Tradition, Part I

I’m lucky to have a Mom who taught me many of life’s important lessons. How to tie my shoes, for instance. How to make Rice Krispie treats (the only sweet treat I’ve had the patience to ‘bake’). The importance of reading. Of having (read: purchasing) a few neutral pairs of boots—each and every fall season, of course. The importance of bargain hunting and sniffing out a clearance rack from miles away. And of course, the really important things, too: how to stand on my own to feet; the importance of being financially independent; how to love, both myself and others; how to be wife; how to be a mother.

Perhaps one of my favorite lessons my Mom has taught me is the importance of Tradition.

Tradition: noun, “the handing down of statements, beliefs, legends, customs, information, etc., from generation to generation, especially by word of mouth or by practice.”

My family is big on Tradition, especially around the holidays. So you can imagine their disappointment when they heard we would not be coming to Cincinnati for Christmas this year. It was a hard decision for us to come to—it was the first time ever we would not go to Cincinnati for the 24^th and 25^th—but we knew it was the right one.  Why? Because it was time for the Goetz family to start our own Tradition(s).

In the, well, traditional sense of the definition for Tradition, it mentions a handing down of beliefs from generation to generation. I’d like to add to that. I think in a culture and country as varied and hodge-podgey as the U.S., Traditions can be handed across, instead of down, from culture to culture, too. You can pick and choose what you like from one culture to the next and put your own toque, or touch, on it to make it yours. And then hand it down to your children for them to tweak it as they see fit. We are a nation of mutts, we U.S. citizens (melting pot is perhaps more PC, but let’s call a spade a spade, shall we?). Yes, we’re mutts, and so our Traditions should proudly be hybrid and mutt-like, too. After all, our Traditions should be just as much about who we are as where we’ve been, both literally and figuratively. Who we are and where we’ve been are one in the same, are they not?

Some of the Traditions we have in the Goetz family are definitely mutt-like. I imagine many nations and cultures who celebrate Christmas have the days-long Tradition of strewing the Christmas kitsch about their homes—and we are no exception.

Some folks collect angels, some snowman, some Elvis ornaments, some ugly Christmas sweaters and ties. I collect nativities. In our house we have eight so far, and what’s cool about them is that three are from other countries.

Mayan Nativity. Jesus rockin' in a hammock. 

There’s the Mayan nativity, purchased in Mérida, Mexico. I am not Mexican, nor are my ancestors. But anyone who has been to Mexico and known their hospitality will gladly identify themselves as Mexican, since they inevitably surrender part of their heart to the country after going. Plus, I send students to Mexico every summer and thus have come to love the richness of their culture. Again, it’s a reflection, however minutely, of who I am and where I have been. In the Mayan nativity, Joseph and Mary are dressed in traditional Mayan clothing, as are the wise men. Jesusito is appropriately placed in a hammock, flanked by a pig and a cow. Neat.

Then we have the German nativity, acquired in Cologne, Germany on a trip there with Jack this past spring. He’s from Deutschland, and the trip there marked his first time going ‘Home.’ How could we not come home with a German nativity? It’s a more literal reminder of who he is and where he’s from. It’s pretty straightforward, traditional, to the point. Solid. Reliable. Sturdy. Just like my husband. Very, well, German. 

German Nativity. Sturdy and reliable. Very traditional. 

And to round out our multicultural nativities, we have one from Peru. There’s an alpaca, for goodness sake. But of course!

By putting up our nativities, we are learning and recognizing what is important to each of the cultures they represent. We are reminding ourselves who we are, where we come from and what we value. And our children are understanding that la sagrada familia, or sacred family, is the same for all in each place—it’s simply the interpretation that’s a little bit different. In the most basic sense of “Tradition,”  we are handing down a nation’s beliefs and legends. We are telling that culture’s story.

Aside from relishing in our nativities, we have many other Traditions in our house, but there’s a new one we’re going to try out this year. We’re going to celebrate Los Tres Reyes Magos. It is a custom widely celebrated in Spain, a place I have come to know and love. I know it is also commonly celebrated in Mexico, as well as in other Spanish-speaking nations.  While Santa has made his way into the traditions of Spain, it’s really Los Tres Reyes Magos who are the real deal there.

Los Tres Reyes Magos are the three kings (known in our house as the wise men) who followed the star to meet Jesus, the King of all kings, in Bethlehem soon after He was born. They brought little baby Jesus gifts fit for a king—no, The King: gold, frankincense and myrrh. 

