Here's to you, Lulu.

wedding day, july 16th, 2005: 

me, steven, aunt lucille, my brother glen, sister-in-law trish, cousin paula, mom, dad

A week ago today, my dear Aunt Lucille left this world.  I can hardly believe it's true that I'll never again hear her say "Christineey-Weenie," her lifelong nickname for me, or the sound of her contagious laugh.  She fought a 3-month battle with lung cancer and in the end, her body just couldn't take it.  "Get me outta here!" were some of her last words to the Catholic priest, Father Owen, who anointed her head with oil as she labored for each breath. He prayed a blessing over her in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, she closed her eyes, and never opened them again.

The day before she passed away, after previously hearing that she was doing well and about to leave the hospital, my brother and I got an unexpected call from my parents.  Aunt Lucille had taken a turn for the worse and was now asking for her last rites and for her family to surround her.  My brother and I tearfully booked the next flight out of Dallas that night, only to frustratingly have our flight canceled at the last minute due to bad weather.  We returned to the airport early Friday morning for the first flight out, and as we were boarding the plane, received the dreaded phone call: "She's gone."  After cursing American Airlines, a haze surrounded me as I realized that I would never see her alive again.  I thought back to my last phone conversation with her in late July - she had giggled a lot in her usual way.  She had sounded totally normal.  Her voice still echoes in my head.

* * *

The sound of laughter and the smell of marinara sauce and meatballs filled the entry way of the house on Kinney Street.  The air outside was chilly in the December New Jersey air.  Bundled in a wool coat and boots, a little girl of age 4 climbed the tunnel-like steps to the second floor apartment of her Aunt Lucille and Uncle Tony.  Her feet could barely reach above each stair, but the comforting aroma led her quickly into the warm home.


It was Christmas afternoon, and about twenty people were already crammed into the tiny kitchen and around the dining room table which was the centerpiece of the family.  It was the site of classic Italian-American meals of baked ziti, homemade meatballs, braciole, and garlicky salad with black olives {and that was just the first course}, along with every dessert you could possibly imagine.  Before dinner, the little girl's favorite thing to do with olives was to put one on each finger and call them "meatballs."   Her favorite Italian cookies were the ones shaped like leaves and shells.  After dessert, the little girl sat on their laps for awhile before going back to the livingroom to lay on her stomach and draw in her Sunshine Family coloring book that her aunt kept for her in the cabinet beneath the coffee table.  Meanwhile, those in the dining room erupted into a game of Pinocle or long conversation over unmarked bottles of red wine made by Uncle Tony...

* * * 

These are some of my most vivid childhood memories.  Most of them include Aunt Lucille, her warm home, and my loving Italian family.   As an adult, there was the long evening we all shared the day after Steven and I got engaged in Central Park.  I remember every moment of that night, how happy we all were, and how they received my soon-to-be husband like he was one of their own.

steven sitting next to aunt lucille in red

aunt lucille laughing

Last weekend, my cousin Paula, Aunt Lucille's daughter, asked me to write the Eulogy to be read at the funeral mass.  How do you capture the beauty of a person's life in 3 minutes from a church lectern?  It doesn't seem possible, but I did my best.  When the service was over, one of her lifelong friends came up to me and said, "You knew her well."
 
Then, we all went back to Paula's house where there was more food than you could imagine - it seemed every five minutes the doorbell rang with another neighbor bringing a tray of baked ziti.  When it was all said and done, every fridge was full of about 15 varieties of ziti and penne.  We enjoyed another meal together, and the warmth in the room was tangible, as always.  Choking back tears, I realized that some things change, and some things never do.

After dinner, I poured myself and my dad each a glass of Cabernet.  We looked at each other, and as if with an unspoken understanding that runs deep in our blood, we clinked our glasses together as a toast. "Here's to you, Lulu!" we said in unison, and threw our heads back and drank.

* * * 

My Aunt Lucille's Eulogy

We had many different names for her: Mom…Lou…Aunt Lucille…Grandma Lulu…Lulu Belle...Lucille. But there was one name we all had in common, and that was family. Even Aunt Lucille’s friends were like her family to her. That is just how she lived life – she was devoted and loyal and would do anything for those she loved. Photographs of her friends and family covered every surface of her home – the walls, her bedroom mirror, the refrigerator, leaned up against knick-knacks on shelves, even stuffed into a sauce pot in the closet. All those smiling faces are evidence of a life well lived, a life where she loved deeply and was deeply loved.

To me, she was “Aunt Lucille,” my dad’s dear sister, and in my 31 years of being blessed to share life with her, she was the epitome of fun, honesty, kindness, and love. I could write an entire book of my wonderful memories and stories of Aunt Lucille, but for now I’ll just focus on how well she loved other people, and how much fun she was to be around.

Aunt Lucille has been taking care of people her entire life. When she was a child, she wouldn’t let her brother Frankie leave the house without being properly dressed. All his clothes had to match – his socks with his tie, his shirt with his pants. As an adult, her home was a place you would always feel comfortable. There would always be a smile for you, and a plate of cookies. There’s no question that this is what Aunt Lucille was put on earth to do. We are all better people because of the way she raised us, taught us, celebrated with us, walked beside us, loved us, and cared for us.

With any decision Aunt Lucille ever made - whether it was going to the grocery store or going on vacation - she always thought about how it would affect her family and others she loved. She was fiercely loyal and serious about her relationships. She was an integral part of the community. Everyone in town knew “Lou” who worked at the Borough and was a part of the Madison and East Hanover communities for almost 70 years. Some of her closest friends - many of you in this room - are friends she had, literally, her entire life.

She walked with us through marriages, divorces, baby births, and graduations. She was shopping partner, travel buddy, confidant, mother, sister, cousin, aunt, grandma, and the best friend you always wanted by your side. She loved fashion and good Chinese food and country music and the beach. Her meatball recipe can probably never be replicated. And who could forget that smiling face? Glowing cheeks, honest, sparkling eyes, wide flashing grin. She was vivacious, full of life…and oh so silly.

