Stash

It was a busy night. The munchkins roamed the neighborhood on Halloween and came back with their little pumpkin bags full of treats, serious treats - the sugar-laden kind that their parents forbid on the remaining 364 days of the year.

Sophie, oops Princess Jasmine, was almost jumping out of her princess socks to get on the street and collect her sweet gold mine of goodies. Hannah, who was supposed to be Dorothy of Oz, decided instead to up her fashion ante and appear in a gold lame wispy smock that matched, in color if not in theme, her brown Dorothy pigtails. Eclectic is in. We had to remind both to put on their shoes before sprinting out the door. Little Bo Peep, a close friend, decided to shepherd her flock with Jasmine and Dorothy and off they went on a wonderfully mild night. Moms and dads followed them out the door while I stood guard on the front stoop with a bowl full of candy for the incoming traffic.

Soon I could hear the excited babble of kids as little ones (and big ones) came traipsing up the steps. My heart felt generous looking into their painted faces and I found myself dropping more than one candy bar into each extended bag. It was nice to see that polite thank you’s were the order of the day. Parents waited patiently on the street as their goblins and ninja turtles made the rounds. One lone boy, about twelve, came up the steps and looked a bit uncomfortable … he shifted once and then asked if he could please use the bathroom. It takes a village. I let the kid in and pointed him to the door at the end of the hall. He was in there quite a while but seemed no worse for wear when he did re-appear, picked up his basket of loot and moved on. Yes, the kid could never have made it home to his own toilet.

It was that kind of night. Before the girls were ready to go out the door, our old dog decided to shower the kitchen floor with his own forget-me-nots. Jenn was busy with bleach and paper towels while I helped the girls squirm into their footwear. Not exactly a Hallmark moment.

We all survived. The girls returned, promptly emptied their bags onto the living-room floor (the kitchen floor was still off-limits) and proceeded to ooh and aah over the candy and pudding cups. One would think they lived in a third-world country. They were allowed to choose just one sweet to consume before bedtime. The pudding cups won out.

Seeing that they were rolling in candy for the next year or so, I secretly allocated the rest of our leftover giveaway to my coat pocket and quietly left the scene.

Grandmoms have a sweet tooth too.

Thus spake the ostrich

I’m lovin’ this town. The folks up here are much more laid back than the big city and certainly don’t take themselves too seriously. On Halloween, my daughter’s neighbor seems to enjoy himself as much as the kids.

“In the true man there is a child concealed – who wants to play.” Hard to believe this is a quote by Nietzsche. Somehow I can’t picture the great philosopher dressed up as Mr. Ostrich Man but, then again, most philosophers are strange birds.

Real estates

Now that I’m up here in my new location with a job and an apartment roof over my head, I’m starting to think about my options regarding home ownership. I am not a part of that expendable-income boomer generation who seems to be having a swell time investing in multiple properties, paying off their kids’ college debts, and lunching on the Riviera. My post-divorced single status has left me in a more humble position. I’m happy to make ends meet each month while exploring ways to expand my budget to allow for a little place of my own - the cottage where I’ll do my creative writing, entertain new friends, and settle in front of a fireplace on a cold winter’s night. I’ll probably have to relinquish the fireplace but would still love to keep the dream of owning something alive.

Is it foolish to consider home ownership at my age? Would I prefer to have a 30-year mortgage and do my own mowing, shoveling, roof and heater repair rather than letting a landlord cover day-to-day maintenance? I did own a house for thirty years but there were a hubby and retired parents to help in the upkeep. Paneling a basement or pruning a tree was taken care of by family members. Now I really am on my own and can’t expect the kids to run over to lend a hand when they have such hectic lives and responsibilities under their own roof. So it’s a dilemma.

It’s hard to find a modest bungalow among ostentatious mansions that rival the Royal Pavilion in Brighton. How can folks afford to live in these large estates commanding upwards of a million or better? Where does everyone go? To separate rooms and wings of a house that’s supposed to be a home? A house which spreads itself so high and wide that the family probably has to use an intercom to be in touch? Two bathrooms, I can understand. Six bedrooms and baths are beyond me. I’m sure, though, that one bedroom and bath must be reserved for the live-in maid.

I’ve looked into the tiny-home movement but am laughing because most of these exquisite environmentally-friendly experiments are taking place at least 1,000 to 3,000 miles away from the Berkshires. (See The Boomer Chronicles for excellent links to this kind of option.) Oops, did I mention the $4 per mile shipping cost of having your tiny home plopped down on your pre-paid lot? Don’t think I’ll make the cut on that one either ….

I keep checking the local listings, calling realtors and visiting some of the current offerings. Maybe I’m dreaming too high. I’d love to walk into a small home and be comfortable with the present owner’s sense of interior design. However, it seems like such an expensive proposition to know that, besides paying off the mortgage, I’ll be needing money to paint and paper too. Holy Hannah, grass and snow and inside renovations … when would I blog?! I thought these were to be my golden carefree years?

Yes, home ownership seems preferable to merely renting but I’m fighting conflicting family history. My mom and dad always owned and generated income from their property until dad died. Two years later, mom sold the family property and came to live with me and mine. A few years later, we found her a lovely apartment nearby. She was so happy to be free of the house and the burdens of home ownership. She lived her later years in an apartment community. I hear my dad saying “own a house and build up equity” whereas I hear my mom saying “I like being in an apartment”.

No matter the age, life always manages to end in trade-offs. The bottom line will be whether I can even afford to entertain the option of home ownership.

