. We’re usually around for holidays, baptisms, weddings and funerals. We’re pretty good about potlucks, and we’re big on dessert. When it comes to the valleys of life, we’ll worry about you if you get sick and one or more of us will be on the internet trying to figure out the best course of treatment for you. If something really bad happens, we’re usually on our knees praying, and don’t be too alarmed as we tend to cry.

As you probably already know, my sister is eclectic. She loves nostalgia, old music, great coffee, fine wines, lazy days, good books, being in, near or close to the water, new projects, and shopping (ugh….sorry). She has great taste, great ideas, and a twisted sense of humor. She can be very opinionated. She’ll contribute more than she expects from your relationship, so try to keep up with her. She tends to pour herself out, so remember to fill her up frequently by stopping at Starbucks.

Most importantly, my sister loves you and your girls more than life itself. One thing I’ve learned about the women in my family through the years is that we don’t go down without a fight and we’d pretty much throw ourselves in front of a train if we knew it would save the family, so in case you were wondering, there’s no divorce in the family dictionary, just death. Finders-keepers buddy.

She’ll stand by you for your whole life, she’ll fill your house with joy and laughter and then she’ll redecorate. Be prepared for adventures in fine dining and weird films. She’ll make sure your children are well rounded in their education because she values education as much as she values family. She’ll grow with you in faith and as you grow old together, you will grow deeper in love because like you, she appreciates what she has found and she will treasure your marriage and your family.

Lastly, if you eat her ice cream or her chocolate, be very contrite or beware. Ok, Michael, now that know all of this, yes, you can marry my sister.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at www.familyfare.blogspot.com

Aunt Carol, the Proverbs 31:10 Woman

Published October 5, 2006
Aunt Carol, a Proverbs 31:10 woman

(Who shall find a valiant woman? Far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her). That woman was 62 years young, born in Hatfield, PA, raised in Bloomfield, New Jersey and lived her life in the Jersey Shore area of Manasquan and Wall Township. The testament to her life are her three sons and daughters-in law, three grandchildren and loving husband of 42 years, all whom adored her, the valiant woman, whom I called Aunt Carol. She was so easy to love because she loved greatly. She was the proverbial, Proverbs 31:10 woman.

My Aunt, Carol Ann Megill, passed away September 10. It came as a complete surprise to me because she preferred to keep her suffering private. Over the last year, while going through chemotherapy for an aggressive form of cancer that had metastasized to her liver, she continued to work at her grandsons’ preschool; a job she held for the last 16 years. She started a weekly correspondence with me by email, giving me family updates about the pending wedding of her youngest son, Tom and his bride Natali. These weekly emails included news about the grandkids and always asking after us, how we were doing; never hinting at her health crisis. In a bittersweet twist of fate that only God understands, Aunt Carol left the world six days before the wedding. She was so happy for them. Every reminder of her on the day of the wedding brought tears to my eyes.

(The heart of her husband trusteth in her; and he shall have no need of spoils). Aunt Carol looked after Uncle Earl with a warm home, loving smile and good cooking. She loved broadly and deeply. When it came to her life, it could not be measured by its length, but the width of her love to her family and friends. She completely poured herself out to others, taking care of her own family and her mother who passed away in January 2005. When over 400 people showed up to the funeral, coming out from all layers of her life, one only had to notice what an impact she made on others. I’ve seen Aunt Carol twice in the last three years, once in 2004 and then in 2005 when I returned for my grandmother’s funeral. I noticed that my Aunt, a beautiful woman, became even more beautiful over the last two years of her life. Cancer may have robbed her of her life, but the beauty of her soul manifested completely in her physical appearance. She was truly a beautiful soul. As she became more incapacitated, she armored herself for a battle to win, mostly to make it to Tom’s wedding, but also to watch her grandchildren grow up. My uncle says she never uttered a single complaint. She worked every day, helped plan the wedding and then developed a sudden and severe blood infection, which ultimately cost her life September 10.

(Strength and beauty are her clothing and she shall laugh in the latter day. She hath opened her mouth to wisdom and the law of clemency is on her tongue). One of the things I most loved about Aunt Carol was her ability to forgive the faults of others, see only the good in most people, and leave them where they were at, without judgment or harshly reproach. When she smiled, her eyes smiled too. Her home was always open to friends and family. One only needs to know my cousins, Doug, Dan and Tom, to know what an incredible mother she was to her sons. My cousins married loving women, obviously based on the loving example of marriage they had in their parents, a compliment to the love they received from their mother. Her daughters in law were her daughters and they were loved by a mother, not a mother-in-law.

The greatest love of her life was her only love. My Uncle Earl held up his entire family the week of the funeral and the wedding, just the way his wife would have wanted him to. He managed to be a gracious host, a wonderful father, Pop-Pop, uncle, brother-in-law and friend to all who came to the wedding. Seeing him kiss her goodbye the day of the viewing broke my heart. I never could imagine one of them without the other. They brought out the best in each other.

(Her children rose up, and called her blessed: her husband, and he praised her). Saying goodbye to Aunt Carol is still something I am getting used to. I will miss her emails, her voice on the telephone, her cards at Christmas and birthdays, and her smile…that is something I hope I’ve inherited from her. I hope I can carry her spirit with me for the rest of my life. (Give her of the fruit of her hands: and let her works praise her in the gates.) The hole Aunt Carol has left in the world is huge since God has taken her back to Himself. I’ll never forget her.

Her last words before saying goodbye were always, “I love you”. Aunt Carol, I love you too.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

Lost in translation

Published 9-21-06

Learning a second language requires a certain amount of discipline to be successful. My daughter likes her Spanish teacher. She had two years of Latin before starting 9th grade and finds Spanish much more enjoyable than doing the declensions that weighed down her studies with Latin. I guess I don’t blame her. There’s not much opportunity to converse in Latin, unless she’s talking to God at Mass on Sunday. What makes the Latin so helpful is that it is a root language and all the other romance languages spring forth from it. To hear is to listen. I can’t do either, which is why I only speak English. My Spanish would translate something like this, “Paco and Maria have a house on their birthday and it’s blue. Paco lives in a refrigerator. They are very happy.”

How to immerse Shannon in Spanish? She has some tapes, but then there’s always television. JD and I talked about the Spanish language television stations and agreed that the soap operas are a little too racy; thus she’d get more than just a language education from watching Spanish television. Overall, the fluidity with Spanish makes it one of the most enjoyable languages to speak and listen to. Sometimes I’ll click through the sports that are in Spanish and I’m mesmerized by the energy of the Spanish announcers; kind of like Marv Albert on 10 shots of espresso.