The Tradition goes a little something like this:

In December, young children write to the kings (or sometimes choose their favorite between Gaspar, Melchior or Balthasar) and tell them the things they would like to receive when the kings visit their city on the night of January 5^th. They also tell the kings whether they’ve been naughty or nice. On the night of January 5^th, the children leave some food and drink for the kings and for their camels. They also leave their shoes outside so that the kings know how many kids live there and how many gifts to leave—they may or may not leave grass and hay in the shoes for the camels (I guess it depends on if the camels have been naughty or nice). If the kids have been good, the kings leave their desired gifts. If not, they receive coal. On the morning of the 6^th, children wake up early and rush to see if presents have been left for them or not. Sound familiar?

Oh, and the parades, the very many parades that take place in Spain in each pueblo, or town, January 5^th  in anticipation of Los Tres Reyes Magos arriving to Spanish homes are a sight to behold.  Wondering what Spaniards eat during this cherished time? Rosca de Reyes, a round cake whose ingredients vary as much as the individual traditions shared on Día de los Reyes. There’s a baby Jesus hidden in the cake, and whoever finds the figurine is considered blessed—and the king or queen for the day—and considered to have good fortune the whole year long. There are many recipes out there for Rosca de Reyes—including Food Network’s Ingrid Hoffmann’s recipe.   

What the Goetz Fam like about this Tradition is that it follows the birth of Jesus and Him being the Reason for the Season perhaps better than Santa Claus, or Papá Noel, does. It reminds children that Jesus was our present on Christmas—it’s Him we are celebrating. By giving and receiving presents, we are celebrating His life. Does Christmas Day not do the same thing? Well, yes, on Christmas Day we recognize the birth of the King—but it’s just a little bit farther of a stretch to see where this Santa fella fits in with all of it. Los Tres Reyes Magos carries the message in a more linear fashion, at least in my mind.

Los Tres Reyes Magos also culminates the twelve days of Christmas—of course that assumes those twelve days begin on Christmas Day and end on January 6^th, also celebrated in the Catholic Church as The Feast of the Epiphany, or The Adoration of the Magi. Kind of neat how it all comes together.

Lastly, Los Tres Reyes Magos has a day of significance for our own family. It is the day we found out we were pregnant with Joseph. When I told my dear friend in Spain, a priest, about our baby in an e-mail dated January 6^th, 2009, he responded “Vaya regalo de los magos!” (translation: What a great gift from the kings!) What a great gift indeed.

So if you pass our house on January 5^th and see two sets of shoes outside the front door, you know our kids are signaling to the kings their presence.

Good news: when Santa came to visit our house in the early morning of the 24th (that is the Tradition we are starting now that we are staying in Bloomington to celebrate Christmas), he didn’t appear to be confused by the many nativities strewn about from different cultures. Maybe he understands—perhaps Santa is a mutt, too. I’d say so based on the German Christmas Pyramid, or whirly-do, as I like to call it, that he left Jack. You see, when Jack and I went to Germany, we really wanted to buy a pyramid. Jack said as soon as he set foot in Deutschland, he felt 'home.' We wanted to commemorate the occasion by purchasing a pyramid, a definite reminder of where we come from (I say ‘we’ because I’m a Goetz now, too), and  a very German tradition—but we decided against it and bought the nativity instead. I'm glad Santa remembered Jack's want to have a connection to his culture. 

Turns out Jack loved the gift. 

Jack wants to know when we're going back to Deutschland. Maybe Santa could make that happen next year?

And so did Joe.

True Wonder. How Christmas should be. 

Merry belated Christmas, friends. And thanks to you, Mom, and for all the Tallarigo family (and Dad, too) for showing me the importance of Tradition on this camino  that all of us walk. 

Time After Time

It’s December 9, 2012. Today we’re going to French Lick with Double Trouble to ride The Polar Express. Our plan to spend last evening together in French Lick with Nonna and Papoo watching the kids was thwarted due to The Plague that swept through our house. Such is life sometimes, we’ve learned.

We’ve been married six years today. Let me tell you what comes to my mind most about our big day.