I think I should step back, celebrate how much I've accomplished in these past couple months, take a breath and enjoy the new apartment for the winter while preparing a careful budget. In other words, get real.

Time out.

Finding her voice

Dear Iris,

Thanks for talking to me the other night. Your daddy held the phone up to your ear and you were certainly not shy about introducing yourself.

In fact, you took over the conversation with your non-stop oohs and coos and ahs and gahs. The inflections and timing had me laughing with delight. I could barely get a word in (and for me that’s highly unusual). Proud dad says he thinks you’re ahead of the curve on verbal expression. I agree and realize that your cousin Sophie was not exaggerating when she told me that you had already talked to her.

Even though I have not yet been able to fly across the country and make your acquaintance in person, we have already had our first meaningful encounter. The melodic ring of your voice still echoes in my mind. If you’re this outgoing at three months, I can hardly wait to see what you will be like when real words take shape and float from your tongue.

For now, I’m so grateful to know that you are thriving and letting those who love you know how happy you are to be a part of the family.

It’s been claimed that, as they grow up, little girls seem to lose their voices. They start to doubt what they know and become more quiet in the company of boys.

My precious granddaughter, may the fledgling sounds you are making now grow into a strong and beautiful voice free to express who you are and what you believe in. And may that gift never be taken from you.

Love, Babci xxoo

P.S. You look a lot like your daddy at the same age. He wasn't as chatty though.

Chips and cinnamon buns

It was grandparent's day at Sophie's school. I picked her up and we spent the morning together in kindergarten. I got to share in drawing and reading and side trips to the hospitality tray where Sophie indulged in her mommy's worst nightmare: cinnamon buns. Those of you who are regular fans of my daughter's blog may remember the escapade which led to Jenn's declaration that "cinnamon buns = death". Well, that was then and this is now. I let Sophie have the forbidden fruit. She seemed none the worse for wear by noon. Of course we were in a fairly safe contained environment and I didn't have to worry about her jumping into traffic.

The teacher handed out mementos on which each child had written what they love to do with their grandparents. One kid said "go to a museum"; another wrote "read a book". Sophie wrote "eat potato chips".

I'm beginning to think I may be sending the wrong message.

Later in the day, I made a big pot of healthy chicken soup to balance out the oatmeal raisin cookies baking in the oven.

There's nothing like a dame and a sexy old man

When I think of a classy broad, I think of that British triad of thespians who are the epitome of spunk, intelligence and graceful aging - the Dames: Judi Dench, Helen Mirren and Diana Rigg. These three gals speak to me. They show that women in their 60s and beyond can keep their creative spark burning and do some of their best work later in life. Of course, I will never meet them but they continue to amaze me with their talent and zest for life.

I just viewed “Mrs. Henderson Presents” the other night and the chemistry between Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins was so much fun to watch. You could tell they were perfectly comfortable in their roles but I think I saw something more on the screen – they are perfectly comfortable with who they are not just the characters they are portraying.

There’s something rewarding about reaching midlife and beyond. The jokes abound, sure, but the fact is that some of the heavy baggage gets thrown out and, if lucky, the stuff left behind is the real pay dirt. No fool’s gold here. The need to please or live up to a certain model or standard of behavior wanes. You are more at home in your own skin. Hell, you may even be willing to stand naked in your own skin before the world as Bob Hoskins did in “Mrs. Henderson”. There was such an honesty to that moment - baring it all as a metaphor for the authenticity of growing older.

I may never have to strip to prove my point (unless I meet a sexy old fart like Bob Hoskins). I just know that something new and exciting and genuine opened in me when I climbed my first mountain a couple years ago. I spent a week in the company of strangers and I was not the only 60-year-old making it to the summit. There was another gal, two years older than I, who had already climbed Mt. Indefatigable on a previous trip! She and I were the grand dames of the hiking party, outflanked by much younger males and one other younger woman. I learned a lot about myself that week. I liked what I saw.

I want to remember how alive I felt in attempting the daily hikes, the pleasure I gained from putting myself out there with folks I had never met. I became vulnerable and shared my fears of keeping up with the other more experienced hikers. The need to compare or compete quickly disappeared as I found out that who I was trumped who I thought I had to be. Every day brought new challenges and surprises. I delighted in playing the piano in the lodge at end of day surrounded by people who enjoyed what I had to offer. Self-doubts were replaced by warm acceptance. I returned the favor by listening and affirming the others in my group. It was a week of renewal and rebirth. I don’t think I could have found the courage to move this summer if I had not first found the courage to climb those mountains. I’m trying to carry that experience with me into my new life here in the Berkshires.

Judi, Helen and Diana may have led far more glamorous and newsworthy lives, yet we would be no strangers if we sat down to tea. I think we all look forward to growing older, on our own terms in our own inimitable style.

Let’s hear it for the ladies and gents who can let it all hang out.

Mom's apple pie

We may both come from sturdy Polish peasant stock, but Martha Stewart I am not.

My intentions are pure though. I awake with the grand idea of rounding up all those apples from the birthday party and turning them into an apple pie. I look in my mom’s recipe box and try to find the recipe for her killer apple pie. I’m soon sifting through index cards that include: apple fritters, apple pancakes, applesauce cake, apple crepes, Jewish apple cake, apple streusel, apple cobbler and, finally, one or two versions of apple pie with pie crust directions too. Do I want to add chopped nuts? (No, David’s allergic.) Raisins? (No, not Jenn’s cup of tea.) I’m just looking for a basic apple pie, the one that mom used to make. The one I remember and can still taste. It was a classic. She loved to bake. Her cakes and pies were culinary masterpieces.