A prime example of being lost in translation is the year 1978, when Mom and Dad took us on one of those cross country RV trips that I always talk about. Dad met this German man in the campground at the Grand Canyon. Being polite, Dad extended a visit to the German man, should he ever “hypothetically” make it to California. We weren’t home two weeks when a knock came at the door. “Gunther” stayed on the couch at our house for three days. Dad’s two years of German from his days in the Army failed him miserably, and we had no ability to converse with our unexpected guest. My best friend next door was in a high school German class and he came over to translate for us. The first night went something like this: “When is your birthday?” “Can I borrow a pencil?”, and the really engaging conversation ice breaker, “What is your Mother’s name?” These three questions filled up about two minutes of the entire three days he lived with us, and for the next two days we stared at each other until he left. What a great memory. Dad never used his two years of German again.

Some other things just get lost in translation when the music is really loud. I was working at this pizza joint in San Francisco, while I was in college. The music was turned up a little, when I tried to take a customer’s order. It went something like this:

Me: “Hi, welcome to the Front Room. What can I get for you?”
Customer: “Do you have pickled herring?
What I heard: “Do you have difficult hearing?”
Me: “Ugh… sometimes…..”
Customer: “Do you have some now?”
Me: “I hope not!” “Can you speak up?”
Customer: “Huh?”
Me: “What?”

I hope Shannon masters her studies of Spanish. I look forward to her thoughtful and engaging conversations with my buddies at La Fiesta Taqueria in Folsom. Last time I tried it on one of the fellows there during the lunch rush, he thought I was taking an exercise class. Maybe I looked like I needed one. There’s a lot lost in translation.

Learning good Spanish will open all kinds of doors, plus it’s the next best step to learning Italian and of course she will need immersion to master Italian. That would mean bi-annual trips to Italy, visiting the relatives and seeing the countryside. She might need a chaperone to take her there. I will certainly volunteer to go. The sacrifices we parents make for the sake of our children. I’ll be sure to bring along my hearing aid.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

So long American Idols

Published September 7, 2006

If you didn’t watch American Idol last season, forgive me for this little pop culture digression. We watched the television show last season and became hooked after the first episode of auditions, primarily because two girls from Sacramento were featured as contestants. As a family, it was one of the only shows we looked forward to every week. I must be losing my mind to admit this in print. On top of planting ourselves in front of the television to watch it last season, we forked over an enormous amount of money to see the American Idol Tour at Arco Arena last week. We had so much fun with the kids. I didn’t have to worry about foul language, drugs or booze. My daughter, Shannon, had a homemade,” We Love Taylor” sign that one of her friends made for her, which was really sweet. These family friends went with us to the concert, and they, of course, were witness to my bizarre over-40 dance techniques. Our son Conor danced through the whole concert. He loved Chris Daughtry. I guess we all did. Aw shucks.

Our youngest, Birdy does a pretty awesome impersonation of Ace Young singing “We Will Rock You”. It’s hilarious. Birdy is 9 years old. So you can see we are not talking about serious culture here. As an old broad, I quickly became a Taylor Hicks fan last season. His entrance at Arco was hysterical. He came out from under one of the upper bleachers and danced his little “Taylor dance” all the way to the stage singing the Doobie Brothers song “Takin’ it to the Streets”. The crowd was on their feet right along with him. Yeah, me too. What a geek.

Most memorable was Mandisa, opening the show in her hometown, telling the crowd that it wasn’t too long ago when she sat in the upper deck of Arco Arena watching Janet Jackson belt out her favorite songs. Mandisa’s voice, large and soulful, commanded the stage with her rendition of “I’m Every Woman”. It was far better to see her perform in person than on television. She mentioned that her mother was in the audience. I wondered what she was thinking seeing her daughter perform in front of a sold out crowd at Arco Arena. Must be surreal. When Paris Bennett sang “Midnight Train to Georgia”, I got up for a little boogie stretch. Lisa Tucker was in rare form with her tribute to Elton John on the keyboard along with her Jennifer Holiday piece “I am changing” that won her over to everyone on last season’s show. Her Mom was in the audience too. I guess all of the parents in the audience were proud of these kids.

One of my favorites from last season was Elliot Yamin, the young man whose mother followed him to Idol after a serious illness. This is the same lovable Elliot, who is deaf in one ear and a diabetic. Yep, that Elliot, who has a voice like Stevie Wonder and a face only his mother could love. We loved him too. I probably voted for him 100 times.



Bucky Covington looked like he was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame. He interacted with the audience like a kid in a candy store. He took the show outside in the parking lot afterwards and made sure he met and greeted everyone who was willing to shake his hand. Kelly Pickler hugged everyone outside like a bride at a wedding reception. It was hilarious to watch all of us old folks with our kids waiting for them all to come out of the Arena to their motor coaches. Our kids met Kelly, Bucky, Kat and Taylor Hicks. Birdy will never forget when he touched her thumb. The kids talked about the concert all the way home. I was just happy our kids got to met celebrities who are real people, even if it’s all just a bunch of hooey.

In the meantime, we’ve shut off the television, to get back to school and to life. The time we spent with the American Idols last season reminded me of the days when I was a little girl and my whole family sat down to watch The Carol Burnett Show.



Photo of Taylor Hicks courtesy of Tami Esling- who had really good seats at the concert!!!!

“I’m so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh and sing a song. Seems we just get started and before you know it, comes the time we have to say “So Long”.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@ sbcglobal.net or on the web at familyfare.blogspot.com

The only thing that keeps me going

August 24, 2006

We have a million socks in this house but none of them like each other. Since when did socks learn how to increase, multiply and separate? They are everywhere, except together and never where you can find them. I hate them. The person who invents and markets disposable socks and manufacturers them cheap will solve all the world’s problems. Somewhere in Afghanistan is a woman with sock issues. Trust me it’s a global problem and Al Gore needs to get working on it.

We stopped sorting socks years ago. We decided we’d put them in a basket, exerting some modicum of control over them....and they never get paired. They get tossed around the house, while they seek out their mates in the dog’s mouth or attached to some pair of pants that was recently folded. Brown socks like to hang out with white ones and the pantyhose loves to twist around them both. The socks invade my inner peace with their “just try to find my partner” attitude. Sometimes, I gather the courage to throw them all away, but then there might be the chance that I saw the match to that green Boy Scout sock somewhere… these are real goals, people and this is war.