Yes, Aunt Lucille loved to laugh almost as much as we loved making her laugh. We would say something funny to get her going and she would giggle and giggle until she begged us, “Stop it! You’re gonna make me pee!” That, of course, only made us laugh harder. Her favorite recliner chair was the site of a lot of crazy antics. We'll never forget the day she decided to relax in her recliner chair and enjoy an ice cream cone. When she went to sit down, she didn’t just sit, she plopped. Well…that day, she plopped a little too hard. The force swung her back and tipped the chair until her back was on the ground and her feet were sticking straight up in the air! “Briiiiiiaaaaan!” she hollered for one of her grandsons to come rescue her. When Brian arrived, there was Aunt Lucille, still stuck on the floor, but holding her ice cream cone desperately in the air like it was the Statue of Liberty’s torch. I wasn’t there that day, but I’m almost 100% sure that when he tipped her upright again, her face was wet with laughing tears.

From Aunt Lucille, we learned how to be better people – how to laugh at life, how to embrace those we love, how to watch over our siblings, and how to treasure our children and grandchildren. So, how can we best remember her?   Go on living.  Go on loving. Be happy for her that she is at peace now, free from pain, and that she’s still doing what she does best, just now in Heaven.

From all of us here left behind, bye bye Lulu. We miss you so very much. Thank you for bringing so much goodness into our lives. We promise to keep laughing and caring and loving and serving each other well, as you taught us to do.

Barbie-sized things.

One of my absolute favorite things about growing up is how much my mother humored me and fostered my crazy imagination. I'm sure every day was something new for her - "Oh dear, what has Christine come up with now?"

"Hello, Dawn," I would say as I descended the stairwell into the dining room. That was how my mom knew that I was no longer Christine but my imaginary alter-ego named "Kim." She would carry on a conversation with Kim as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Mysteriously, Kim would always ask questions about me such as, "So, Dawn...how has Christine been doing on her chores? Has she been good lately?" and then disappear before my mom could lift her head up from the vegetables she was slicing for dinner.

This explains a lot.

There was also the instrument I invented called the "Konoto," which was really just a hardcover "I Can Read" book with "strings" drawn on the cover and then held in my arms like an autoharp. {Do you remember "I Can Read" books? Oh how I loved Frog And Toad!}

But some of my most memorable "toys" were all the everyday items that were "Barbie-sized." That means they were just the right dimension to be life-sized in Barbie world. For example, the little plastic white stand that sat in the middle of a hot cheesy pizza from Rocco's. These, of course, became Barbie end tables for my living room setup where a hot pink and black zebra-print scarf was the rug. And how about the wooden toothpicks with red, yellow, green, or blue fuzzy tips that held sandwiches together at 42 Main Delicatessen? Barbie torches, or sparklers for a 4th of July celebration, of course.

Now, as a grown-up, I'm proud to announce that I have Barbie-sized produce in my garden! Teeny inch-long squash, and baby green tomatoes that will soon be juicy and bright red and difficult to hold in one palm. My favorite of all has to be the baby pea pods. You can stare and stare at the vine for several minutes before you see them, and then all of a sudden your eyes adjust, and you realize that adorable mini pea pods are hanging everywhere! We are definitely going to get more than a single cucumber this year; in fact I'll soon show you what we've already harvested. In the meantime, I'm enjoying each and every stage of growing things.

It's not easy to tell in the photos, but not a single one of these veggies is more than an inch long...

yellow squash - if you click to enlarge it, you can see that the surface is fuzzy!

zucchini

pea pod

tomato

cucumber

green bell pepper

sweet peas - these aren't technically veggies but they remind me of four little girls in dresses on their way to kindergarten

On with the imagination! We are never too old, I say.

Snow, magical snow...

"The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of a world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment, then where is it to be found?"

~J.B. Priestley

My dad sent me this photo that he took standing at the back door of our home in New Jersey, looking out over the backyard. It's a fairytale land!

I miss the snow days of my childhood...bundling up like Ralphie in A Christmas Story with two layers of clothes plus snow pants...building icy igloos with my brother in this very backyard (our favorite fort location was bottom right, behind that tree)...sensing the warmth of our home as we retreated back inside to de-thaw our soaked yarn mittens on the radiator.

Here in Texas, it seems that we only get the cusp of each season - except for summer of course, which is so off the heat radar that it drives you to practically kiss the feet of October, begging for the just the slightest cool breeze to arrive.

In my book, there is just no match for the feeling of expectation that comes the night before a snow storm. What will it be like when I wake up tomorrow? I would wonder as I pulled the covers over my ears. I'd fall asleep to the newscaster's words echoing in my head - "Reports say that a big snow storm will blow in by midnight...we expect to have 24 inches covering the tri-state area by morning...."

And THEN! When morning came, I'd hear muted sounds in the kitchen downstairs...my dad hadn't gone to work! I'd pull back the curtain and open my eyes to see a white wonderland awaiting me in the backyard. YES! It happened!

By this time, all the hills in my small town of Madison had already been fluffing and primping, preparing for the deluge of children whose sleigh marks would soon cover their slopes. Only daredevils headed for the The Madison Golf Club, of course. The slopes there were so steep that with one of those cheapo plastic sleds, you could literally go airborne. My friend Jason and I...we always seemed to have a brush with death whenever we went sledding. There was the time we plowed straight into a thorn bush. Oh, and the other time we got wedged under a parked car, toppled over each other in our sled like dominos. And how could I forget the escapade when we piled into that two-seated-plastic-vehicle-of-death, went airborne towards the bottom of a slope, and flew out horizontally for several feet until gravity kicked in and landed us SPLAT into a ditch on our backs? Uhhhhhh........ That was the day I fractured my tailbone. But oh, we had fun, didn't we?

Here's the view from the front yard now, looking out over the field. Oh, I do miss it...I almost feel like I could reach in and grab a handful of that snow, throw it in the air and let it fall in cool droplets over my hair and nose.

The year of reading and writing.

"Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book."
~Author Unknown

A few days ago, we sent the DISH box away in the mail and said farewell to cable. Stacy and Clinton will miss me, but for now, it's stacks of books and a pen and paper that will occupy my weekend hours....and quiet evenings at home.

It was a decision we'd been mulling over for awhile. As sorry as it sounds, we love our weeknights watching three consecutive hours of television, wasting away the after-work hours entrenched in American Idol auditions and life with the LOSTies. But this season in our lives calls for simplicity. A few years ago, I started begging God for a simpler life...and I got it. Now what will I do with it?

Already, in the last week, we have reaped the many benefits of a life spent with friends, books that are like friends, our own thoughts, and good conversation. We spent a good two hours just sitting on the couch and talking to each other - imagine. And then another hour looking over old love letter emails we sent four-and-a-half years ago, back when "The Baileys" were just a hopeful idea.

