Jess Banks schools you.

My grandma, Nell Kresser, in 1941

My mom’s mom would’ve been 96 years old today. Alzheimer’s claimed her in 2007, but it had stolen her away from us years before that. The gifts she gave me, though, are woven through so many facets of my everyday life and my personality that it’s almost possible to account for them all. My stubbornness, my love of teaching, my competence in emergencies, my late-night cravings for mushroom swiss hamburgers–all were etched in my soul by the strong, steady hand of Nell Kresser.

Another of her lasting legacies is my love of movies, and seeing them in movie theaters. She was passionate about cinema, and she “went to the show” at least once a week for much of her life. She was a devoutly Christian woman, so she wouldn’t brook any unnecessary profanity or dirtiness, but her tastes were broad and her appreciation infectious. She loved sweeping romantic epics like Titanic, and cute nostalgic films like My Dog Skip. She loved Disney movies; her favorite (and therefore mine) was The Jungle Book. And she cried every time she watched How Green Was My Valley.

I was an unusually mature kid, so she didn’t hesitate to bring me along when she and my grandpa went to the theater, and settling into a velvety seat beside her at Milwaukee’s great landmark theaters always made me feel so grown-up. My impression of movies evolved very differently than other kids who grew up in the ’70s and ’80s. Sure, Star Wars changed my life too–I was two years old, sitting on phone books in the front seat of our truck at a drive-in screen so big that I couldn’t tell where the starry sky of the movie stopped and the night sky above started.

The legendary Oriental Theater

But I also saw Gone With The Wind for the first time, intermission and all, at the famed Oriental Theater with my grandma. I marveled as my feet seemed to sink up to the ankle into the plush red carpet, and I was in awe of the massive golden Buddhas that lined the walls. I thrilled to the sound of Wurlitzer organ that accompanied the silent movies they screened from time to time.

I used to crane my head back to gaze up at the twinkling constellations in the ceiling of the Avalon. She took me to weeknight classic movies at the Paradise Theater, where I fell in love with All About Eve, Arsenic and Old Lace, The Philadelphia Story, and To Catch a Thief.

The Paradise Theater, now sadly defunct

These were movie palaces, in the truest sense of the word, and my grandma and I loved their hallowed halls.

I knew they were special, and I wanted to share that magic. In my high school years, I dragged friends to the Paradise for their midnight movies: the Director’s Cut of Blade Runner, The Wall in six-track Dolby Surround sound. I saw Alien for the first time there, in 70mm–the film itself is about two inches wide, and the theater had to crank back the curtains all the way on the projection screen. Saturday night concerts meant an excuse to head over to the Oriental for their legendary midnight showings of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Those same plush carpets now softened my landings as I jumped to the left during the “Time Warp,” and I was surely the only teenager who carefully picked up every piece of toast or playing card I’d thrown from the floors of that beloved sanctuary.

And now I’m the grown-up, nurturing my own little movie buff. Connor’s been movie mad since his earliest days; he was only two when I first took him to the theater, and he sat still and quiet for maybe the first time in his life as Curious George unspooled in the projection room above us. Many autistic kids have difficulty with the overwhelming sensory experience that theater movies provide, but Connor just dives into it and lets himself be swept up in the darkness and loudness and the amazingness, like I used to and still do.

It’s not a cheap proposition to take a family of four to the movies these days, so we usually tie new releases to special occasions; movie release calendars are scrutinized for the best “birthday movie” months in advance. But we discovered the heir to the Paradise right over in Minneapolis. The Riverview Theater screens movies a month or two after their major theater release dates, which allows them to charge only $2 for matinees and kids; it’s only $3 for adults in primetime, so even date nights are suddenly affordable. Now movies aren’t just an extravagance; they’re a very affordable indulgence, and Connor and I pay homage as often as we can.

As we sat in the dark auditorium on Monday, so crowded with families taking advantage of the holiday to enjoy a weekday matinee of Happy Feet Two, I found myself watching Connor more than the movie. His eyes were huge as he followed every tiny movement on the screen; his mouth smiled, grinned, gaped at each revelation. About 20 minutes in, he started worming his way under my arm, so I flipped up the arm that separated our seats so we could snuggle more comfortably. And we stayed like that for the rest of the movie, mom and son sharing a story with each other, and the other viewers we could hear but not see around us.