I aspire to come up with the perfect system for laundering socks. Color coding socks, putting them in mesh bags and other great systems are only as the good as the person doing laundry. The kids define laundry as anything in their room that needs to be picked up and out of sight. Socks, rocks, balls, wrappers, clothes that haven’t been worn since 1997 all make it to the laundry pile, and the wayward socks are with them all.

We have multiple college degrees in this house, but it’s the mystery that never gets solved. My husband gave up trying to figure it out so he buys his own bags of fresh socks and stopped looking for the old ones. The old ones are left to me. They torment me. If socks were children; C.P.S would have collected me years ago.

My washing machine hates the socks as much as I do. It likes to hide them in places I haven’t found or somewhere between the rubber boot seal and the door. Once they are caught there, they never rinse completely, they smell worse than before and they take on a more menacing appearance when they are soaked and alone. It’s the little girl socks mixed with the big old teenager boy socks that wreak havoc on a whole system of peace and harmony in my home. The laundry piles up, laughs at me and I swear I’ve seen movement, Nah.

Occasionally some eccentrics in the clothing world, something we haven’t seen in years make it to the laundry pile after a long absence. It reappears like a prodigal child, usually out of season and many sizes smaller than its original owner. I have friends with large families and we talk about the laundry behind its back. We are especially catty when discussing clothes that end up in the laundry pile with their hangers still attached to them. The kids deny knowing how those clothes got there or why they need to be washed again. No one knows. I pulled a full parka and a basketball out of the laundry basket yesterday and wondered if I missed a ski trip with the basketball team this summer. Amazing as the piles are…there is an unspoken rule in this house that if a particular article of clothing has had contact with the ground; it is somehow contaminated and must be laundered immediately. Once it has escaped its folded capacity, and unless it is attached to the body of the person to whom it belongs, it’s officially dirty and therefore must retreat to the pile where it meets all its other friends who have no place to go. The concept that closets and dressers welcome these clothes completely escapes my family and as the laundry piles grow, the only solution I see for my family is to move to a Laundromat.

The towels are a whole other matter which in polite company I refuse to discuss, because not only do they hate their appointed towel racks, they must hang around the dark corners of our house while they are wet. They only like being wet one time before they officially make it to the laundry pile. For some reason, once they make contact with a dried fully bathed body, they rush to the laundry pile to mix with the smelly socks and underwear thereby staking claim to their official status as “dirty” and there they lie in wait for me. If I were rich, I’d have a big incinerator…well you get the point. As I write this, at my feet are a fresh bag of JD’s socks from Costco waiting for their big release.
My only friends in the laundry pile are the pants. When I wash them, they pay up. You have no idea how much money I made from the pants last year. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

No crying in Chemistry!

Published August 10, 2006

I had an epiphany after taking my chemistry final last Thursday. First of all, I would never have taken a chemistry class at my age, had it not been for my father’s health crisis this last year. Second, I am a crazy person who has abandoned her family for 8 weeks to study chemistry (my kids have done everything - laundry and cooking-I love these children). Put that in a recipe with a husband who has basically said...do what it takes and I'll handle everything else and you get one blessed woman who is a glutton for punishment in the land of acids and bases.

I dropped out of chemistry at age 19. I was not a serious student. I always took the easy way out. This summer, however, I spent 40 extra hours per week outside of class working on chemistry. This is a science class you cannot (despite your best attempts) bluff your way through. Those of us with BA degrees now know what those with BS degrees found out. Bluffing cannot fit into a chemical equation anywhere. So I had to start from scratch. I took a hard class, the hard way. What a whiner. I know I drove my tutors to drink.

It was difficult....I didn't do great on exams...I did average and poor on exams....I flogged myself to death because of this...my professor was patient and said to hang in there. I hardly believed her until my (two), count em' 2 tutors....encouraged me to keep going. I was at the tutors every minute I wasn't in class. I turned in every stitch of homework, every lab report, my research project (a short dissertation on oxygenated hydrocarbons...yeah, take sound effect of one big yawn), and then I showed up for every class, every lab and suffered through my younger counterparts' ability to balance equations and chew gum and listen to I-Pods for two months.....I was the old lady in the class who had a binder full of calculations and a book from Borders called “Chemistry for Dummies”. My research project was about gasoline. This was ridiculous. It took a tutor drawing an ‘Electron Hotel’ for me to understand how electrons fill their orbital shells in atoms.

However, little epiphany revealed something big I hardly expected to happen. I did well on quizzes, I got full credit for homework plus I turned in detailed lab reports... but for some reasons on major exams...I made stupid mistakes...old lady stuff....) I hit rock bottom two weekends ago when I thought I had aced an exam....and got a 65. (8 points were from not transposing answers correctly). Test anxiety syndrome….bad contacts, blurry vision…whatever. I then put myself to bed for one day and believed everything I ever heard about people who wanted to become nurses but couldn’t because of the chemistry class they had failed….I started to despair about the last 8 weeks. A friend in tutoring said “Oh this is the class that made us cry. Hang in there. It will pay off. Trust me.” A week ago, I listened to those encouraging voices and went to bed early. I decided not to cram for the final. I looked over the book, my notes and the quizzes I had done so well on, and said “I’ve studied enough”. This class is over. I did my best. It’s not up to me anymore, either I pass or I fail…”God, you take the final tomorrow…I’ll bring the calculator”. It was time to take the final and get on with my life. I talked to myself until I fell asleep for the first good night’s sleep I had in 8 weeks.

I took the final, and finished early. My professor agreed to let us wait so she could give us our grades. After putting the ScanTron into the machine to grade my final....she handed it back to me and all I could say was, "thank you God"....I got a rock solid "B" on the final..... My grade for the class cumulatively was “B” because of the work, the hard stuff....and I cried...then I cried all the way out to the parking lot thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I actually learned something this summer”.

The gift in finishing this class was watching my father take some steps this weekend with his bilateral leg braces and his walker. It’s been 10 months since his aneurysm surgery. It was a priceless. His tan is coming back and the hospital bed was picked up a couple weeks ago. I asked him if I could take a sledgehammer to his wheelchair someday, but he’s not ready for that yet. We have to save something for Christmas.