There are things I do miss, like traveling through Europe with Samantha Brown, and my favorite cooking shows. I may not be able to 'ooh and 'ahh with saucer-like eyes at Barefoot Contessa's latest chocolate torte, but I feel pretty certain I've seen enough of her indulgent recipes to last me a good long while. At least until the trees turn colors again.

So, this year. The Year of Reading and Writing, we've named it. It's the year when I finally begin my book, with fresh inspiration from Shauna Niequist's Cold Tangerines. I have my own words to write, stories to share. They will not go unspoken.

And an infinity number of books to read. This morning, I held a steaming cup of tea in one hand while with the other I made a list in my journal of all the books I read in 2008...eleven that I could remember. Some of my favorites being Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (which turned out beautifully once I forced myself over a few difficult hurdles, and now I miss it to pieces...), When The Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd, and Sabbath by Wayne Muller.

This year I am going to at least double that. Twenty-two it is...twenty-two books in which to bury my nose, to explore other worlds and lives, and to use as excuses to stay home with some beef stew and a warm blanket (or in the backyard on the hammock).

My list so far...
In Pursuit of Peace by Joyce Meyer
Slow Is Beautiful: New Visions of Community, Leisure, and Joie de Vivre by Cecile Andrews
Irresistable Revolution by Shane Claiborne
Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright
Until He Comes by Calvin Miller
Pilgrim Souls: A Collection of Spiritual Autobiography by Elizabeth Powers and Amy Mandelker
The House on Nauset Marsh by Wyman Richardson
Walden by Henry David Thoreau
The Poet and the Pauper by George MacDonald
Truth and Beauty: A Friendship by Anne Patchett
Perpetua by Amy Rachel Peterson
...a good book about the history of Israel, any suggestions?
...and just for fun, Savannah by the Sea by Denise Hildreth (who, randomly, was my Sunday School teacher for a stint back in college)

Just now, I glanced across the dim livingroom at my contented husband who is buried nose-deep in Same Kind of Different As Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. As he lifts his head every fifteen minutes or so to chuckle out loud at the stories he is encountering on those pages...I know it's going to be a good year for him, for me, for us.

Meanwhile outside, the Dallas weather has turned frigid and rainy into perfect reading/writing weather. Only two days ago on Saturday, I was wearing shorts and planting pansies in pots on the front porch. Now Monday's icy tree limbs have turned into miniature suspension bridges from Lord of the Rings, pushing me further into my desire to write, read, and write some more.

"The best kind of rain, of course, is a cozy rain. This is the kind the anonymous medieval poet makes me remember, the rain that falls on a day when you'd just as soon stay in bed a little longer, write letters or read a good book by the fire, take early tea with hot scones and jam and look out the streaked window with complacency."

~Susan Allen Toth, England For All Seasons

The Year of Reading and Writing...let's begin. At the end of this, I hope to have an expanded view of this world through other people's stories, and maybe a hundred pages to call my own.

A day at the pool.

I've often shared my memories of swimming growing up...and how much I was looking forward to visiting my beloved town pool when I returned to my hometown in New Jersey this summer. Well, I got to spend two glorious late afternoons there...swimming underwater for as long as I could hold my breath.

It has been about 5 years since I was in New Jersey in the summer, a glorious time full of warm days and cool breezes. Summer there reminds me of women toting Land's End beach bags and an evening coolness that brings goose bumps and requires long sleeves after swimming all day.

On this trip, I could barely contain myself as we threw our bags into my mom's car to head for the pool. In my mind, I was 8 years old, ready to do handstands with my childhood friend Tara, and play "exploring" in the tree-covered area while our parents swam, and perhaps eat an ice cream pop (or two) while my hair dried in the sun. What would it be like? Would it be the same?

As soon as we arrived and claimed our parking spot by the woods, I heard the familiar sounds of my childhood - the diving board banging against the poles followed by a big SPLASH!, the bell of the Good Humor truck, and laughs of children sitting on the Three Big Rocks eating their pops on wet towels. Yes, it's been exactly the same for over 30 years. And I love that.




Once inside the pool gates, my mom and I claimed a spot on the grass in our usual location, surrounded by some of the same families who have been spending summer there since I was a child. It may seem a little overly sentimental or perhaps a bit dramatic to be this passionate about a pool. What is so special about it? Well, for one, it's the symbol of summer. Its opening heralds the arrival of longer warmer days, and its closing signals the start of a new school year and new possibilities. It's also colossal, bigger than any pool you've ever seen...with slides you would find at a water park, Olympic-size lanes, games like badminton and tether ball, and parties, and community, and personal history for so many people in this town.

Today, I stood on the edge of the 5 feet area and adjusted my swimsuit, about to make my maiden dive in several years. Almost 31 years after I first entered these waters, it was as if I was looking at a reflection of my own life. How many times had I stood in this exact spot, at all different ages, sizes, and good grief...bathing suits?

I dove in, feeling just like the girl in "A Moment of Clarity". I soared down to the bottom and felt my fingers and stomach brush the white concrete floor. My shadow swam along with me. We swam. And swam and swam and swam.

It was so quiet under there.

When I rose to the surface, I looked around for my mom. Not surprisingly, she was already fully engaged in her laps, the tip of her side-ponytail-braid skimming the top of the water with each stroke.

It's been so long that she and I swam together. She asked me if I would show her my freestyle, so she could be sure I "still knew how to do it." I indulged her without hesitation, taking a deep breath and showing her my most perfect 4-strokes-and-a-breath, 4-strokes-and-a-breath. When I came up for air, she was smiling.

At some point in my teens, I remember going through a stage when I declared that going to the pool was "dumb." Maybe it was rebellious adolescence combined with feeling awkward in a bathing suit, but those days I didn't want to swim anywhere near my mom and I got impatient with her, begging her to get out of the water before the last whistle blew at closing time at 7:30pm. She was always the last person left in the pool.

Today, I was chatting beside her as we swished our arms through the water and fluttered our feet, hoping that 7:30pm wouldn't come too quickly.

We began to reminisce about some of our memories here, and I unearthed one of her less favorable ones, which happened the last time I was here 5 years ago. The water slide. In her Jersey accent she quickly retorted, "Neva again! You know what happens when I go down that slooide!"

