Clubs

For many of us, the frenzy of roasted turkey, pumpkin pies, family gatherings and holiday parades is beginning to fade. I was blessed with a very low-key holiday this year so I had the luxury of time to reflect on gratitude. I am thankful for the usual suspects: my family, co-workers, friends, warmth and food on the table. I am also grateful for clubs. Not the hit-you-in-the-head kind or establishments pulsating with loud music and weird lights. The clubs I appreciate are the ones where two or three are gathered for a common cause. The list is endless. Chess clubs for the analytical folks, bird-watching clubs for those with eyes on the sky, running clubs for people who like to run (hard for me to write run and like in the same sentence), Star Trek clubs for Klingons and book clubs for those who like to read or gather with friends for snacks.

My earliest memory of a club is from my childhood church. We had a girl's club called Calvinettes. Mercifully, the name has changed but the purpose remains the same: equip young women for a life of service to God and others. Each meeting began by standing tall, cinching up our little white club scarves with club embossed leatherette slides and following our leaders in a prayer, Bible verse and theme song. Our leaders were women volunteers from the church. They led very busy lives with many family demands but they stepped up to the plate to give me and my squirrelly little friends a chance to explore who we were and where we were going in life.

One of our favorite club activities was working for badges to be sewn on our scarves. A list of tasks needed to be accomplished before the badge could be issued. During my era, many of the badges dealt with homemaking tasks. I enjoyed cooking and baking so it was not a problem achieving those badges. Knitting and sewing were another story, however. A very longsuffering leader did her best to teach our group how to "Knit one, Purl two". The goal was to create a little dog that could be stuffed and added to our bedroom menageries. Mine looked like a maimed possum in lavender. I thought my sister's dog looked even worse (sorry, sis). Our ever-encouraging leader never gave up on us despite our obvious shortcomings. I suspect she was thrilled when the badgework was completed.

Another badge involved darning socks. For those of you under the age of fifty, darning is the ancient art of repairing holes in socks and other fabrics. Each of us was given a darning egg (think toy rattle without the jingle) and a large needle with chunky thread. It was knitting class all over again for me. The tumor I produced on my sock was not only an eyesore but I am sure a blister waiting to happen if I ever intended to wear the sock. I remember thinking I better get a decent job someday so I could buy new socks instead of darning them.

Most likely, I never personally thanked any of my faithful club leaders. They led our meetings, taught us new skills, chaperoned our outings, planned our parties and genuinely cared for our well-being.  I took their selflessness for granted but I am humbly grateful for their service. They inspired me to go on and achieve my junior counselor rank (came with a snazzy sash) and later, I became a senior counselor for my daughter's club.

So, here is my heartfelt thank you to all of my club leaders. You may have not been able to teach me how to knit but you certainly gave me a place to belong and bloom.

.5

A stranger moved in next door. At least, that was his status five years ago when the For Sale sign was removed from the lawn of the house to the east of our home. I did the snoopy neighbor thing and tried to piece together his identity by the contents of the moving van. It looked as though he was moving in alone and had lived a life of some means. Nothing flashy but nothing too flimsy, either. His gray hair and demeanor indicated a possible retirement status and the large snowblower he unloaded was a sign of Midwestern roots. It looked like he would be a quiet neighbor and I approved.

Soon after his arrival, the neighbor to the south of us shared a morsel of news that changed everything. The new guy had a past and it wasn't pretty.  In fact, our southern neighbor announced his decision to put his home on the market. He did not want his young family exposed to such things. We expressed our sympathy to the young man but we knew in our hearts that moving would not be an option for us, timewise or financially. We were neighborhood oldies and had seen many folks come and go. We were prepared to interact with the new resident with as much grace as we could muster.

Fast forward five years to a dinner party at the home of the couple who purchased the house to the south of us. Seated around the table were four neighborhood couples and one single gentleman. Depending on the juxtapositions of our homes, we knew little or much about each other. Our common denominator was the man with a past.  For two years, he had tried to gather us together so he could treat us to an evening of food and fellowship. As busy schedules would have it, nothing worked out until last week. Introductions and stories began to flow as the melt-in-your-mouth smoked ribs were passed with the homegrown corn and beets. And, of course, no Midwestern meal is complete without cheesy potatoes and thick slices of warm bread.

It wasn't long before we realized how closely related we were in our life experiences and personal connections. We knew mutual friends and relatives. We had visited similar locations in our travels. We endured early career hiccups that have morphed from traumatic to amusing with the passage of time. We cleared many sidewalks for each other after snowstorms. We mourned the loss of youthful vitality and embraced the urgency of capturing joy in life's fleeting moments. Our stories were punctuated by laughter and nods of empathy.

Near the end of our meal, the guy with a past raised his glass in a toast. "When I moved to this neighborhood I was, not unexpectedly, met with opposition. I wondered if I would be able to stay. Gratefully, each of you around this table let me be your neighbor and for that, I say, thank you."

We are Midwesterners, unaccustomed to compliments, but we raised our glasses and thanked our new friend for bringing us together. We all agreed the old adage of six degrees of separation is not really true after all. We are more likely a half degree away from each other. It just takes a dinner party and a few good snowstorms to find that out.