It’s the middle of January, and winter finally came to Denver. I think back now to December, the month you typically wish for snow—especially that magical Christmas snow—and it was dry, dry dry, leaving me in a slightly salty mood throughout the month.(Don’t get me wrong. Christmas is without question my favorite time of the year. So when I say the lack of snow altered my mood, it means my Christmas spirit was diminished from say, an 11 down to a 10).
But diminished it was, and the reason was this: my Christmas nostalgia heavily associates the holidays with falling snow. I grew up in Wyoming, and although the constant wind blew a lot of the white stuff to Nebraska, my visions of Christmases past have snow blanketing the landscape. I recall fluffy flakes dancing from the sky and loading up the record player with Christmas albums, listening to the likes of Bing Crosby and Dean Martin and the Carpenters sing “White Christmas” and “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” and “Sleigh Ride.” My memories are filled with the glow of Christmas lights on frosted bushes and trees. To me, snow = Christmas. That’s what I hope for every year. Continue reading “Throwback Thursday | Nostalgic Childhood Books to Warm Your Winter”
You’ll never run out of things to say about music. Or nostalgia.
If they haven’t written every song there is to write about love and love lost and lost love and also entire continents (Africa, by Toto) and being spun like a record (baby), well, chances are they never will.
Nostalgia has just as many flavors as does music.
I know this, because I could have compiled a five-songs post for every emotion and every emotion in the margin of every emotion. From emo to zany. Instead, I relied on the random nature of the universe (and Pandora) to deliver to me songs that moved something inside.
Here are the five that did, and the emotions (and memories, and of course, the nostalgia) they evoked when I heard them: Continue reading “Sweet Nostalgia: 5 Songs That Move Me Still | Eli @ Coach Daddy”
The other night this little one sat down beside me with a piece of paper and a pencil. She began writing, telling me she didn’t want me to watch.
I smiled to myself, thinking she was likely drawing a picture, wondering what the beautiful result of her marks would be.
But minutes later, when she inched the page over my way with a sad look in her eyes, my smile fell along with my heart.
Butterflies and mermaids weren’t fluttering and flipping on it like I had expected; instead, there were words:
“I’m worried I’m not ready for second grade.” Continue reading “We’ve Got This”
My daughter, Zoey, rests her forehead against the Plexiglas pane of the plane window beside her. Outside, the air is frigid, causing each tiny breath she exhales to leave a piece of itself behind. As if by magic—and much to Zoey’s delight—small, white halos crystallize before her eyes, only to fade as quickly as they’ve appeared.
This simple wonder keeps her occupied, helping the minutes pass, until the engine of the plane rumbles, announcing that our departure will soon take place.
At the sound, Zoey turns to me, her eyes dancing.
“We’re almost there!” she announces in a voice loud enough that surely all the other passengers can hear.
I can’t help but smile.
“Really?” I ask, pointing to the unmoving ground outside the window. “How’s that possible? We haven’t even left yet!”
She gives me a look that suggests I have absolutely no clue what I’m talking about. Continue reading “Week 52: Back to the Heart of it All | Everyday Nostalgia”
The dim light of early day finds me standing in my bedroom, performing what has become an unfortunate morning ritual of mine.
I turn left, then right, and then twist around completely and glance over my shoulder. I feel myself frown as I let out an audible sigh.
I turn my body around one last time, determined to not give up just yet. I try straightening my back to make myself a little taller. I tuck my shirt into the front of my pants, and then, seconds later, I untuck it. I put my hands on my waist and angle myself sideways. I shift my weight from one hip and to the other. Finally, as a last resort, I squint, hoping that if I blur my vision, I’ll feel a little bit better about myself.
But I don’t.
Because staring back at me, in the mirror that hangs over my closet door, is a reflection I simply can’t stand: I see a girl who, just like me, looks completely defeated.
It appears neither of us like what we see. Continue reading “Week 49: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall | Everyday Nostalgia”