Boy, do I know! I'll never erase that image from my mind.

I had brought my friend Suz from Nashville to New Jersey for a short trip, and we were excited about going to the Moonlight Swim, one of several nights that the pool is open after dark for you to swim and bring water floats and listen to live music. That night, Suz and I were feeling bold and challenged my mom to go down the giant water slide in the diving tank.

I have to preface this by saying that my mom does not EVER go underwater due to an almost-drowning incident as a child. But that evening...for some reason...she accepted our challenge and went down that twisty tall slide in this photo, the image of which has now become legend.

Suz and I stood in the lap lanes across the pool, ready for the show. My mom climbed the stairs and paced back and forth a few times uncertainly before giving us a last nervous glance and sitting down to launch herself from the top. Then she was off...hidden from our view for 1 second...2 seconds...3 seconds....4 seconds...(seemed like a million seconds) in the twists and turns until we saw her emerge at the final turn. In a matter of seconds, her appearance had somehow completely changed from when she had started at the top: Her side ponytail was smashed and soaked. She was trying desperately to sit up but was kind of teetering on one hip, trying to keep herself from laying on her back. Even from afar, we could see that blue eyeliner was smeared under her eyes and running down her face. Her face held a look of sheer terror. Her arms were spread out to the side to brace herself before the final SPLASH.

Suz and I were laughing so hard we couldn't breathe.

The unforgiving slide then dumped her into the diving tank at full speed. We waited a few seconds, holding our breath until she finally floundered to the surface. We clapped and yelled cheers for her from across the pool. In fact, I think the whole crowd was cheering! Dawn Piccione had gone down the slide and lived to tell about it.

She emerged from the diving tank, hair matted and dripping wet and stomped across the deck with an "Are you happy now??" look on her face. She then started giggling along with us. That is one of the reasons I love my mom.

Just remembering the story today, she reminded me that she was "NEVA doing that again, so don't even ask". But that's OK. Because today I appreciate this place for what it is....and I appreciate time with my mom because it won't last forever.

The lifeguards blew their whistles at 7:30pm, just like always. I climbed the ladder out of the water and turned around to look at the unbroken, peaceful waters. We wrapped towels around our waists like two mermaids and lef the pool together, soaking wet and happy.

The welcoming of Summer.

"A Moment of Clarity" by Eric Zener

"Then followed that beautiful season...

Summer....

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood."
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Memorial Day weekend, although not technically summer yet, always rings in the summer season for me. Of course, it's the inaugural weekend of the Madison Community Pool in my hometown of Madison, NJ. It's the weekend that throngs of children and their weary parents have been waiting for – ready for a break and some freedom splashing, doing handstands, playing Marco Polo, and eating ice cream while sitting on a wet towel. As I lay here in my hammock writing this, my parents are probably there at the pool now, living out another one of thousands of warm summery days they - and I - have spent there. Yes, at this moment, my dad is probably floating on his back flashing my mom a goofy grin as only his toes and head stick out of the water. And surely my mom is doing her water aerobics, the ever-present side ponytail bouncing in the wind.

Usually Steven and I travel up to New Jersey in autumn now (a season which is equally memorable there in its own way), and it's been several years since I was in Madison in the summer, for one of my mom's impeccably-planned Moonlight Swims, as she is the pool's social director. But this year, I get to travel home in June, and the main thing I'm looking forward to is going to the Madison Pool. I'm already imagining how wonderful it will be to swim underwater exploring the thousands of square feet of underwater caverns, just like I did when I was 10.

You see, a few weeks ago, we found out my dad's health was threatened, and I am going home to New Jersey to be there during his surgery. It's not the greatest reason to return home, but I'm really anticipating this trip in an odd way. It's scary to face one of your parents potentially being ill, and there's something about it that forces you to see life differently, to say the least. The wonderful news is that after the surgery, my dad should be well. But now, I hold even more tightly to memories of him. Swimming with my dad, bracing myself on his slippery back as he toted me around the pool like a submarine, is one of my favorite memories. And I hope I get to enjoy summer with him for many more years until he is old and his Cheech Marin mustache is gray and he can still carry me on his back in the water.

"Metamorphosis" by Eric Zener

As you can probably tell from the absence of posts here lately, I've felt mostly uninspired. When I have felt inspired, I haven't been able to get out the words that are floating around my head. But somehow I can always write about this. Summer runs deeply in my blood, and the enjoyment of it will never fade until I'm 90 years old, wearing a Granny bathing suit and bathing cap with a plastic flower over the ear. In between now and that time, I want to live my life excited about summer each year, as I am now, and as I always have been.

"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language."
~Henry James

I'm off to my friend's pool with Steven, to drink some icy cold cream soda with my feet dangling in the water. Wishing you rest and joy this weekend as you anticipate summer, wherever you are.

Home.

[I've had a bit of writer's block lately. So I decided I'm not going to think so much about what to write and just write. And since my blog is called Dreams of Simple Life, I think it’s only appropriate that I talk a bit more about simple life and what exactly that means to me...]

When you grow up in a small town, I think the desire for the simple life always lives in you. It certainly does inside me. And there isn't much I can do to shake it.

This is the home that held the first 17 years of my life. This is where I lived amongst the Italian immigrants in my neighborhood, waking up to the sound of a bat hitting a baseball 9 out of 10 days in the spring, a sprinkler head click-click-clicking in the summer, rainbows of leaves falling to the ground in the fall, the sound of a snow shovel scraping the driveway on a wintry Saturday morning.

It's a home with window-unit AC and radiators because that's all you really need to stay cool or warm in a small cottage. After playing in the snow, we layered our wet mittens and scarves on the radiator until they were dry and toasty warm.

It just occurred to me while writing this that I'm close to having lived more of my life outside of that house than inside of it. I don’t get many chances these days to visit this adorable house on Myrtle, although my parents still live there as if nothing has changed. And you know, not much has. My Cabbage Patch Kid, Carrie, is still perched atop the pink pillows on my bed, waiting for me.

Madison is the picture-perfect-small-town, whose locals gather at the Nautilus Diner every Saturday morning and talk about who’s marrying whom, the new addition that so-and-so put on his house, and how the CJ's Deli team did in Little League last weekend. There's no rush-hour traffic unless you count the long line of cars and vans stacked outside the elementary school at 3:15pm.