I re-read the cards. Are either of these handwritten recipes the real thing? The holy grail? She would often make some notation on her favorite recipe cards that gave a hint but there’s nothing written here to solve the conundrum. She may not have needed a written record for something she did often and so well, just like her pierogies (Polish dumplings). When she died, the art of cooking went with her. It took several Christmas holidays and much trial and error to duplicate mom’s pierogies. All I ask now is a clue, a compass. I’m a lowly pilgrim looking for the right path.

And I’m a virgin. Yes, it’s true. Here I am, almost ready for Medicare, and I’ve never baked an apple pie. Blame it on the mother who baked like no other. Blame it on my taking her for granted. Blame it on my interest in making music rather than baking bread.


Redemption is at hand. Today I shall make it all right. Today I shall prepare, with my own hands, a culinary treat for my granddaughters and family. How hard can it be? (Mom made it look so easy.)

Armed with good intentions, I grab the two recipe cards, stuff them in my jacket and drive off to the nearest supermarket. I pick up extra sugar, spices and flour but come up short trying to find the Crisco which was a staple in my mom’s kitchen. Yes, I can substitute butter for the shortening and am debating how to proceed when suddenly a brightly colored box of ready-made pie crust catches my eye. Amazing grace. The kitchen gods are smiling at me.

I arrive at Jenn’s and tell her my plan. She is thrilled to turn her kitchen over to me. However, Hannah is now home from daycare and looking to help babci with the apple pie. No problem. Benevolence rules. We set her up with a bowl and spoon and I teach her how to sift the flour and then add water. She plays at making dough while I cheat and pat my ready-made dough at the far end of the table. Now I can concentrate on the filling. The recipes I brought with me are similar to the one on the ready-made package. I decide to take the easy way out again and go with the apple-pie directions on the carton. One-stop shopping.

Hannah putters happily while I start peeling the apples. I’m making memories with my grandchild. Everything is going well until I cut my finger with the knife. All operations are suspended while babci tries to stop the bleeding. Hannah clucks and extends her sympathy. Jenn returns with Sophie and promptly bandages my finger. The kitchen is now quite crowded, not even counting the friendly household ghosts. Sophie wants to get into the act. I hand out more measuring cups and spoons and let her mix the ingredients for the pie filling in a large bowl. Jenn and I keep peeling and cutting apples. Six cups of apples take a heckuva lot of time. I have new respect for my mom and Martha Stewart.

Just as we are about to add the apple slices to the sugar and spices, Hannah reaches for something and knocks the bowl off the table. Half the measured dry ingredients are now on a kitchen chair and the floor.

I look at Jenn. She looks at me and gets up and pours us both a glass of Canadian beer.

The kids are now starting to fidget and whine and we send them off to the living room with Shrek to keep them entertained.

By now I have started dinner and manage to overcook the broccoli. “Every time, mom, every time. Even when we were little.” I have a sudden urge to escape to a keyboard. Instead, I take another swig of beer and finish what I started. As I work with the ready-made crust, I think how much longer the whole project would have taken if I did this from scratch. At last, the pie is looking decent and we pop it in the oven.



The girls are allowed to stay up post-Shrek and pre-pie, waiting for dessert. The kitchen fills with the wonderful aroma of apples and cinnamon. I have now drained my glass of beer and am patting myself on the back. There are pots and bowls and apple peels everywhere. Martha’s kitchen would never look like this but she probably has a fulltime staff to clear and clean as she moves methodically through her prized recipes. All I have are two little girls waiting impatiently to taste their grandmother’s apple pie.

We end the night with warm syrupy apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream.

I wouldn’t trade my good fortune for Martha’s fame, ever.

Taste and see

We took the girls to a birthday party in an apple orchard. They ran through grass and brambles to get to the sturdy little trees where they climbed and plucked the boughs heavy with autumn’s harvest. Delight filled the air. It was a perfect setting for a birthday celebration, giggles and good friends to share the fruit of the vine. Parents hovered and provided a boost here and there but, for the most part, the day belonged to the youngest generation. Little girls in party dresses and blue jeans perched in apple trees.

Maybe that’s what the original garden was supposed to look like after all. Forget that nonsense about Eve taking the blame. Why would a benevolent Spirit not expect the fruit of creation to be admired and tasted?

Everything in the world of a child seems new and fresh. It was such fun to sit in the warm autumn sun and watch the kids entertain themselves with apples. Simplicity as abundance.

We should all get back to the garden.

Rock and stroll

Jenn’s friend asked me to mind her baby for a couple hours while she ran an errand in town. With my own grandkids past the infant stage, I thought I may have lost the touch. So, with some anxiety, I agreed to baby sit little Charlotte.

Mom arrived with a wide-awake baby snuggled into her portable car seat. I decided to let her call the shots. We eyed each other carefully while mommy outlined the logistical plan. Three bottles handy: a) breast milk, b) similac, and c) the last line of defense, powdered formula and sterile water. Surely I wouldn't need all three.

I kept the eye contact going since Charlotte seemed to be relaxing and I waved momma off behind me. This was the first time that her precious charge was being left with someone other than mommy and daddy. (I didn’t know this until the end of the visit and, in this case, ignorance was bliss. It probably would have made me more nervous.)

As soon as the door closed, our real introduction began. Charlotte started to look around a bit more frantically and whimper a bit.

“Okay kid, it’s time you and I get acquainted.” We had been in each other’s company the past three months but never really had any quality time for bonding as the parenting manuals would call it. We had one brief encounter on a rocking chair in a friend’s house and I got the sense then that Charlotte wasn’t into sensory overload. She seemed to like quiet times and gentle moves - low on lots of talking, high on curiosity and visual cues.

