Meetinghouse: Putting on my cap and gown to cross the stage of life →

Many moments in my life have been capped off by a graduation. I’ve graduated from Daisy Girl Scouts to Brownies, from Brownies to Junior, and so on. I’ve graduated from fifth grade, eighth grade, 12th grade and college.

For all of these milestones, I’ve celebrated with people who mean the world to me. They have been there to support and encourage me, no matter what the occasion may be. But when I take a true look at my life, I’m most proud of graduating from everyday life events and life changes.

Over the years, I’ve graduated from learning how to tie my shoes, from learning how to share my toys with others, from following recipes in a cookbook and from driver’s education. I’ve graduated from relationships – whether with boys or with old friends, and from hardships and poor choices. In my recent days, I’ve graduated from heartbreak and toxic friendships. Some days are challenges and others feel like the easiest class I’ve ever taken.

I’ve encountered many obstacles that try to stop me, and sometimes it feels like I may fail, but I continue to learn lessons along the way and come out stronger on the other side. I’m thankful for each person who teaches me a lesson, whether helpful or painful. I’m grateful for the changes in weather that force me to adapt, both literally and emotionally. Just like school would have been boring without challenging classes, exams and projects, life would be boring without road bumps and life lessons. Although I’m no longer in a classroom, I continue to grow and to learn, from friends, family and people who surround me. I take time to read, to listen, to ask questions and to pay attention.

Every day, I put on my cap and gown to cross the stage of life. I’ve learned to wake up ready to conquer a fear, approach a hard conversation or to take a new risk, in hopes of a positive outcome. Sometimes I may have to delay the ceremony, but I’m always reaching toward achieving the next diploma of life, so that one day I can look back and see all of my achievements hanging on the walls of my memory.

Meetinghouse: Learning how to be a Mainer →

When I was young, I realized that I had a lot of friends whose parents were from Maine. And most of the time, their grandparents and great-grandparents had also been born and raised in Maine.

My family was not like this.

Both of my parents had moved to Maine for work and for its beauty. It had always just been the three of us in Maine. I didn’t have any aunts down the street, and there was never a Sunday dinner at grandma’s house. I always heard people saying, “Your parents weren’t born here, you’re not a real Mainer.”

Growing up, it made me wonder: What did being a “real Mainer” really mean? I couldn’t flip through the pages of an old Maranacook yearbook and find my mom’s smiling face. I couldn’t hear stories about my dad running through the pews of our church as a child. But I was born here. Didn’t that have to mean something?

I spent my childhood doing “Maine” things. I learned the “Sixteen Counties Song” in music class, I went to regular bean suppers in our church basement, I begged my mom to let me wear shorts as soon as it hit 50 degrees, I tried Moxie while floating on a pontoon boat in the middle of a lake, and I ate my fair share of red hot dogs.

When college came and I moved to Georgia, I wore my Bean boots proudly – even showing them off in one of my senior photos. When new friends would ask where I was from, I was quick to tell them my entire life history and how I was from the best state in the entire country.

But as I grew older, graduated college and moved back to Maine, I came to realize that having a camp in Millinocket doesn’t make you a Mainer. Neither does having an uncle who’s a lobsterman, or a cousin who ran into Stephen King once at Hannaford.

A true Mainer is hardworking, kind, quick-witted and caring – someone you can always call for help. My parents taught me these traits, but it was teachers, camp counselors and members of my church family who instilled them in me through their everyday actions.

Now that I’m making a life for myself in Maine, I hope to exemplify these traits daily, because I know that having each of them under my belt is what will make me a real Mainer.

No matter where I go in life, I will always be proud to wear my name tag of Bean boots and flannel, and to tell each person I meet, “I’m a Mainer.”

Meetinghouse: A friend gone but not forgotten →

Certain things hold memories of Ben. Flannel shirts wrapped around me like blankets on crisp summer nights at the cabin, the drumsticks he used to carry everywhere that haven’t moved from his drum set for over four years, the potholes we tried to dodge between laughs and bites of french fries, and an empty glass bottle filled with cold Maine sand from a waterfront with a “No Trespassing” sign.

Just beyond that sign was a garage bay left open, a basketball hoop barely too high to hit, a weathered dock floating 200 yards offshore, and 10 or so of my friends, gathered around without any expectations for the night. As the air chilled and the hours passed, the music and voices began to die down.

Ben started to fill an empty bottle with the cold sand we were seated on. I grabbed another from the bottle deposit pile and started filling. We made a game of it, racing to fill them up. At the end of the night, I grabbed mine from the shore and brought it home. A year or so later, as I prepared to leave for college, I packed it up, wrapped tightly in a T-shirt so it could withstand the move. Along with sand from home, it held memories of every late summer night I had spent with the same group of people for the last few years of my life.

During four years of moving from dorm to dorm, I realized I couldn’t find the bottle anywhere. When I lost the bottle, I came close to losing the memories that it held. I remember having this same feeling when Ben died. Along with losing him, I lost pieces of memories where he was a key player. Memories of soft flannel, drum sets, potholes and sandy waterfronts. Over the years I had packed those memories in boxes in the back of my mind, securing them with packing tape, only to be unpacked when the time was right.

A year ago, as I was unpacking boxes in the attic, I came across that sand-filled bottle. Suddenly, what had once been lost was now found. I was finally able to unpack all of the mental boxes and let the memories join me on the attic floor. And now, every time I look at that bottle, it brings me back to that night on the sand, followed by the feeling of losing something tangible, then the feeling of losing someone irreplaceable, and finally the feeling of finding both of those things all at once, even if only in my boxes of memories.