What a ride. Don't ever quit- God can work miracles, even with old ladies who cry over chemistry. Folsom Lake College – You rock! Next semester is Nutrition. Compared to summer school, this should be a picnic. I can’t wait for the class to start.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Summer of 42

Published July 27, 2006

Summer is the only time that JD and I are the same age. Three months of the year he catches up to me and this summer we are both 42 years young. The bliss of this lasts until October and then like a thief in the night, I get the extra year to carry for another nine months…the cruelty of it all. October I become the ol’ lady, again. Sigh. With this age, I get more maudlin. If I keep going at this rate, I’ll need electroshock therapy by the time I’m 50. I’m talking about the amount of time I spent this summer getting misty-eyed over all the kids I know who are leaving home for the first time.

Speaking of 42 years old, JD just recently celebrated his birthday with his twin brother, Jim, who happened to be in town for a surprise visit. I’ve known these two men since they were 22 years old…so I’ve watched them both grow up so to speak. JD’s twin, also known as J.D., (John and James Donovan), came into the world on July 9 with my hubby trying to come feet first. A breech birth under any circumstance is a tricky and dangerous thing. Luckily my MoMaher had an excellent physician in the late great Victor Lash, MD. He managed to steer Johnny in the right direction. Jimmy never needed direction, he came barreling into the world, bigger, louder and ready to get down to business from the very beginning, which makes him a “bigger than life” kind of guy. I love watching these two together even after these last two decades. They don’t look anything alike. There is a little mischief in both of them that I think is shared in some part of their DNA, but if you saw them both on the street, you wouldn’t know they were twins, let alone brothers. We had a little celebration here which ended with MoMaher crying her eyes out, because Jim was headed back to Washington State, where he lives, and who knows when we’ll see him again. These goodbyes are always hard, but especially hard on MoMaher. I know, because I’ve felt her pain all summer long.

As Jimmy and his wife celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary this month, we watched them send their young adult children off to travel the summer overseas and around the USA, and in a sense, it was a bittersweet thing to see the babies I used to hold, set off on their own. Both their kids are getting ready to move out and go to college within the next two years so they will truly experience the empty nest. Seems the summer of 42 for us is watching our friends send their kids off to new chapters in their lives. Seems God gives you two decades with your kids and then, Bam! You’re left staring at the four walls of their rooms, wondering what the heck just happened. I remember my Dad talking about how quiet it got around the house when we left. He said it was nice at first, but they never quite got over it. He gets over it, though, when all 8 grandkids are in the same room.

We won’t be too far behind our friends who are going through this time in life that every parent goes through. Gosh, why is time going so fast? Another friend of mine is sending her oldest to Iraq, another to San Diego State. These are great kids, the best in the world. Michael is Army Airborne, and Lauren is headed off to San Diego to major in math and chemistry. Seems like yesterday Lauren was 8 years old. Another one of my favorite kids is our friend’s son who is moving to Dallas to go to college. I went to his Baccalaureate Mass and wanted to cry. These darn kids grow up and leave us…How dare they! I pray that they all do well, especially our friends who are saying goodbye to their son, on his way to Tikrit, Iraq. I see this handsome, wonderful young man, anxious to serve his country and his sense of duty humbles me. I also pity my friends, their parents, who will miss them more than this columnist can hardly express in 800 words or less. These parents throw parties for their kids, but then again, behind closed doors, they cry because things are never going to be the same again. As much as we raise these kids, they raise us. Don’t think I don’t know where gray hair comes from.

God, watch over these kids and protect them, Michael, Justin, and Lauren, and bless my wonderful husband and his crazy wacky twin brother in the summer of their 42nd. Also, warm the heart of all the mothers and fathers who are saying goodbye this summer to their kids, and especially MoMaher who has said goodbye so many times to all her sons….and Lord, when it comes time for me to do the same…give me the courage and grace not to throw myself on the floor, like Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone with Wind”. Thanks Lord. Amen.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and biweekly columnist for the Mt. Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

"Play Freebird"

Published July 13, 2006

Standing at the half-way mark of summer school, I feel like I’ve been running a race on a treadmill. I’ve learned a few things about chemistry. But more importantly, I’m getting reacquainted with a girl I knew about 27 years ago.

I have a new appreciation for the youthfulness of my classmates and their ability to get things done. Whether it’s completing homework or writing detailed lab reports fifteen minutes before these are due, I see these kids multi-tasking their lives with their cell phones and I-Pods. I, on the other hand, spend hours after class pondering it all, backpack in tow, flashcards in pocket, desperately trying to establish a relationship with my scientific calculator. Eight weeks on a treadmill of doubt, I race to finish things that seem to take longer for me to understand. It must be my age. The excuses cause me to lay awake at night thinking about chemistry, the homework and the labs. After lecture and lab, I stay at school for the rest of the day working with the tutors and re-copying problems I can barely see with my 40+ year old eyes, and laughing at mistakes I make, like trying to balance an equation that is already balanced.

Whether it’s dreaming about the charges of ions or the properties of certain chemicals, I’m living another life. My kids haven’t had a meaningful conversation with me in 4 weeks. Case in point: The query, “Mom, what’s for dinner?” equals the reply “We’re having Barium Sulfate in aqueous solution…honey”. This apparently happened while I was knee deep in my Stoichiometry homework. I realize, with my eyeballs cross stitching, I need to take a break.

I decided that in between this madness of being a student once again, I had to leave my 50 pound backpack for 3 hours on a Friday and take my girls to go see the latest Pixar/Disney movie, “Cars”. Mom guilt or afternoon nap, I had to get rid of one and catch the other. The movie ended up being the hilarious escape I needed to get a little perspective about my state in life right now. I attribute it to a single line of script in the movie.

At one point during a particular scene where hundreds of ‘cars’ have gathered in a stadium to watch a NASCAR race, all the spectators being various autos of different makes, models and types (much like people), a hush comes over the crowded arena. In the tiniest corner of the stadium is uttered a shout from some old “hippie car” who yells out the phrase, “Play Freebird!” I couldn’t stop laughing. My kids told me to shush up but the snickering wouldn’t stop. “Mom, what’s so funny?”… There were a few of us “over 40’s” in the movie theater and we were the only ones who got the joke. Not a single kid in the place heard it, and the grandparents behind me missed it too. It was a message for me I’m sure of it.

To anyone over the age of 40, the song “Freebird”, performed by the 70’s rock and roll band Lynyrd Skynyrd, was basically the anthem of our youth. Lead vocalist Ronnie VanZant’s untimely death in a 1977 plane crash catapulted the group into legendary status, and they were recently inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame last March. The caption under a recent picture of them states that it took them seven nominations to be inducted which is befitting for a band that is nothing if not a survivor. I can relate to given this is my second attempt at chemistry in two decades. Looking at their website last night, I saw that they’ve aged right along with me. The fact that they still tour – makes me wonder if I should start taking supplements.