Following my gut feeling (another overworked cliché), I gently extracted baby from her car seat and slowly moved down the hall for a trial run. Charlotte looked around at the strange sights but did not accelerate into loud crying. In fact, the whimpering stopped and since she still had her little sweater on, I took her out onto my back porch. Someone nearby was working on a car or truck and there was a loud hum of a motor. That caught her attention for a few minutes. My mums are in a state of autumn decay but the swinging flower pot provided another diversion.


Playing by her rules was actually quite freeing. I tuned into her body language and rhythms. When she started to squirm, I brought her back into the house, walked a bit more and then plopped down on my mom’s rocking chair (which I had the good foresight to drag into the unfinished dining room). This proved the saving grace of the whole three hours. She lay in my arms taking her first bottle and playing with her hands. She didn’t seem to mind the lack of scintillating conversation. I rarely spoke at first, just holding her against me and feeding her. She kept watching me and drifted off to sleep after polishing off momma’s breast milk. I didn’t know how sensitive she was to being moved so stayed on the rocker and let her use me as the crib. Sitting there gently rocking a sleeping baby helped to center me too. She slept for about 20 minutes and opened those big eyes to stare at a stranger’s face. Moment of truth. I was expecting a sudden wail but she seemed to like the accommodations. The Polish genes and buxom bosom do come in handy. She snuggled a bit and then I took her for another walk around the apartment and sang some nonsense syllables and even jiggled her a bit. She likes facing forward much better than looking over a shoulder to see where she’s been. Sounds like her momma.

I even took the chance and placed her on my bed, not knowing what to expect. The risk paid off … she was quite happy trying to hit a green plastic frog (part of the baby paraphernalia I held onto from my own grandbabies). And then she and I had our first serious conversation.

Charlotte: “aah, gah …”
Babci: "ooh, aah, Charlotte.”

Big smile at that. Charlotte knows her name. I tried to mirror whatever sounds she was making and her little legs and arms were pumping excitedly. She was so into communicating that she made me laugh out loud. That drew more smiles from her. I was loving this positive feedback loop. So much more fun than sulking teenagers, eh?

Following her lead, we played until she seemed to be ready for something else. The something else was the second bottle. I balanced her in my arms while I heated the bottle. Back again to the rocking chair and our second round of refreshments. She drained the formula in a couple minutes. Eat. Burp. Sleep. Not a bad routine.

When she was sleeping in my arms again, I realized that I had placed my cell phone in my pants pocket which was now directly under her head. It was not on mute and I prayed that neither momma nor Jenn called me while sleeping beauty dreamed away. I looked at her innocent face and thought of another baby face, three-thousand miles away, my new granddaughter, Iris. They were both born in July and I have yet to make Miss Iris Kathryn's acquaintance.

Luckily, the cell phone was on good behavior. Charlotte awoke a bit later. We took another stroll while I sang “Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte” and kissed the back of her fuzzy head. We settled for one more play time on the bed. As she played with Mr. Frog, I poured the powdered formula into the water bottle and shook vigorously. I couldn’t believe we had reached the final line of defense. No storms or outbursts though. I was winning the war.

Once more, she was nestled in my arms and drinking her third bottle. We had spent some quality time together indeed. In fact, when her mom showed up, she seemed perfectly content to stay in my arms a while longer and give me a final round of tender shy smiles.

I think I’ve made a new friend.

What's in a name

I seem to be the community grandmom up here. I noticed that the children of Jenn’s friends are starting to call me “Babci”. I can’t help but smile. Music to my ears. To think that I fought against the title.

I remember my two kids requesting that I use the Polish form of grandmother as my calling card for the next generation when both were expecting their first babies. At first, I felt uncomfortable with the idea. My image of a “babci” was a peasant woman in a head scarf representing the older women of my heritage, the illiterate babushkas who came from the “old country”. I couldn’t see myself being a babci. Yet my kids wisely reminded me that they had no history with my experience and thought it would be neat to have their kids call me babci. Reluctantly, I agreed.

It had its selling points. “Babci” (bob-chee) seemed to be an easy first word to master once the babies were learning to talk so I usually was the first of the grandparents to hear my name spoken aloud. It also had a lovely alliterative ring to it. When little Ben first exclaimed “Babci, you’re the best!”, it clinched the deal.

Ben’s hero worship made me realize that I had the same strong feelings for my own babci. I loved this hard-working woman with calloused hands who could only sign her name with an “x”. I became her companion in her final years when she lived with us as an amputee. We would watch Hopalong Cassidy together and I would try to make her understand that the characters who died onscreen were just acting. She was often amazed when they would appear again on other shows, hale and hearty. She was a very simple woman, almost childlike in her beliefs and expectations, but her arrival as an immigrant took courage and strength. It was she and countless other women like her who braved the journey to a new land and gave their children and grandchildren the opportunities to learn and grow beyond what their generation was given. I feel guilty and sad that I first wanted to distance myself from these babushkas … that I deemed myself above and apart from their humble history. I was uncomfortable in accepting the old-world name of babci, yet I am standing on my babci’s shoulders.

Just about anyone can be a grandma or granny, but not everyone can be a babci.

I hope I live up to the name.

Birthday Boy

Six years ago you made your bow
Look at the big boy you are now

I wish I could be there to watch you play ...
Benjamin Joseph, Happy Birthday!