Madison is a town that you don't appreciate growing up because it's so small and not much happens and so you go away to college far away, vowing never to return. And then four years later, you can't wait to return to settle down and before you know it, you've been a teacher at the elementary school for 20 years. It's a unique place where I can't imagine my parents not living, and I hope they never move away.


So many memories are hidden in this hometown of mine...

~ Creeping inside my mom’s closet at age 2 and emerging with her high-heels on the wrong feet and a mischievous grin on my face.

~ Watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade every year with my grandfather, “Poppy” and listening to his stories of working in classy New York City in the 1920s.

~ Futile attempts to tackle my (9 1⁄2 years older) brother while he watched WWF, only for him to bust out the Figure 4 Leg-lock or Flying Jimmy Snuka and effortlessly pin me to the floor.

~ My poor parents wrestling with me during one of my many temper tantrums as a child, including the famous time I stuck a piece of chalk up my nose.

~ Many late-night snacks of Entemann’s donuts and milk and toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the island in the kitchen with my Daddy.

~ My friend Debbie and I spending endless hours building a miniature suspension bridge out of balsa wood for 12th grade Physics, complete with a mini bungie jumper hanging from a rubber band.

~ Mom and I planning our exotic mother-daughter trips during one of our brisk bike rides through the neighborhood.

~ Mourning when our pets Dutchess, Topaze, Chelsea, and Oreo went to animal heaven.

~ Facing my first breakup as I cried on the floor of my bedroom closet.

~ Receiving my acceptance letter to Belmont University.

~ Playing in the driveway many a summer evening - hopscotch, chalk drawings, and my bike with training wheels and streamers.

"You can never go home again,
but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."
~Maya Angelou

More memoirs about my small town here and here.

"It has to cost you something."

A little over a week ago, I returned from a pre-Christmas trip to Nashville. I left Dallas on a Saturday morning and trekked 600+ miles in my VW Rabbit with my new Colbie Callait CD as company. The best part about the drive was that the entire state of Arkansas smelled like burning wood. I opened the moon roof and inhaled the luscious scent for a good 4 hours. Heavenly.

I was anticipating this trip to Nashville more than usual because it meant that on Sunday I was going to be reunited with an old friend, Regan, who I met in the summer of 1995 when I had just graduated high school. Regan was from Alabama and was the cool, older summer missionary who worked with our youth group that summer. We were intrigued by her accent and vice versa. She and I were both creative types and immediately kindred spirits. I was 17, and she was 19, and we stuck together that summer driving to the Jersey Shore in the big 'ole hooptie that a church member had loaned her. She invested in me and was the first person who helped me realize I didn't just draw or paint, but I was an artist.

So I left for college, we kept in touch when we could, and then 10 years ago, we suddenly lost touch. I wondered about her a thousand times since, not only because she is a uniquely beautiful person, but because her very presence in my life was a turning point that God used to completely form my future. "If I hadn't met Regan, then _______" - insert about a million things that wouldn't have happened if not for her, leading me all the way up to this day, sitting in Dallas as Mrs. Bailey. But mostly, I missed her and wanted to find her again in this life.

I'm not sure what it was this past May that finally prompted me to Google her name. But in two clicks, I had found her, where she worked, and her email address!! That day, we reconnected over email and were simultaneously shocked by how amazing/scary the Internet is and the incredible timing of our virtual reunion. As I poured out the summary of the last 10 years and explained how much she has contributed to my life, tears filled my eyes. We vowed to meet up the next time I was in Nashville.

And we did! This trip! We reunited at Fido in Hillsboro Village with a long hug and exclamations of,"Oh my goodness, you look the same, but different!" Then, over egg breakfasts, we shared our real 10-year-stories of both joys and struggles. It didn't take long to realize that after all these years, we were still us, just seasoned, a little bit changed. Since the last time I knew her, I have realized that the cookie-cutter Christianity I once thought was real, actually wasn't. And as I finished sharing the struggles I had walked through the past few years and how I had learned true faith and surrender through those things, she said something that impacted me deeply: "Well, Christine, it has to cost you something."

It has to cost you something. Wow. How true that is. I sat there for several minutes drinking it in. Of course it does. True faith, true authentic faith has to. Not until many of my dreams were stripped from me, until I had to give something up, did I find the peace that can only come without them.

Then I realized how ironic it was that I was having this conversation in a coffeeshop in Nashville, because my life there was the very epitome of "easy" and "ideal". Nashville has cost a lot of people I know "something". For me, things were so good that it skewed my reality and raised my expectations so high that it was hard to deal with "normal" after that. For others, it has cost them years of dream-searching. For others, years of waiting for the right man while they continue to get jerked around by the non-committal "Nashville guy." However, I'm not saying cost is bad; I'm saying the opposite - it has to be that way. Thank God for the cost - I wouldn't be where I am today without it.

So, Regan and I left Fido and spent the rest of the day as if no time had passed, eating lunch, shopping, and strolling the Belmont Campus. Without a doubt, it was worth the wait.

The rest of the trip was filled with more incredible times with old, dear friends...

This is where Suz lives in downtown Franklin. Can you say "Family Griswold"? :) That's her cute apartment balcony on the top right...



Suz is a total stud-ette. A few days before this photo, she broke some boards with her fists and a sidekick at her martial arts class! I love how feminine she looks in this picture, and then with her bad-a** busted lip!



Me, Suz, and Christina before the lovely Christmas concert of one of my favorite bands of all time, Over the Rhine at the Belcourt. I'm not ashamed to say we all had crushes on Karin Bergquist, along with every other guy and girl in the room.


Then it was off to the enchanting Opryland Hotel for my yearly tradition with Angela & Christy, and her two adorable kiddies, Caleb & Emily! In 12 years of knowing each other, we've only missed one Christmas!




Even though it's sometimes hard to return to you, Nashville, you are still good to me.

It smells like Kibera.

I was washing my car the other evening, and I smelled Kibera in the air.

The pungent scent of burning wood - in the U.S., that's a scent usually reserved for the chilliness of fall. It's a comforting, cozy aroma conjuring up memories of football games and holidays. But here, the smell of burning wood is usually not present in the midst of blazing summer stickiness. As Steven tossed old branches from the recent rain storms into our backyard firepit, I, in the front yard, was not thinking much about autumn or Dallas, TX...