Six years ago today the girls and I were getting ready at 2875, painting nails, drinking mimosas, etc., etc. I was not nervous. I was beyond excited. I believe you guys were hanging out at Schutte’s house, probably talking shop as the married boys gave you advice on how not to screw up and the non-married boys tried to get you to drink [more]. The married boys did a good job. The non-married boys didn’t (thankfully). Who cares, the point is we were both on our way to Togetherness and we each spent the last few hours leading up to it as we would’ve wanted to, relaxing as we each saw fit. Earlier in the day, Mom helped me zip up the dress, do the veil, practice in my way-too-high-heels (at least for me). Dad gave me that beautiful bracelet that I almost never wear because it’s too special. I took pics in front of Mom’s Christmas tree with both sets of parents separately, and my favorite pic of all, with me and Mom and Dad together. As usual, my parents were rock stars and genuinely caring towards one another that day. They even hugged and kissed one another upon Dad and Gaile’s arrival to the house. They may be divorced, but they loved one another enough to make me and that will forever mean something to them. And more importantly, I think, that will forever mean something to me.

Some of the gals, my mom and I. I'm the one in the green, not to be confused with my best friend in the world and matron of honor, Lauren, in the black. Kate is the cute blond to the way left, Colleen, my seester, is the spunky strawberry blond, Maria, my hottie cousin, is in the cream, and my Mom is to the far right.

Six years ago today the girls and I were pacing in the church basement waiting to get the show on the road. There was a lot of laughter, visits from the church above from friends and family, many re-applications of deodorant (I’m such a sweaty mess; this you know well). Finally, it was time to head upstairs. Morgan was singing the girls down the aisle. Mary was playing the flute. I love that they were both a part of our day. As the last few girls made their way to the front of the church, Dad was bracing to walk me to you and Aunt Laverne said to me as we were waiting in the wings, “Oh, honey, Jack looks really nervous. Are you sure he’s ready?” Little did any of us know that you were practically pissing your pants because Fr. Don had STILL not arrived (and when he did, he was asking you twenty questions to prepare for his homily). Dad sloughed her off, pulled us both together, and whispered things that I will not tell you, as what a father tells his daughter at this very moment is sacred. You will find this out with P. It will be the ONE time in our lives I do not beg of you to share with me your words. As the doors to St. Bernard Clairvaux’s church swung open and Dad swept me down to you like the perfect gentlemen, I caught a glimpse of all who were there. I remember vividly who was on the left as we walked down, who was on the right. They were there to bear witness. We did a good job fillin’ the place, Goetz. 

My Dad and My Groom, the two leading men in my life

Dad took me to you and I was so overjoyed that I kissed you. That wasn’t part of the script so you acted kind of confused. A very typical reaction from you, my love. You recovered well, shook Dad’s hand, and off we went. I do not remember the look on Dad’s face—my eyes were glued on you. You will know that feeling, too, with P—the moment that your girl turns her eyes to another man. But I will tell you now, my love, speaking from experience, that it does not mean she loves you any less. In fact, it means she loves you more. Because she knows that your whole life you’ve just wanted to see her happy—and she is. Beyond words.

Six years ago today we listened to the readings and petitions, Fr. Don’s homily, Morgan’s sweet voice filling the church, as if we were the only two there. Do you remember when Doc adlibbed his petitions, asking the congregation to pray for the health of our children—and that they have more hair than you? Do you remember the reading of Adam and Eve becoming one (I could hear the eye rolls of my feminist friends in attendance, but I didn’t care, I love that reading and we picked it out together), thinking how that would be us later that night? Do you remember when Julie’s voice quivered during the Love is Patient, Love is Kind reading? I remember it all.

Doc lamenting your last night of singledom at our rehearsal 

Six years ago today we prayed to Mary together, holding hands and resting our heads on one another. We offered her a bouquet. I will not say what I prayed for, but I think you know because she listened. She also listened when I prayed to her during their births. She continues to listen. She has become my prayer rock. Do you remember when I gave you one of my favorite books, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept? That book is what brought me to Mary. It is no accident our daughter is named Pilar. I think Mary likes us—I hope anyway. She will watch out for us, and help us through whatever lies ahead. I sometimes have to remind her that we are human and to not give us anything we cannot handle.  

Mary listened, Goetz. We've got proof.

Six years ago today we exchanged our vows and you could barely fit my ring finger on my hand. I chuckled when you just kind of left it there, half on. I remember slipping your ring on you and thinking how you became instantaneously even more attractive to me with it on because at that moment you were bound to me, and I to you. To this day, you are much better about leaving your ring on than I am. It suits you well, Goetz, that ring and all that it means. More than you used to let on, maybe even more than you had hoped or imagined—but I knew you always had it in you.