Love, Babci xxoo

Satisfaction

I come home from the new job. It’s been an intense day. I’m still learning the ins and outs. I’m tired.

The phone rings. It’s my daughter.

“Mom, we’re celebrating. The local paper did a really neat article on David’s paintings. Come on over for dinner. David made Shepherd’s Pie.”

I almost decline the offer because I’ve brought some notes home to review for an early-morning meeting tomorrow. However, my growling stomach reminds me that this is an offer of free food – all gain, no pain – all I have to do is walk on up the hill.

Hunger wins out.

The girls are upstairs playing when I arrive. A stack of newspapers sits on David’s desk. I help myself to one and proudly note the photo and read the front-page article which really spotlights David’s new hobby. He’s become local hero for a day.

In this house, he’s always a hero. It takes courage to raise two kids and be totally involved in their care while traveling an hour away to teach drama, paint on the back porch, paint the front porch and storm door, and do a hundred and one other mundane duties. He paints; he teaches; he directs; he cooks a mean Shepherd’s Pie.

Sophie and Hannah come down for dinner. I almost feel like wallpaper. They are no longer running into my arms, surprised by my presence. In fact, they are running past my arms. I’ve been living up here for two months now. I’m a part of the family landscape. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad. I tease Sophie about it. She reluctantly holds still for a kiss. But she does insist on sitting “next to Babci” for dinner. We discuss the origins of the main course and I tell her that my Babci was a shepherdess.

Dinner, which is often quite chaotic, is quite civilized tonight. David serves and the girls dig into their Shepherd’s Pie although Hannah decides that she doesn’t want the ground beef. She falls in love instead with the olives in the string-bean salad, while Sophie waits for the mashed potatoes to cool. There are “thank you Daddy” pleasantries and no one spills milk or ends up crying. David and Jenn actually get to sit and enjoy their food. David looks relaxed and pleased, as he should be. We toast his success with some red wine that has been waiting to be appreciated. The wine and David are both appreciated this night.

Hannah reveals that she did one of her best paintings today in daycare. Like father, like daughter? Sophie proudly announces that she went into the pool without her flotation device. Life is good. Blessings abound.

The girls get a special treat of push-up lemonade pops for dessert because they have eaten well.

“Daddy bought them!” Sophie tells me as I help pull the top off her cherry lemonade. The pink matches her pretty blouse. Hannah gets a lime version and seems content. Has someone sprinkled fairy dust on these two tonight? No disputes and more “thank you Daddy" for buying the dessert.

Jenn smirks and David looks up. “What? They are fruit pops.”

Super mom gently reveals that there’s an awful lot of fructose syrup in what super dad thought was mostly pure fruit treats. His face falls and he looks stricken. The girls’ faces are beaming as they consume a delicious dessert and know that they got the best of the bargain tonight. Desserts don’t come easy in this house. Babci’s house is another matter. Another generation. Sugar was not a banned substance when the girls’ mommy was growing up. It can still be found in Babci’s cupboards and fridge. Sophie and Hannah are getting wise to the hidden stash.

The girls finish their dessert and calmly, calmly head up the stairs to continue playing in their separate bedrooms. Each is happy and needs private time. Hannah gets mommy to put her to bed tonight; Sophie gets daddy. Shifts rotate. Babci has the night off and must return to her homework for tomorrow’s meeting.

I give my son-in-law a kiss and hug before I’m out the door, telling him that he is a good, hard-working man. My daughter is a lucky gal.

Walking back down the street, I gaze at the mountains which are just starting to shed their muted colors of brown and green for something richer. The air is milder than it has been recently. Oddly, no dogs bark as I pass their houses. All is peaceful and still. A dazzling splash of mums in a neighbor’s garden catches my eye. I can see that these hardy mums are going to put up a fight as the days grow shorter and the air turns colder. Their bright faces will want to keep shining a bit longer.

Bright faces ... in the garden, at the kitchen table.

I feel calm and content, so thankful that I decided to walk on up the hill and accept the invitation to dinner. I think of what had been missing in my life these past several years. Eating alone. Being alone.

I was hungry for more than a good meal.

Balancing act

Sophie started gym class at the local Y. I’ve been attending the sessions, even getting to pick her up from school and delivering her. I’m earning my grandmom stripes.

For a child who sometimes seemed a bit ungainly and slow to participate in physical sports, she has made (pardon the pun) leaps and bounds.

The very first week, when the little ones were wandering around the exercise mat, Sophie was the first to answer the call to attention and the daunting challenge of getting up on the balance beam for the initial try. She moved across, tentatively at first but trusting that she would get to the other side with the trainer ever near. The look of accomplishment when she jumped down was priceless.

I have seen this same daring on the playground since I’ve been up here. Sophie now hoists herself up on the climbing bars and rings and is soon looking at me upside down, a self-satisfied smile on her face. Way to go, Sophie! She has grown not only in height but in confidence. It’s great to see.

I remember her mother as a little girl running up and down the hallway practicing her moves a la Nadia Comenici and then thrusting her body forward and proclaiming “10”. I think we’re in for a repeat performance. I’m sure we’ll be watching to keep it enjoyable and real and not throw her into the ring for a future Olympics. It’s not about perfection and tunnel vision. Sophie lives in her mind so much that it is refreshing to see her running and jumping and tumbling too. What she’s gaining now is a sense of self-control over her body through small victories in a playful environment.

Exercise as fun. A novel idea.