Memories of this song caused a series of flashbacks to the year 1979, being with great friends from St. Vincent’s High School, listening to our favorite music, in cars we had just learned how to drive. No matter where we were, or what we were doing, when that song came on the radio, the earth would stop in order for us to pay our collective homage to the song with our voices and “air guitars.”

Sharing a moment with my 15 year old last weekend, I put in the CD while we were driving home, and like the kid I once was, I belted out the lyrics, completely off key, air guitar in hand, with the other one holding onto the steering wheel. Despite the protests of my horrified teenage daughter, who thought I had completely lost my mind, I came to a decision. I know I can do well in this summer school class. I can step off this treadmill of doubt. I will pass chemistry, even if I am the old lady in the class who tries to balance an already-balanced chemical equation.

That song represents a carefree time, with a carefree generation, who would shout out “Play Freebird” at any event, albeit, a NASCAR race, a Day on the Green, or a Church picnic. I came home from that movie, opened my books and realized that although it’s only been about 27 years since I shouted “Play Freebird” in an open room, I now see why my chemistry classmates get their homework done 15 minutes before class starts and why they can listen to their I-Pods and balance equations, all while chewing gum at the same time.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

The ruby years

Published June 29, 2006

Forty years ago this week, my parents were married at St. Anne’s Catholic Church in South Sacramento. Over the decades my parents built a foundation on which love, sacrifice, tears and joy were sculpted. Looking back 40 years I see a legacy set in stone, a ruby to be specific.

Dad was able to secure a job with a good insurance company and was trained to be an insurance claims specialist. He worked for the same employer for over 35 years. It was his one and only job and he managed to provide for everything my mom, my sisters and I would need. He worked hard at his career while my mom worked hard making a home to raise us. His hours were long and sometime his commute was perilous. He patiently endured his company’s changes in management, mission statement and budgets. There were days I am sure he didn’t want to go to work, but he hardly took a sick day in all those years he worked to provide for us. My mom never had a day off, not until we all moved out.

They took out one mortgage on their first home, and paid it off in 30 years, right on schedule. They also put all three of us girls through private schools and then encouraged us to go to college. We were encouraged to work when we were teenagers, so that we could learn that “nothing is free”. I attribute the success of these lessons to my mom’s management skills. She took his paycheck and made it work. They didn’t have any debt, other than their mortgage, and they didn’t buy a lot of “stuff” when we were young. The cars my parents drove were not purchased new. Dad knew how to do bodywork on vehicles so he could turn a “wreck” into a new car and then turn around and sell it. This supplemented their fixed income. I am sure they had months which were leaner than others, but they didn’t rely on multiple mortgages and credit cards to see them through. The whole idea of sacrifice was a tenant of their marriage.


Mom and Dad’s personalities are completely different, but as the years got on, they started to look like other, act like each other and assimilate into a single person who loved to do the same things. Whether it was tennis, golf, reading, crossword puzzles, travel, dancing, parties and projects, Mom and Dad’s interests intersected more than I thought they did, now that I look back over the decades, I see that they both are creative and analytical. It’s funny to see how even their political leanings became one and the same as they melted into their marriage. It’s really true when they say that the purifying effects of a long marriage are that the two become one flesh both figuratively and literally.


When I look back on the decades of my parents’ long marriage, I see peaks and valleys, but mostly, I see rubies. Like two rough, unpolished stones in 1966, my parents have worked at, suffered in and happily sustained their marriage in order to achieve perfect brilliancy forty years later, in 2006. No example is more perfect than to see how my mom has taken care of my father over these nine months, since his complicated surgery in November and it’s aftermath. Even though my Dad is not yet walking, my Mom has become his legs. Her heart has fed him, nurtured him and sustained him towards getting well again. Doctors, therapists and nurses were not able to do this, but the love of a wife of 40 years can make miracles.

The ruby starts out as the mineral “corundum”, and is a sapphire of red color. The color red has always symbolized sacrifice. Rubies are extremely hard and durable and the ones that exhibit the finest quality have a rich clarity to them. Top quality rubies are rare and highly prized (much like a marriage that has lasted 40 years!) and in some cases where they are in large sizes, they are frequently valued higher than diamonds. When heated, their color is greatly enhanced and their hue is a rich and deep red color.

The ruby was said to be the most precious of the twelve stones God created when He created all things and a Ruby was placed on Aaron's neck by God's command. If it was good enough for the Lord Himself, it is something rare and priceless. As my parents commemorate their ruby anniversary this weekend, I will reflect on how precious and priceless they are to the whole family.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Old ladies and summer school

Published June 15, 2006

I’m trying to lose weight. This would be the fourth decade of trying. I’m really serious this time. I’ve had it with the wake up calls.

First wake up call was about 10 years ago. I was in the hospital for a serious bout of Pancreatitis. I was really sick and I looked like an old lady. I know this because one of the nurses came into my room, saw the wedding picture of JD and I on the wall next to my bed and remarked, “So, when did your daughter get married?” Even though IV Demerol pulsed through my veins, the sting of her observation killed me. “That is me with my husband,” I said through my drug induced fog. I used to look fabulous. What the heck happened? “Oh, sorry ma’am…I didn’t realize that was you!”

Second wake up call- I was visiting the hospital NICU a couple weeks ago with my friend Barb and her sick infant. A fresh faced young nurse came in the room, pointed to Barb and said, “You must be Mom?” Then she said “You Grandma?” Ouch! Stupid girl must need glasses. I couldn’t believe it. I just had my highlights done too. I could have strangled her or sued my hairstylist.

Third wake up call – I am going back to school. Yep, I am going to try after all these years to fulfill a dream I had when I was 17 years old, youthful, full of promise and wanting to save the world. I want to become a nurse! Huh? Yes, a fabulously over-forty nurse; one of those really smart ones whose brains and beauty only get better with age.
Nurses with good eyesight and compassion are in demand these days. No really, once upon a time, when I graduated from high school, I wanted to become a nurse. I had a couple scholarships but I managed to blow off my chemistry class when I broke my arm in an auto accident. I ended up leaving the Junior College mid semester, transferring to a four year university and getting my BA in something else, completely unrelated. I left nursing back in 1981 and never looked back, until now. Twenty Five years later and I resume my studies this week at Folsom Lake College. I must be insane. I can’t wait.