It wasn’t a bad movie, but it wasn’t spectacular–Tintin, which we had splurged as a family to see at the local AMC on Saturday, had sated our need for amazing cinematic experiences quite well. But it didn’t have to be spectacular to be magical, the way every movie is to movie lovers. And as I watched the movie, and watched my son, I had one of those moments when I felt so close to my grandma again. I miss her, but I can feel her sitting beside us, just enjoying the show.

Reverb Broads 2011, December 11: In what ways are you like your mother? And if you’re a mother, how is/are your kid(s) like you? (courtesy of ME)

“My God, you’re just like your mother.”

I would be well-set for life, and still raking in nice dividends, if I had a buck for every time someone said that to me. And I’ve always taken that for the compliment it’s intended to be. My mom is one of the kindest, funniest, stubbornest, most frighteningly competent people you will ever meet. So, if I remind people of her so strongly that they exclaim whenever we’re in the same room, I can’t help but be flattered.

To be fair, she’s from a long line of them. My great-grandma moved west when she was eight months pregnant, and when she found that neither house nor job was as established as her deadbeat husband said, she carried my great-aunt Mary into a TENTH MONTH.

My grandma Nell in 1944

My grandma taught Red Cross first aid and swimming, and led inner-city Girl Scout troops for decades. When she came across a kid who’d been trapped with only his face visible in a sinkhole on the cliffs above Lake Michigan, she lay on the ground and gave him mouth-to-mouth until rescue crews arrived, saving his life. From them, my mom got her faith, her vision and drive to do what needs to be done, and her intolerance of bullshit.

So how am I like my mom? We tend to end up in charge of things. We’re both quick, intuitive learners, and we like teaching others what we know. That being said, we both tend to think it’s faster to just do something ourselves, so we’re terrible at delegating. We’re wizards at multitasking, and we’re crafty, so our hands are always busy. We’re unapologetic liberals. We love music, and we love singing, and we love to sing together, whether it’s to oldies on road trips, or duets in church on Christmas Eve. We’re both inclined to see the funny side of things, and we both get the giggles when we’re slappy-tired. We’re both very free and unashamed with our emotions, though I’m not quite as much a watering pot as she is. We both see typos everywhere, instantly and unignorably. We both see the best in everyone, but we’re incredibly unforgiving of ourselves. We’re both social chameleons, and we can adapt to fit into many (sometimes unlikely) groups and settings. We love to take care of other people, and blood ties are the least of our concern when it comes to family. We both snap into “terminator mode” when there’s a crisis, and woe betide anyone who gets in our paths.

And boy oh boy, do I look like her.

We never went through that awkward phase when teenage girls hate their moms. My mom was my best friend and accomplice well into adulthood. Distance and motherhood have undermined some of that closeness, but there’s a new honesty and respect that’s different than before.

I always imagined myself carrying on this amazing matriarchal tradition. When I found out I was having a second boy, I burst out into tears. The ultrasound tech quickly reassured me, “No no, he’s completely fine!” To which I replied, “I’m not worried. It’s just another goddamn boy.” I won’t be having any biological daughters; pregnancy is too rough on me, let alone sleep dep and potty training and all that again. And I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t still a disappointment. But the way I see it, boys are an endangered species, and I’ve been entrusted with two of the precious creatures to strong, smart, confident, non-asshole men.

But I see myself in my kids all the time. Sometimes, that’s awesome. I try so hard not to get irritated when I can’t get Connor’s attention out of a book long enough to answer a simple question, because I know it’s magical being that absorbed in a story. I love that Griffin watches Japanese monster movies with me, and wants to learn how to cook. They’re both born performers, and their imaginations are vast and complex, with galaxies of stories to occupy their every thought (and sometimes, like me, their sleeptalking).

And sometimes, that’s incredibly hard and heartbreaking. I wince when I catch myself yelling at them when insomnia strikes. Griffin can’t be anything but busybusybusy, and I wish we could both slow down and be still, and find joy in it. And if I could save Connor the pain of learning how to get organized, and not procrastinate, and not take every unkind comment like an arrow to the heart, I would.