Haiku for Lady Hannah

How lovely you look
As the camera intrudes
On serious play

Captures an instant
Full of Victorian charm
“My dears” you call us

No need for pretense
You are who you seem to be
Childhood knows no bounds

Pretty ladies speak
Walk in unsteady slippers
Sure of who they are

Later they will doubt
As they shift from tot to teen
Trying new attire

Treasure the present
And wear many hats and gowns
Play is work enough

You soon will outgrow
The comfort of make-believe
Oh to keep you here!

Hello young lovers

They met when she was sixteen and he, twenty-one. In three short years they married. She loved to dance; he was not very good at it. Years later, he laughed when his daughter called him on to the dance floor for her wedding. His wedding was a three-day affair. Polish weddings were like that. Ever the prankster, he pretended to fall coming down the church steps. In truth, he had fallen hard for her ... love at first sight according to her girlfriend. She was supposed to date his older brother. She chose him instead. He considered himself a lucky man.

They both were children of immigrants who settled in the same section of town. As first-generation Americans they spoke English but were equally at home speaking Polish. He was a banjo man; making music came naturally to him. He was also an auto-body welder, earning a steady paycheck at one company for 40 years. He was as loyal to the company as he was loyal to his wife.

I think that's what I loved most about my parents - their faithfulness to each other. They were married almost 50 years before my Dad died. When he died suddenly, my best friend remarked: "That was the only irresponsible thing your Dad ever did."

He was a good man, a simple man. He had his values in place. She was the woman he loved from the moment he saw her. He never wavered.

Do you remember the parable in the Bible where the kingdom of heaven is compared to a wedding feast? I picture all my relatives who have passed on at this wedding, dancing in a circle. The aunts, uncles, cousins who may have feuded in life are all dancing together and so, so happy. And my Dad no longer has two left feet. He and my Mom are out there in the middle of the circle in each other's arms, the bridal couple of course.

Grounded

It’s been an amazing day. This is only the second week on the new job but today I got to travel to a professional workshop at a university about two hours away. I figured out the map quest directions and set on my way through some of the most scenic territory, a highway known as the Mohawk Trail. Driving up and around hairpin turns and looking at trees soon to burst forth with brilliant fall colors, I had to laugh out loud. Here I was, in my new fall fashions, already shedding my old colors and displaying some brilliance of my own.

This past month has been so filled with things to do and people to meet that I haven’t really had a chance to reflect on all that has happened. It still seems a bit unreal. Did I really pick up and leave my lifelong location? Find an apartment? Change jobs?

When I walked into this conference, I knew instinctively that I had found the right job. Here, in this room, were a group of educators and counselors. Yes, they were working with high-school students and I had been advising college students but I soon realized that there was a definite interface to my past experience and my new responsibilities. I felt so comfortable to be in this room. It felt so good to be with like-minded people and made me think of the professional relationships and organizations I had left behind. This workshop provided the context that I was looking for. I didn’t even know something was missing until everything clicked today. I took notes like crazy, managed to contribute to the discussion, and even did some important networking. The networking included chatting up a guy my age, a retired consultant. I swear these gray-haired men are falling from the sky. Lunch afterwards and a walking tour of the campus with a young student who was a history and military science major. I left with a working plan for my own school regarding serving our new junior class. I even got an official certificate from the state of Massachusetts for continuing education units, totally unexpected. It was a very productive day.

Driving home through the same mountains, I passed once again through my mom’s birthplace, Greenfield. Jenn and I plan to travel there to search out old records and try to figure out the mystery of my grandparents being in this place for a brief period of time in the early 1900s. It's a rugged piece of terrain. What would a young immigrant couple be doing here during the harsh winter months with a little boy and new baby on the way? It’s very unusual as all our family history lies in Philadelphia but that will be another story for another time.

I stopped for gas and another guy my age came over to the car. He was tall and had a baseball cap on and kind of quirky. I must have an accent as a lot of folks are asking me where I’m from. This guy was no different. I told him that I was sorry if I pulled up to the “full service” pump as I’m used to pumping gas myself. He promptly replied that he wasn’t sorry as he was glad to pump gas for “such a pretty woman”. Hot dang! My new clothes and I are having an impact.

I smiled all the way home. Home. Yes, I think I’m going to like this place.

Full circle

She would have been smiling to see me falling asleep on the sofa. She knew the routine.

She lived in an apartment just two blocks away and would often baby sit so that hubby and I could get a much-needed night out. Playing games like Husker Du or Pigs Are Poppin’ and then getting them settled into their beds, she doted on her two little grandchildren. We would return late at night and find her, head nodding, trying hard to stay awake. One of us would drive her back home. She never seemed to mind the late-night imposition.

My mom became a grandmother in her sixties. The role became her. She had grown up as the oldest girl, the responsible one who took care of the rest of the family. She lavished that same care on husband and daughter as the years went by. She was the product of an immigrant culture where the women were expected to be the primary caretakers; the men, the breadwinners. There were sacrifices to be made.

As a child, she loved to draw and the nuns would have her create holiday pictures of Santa Claus and winter landscapes. She thought of becoming a nurse but her formal education was cut short so that she could contribute at home by minding her younger siblings. When she grew older, she nursed her own invalid mother and ailing brother but never realized her original dream. Instead, she used her hands to bake and sew and crochet.

Becoming a grandmother brought out the child in her. She got to draw and play again. She got to sing silly songs and bake appetizing treats for an adoring new generation: a dark-haired little girl with deep, bright eyes and a wispy-haired younger boy who warmed to her attention. To be in her kitchen, to have her look at them as if they were the only two children in the entire world, was a reciprocal gift. They got the promise of unconditional love; she got back all the innocence and joy of her early youth. She laughed at their antics and beamed as they ate her special cakes and cookies. She crocheted dolls and capes and shared secrets in the middle of the night when they would sleep over. She was a good listener. She became a part of the fabric of their everyday lives. They, and she, were richer for it.