The big test starts with summer school. Will I be able to finally pass chemistry? I went to FLC to see about getting my bearings straight before school started this week. I found the science department and went into the office to ask about finding the lab. The fresh faced young girl looked at me and said “you must be the new teacher?” “No, I’m an old lady student”. She laughed. I felt the old sting again…this time without the Demerol. “Well, let me show you where it is.” I must have looked like I was handicapped or something. She insisted. After she pointed me in the right direction, and after I bought my books, I took my youngest around the campus and told her what it was like to go to college. “How long ago did you go to college Mom?” Birdy made it sound like I was going to tell her a fairytale. “Well, Bird, it was a long time ago, a little over 25 years ago. But, I’d like to go back now and see if I can become a nurse.” OK Mom, are you the only old person coming here?” I hope not.

In the meantime, I am losing weight. I’ve lost about 20 pounds and I am giving myself a year to lose the rest. Someday, God willing, and for every patient I ever come into contact with, I make a solemn promise – I will never assume anything. You are all youthful, beautiful and skinny even if you have pancreatitis, or something else. I will never look at a woman and assume she is Grandma. Not ever. I pray to God I am not the only old lady in summer school, especially in Chemistry class where I need all the help I can get, or at least a grade of “C” or better. I plan to find a seat down front where I can see the whiteboard and hear the instructor. Time to wake up and let the games begin! An “about to be skinny” old lady is going to summer school.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

A little respect

Published June 1, 2006

My dog Skip was walking me last night around dusk. Usually, JD and Birdy tag along on their bikes resulting in a trio of Mahers taking a couple laps around the neighborhood. Our neighborhood has around 300+ homes situated within a little canyon and the walk is nice at that time of the day when the sun is low in the horizon and the breeze is starting to kick in. It’s the best way to get to know the neighbors and see the latest additions in landscaping and home improvements. We made our way across the top of the dam at Crystal Lake which is the centerpiece of our little community, when we noticed a neighbor on his deck that we hadn’t seen in a while. Our neighbor Sam offered us all a cool beverage. As JD and Bird made their way into his backyard, I decided to keep up the pace. As I monitored my pulse and Skip’s tongue which lollygagged off the side of his mouth in synch with my heart rate, I sent them to socialize with an old friend. “We’ll catch up to you later Hon” JD said, and I bid them to say hello to Sam for me.

I made my way around the usual circle we take, when I spotted a bunch of teens near the park. Shouts and indiscernible teasing made way to a couple of boys whipping their “girlfriends” with their shirts and one of the boys wrestling one of the girls to the pavement in a rough and careless manner. I knew the one on the ground was obviously female because her jeans were low and her shirt rode high on her midriff. The boys were loud, obnoxious and showed no respect at all in the manner they treated these girls and I wondered to myself at what point would I step in and say something. As I thought about it, I walked on and let the moment pass. “I should have said something”, I said aloud to Skipper who was already around the corner and tugging me along with him like a snow dog. These girls were younger than my Shannon, who is now 15 years old, and how would I feel if these girls were my own daughters? I would be furious. I knew underneath their nervous pleas and laughter, these girls just wanted a little respect from their friends. They were not enjoying it one bit. It was sad to see how little respect was shown to them from boys who should have known better.

My thoughts gave way to reflection. How would I want my son to treat a young lady? How would I want a young man to treat my daughters? Commanding respect is a two way street. It involves training from the very beginning. It goes as far back as saying please and thank you, dressing modestly and minding your manners. I guess one can only command enough respect in the manner that one gives it himself, but I wondered if those girls were really aware of their infinite worth and value? Did they need someone to tell them that they deserved better than that?

It reminded me of a time a year or so ago, while at a local juice bar in Folsom, passing a boy and two girls who were leaving as we entered. He was talking about another girl and used the most disgusting filth of a word to describe her to these other two girls that it stopped me in my tracks to hear these words come from such an innocent looking boy. Let’s just say it was rated XXX. I felt sorry for all of them. He thought nothing of his young friends, to say the least, to let this roll out of his mouth and yet, they didn’t think twice about listening to him talk in this way. Their youthfulness and beauty were completely marred by the ugliness of their vocabulary. What a shame to see youthful promise thrown down the toilet with really bad and disrespectful vocabulary.

JD visited Washington DC last weekend for Memorial Day with his friend Gus, a lobbyist for Veteran Affairs. While paying their respects at Arlington National Cemetery, they were fortunate to meet the Marines who guard the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. They were allowed to enter their dressing area and talk to them while they were preparing for a shift change. JD described this as an awesome experience and lesson in respect. Their whole job is to show respect, not only to each other as they take turns guarding the Tomb, but for those whose memory and names are known only by God.








Behind closed doors and out of the public eye, as the new Guard prepares to take his place, his fellow soldier inspects his uniform, straightens every pin, tie and button. He is beyond spit polished; he is completely and totally impeccable for his 30 minute shift which rotates around the clock 24 hours every day, 7 days per week, 365 days per year no matter the time of day, or weather. Their ritual of respect does not wane in rain, shine, hurricane or snow. The men are decorated war heroes themselves, who after their active duty is done, dedicate themselves to the ‘Unknown’ in a manner of respect that is more than awesome, but awe inspiring. Every step they take is purposeful, their mission clear, their oaths are true. They command as much respect as they give, which when one witnesses the dignity of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown, one can only marvel at their fierce sense of loyalty, duty and dedication.

One particular oath they take before taking on this special duty is that they will never use a curse or cuss word for the rest of their lives. There is something about that part of their ritual which I greatly admire. Now that’s more than a little respect!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Teflon premises & misrepresentations

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  Published May 18, 2006
  
  Fans of “The DaVinci Code” like the intrigue in the book because it’s so far fetched, it’s ridiculous. They’ll call me hysterical because I was so offended by it. As a practicing Catholic, I found the historical references poorly researched and the premises slippery and preposterous. It was hard not to take offence. Yes, I know it was purportedly a work of fiction, but the author’s book afforded him a pulpit for his protagonist to lecture the reader for approximately 80 pages, spewing out spurious deceits about real people, places and events. He really dislikes Catholics, hasn’t a clue about Leonardo’s Last Supper, Saint Mary Magdalene or Emperor Constantine and the Council at Niceae. I think if you buy his “facts”, you’re forgetting that it’s truly pulp fiction.
  
  His writing was ineffectual. I found it read more like a screenplay than a novel. I love reading mysteries and thrillers. This book read like a personal attack from its preface to its soft core ending. I suspect Dan Brown is a “New Age” author, not a “Christian”.