Six years ago today we done did it, we got married. We became the fifth generation of your family to do so in that church in Taylor Creek on Harrison Road. Because we are clutzy and uncooperative, we didn’t leave out the front doors of the church like our photographers wanted to. Oops. It’s alright; they need not capture on film what I had engraved in my mind: I had married my true equal (you’re the chef in the house, I’m on dinner clean-up crew; you do the grocery shopping, I do the laundry; we each do middle of the night feedings because I’m awful at producing booby milk, even though I try my darnedest), my travel soul mate (I’ll get you to Asia, I know I will; Mexico may be up next, or perhaps Spain, Part II), my anchor, my gut check, the only human who can make me laugh during a week like we’ve just had, filled with poop and puke and power outages. There is no picture possible to sum up that for-better-or-for-worse kind of love. It’s not easy, this kind of love—it’s a work in progress, a constant effort, like we always tell our engaged couples. But we are fulfilling our vocation, and there’s no greater satisfaction than that.

Two youngins' at the rehearsal dinner, getting ready to follow our vocation. Who is that young, carefree couple? The rehearsal dinner at Pompilio's, well, ROCKED. They even made a special menu for us.

Six years ago today we went up the street to Twin Lanterns (shortest commute from ceremony to reception EVER, go us!) and got down to business. We entered the reception to the MNF theme (remember when we used to watch every game? Member when we had time and energy to do that?), we cut our cake to ‘Back Home Again…in Indiana,” we had our first dance to “Time After Time” (Chet Baker people, not Cyndi Lauper; we are more classic than 80s…just barely), Lauren and Ryan toasted to our lives together. There was a cheesy video of pics put to music. Peace was made. And then I cut a damn rug and you mingled, because that’s each of our style. I didn’t sit down the whole night and I can count on one hand the number of songs I didn’t dance to. Dang, it was the most fun I’d ever had a wedding, and it was my own. I hope everyone has that much fun at their own wedding. I’m glad we listened to all those people who said not to get hung up in the details or drama—you only get married once and so you gotta make it good. Good we made it, even great. At least we thought so.

Cuttin' the cake. YUM, it was good.

Cuttin' a rug. Watch it now, watch it!

 Six years ago today we went to spend our first night as husband and wife together at the Kingsgate Marriott in Clifton. There will be no discussion of that sacred night, but I will say that I’m glad you went Groomzilla on me, raising Cain about me buying the ivory version of my dress. Thanks to your rant, I took it back and exchanged it for the white version. You were right; we deserved for me to wear white (“All this waiting for you to wear ivory?,” you said). Thank you for making me think twice on that one. And thanks for making the arrangements at Kingsgate, where the next morning we had the World’s Greatest Brunch Buffett. And how cool is it that the first person you introduced me as your wife to was then UC head football coach, Brian Kelly? Pretty damn cool. Nice hustle, Goetz (insert little slap on the toosh here). Side note: Brian Kelly, you’re a traitor.

Obligatory bouquet shot

Six years ago today we began the story of Team Goetz. It’s been the best six years of my life, some days easier than others, some weeks easier than others, some years easier than others. Our first year seemed a piece of cake, no cares in the world. Long walks on weekday evenings, followed by late dinners. Lazy Sundays. Spontaneous weekend road trips. Watching hour after hour of Lost episodes or Dawson’s Creek re-runs (I think it’s alright to tell all that you had a crush on Joey—until she married Maverick, then you thought she was lame and/or crazy). And this last year has been our most challenging. Your parents moved out of your childhood home, the only home you’ve ever known besides ours. We learned my Pawpaw is praying for the Good Lord to take him. A new second job and peaks and valleys with the first. Family drama(s), and family fall-outs followed by put-back-togethers. We hit some growing pains. But without fail, every night when I put one of our kids to bed and say prayers with them, you are first on my list. Without you, I do not have them. More importantly, without you, I do not have us. Without you, I am only half of me. Not in the crazy-and-unstable-I-desperately-need-you kinda way, ‘cos you know it ain’t like that.  That's not my style and even if it were, you wouldn't stand for it. You were attracted to me in the first place because I could stand on my own two feet. And well at that. It's just that I'm infinitely better with you, the same way that you are better with me. You are half of me in the you-are-the-nutella-to-my-graham-cracker, the-oreo-to-my-chocolate-and-vanilla-twist-fro-yo, the-homemade-Ranch-dressing-and-goldfish-to-my-Mother-Bear's-salad kind of way. Any one of those tasty delights is good on its own, but it just isn’t great without the other. It’s like that. 

Happy Anniversary, Jack. Thanks for walking this camino with me. To many more.

The Original Goetz Fam in Le Conquet, France, Spring 2012. In the words of Pooh Bear, "If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus a day so I never have to live without you."