Things grow differently in the shade than they do in unobstructed sun. And my mom casts a long shadow. As much like her as I am, I know I probably do too. Hopefully, I can be the kind of mom who gives her kids the shelter they need, and who gets out of the way when they’re ready to grow up.

My mom and my boys, this Thanksgiving

Me and my boys, circa 2010

I like Thanksgiving fine as a holiday, but I work hard all year long to give my thanks in the moment; saving it up for a day- or month-long burst of gratitude is too hard. But I don’t always tell people who aren’t there each day all the things I’m grateful for, so I suppose if you’re not with me all the time, you might just hear the whinging. So here are ten things I’m grateful for, right now today:

1) I’m grateful it’s going to be in the 50s today, which is warm enough to send the kids outside to play when the Macy’s parade is over, but dinner isn’t ready yet.

2) I’m grateful that the turkey we bought yesterday thawed overnight, and fits in my nice old spackleware roasting pan. I’m also grateful that it didn’t come with giblets inside, because ick.

3) I’m really grateful that my mom came all the way up from Florida to be with us. Money’s too tight (and our car is too small) for us to make it down there comfortably for the holidays, so it’s been almost two years since I’ve seen her, and she’s seen the boys. It’s not easy for her to take off work, or be away from my dad and brother, but here she is, and that’s awesome. My mom and I never went through that awkward phase when I was a teenager and was supposed to hate her and the world, and though motherhood has changed our relationship in ways neither of us could’ve predicted, she’s still one of my best friends.

4) I’m grateful that the new Muppet movie was so completely awesome. I’m a hardcore Muppet fan (the Onion t-shirt that says, “I understand the Muppets on a much deeper level than you do” was practically made for me), and I’ve awaited the movie with a mix of wild anticipation and stomach-clenching dread. Knowing Jason Segel, as much a mega-fan as I am, was helming the project was a comfort, and the movie was everything I hoped it would be. I smiled until my cheeks hurt. I am content.

5) I’m wildly grateful for my job. I work on cool products and projects, with awesome creative bosses who value my contributions, serving customers who really appreciate the efforts I make. And the money doesn’t hurt either.

6) I’m beyond grateful for Jill Gebeke, Kim Hwang, Lori Brown, Kris Christensen, Melanie Hjelm, Nicole Tschohl, Alicia Liddle, and all the fantastic teachers and staff at Chelsea Heights Elementary. From the moment we walked into that school last year, they embraced Connor and Griffin with love, compassion, and understanding. They really want every kid to be happy and fulfilled, and they appreciate our efforts as parents to support their education. We could’ve moved Connor to the gifted magnet school after he blew the top off his aptitude tests last year, but we really couldn’t imagine a better school for our boys.

7) I’m so very grateful for our fantastic church home, White Bear Unitarian Universalist Church. It’s further away than other UU churches in the community, but completely worth the hike to hear our phenomenal minister Victoria Safford, to have our boys in the hands of the wonderful Religious Education coordinator Janet Hanson and her dedicated volunteers, and to sit in the beautiful sanctuary and watch the seasons pass outside the gorgeous wall of windows. It’s a place that feeds our souls in ways we never even knew we needed.

8) I’m crazy-grateful for the outrageously cool friends I have all over the world, and the magic of Facebook and Twitter and email and Skype that make it possible to feel close to them every day. I revel in the successes they enjoy, and marvel that so many diverse, smart, and brilliantly creative people would lavish their time and attention on little me.

9) I’m intensely grateful for the roof over our heads. We live in a safe neighborhood, with neighbors who love our kids and share theirs with us. It takes a village, and we’ve knit a little one among these apartment buildings. Our community looks out for one another, and forms a safety net we haven’t enjoyed almost anywhere we’ve lived since the boys were first born.

10) And finally, today and every minute of every day, I’m grateful for my husband. I’ve already enumerated some of the awesomeness that is our marriage, but I can never say enough how lucky I am to have a partner in all my earthly endeavors.

May your bellies be full, your hearts be light, and gratitude settle into your bones and move you to lift up those thanks to the people who bring love and light into your life.