As the low-lying sun cast a goldenness all around me, I stood there with washrag in one hand, recalling the day I first stepped foot on the chaotic streets of India and the dirt roads of Kibera, the biggest slum in East Africa. That burning smell. The beads of sweat all over my body. Gazing down at my feet, I realized I was wearing the same brown sandals that had touched both of those third-world soils. Whatever they are burning there in the slums - trash, wood, food - it's a scent you don't soon forget.

But it's not just that. It's the activity of life - a very different kind of life - swirling around you...this beautiful mess of smiles, poverty, laughter, need, and desire.

I remember experiencing this as I strolled down Kibera road with Moses on my left and Peter on my right, two of the teenage orphan boys who live at our Calvary Youth Hostel there. Moses and Peter were great conversationalists, inquiring about my life in America. "We heard that everyone goes to college there. Is that true?" I thought about how much I took my college studies for granted and felt ashamed, as they were desperate for a chance to get any kind of higher schooling. But as much as our lives were different, I felt like we were friends.

During our stroll, we passed shanty shacks selling meats and vegetables that seemed hardly edible. We meandered through trash and human waste flowing quietly along the red caked dirt road. We passed children in half-shirts and naked bottoms who waved joyously. And of course, we smelled the stench of burning wood and felt the perspiration trailing down on our faces.

What is it about this place that draws you back? It was filthy, frightening, and despicable. Yet, it was joyous, hopeful, and shimmering. Perhaps what is compelling about these poverty-stricken places is that they are drastically different than where I am standing here in Dallas, TX. Yet the people I visited there were yearning for hope and life just as much as I.

Priceless.

Thanksgiving - November 22, 2003 from The Cowarts on Vimeo

Where the streets are paved with gold...

My grandfather left his home of Paceco in the area of Trapani, Sicily in 1920 because he heard that in America, the streets were paved with gold. Not only is it a bit surreal seeing his name on the original ship manifest from the "F. Palasciano" which carried him to his home in the New World, but it’s almost impossible for me to imagine leaving such a gloriously beautiful place as Sicily for the hustling-bustling streets of New York City. I guess I can thank Grandpa Stefano Piccione for being hopeful and naïve enough to make the journey.

As I ponder my heritage and admire this vibrant photo of a port in Trapani, my heart jumps. Look at that water. I can almost hear it lapping against the boats and smell the espresso brewing at a nearby waterfront café. I stare at it again and again and can't help but think...could there be a tangible reason I yearn for "la dolce vita"? A pre-disposition to living in a small waterside town where the sun beats strongly year-round, the square (or piazza!) is the town gathering place, and the passeggiata is the "big event" of the evening? Maybe the reason I treasure experiences and places like these is that they run in my blood...literally.

My grandfather passed away when I was 2, so I never had the chance to sit with him over a cup of strong coffee and ask him if he ever missed his Italian home. Unlike his granddaughter, this gruff family man whose hands only knew hard labor would not have pined away for the life that he left behind...at least not outwardly. I do know that he became a brick-layer, married an Italian-American New Yorker named Maria, and they settled in tiny Madison, NJ, "The Rose City," where I grew up and where my parents still happily reside. I also know my grandfather fiercely loved his children: my aunts Lucille and Paula, and my dad Frankie. I hear Grandpa could eat an entire pound of pasta by himself in one sitting, ate 4 sandwiches for lunch, made his own red wine, loved playing Pinocle, and smoked 10 packs of cigarettes a day (yes, that's 200 cigarettes...), yet he left this world with perfectly healthy lungs.

There are no streets paved with gold in Madison, but it was a lovely place to grow up. I did not always feel that way. As a child, I ungratefully resented the fact that I was a dark-haired Italian-American. I had weight issues stemming from our carb-loving family genetics. I was literally from the "other side of the tracks." My family was blue-collar. Unlike several of my close friends, we didn’t have sitting rooms or a butler’s pantry. We spent summer nights eating hotdogs at the picnic table in the backyard. My dad always had grit under his nails. Everyone on my street had a last name that ended in a vowel.

This is the tiny house where I grew up in the immigrant part of town. Across the street are three sprawling baseball fields, and to this day, the old Italian neighborhood men never miss a chance to hike up their britches and play some Bocce ball on a Sunday afternoon! And you know, there is something respectful about the fact that these men are still the working class people, the day-laborers of the town. They're the men who build the playgrounds and keep the town parks manicured. They provide the fresh meats and produce. They keep the school cafeteria floors polished. They coach our teams. I definitely took it for granted while I was there, and I regret that now. So what if I didn't grow up like the kids on "the hill"? There seems to be a beautiful simplicity about the way we lived.

Somewhere between childhood and leaving for college, I became a young lady, and with that came an adoration of the place I called home for the first 17 years of my life...and the homeland where my family history began. Having been to Italy, I understand now where this simplicity of life was birthed. A little over 3 years ago, I stepped foot in Milan with my mother and knew that, in a way, I was "home." This is a bit hard to put into words, but I finally felt like there was part of Who Christine Is that was explained once I had been to Italy. Not explained through words, but through experiences.

Just so I never forget, and since this blog is supposed to be about the "simple life," I thought I'd share a few of my favorite memories of Italy. May you enjoy them too.

Piazza San Marco in Venice.
One of my all-time favorite memories. Accordions playing in the background….the glorious St. Mark's Basilica against the bluest dusk sky as the sun is setting. At the close of the day in magical Venezia, a few couples start dancing in the middle of the square where the pigeons play.

Corniglia in the Cinque Terre.
We left our car at the entrance of this tiny medieval town and were immediately transported to another time. The golden Ligurian Sea glowed in the distance, and the only sounds were church bells and birds chirping. As we strolled through this little town at dusk, villagers resting peacefully on wooden benches called out a friendly, "Buona Sera!" At the edge of the town were rows and rows of olive groves and lemon trees. The constant smell of honeysuckle. No tourists. Time stood still. My mom and I stepped through narrow alleyways, stopping outside one family’s house to savor the sounds of Italian conversation and the clank of utensils on their pottery plates. At the inn/restaurant in his photo, we dined on a patio overlooking the ocean and received a personal Italian lesson by the owner, who taught me how to say, "I love my mama!"