I baby sat for the girls last night. We watched Peter Pan and looked at American Girl catalogs and just shared time together. Their mom and dad were out on a special anniversary date. Hannah was so eager to see Peter Pan. When the movie started to play, I realized with a shock that it was the same movie I had watched over fifty years ago, not much older than she. I was suddenly transported to my own childhood and memories of a Peter Pan activity book which I played with for hours. I remembered the weekly visits to my aunt and uncle’s and setting up the Peter Pan play book on their dining-room table. I loved Tinkerbelle as much as Hannah! I looked into her excited face and saw something familiar. For one brief moment, it was like looking into a mirror of myself in another dimension. Little me, playing with delight and moving those Peter Pan cut-out figures all around my aunt’s table. I then looked at Sophie, the wise one, totally immersed in the movie. Her concentration often seems overwhelming but suddenly she reminded me of my own intensity as a child. When I engaged my Peter Pan dolls, I stepped completely into the moment and tuned out the rest of the world. I was like that whenever I played with my dolls and toys.

The movie ended and I marched them up to bed. Hannah tried to wager for another round of playtime but had to settle for “family rules” and a couple bedtime stories read to her and her sister on their parents’ big bed. Sophie settled into her bedroom with the American Girl catalogs while I put Hannah in her crib, gave her the customary tickle and told an accelerated version of Cinderella. She was asleep by the time I got into the hallway. Sophie, on the other hand, was busy printing out a list of dolls that she would love to buy from the catalogs with her allowance. Explaining the need for long-term strategies regarding enough cash flow for such high-end items, I tucked her in.

I came downstairs and sat on the sofa, waiting for Jenn and David to return. I found myself dozing off. Head nodding, I could not help but think of my mom.

A car pulled up and, like many years before, a grown daughter drove her tired mother home to an apartment just two blocks away.

Pump you up

Slow leak in back tire: $5
New wardrobe for new life: first paycheck
Having daughter as personal shopper: priceless

We almost didn’t get to the mall today. Daughter managed to call my attention to a somewhat sagging tire just as we were ready to pull out for a day of serious shopping. I needed someone to pick and choose the correct colors and designs which would allow me to present myself in public as a fairly well-dressed style-savvy transplant to the Berkshires. Here the dress code is certainly more relaxed than big-city living but even my jeans are in need of an extreme makeover. I told Jenn that I couldn’t do this without her. I decided to capitulate and let her show me just what was missing. However, the tire was almost as flat as my sense of fashion.

First things first. The locals have a “drive-in tire service” and, yes, there were actually two nails wreaking havoc with my back tire. One fellow checked the air in the other tires while another guy sealed up the problem and I was soon on my way - nice guys and they didn’t seem offended by my attire: high-school sweater, yellow pullover and green corduroy slacks.

Jenn, on the other hand, was stricken and couldn’t wait to get me to the mall and push me into the nearest fitting room as she ran freely through the petites department collecting pants, tops, jackets and sweaters to rejuvenate my muted palette. I was feeling a bit doubtful at the beginning but, damn, the kid is good! She scored almost 100% in finding items that made me look less short, younger and definitely curvy in just the right spots. For years I’ve shopped alone and hated going into the dressing rooms to face the truth in the mirror. This time, facing the truth was tempered by a daughter who kept running out and bringing back surprising combinations of blues and greens and pinks and eggplants, not to mention a few basic blacks and tans to balance it all out. If there was a runway, I would have walked it. Color has come back into my life.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty. Shedding the old isn’t so painful when you have someone who loves you at your side.

Bras and boundaries

Well, I did it. Couldn't leave well enough alone. Hauled my load of wash over to daughter's and decided to be helpful and throw some of her dark items into the washer along with mine. How was I to know that a certain expensive undergarment was so delicate that it didn't belong in the maelstrom of a churning agitator? Simply put: brown bra lying in a laundry hamper was off limits. Luckily, I swept that puppy right out in time to revive it with a cold rinse ("by hand ONLY Mom") and assured the daughter that momma will never again assume that objects lying atop her laundry bin are actually ripe for the picking. One would think ...

We're off and running. Up here a month. Getting in each other's hair and laundry bins. Sharing secrets. Telling tales. Pushing kids in strollers. Day dreaming and saving our pennies for outrageous purchases from tony home-furnishing catalogs. Laughing a lot. Crying a bit. Trying to set some boundaries around "her world" and my new world.

Just like a good bra, there's always room for expansion.

Ex libris

I'm up to the multiple boxes of books which have to find their way onto bookshelves in my new place. Yes, I may be a fashion flunkie but I'm a bibliophile and it was very hard to pare back when it came to packing up my book collection. I did give some of the popular fiction away but the rest was salvaged and added to the movers' load. Considering what the movers did to me, I think it was a fair and just reward for their services. There are about 15-20 small but weighty uHaul boxes that I'm working from, in addition to photos and other family memorabilia which will be tackled after the sorting of the books.

I had a friend who once told me that, as she walked through a bookstore or library, she was ever mindful of a "Eureka" moment when a certain book called her name. I do think there is something to this. Once you open a book, there is a great deal of energy being released - new ideas, new challenges which engage the mind and soul and just may change a life. Look at Oprah and her book club. That was a concept that really took off.