If Dan Brown had authentic belief in the tenants of Christianity, he wouldn’t take the God he worships and relegate him to a mere mortal with lots of secrets that a “ flamboyant homosexual” artisan, referred to as “DaVinci” was forced to hide in his art because of evil secret societies and the big bad Catholic Church.

What an insult to Master Leonardo. There was hardly a proper address of his name in the book. You would never call an artisan by the town he lived in (Vinci). Even my kids’ art history books are properly written. Brown fails here as well. That’s like saying El Dorado Hills has a biweekly column in the Mt. Democrat newspaper. Where was his editor?

Even the “art history” was poorly researched. He places the “Last Supper” painting in a church, when in fact; it’s not in a church at all. He calls it a fresco and it’s not, technically. It’s tempera on gesso, pitch and mastic. It is painted on the concrete wall of an old refectory of the convent on the grounds of the Church of Santa Maria della Grazie (Our Lady of Grace) in Milan, Italy. The Apostle John, positively identified by Leonardo and subsequent historians, was never the subject of dispute as to his position in the wall mural. The fact that Brown suggests Leonardo’s intent was to place Mary Magdalene at the Last Supper should be an affront for believers. There is no clear line of fact versus fiction and he crosses it so many times, it seems quite intentional, if not sloppy.

What if Dan Brown had written a conspiracy thriller attacking basic core Muslim beliefs? Do you think for one minute Muslims would settle for it and have to suck it up to “it’s just fiction”? There is no way they could accept that. Neither should right thinking Christians.

Is Dan Brown a Gnostic? Even if he doesn’t acknowledge it, his belief system as presented on his website certainly suggests that he is. His fascination with the Gnostics and presenting them in such a positive light would suggest that both he and his wife are fallen away Christians, not reformed Christians.

If he had not qualified his book as based upon fact, those of us who took offence at his Teflon premises and misrepresentations would not have hollered so loudly. Yet, he weaves enough of his “facts” to cause doubt and confusion for those who believe what he has written as empirical historical evidence, which even secular historians have already disproved.

The most egregious historical claims of the book, based on dubious sources in Chapter 55 are outlined as thus: Try not to laugh.

• Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married and had kids
• Jesus was considered just a mortal prophet by his followers
• Emperor Constantine in effect created Christian orthodoxy for political reasons in AD325
• The REAL truth about Jesus was fortunately preserved in the documents of Qumran and Nag Hammadi.
• The Church has sought to suppress this true portrait throughout history by means of persecution and slander.

Huh? If that doesn’t rock your boat, then I don’t know what does.

Saint Mary Magdalene was elevated to sainthood by the Church. She has a Feast Day in the liturgical calendar on July 22. She is one of my favorite saints. She was a woman of prayer, service and devotion. The historical facts of her life are so marred by this book; it would have caused her great offense as a Christian to be depicted in a higher light than the man she called “Teacher” and “Lord”. She was from the town of Magdala, thus, her name. If she was married to Jesus, she would have been known as Mary, wife of Jesus.

The Church’s devotion to Christ’s own Mother would exclude it from being criticized as being insensitive to women or “The Sacred Feminine” as Brown writes ad nauseum throughout the book. Christ is King to Christians, and making St. Mary Magdalene a Goddess over him, is at best, a pagan hypothesis and should be rejected, even if it is, in fact, a work of fiction, yet readers are swallowing this up as monumental and historical. It’s a rerun of Holy Blood Holy Grail. It’s a wonder the lawsuit of plagiarism against Dan Brown wasn’t sufficient; it seemed to be a re-write.

The Council of Nicaea was not called to ‘give’ Christ his ‘Divinity’; it was called in answer to the heresy of Arius, who was teaching at that time, against the Divinity of Christ. The early Church fathers in the first century had already wrote extensively about the Divinity of Christ, a belief all Christians espoused long before the Council. Councils are called to answer heresies and resolve disputes or define a Church teaching, already handed down by Christ. They are not called to create new doctrine. St. Peter called a Council at Jerusalem in 50 AD to resolve a dispute. Reading about the councils was obviously something that Dan Brown has never properly researched. He hangs out the Catholic lay order of Opus Dei as bad because they have a tall building in New York City. Opus Dei does not have monks, is not a monastic order, nor does it require its lay members to take vows, wear robes, sleep on straw mats, spend all their time in prayer and corporal mortification, or in any other way live like The Da Vinci Code’s depiction of its monk character.

Yeah, Ok, I hated this book. Enough already.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Blood boiling point

Published May 4, 2006

When the world famous book “The Da Vinci Code” was published in 2003, I had signed up for one of those book of the month clubs, seeking some free books as a distract from an already hectic schedule. When the box arrived, I had half a dozen free hardbacks. This was fun. All these books for a couple pennies, plus I only needed to buy two more hardbacks at their regular discount price. Not too shabby. These were top selling titles. There were books by Grisham, Trigiani, Follet, and an author I had never heard of, Brown.

A friend of mine saw the book and murmured, “I heard that one was good”. I shelved it again. I let it sit for three months and forgot about it. Around the same time, Pop came to visit (my Dad) and was perusing my crammed book shelves and asked if I had anything good to read, because unlike me, he was retired and had lots of time to read. Most of the books I selected from the book club were books he had already read, except one. I tossed him the Da Vinci Code and said, “Someone said this was good”, maybe you’ll like it. He took a stack of books home with him. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I had a running commentary from him on the ones he liked and why.

The next time I saw Dad, we had a fairly nice visit, until the subject of reading came up. He had a very serious look on his face and said he had something of mine he wanted to return (and it wasn’t soon enough I guess), because when Pop is unhappy about something, the whole room knows about it. He threw the book down in front of me and affixed on it was a post-it note scribbled in his hand with these exact words “TJ, that was some kind of book! At what point does your blood boil?” It was signed, “Dad”.

“Huh?” I asked. What do you mean? He then asked me if I had read it and sheepishly I admitted I hadn’t. He told me that the book wasn’t written particularly well, but he hung in until the end to see if the author would somehow redeem himself. Apparently that didn’t happen. .Pop was pretty upset. About reading a book? I was a little ruffled. He’s read lots of books he didn’t like, but never with this kind of reaction, especially over a piece of fiction. I suddenly felt like a kid put in the corner. “Dad it’s supposed to be fiction, why are you so upset?” He told me to read it and get back to him. I decided to put it back on the shelf and I let it sit for a really long time.