Rosa & Annarella. On the journey from Sorrento to Rome, we were supposed to change trains at the tiny station in Casserta, but there were no more trains to Rome that night. Suddenly frightened and abandoned at midnight with our colossal luggage bags and my mom with her bright blond ponytail, we might as well have been wearing signs that said, "American Tourists...please take us for all we're worth." Then these two sweet Italian angels named Rosa and Annarella befriended us. Since I only knew a few Italian words, I spoke French to them, and they understood! They led us safely to a nearby hotel where we stayed for the night. Here we are...the Italian sisters :).

Sorrento's Treasure. Sorrento is a small city on the bay of Napoli and from its shores, you can clearly see Mt. Vesuvius. On the shores of Sorrento, I found a treasure. Thousands and thousands of clay tiles in every color imaginable, smoothed by the ocean and resting peacefully in the pebbled sand. Disguarded pieces of tile flooring from coastal homes, or perhaps shards of pottery from urns that once graced flowered patios, these were literal fragments of someone's memories. I spent about an hour there and left with my pockets full. Today, some of them are displayed in a glass jar in my bathroom, and the rest are stowed safely away, waiting to be used for the perfect craft project...perhaps a mosaic table, mirror, or countertop. I will know when the time is right to use them.

* * *

This September, a Beginner's Italian class is being offered at the Italian Club of Dallas. I'm strongly considering finally learning the language of my grandfather Stefano, my grandmother Maria, and so many relatives before them. It's my only way to feel close to them now and to understand more deeply the simple life they lived...and the life I strive to live.

Chlorine & Dried Popsicles.

{This is a republishing of the very first article I ever wrote on this blog, entitled "Summer & the Simple Life in Madison, NJ". I recently rewrote it and submitted it as a memoir to our town paper, The Madison Eagle.}

Chlorine & Dried Popsicles:
A Memoir of Summertime in Madison

I grew up in a town where I knew my neighbors, their kids and their grandkids. In this small suburb, we could feel free to knock on our neighbor’s door to borrow milk for pancakes when all the stores were closed on Thanksgiving morning. In fact, I don’t remember a time that we ever locked our doors or thought twice about striking up a conversation with a stranger passing by.

I grew up in Madison, and summertime always reminds me of its breezy, carefree days. My family knew both of our next-door neighbors well: coincidentally, they were both older Italian couples with husbands named Joe. On one side we had the Marano's and on the other side, the Romano's. Summer was as perfect as it could be. I woke up to the crack of a Little League bat hurling a ball onto one of the three baseball fields across the street from our home, since the windows were always wide open to let in the fresh air. Summer meant riding my pink bike with streamers on the handles up and down the driveway while my mom gardened in the front yard and my dad grilled hotdogs. But most importantly, summer meant the privilege of spending every sun-kissed day at the Madison Community Pool. As late morning approached, mom would call upstairs and see if I was ready to go. Are you kidding? Of course I was! I'd grab my already-prepared beach bag and jump into her '70s Camaro, ready for another day bathing in the sun, playing with friends, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Herbie the Ice Cream Man.

We always drove the same route to the pool: past all the Italian homes on our street, left on Ridgedale past the historic homesteads, right on Fairview, down the hill to the corner of Central where the huge, ancient Victorian was poised majestically, across Central, around the curve, past the soccer field and...oh yes…

As we swerved into the parking lot, I could already hear the sound of the diving board flubbering on the metal supports as someone plunged into the diving tank and as the crickets sang from the thick woods on the other side of the pool fences. My nose caught the scent of chlorine mixed with dried popsicles, a smell that can only be characterized as the stickiness of summer.

To my chagrin, Mom always parallel-parked at the farthest possible spot from all other cars so no one would hit her precious Camaro. So I had to stomp in the weeds as I shimmied out of the car with only my bathing suit, beach bag, and a dry towel wrapped around my waist. Woe to the day I forgot my sandals and had to draw in my breath and run on barefoot tippy-toes across the burning asphalt in a race for the front entrance, my mom clomping behind me in her wooden Dr. Scholls.

The entrance to the pool was a monument to my childhood. To the left, there was the grassy picnic area next to the bike rack, worn with tire marks from the ice cream truck's daily pit-stop. Right in front of the entrance sat a grass island in the middle of the circle drive which was home to the flagpole and glimmering “three big rocks.” These three big rocks were not only boulders; they were daily visiting spots, gossiping points, and home bases for freeze tag. They also had the world's stickiest surface due to years and years of drips from Creamsicles and Toasted Almond Good Humor Pops.

So past the rocks, and in we'd go. My heart raced: which lifeguard would be at the entrance checking badges today? Would it be the cute senior guy from Madison High who I had a crush on at age 8? Regardless, all guards had the same demeanor at the entrance: feet propped up next to the cash register on the desk and whistle on a chord double-wrapped around the neck like a choker (which my friends and I thought was SO cool and would imitate as soon as we got home). Upon being asked to show my membership badge, I would proudly expose my upper left hip where my badge was pinned to my one-piece, then walk a few steps further under the portico and remove my sandals (if I hadn't forgotten them). Why did I always remove my sandals within a few steps of the entrance? "NO FOOTWEAR ON DECK." This sign was glaringly obvious, and everyone who ignored it was harkened by a guard and asked to remove their sandals promptly, or else.

The best time to arrive at the pool was when it opened at 10 am. The guards were just taking their stands, and the water was clear and unbroken. There were few people there, except for that one old lady with the leather skin whom, if I didn't know better, I would believe had actually taken up residence in the women's locker room so she could be the first and last one there every day. The first important decision of the day was where we would "set up camp." We always sat on the parking lot side. Mom would set up her lawn chair, I would lay my towel on the grass next to her, and we'd both set off for the water. Once my mom stuck her first toe in the water, you were not getting the lady out unless she absolutely had to go to the bathroom or occasionally, for a badminton match. The "mer-woman" could swim for almost 8 hours straight, filling her time with laps, jogging in the water as her side ponytail swung from side to side, and chatting with the guards. Yes, Mrs. Piccione was well-known in these parts, and dare you hurry her out of the pool when the last whistle blew at 7:30 pm, or you were in danger of receiving a really dirty look and being kicked off staff by the manager, Al.