Meetinghouse: A friend lost, a friend regained →

There used to be laughter. Plenty of it. Deep belly laughs in private, and muted giggles in a corporate office. A fast-paced friendship that came to a fast-paced halt. Between breakfast dates in the cafeteria, shopping trips downtown and nights on the couch learning new crafts – I couldn’t begin to understand why I let things fall apart. Miscommunication, maybe. Misunderstanding, for sure.

To me, the meaning of a friend has always been and will forever be someone who stays by your side when the rain is falling. No, someone who stays by your side when the rain washes out the sand beneath your feet. I was not that friend. When the sand washed away and there was nothing left but a pit of mud, I stepped aside to keep my feet dry, instead of handing you a towel to dry your own. I broke my own meaning of friendship. It took me months to realize, but I finally did.

From March until January, there was no laughter. At least not for the two of us together. Separately, sure. There was a pit in my stomach where our belly laughs used to be. I tried to fill that void with breakfast burritos, crochet hooks and muted color palettes – all things that reminded me of our friendship.

For months I fought against my heart and my gut. I knew what had to be done. I knew what was right. As the snow fell, I swallowed my pride to fill the empty pit in my stomach.

And now we can laugh. Between glasses of wine, following recipes from cookbooks and learning new crafts once again, we can laugh.

In lieu of a birthday card

Dear Papa Bear,

Thank you for raising me to become a strong woman. Mom had a huge part in that too, but this letter is for you because of who you are as a man.

Growing up, I always envied you. How you could do 1,000 things at once, pack your day from 5 am to 5 pm, and still come home with a smile on your face and a kiss for your wife. Your evenings were spent doing typical dad things—housework, yard-work, bills, taxes, or just goofing off in the garage. But between your busy schedule and spending quality time with mom, you always made time for me. To me this was special, because I looked around at many of my girlfriends who had little to no relationship with their dads, and I was sad for them. You not only read me every Harry Potter book, you also took me to every midnight book release and movie premiere. You watched Jeopardy with me (carrot! Grape!) and you taught me so many things. I hope you don't mind if I list a few.

Golf: From my first plastic set of clubs, I should have known the golfer I'd grow up to be. Thank you for watching me with a glisten in your eyes, believing in every swing I took, and coaching me from that first set to today.

Use your words: To this day I'm in awe of how many friendships you have, and how many people greet you with a smile and a handshake on every encounter. You taught me that words are the strongest and most dangerous tool a person has, so I should think before I speak. Because of that, I've maintained many wonderful friendships over the years. And I thank you for that.

Boys are evil: This is something they taught you to say in dad school, right? I could come home in tears, I could come home pissed off, and every time it was about a boy, I'd get a kiss on the head and hear those three words like a broken record: "boys are evil". From you I learned what kind of man I want to give my love to. In my eyes, he has to be exactly like you. Strong. Funny. Loving. Thoughtful. Spontaneous. Godly. Thank you for setting the bar so high that I still refuse to settle for cute boys I see in bars... or Yankee fans.

It will all be ok: Man oh man, I am a stressed out woman. Sometimes we stress together. Sometimes mom has to tell us to both chill because we throw gasoline on each other's fires. But at the end of the day, I hear you telling me that everything will be ok. As I grow up, I try to worry less about the little stuff (I know you'll find that funny, but I'm trying!) and instead, I spend that time being grateful for my life as it is. Thank you for being the man who will reassure me of my safety and my future, even when the world seems to be crashing down around me.

You can be whatever you want: I have always felt a slight pressure to go on to some super smart career. I mean, come on, you're a computer scientist and moms an engineer and math genius. When I realized I wanted to make art for my career, I was scared shitless. I felt like I was letting you down, I felt like I wasn't living up to the Graziano standard. But you never made me feel like that. You told me from day one that I could be whatever I want. So thank you for spending four years of college making fun of art school, but for supporting my every move. By the way, if I can be anything I want, can you explain to me why I'm not a princess married to Tiger Woods right now? I'm pretty sure that's what I wanted to be.

Believe in your dreams: So cheesy, I know. But how could I not follow up "you can be anything you want" with this one? How many times have I wanted to quit? I'm sure you keep count. Quit sports, quit dance, quit school, quit life. You never let me. Every ski race I would come in last, but you still bought me new skis and stood in the freezing cold to watch me finish. Every time I sucked at a core class in college, you would always request for me to bring the piece of art home so you could put it in your office. You always encouraged me, and you always empowered me.

Coming home on breaks from college in my senior year, I started to wonder if I was getting too old to talk to you every day, or to cuddle with you on the couch while we watched golf tournaments. I thought, when will I have to sit in my own corner? Will I ever be too old to put my head on your belly and listen to you yell at the TV? I think not. I will always be your baby girl, but now I'm a woman and while I try to navigate this crazy thing called life after college, I'm beyond lucky to be the daughter of a man who empowers me, supports me, and believes in me.

One thing will always stand out to me when I think of you. Senior year, when I missed the state championships for golf by a few strokes because of a monsoon and some crappy rules, you wrote a letter to the MSGA about the unfair disadvantage that the ladies were given. Damn. You're an awesome dad. You make me feel strong and proud to be a woman. You stand up for my rights on the golf course and in politics. You never pushed me to be anything I didn't want to be, and you never ridiculed me for failing. I grew up confident in myself; I was proud of my academics, I loved being part of my community, I stood deep in my faith, and I never picked my body apart even though teen magazines begged me to. All thanks to you. 

So thank you for being the best dad a girl could ask for. I will always cuddle up to you on the couch, today, or when you're 92.

Love,

Littlemunch