Not too long after Dad’s review came down on my head like a sledgehammer, my Catholic neighbor whom I will call Dave, dropped by the house and asked if we had read the “evidence” in the Da Vinci Code and “what did we think of it?” I could hear myself repeating “Isn’t it a work of fiction Dave?” His lingering response of “I dunno….” was followed by a dissertation on a documentary he watched on television which seemed to support the contentions in the Dan Brown book. I was more than a little troubled by what followed next. Mary Magdalene married to Jesus? A Goddess? They had a child? The Catholic Church suppressed it all – Bam! I now knew that based on this conversation, I was going to have to read this book because even some of my Catholic friends were buying the fiction as fact. My blood was beginning to warm big time. I was really angry. This was really some kind of book.

I pointed to a book on my book shelf which is a biography of St. Mary Magdalene and asked him if he wanted to read it. He wasn’t interested. I asked him if he knew what Gnosticism was and it’s origins. He still wouldn’t budge. I asked him if he believed that Jesus is God and had a Divine nature. “I’m not sure what that means.” I asked if he believed that Jesus was the Second Person of the Trinity. A blank stare and still no response from Dave to this basic tenant of Faith question. He was disappointed that we didn’t share his enthusiasm. In his mind he saw the fiction as historical fact. I pulled the book off the shelf, read the introduction about Opus Dei and thought to myself “Blessed Jose Marie Escriva must be flipping over in his grave”. My blood was starting to really churn.

Why are people so attracted to a book which reportedly misrepresents and misunderstands people, places and events? I decided to read it for myself and put it up against known historical and biblical history. I’m using Dad’s post-it as a book mark. The next column I write will be May 19, the same day the Sony film is set for release. I’ll let you know what I think. However, I am doing one more thing that day, besides writing another column on this subject. I am purchasing tickets for my family to see the DreamWorks Hedgehog movie because I now know at what point my blood boils.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Nanny's storybook dolls

Published April 20, 2006

Easter Sunday, my Mom, otherwise known as “Nanny” to all her grandchildren, sat my daughters down in the living room and presented them with a large bag wrapped as a present. I was cooking dinner for everyone and could see what the fuss was all about. Through the plastic bag, I saw the familiar pastel polka dotted boxes. Inside those boxes were memories spanning over five decades. My 37 year old sister, Trish whined with envy. Nanny was ready to part with her Storybook dolls. My daughters carefully opened each box which contained their grandmother’s treasured memories. We knew the value in this gift. It was a gift of love to her granddaughters.




Nancy Ann Storybook dolls are sweet little dolls which measure from three and a half inches to seven inches in height. They made their debut in the mid thirties and were manufactured well into the early 1960s. When I researched the history of the dolls my mother cherished as a child, I found a history of another remarkable woman, their creator.

Nancy Ann Abbott, the creator of the Storybook dolls, was born in San Francisco in 1901 as Rowena Haskin. As a child she had a fondness for dolls that lasted her entire life. Before becoming a doll maker, she worked in Hollywood as an actress and as a dress designer for various actresses. Later on, her doll dresses would take on the designs of the full-size costumes she made for Hollywood.

After her career in Hollywood, Miss Abbott returned to San Francisco in 1935, where she opened a bookshop. She later met Les Rowland who became her business partner for Nancy Ann Storybook dolls. Miss Abbott made and dressed her dolls to sell at the book store. The dolls sold well and in 1936, a new company was formed, otherwise known as the Nancy Ann Dressed Dolls Company. Mr. Rowland became a partner in the Nancy Ann Company in 1937. The company's name became the familiar Nancy Ann Storybook Dolls, Inc. in 1945. My mom was born the day after Pear Harbor was attacked and grew up during the era of the Storybook doll era, much as I grew up in the Barbie doll era. My mom took care of her dolls all her life…many still have the boxes and literature that came with each little doll.

Nanny’s dolls are lavishly costumed in the best fabrics and trims and follow a theme depending on the series they were released in. The fairytale series released dolls like “When She was Good, She was Very Good”, and “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue”. The Bridal series dolls had a bride, groom, ring-bearer and flowergirl dolls. My favorites were dolls for First Holy Communion and Christening. Dolls of the month are garmented in clothing representing the seasons. The dolls of the Day were typically given at birthdays. I like to imagine my Aunt Margaret Ann giving my mom one for her birthday and the happiness it must have brought her to see the joy on my mom’s face as she added yet another Nancy Ann doll to her collection. There was a nun doll too. She had a black habit and hanging crucifix around her waist.

The dolls were first produced in painted bisque and each had hand-painted rosebud lips and long eye lashes. Later, the eyes were made into sleepers (they could open and close when the dolls were reclined) and the limbs were positional. The hats and bonnets had real feathers and many of the props the dolls had attached to them were carefully detailed. Even though the dolls are plastic, they are made of a hard material which is unbreakable and mimics a porcelain finish.

While the doll bodies were manufactured in Japan in the early 30’s, the company became so successful in the bookstore sales, that it eventually set up it’s own manufacturing plant in Berkeley, California in the early 40’s during the second World War. The dolls sold extremely well. From Emporium Department store in San Francisco to Harrod’s of London, the Nancy Ann Storybook dolls enjoyed national and international success well into the late 1950’s as the highest volume doll manufacturer in the United States during that time.

After Barbie made her debut, the Storybook dolls faded away, giving way to longer, sleeker, more sophisticated looking dolls. In a sense, it was the end of an era not realized again. The innocence in doll making gave way to sexually charged dolls who had cars, boyfriends and skimpy bathing suits. As far as present day doll manufacturing, I shudder to think that little girls are given dolls called Bratz™. In some sense one wonders if the toys reflect the attitudes of the times. One exception to this would be the American Girl Dolls™ which have revitalized an interest in history and story telling.

Miss Nancy Ann (Haskins) was diagnosed with cancer not long after Barbie came onto the scene and Roland fell ill around the same time. Rowena Haskins succumbed to her illness in August 1964. Without her, the company failed and declared bankruptcy in 1965.

Nanny has spent a good deal of the last six months taking care of our Dad, Pop Pop and she, like Nancy Ann Abbott, saw her share of joys and sorrows in her life. Giving these dolls to her granddaughters was a gift of herself. As my daughters make plans as to how they will display Nanny’s precious dolls, I reflect once again on what must have been the joy my mother experienced in collecting these beautiful little treasures, which were the vision of a little San Francisco girl, who like my mom, loved the beauty of innocent sweet little dolls. I hope I live to see the day when they are passed on to Nanny’s Great Grand Daughters.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net