Before I entered the water, I'd usually scan the pool from right to left, awed by its enormousness. So many possibilities! First there was the kiddie pool and tire playground with the tetherball and volleyball/badminton courts in the far distance, then the 2-ft. and 3-ft. areas with the small winding water slide, and the blue and white twisted rope which sectioned off the 4-ft. area where most of the “big kids” swam. It was so vast that I could yell across the pool to my friend, but she wouldn't hear me as she dove in to do another handstand! Past the 4-ft area was the real temptation for all little kids like myself: the exclusive "adult-badge-required" 5-ft. lap lanes where diving was allowed. Yes, it was a celebratory occasion of childhood when I passed my "deep water test" and was allowed to swim under the rough blue and white rope with the attached mini buoys to the adult badge area. I'll never forget my first time in those forbidden waters. It almost felt like snooping around my parents' bedroom when they weren't home.

However, beyond the adult lap lanes was something even greater still...the glorious crown jewel of Madison Community Pool: the diving tank.

You must really understand the diving tank in order to appreciate it. Being 12-ft. deep, this colossal chlorinated punch bowl was only for the brave. I started on the low dive, then the medium dive, but it was the pinnacle of summer the day I first jumped off the towering high dive. I remember jumping off so many times in a row that the bottoms of my feet were blazing from the impact later that night. And then there was the sweet victorious day when I actually did a dive off the high-dive. Deep breath…hands together in a fist over your head....stand on the edge....keep your arms straight and strong...then slowly tip your body forward and let it go over the edge head-first. The first impact was like diving straight onto concrete....but I did it! And after the first time, I couldn't stop doing it again and again.

[The above picture is how the diving tank looks today...sadly, they've removed some of the diving boards :(...]

One of the best games to play with friends in the diving tank was to yell out a question right as the other person jumped, and the jumper had to answer it before her face went underwater. This was best played on the medium dive. I'd wait in line for my turn, trying to anticipate what question I might be asked and plan out how I was going to jump high enough to have time to answer it. But no matter how much planning any of us did, it seemed we could never finish our answers in time, which of course made the game even more hilarious!

The Other Girls: "Say your full name and address!!"
Me: (Jumping as high as possible in a cheerleader-like split) "Christine Piccione! 43 Myrtle Avebbbbbbbbbbbbblllllllll......"

One big SPLASH! Everyone would then start giggling until I popped my head up gasping for air. I would climb out of the now-turbulent waters, flatten the stomach on my one-piece to release the big air/water bubble, and head to the back of the line for another round.

One event that kids at MCP could count on every single day was a visit from Herbie the Ice Cream Man. As soon as we heard the jingling bell signaling the Good Humor truck's arrival in the parking lot, utter anarchy broke out as children of every age jumped out of the pool, grabbed their towels, abandoned tether ball courts, mowed down their parents, and left the swimming area in swarms in an effort to be the first one in line to see Herbie (I learned the hard way to secure my ice cream money ahead of time so I didn’t have to waste time fumbling in my mom's purse as other kids trampled me in the mass exodus). Once I got to the truck, I was surrounded by wet hair, wet towels, the scent of runny suntan lotion, and often, wet bottoms brushing the sides of my hips, as I pondered what I was going to order that day.

Herbie had a very endearing stutter and was always wearing a buttoned-up white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, even in the dead of summer. He remembered our names, even when he saw one of us outside of the pool environment at a town baseball game or on the side of the street in one of our neighborhoods. He seemed to have an affinity for Cherry Bombs and always suggested those to the indecisive kids. Herbie was someone you could count on, growing up in Madison in the ‘80s.

After we'd received our selections from our beloved Herbie, my friends and I would head to the three big rocks with our sugary delicacies, our towels wrapped around our waists, or, if we were feeling naughty, twisted into a painful wet whip. We'd spread our towels on the burning rocks as to not singe our buns in the midday heat. Then, I would slowly open the paper wrapping and take that first delicious bite into the crumbly goodness of the Toasted Almond. My favorite bites were those beginning ones before hitting the stick…even though hitting the stick was special in this case, because that meant you were that much closer to your potential prize....a stick that contained the magical words, "One free Good Humor pop." What a joyous occasion this was...because it meant not one, but TWO, treats that day. If I was the winner, I would head victoriously back to Herbie's truck and order another (perhaps a Chocolate Eclair this time)...and always pretend it was my first in case my mom happened to see me!

After ice cream, I'd return to the pool area and relax on my towel for a little while. If I wanted to play badminton, my mom would get her pruny self out of the pool and join me. Sometimes as the day got later, around 4 pm or so, my dad and brother would come by. I remember my heart jumping when I saw them walking across the parking lot, because this meant that I could get piggybacks in the water from my dad and launches across the pool by my brother (which I secretly loved even though I screamed when he did it).

By 7 in the evening, I was finally tired of swimming, my lips were purple, and the sun was sulking lower in the sky. At this point, I would retire to our "camp" and sprawl out on mom's lawn chair, eating snacks like sesame sticks, carrots, and golden raisins that had been hiding deep in her pool bag. My hair would dry knotty and curly and chlorine-filled as I reveled in another day of carefree summer life.

At 7:15 pm, the guards started making their rounds and cleaning the deck. I loved to lie back on the lawn chair, close my eyes, and listen to the swishing sounds. They always had a system for cleaning the deck: one guard had a big bucket and would scoop up water from the pool and pour it on the deck. The other guard then took a big push-broom and swept the water all over the deck to the edge until it soaked into the grass. Sometimes I'd follow them all the way around the pool and dance on the edge of the grass, trying not to let the water touch my toes. At 7:30 pm, the loudspeaker clicked on and the announcement came, "Attention: The Madison Pool is now closed. Lifeguards, please clear the pool." The guards could not stand up quickly enough and blow their whistles in unison to signal that it was now time for everyone to get out of the water so they could go home and party the summer night away with their high school friends.

After a day at the pool, we headed home in our damp bathing suits…all except for my mom who kept her trusty navy blue sweatshirt in the bowels of her pool bag to wear over her suit. Blue sweatshirt, swimsuit, and Dr. Scholls...nothing else on the bottom.

Fast-forward to 2006, and the Madison Community Pool is thriving more than ever, attracting more and more families each year. My mom is the Social Chair on the Board of Trustees, planning parties and family events for the summer season. Although I live in Texas now and don't have a community pool, I still leave part of myself there each summer. Walk through the lobby on any given day and look for a colorful posterboard sign decorated with markered mini-pineapples, hula girls, or music notes advertising the next Madison Community Pool "Moonlight Swim" or other family event. Each poster is a DreamMore.com original and my contribution to a place that characterized my whimsical summers.