As much as we have become a digital and cable population, there is nothing like settling down in your most comfy chair and reading or re-reading a favorite author. As I look through the many topics (big on spirituality and psychology) of the books I'm pulling out of boxes, I am caught between my past and my future. Some of these books brought hope in troubling times; others just made me see the world with a different, less judgmental lens. They were comfort and catalyst. I still have much to learn from their pages.

So, dear books, welcome to my new home and have a seat on the shelf. It's good to have you here.

Step away from the clothes

The Fashion Police have raided my closet. Translation: my daughter has decided to review her mother's wardrobe now that MOTHER HAS LANDED A NEW JOB!

Yes, I've been busy these past two weeks interviewing for a position as a college-placement counselor at a local school. Yesterday, I got the good news - they offered me the job. Today, I went to finalize the details.

Jenn, in the meantime, had decided to make sure that I didn't embarrass myself, her and her progeny, and any other living sentient being who may be related to me by showing up in something that would not a) enhance my figure and b) deconstruct style for the Baby-Boomer generation. Before I could go to my final meeting at the school, my daughter stuffed me into an Oprah-bra-of-the-month, black and sexy, all the while reminding me to "lift and tuck". She then led me to eBay to purchase my own version. This was not enough. I could tell by the glint in her eye that she was about to invade my closet. There were shrieks and moans and soon most of what I had considered "casual chic" was lying strewn across my bed begging to be delivered to the nearest thrift store. Nothing else would appease the adult child (who still has nightmares of my dressing her and her brother in multi-colored floral-print play pants when they were toddlers).

What can I say?! I'm a fashion flunkie. I would love to have a certain flair and style of my own but never found time to do the homework. My casual chic is obviously casual shriek to the 30-something generation.

I was reminded that I was too short for straight-legged pants and v-necks were the only way to go to offset my Polish genetic endowment. Handbags? Oh, she had a field day with those ... they're also leaving the premises.

It was hard giving up some of the old jackets and skirts but Jenn was adamant about her mother's image.

"No way. NO. No. Not negotiable. You've got to be kidding me. Gone. Goodbye. This is about starting over, Mom."

The Gucci Gestapo has spoken, even if she's only living high-end on Land's End.

Finding the job was rather easy compared to this next mission. I have a feeling that eBay and I are going to become quite interactive. I wonder if the fashion police are related to the local sheriff?

Come grow old with me

He's 105 years old.

In dog years, he's past 15. His eyes are dim and his pace is slow. Sometimes he stumbles and other times he painfully lifts himself from the chair and carefully lowers himself to the floor. I can tell just by his walk if his arthritis is beating up on him. He tries to eat but it almost seems too difficult to chew and manage his food on certain days. I stay patient and try to give him smaller portions. I stand close to his ears and speak louder when I want to get his attention. He looks at me and stares.

Yet there are moments and hours when he reclaims his former self - a deep bark, a playful toss of the head. He can't go on long walks but he can walk to the playground and he holds his head high and seems to enjoy the wind ruffling his coat. He sniffs into the wind and I see him as he was ... young and frisky and always ready to play ball or frisbee. He used to leap up when he was a pup, so happy to see me. Now he wobbles and lets himself be led.

He is my daughter's dog but we have a lot of history together. He was in my charge while his owner took an assignment in Hungary for a year. I never had a dog growing up but he worked his magic on me and we became friends.

He has the heart of a prince. Not once has he harmed the babies and actually seemed to appoint himself their official guardian. Now he gets so many pills and creams and vitamins per day that it doesn't seem fair: phenobarbitol to relax him, glucosamine to help with the joint pain, other prescriptions to help take the edge off each day's struggle to stay with us, keep watch over the clan.

He's still the "best boy dog in all the world". It was my routine with him when he lived with me for that year of Jenn's absence. I'd put my finger in his warm ear and scratch and tell him so. He knew he was special. Now I administer ear drops for a recurring infection but I still tell him he's the best.

Taking care of him again this past week, I can't help but compare his plight to those of the old old we have in nursing homes. They are wobbly on their feet, their senses are failing, and at times they just seem to be in the way. For those of us who are busy and still blessed with good health, the elderly are clumsy and too too slow. Yet, aren't we catching glimpses of ourselves? How will we handle our "golden years"? Who will take the time to make room for us at the table or in the family circle?

We are all finite creatures.

Branded and broke

It's taken two days of running here and there, but I'm now auto-insured, registered, tagged, licensed and inspected. My sweet Ruby has shed her Pennsylvania license plate for a pair of shiny new Massachusetts tags.

I am now paying $200 more per year to drive in a semi-rural area. Maybe I can blame it on the moose and bear. Cripes. I guess if you hit one of those, you've got a helluva lot of collision damage to pay for. When I express my surprise at the higher rates, the insurance agent shakes her head and sneeringly replies "Welcome to Taxachusetts."

I pick up the local paper while waiting for the car to be inspected. I read of 70-year-old widows who are sculling on the local lakes and 73-year-old bachelors who are doing community service and leading yoga classes. I'm feeling intimidated as I haven't even unpacked all my moving boxes. The auto shop has barbershop chairs installed in their waiting room. Quirky but comfortable. If you want something even more nostalgic, there's an old-fashioned dentist chair complete with drill. Is this going to be a painful experience? Luckily, their bill for inspection is the cheapest outlay of the day. I'm good to go.

Driving around without my former inspection stickers glued to the left side of the car window is a bit disorienting. The Massachusetts sticker goes on the right side of the car. Yes, it's a small change but it still makes me feel like something has, indeed, shifted. I've been coming up here for five years to visit and now suddenly I and my car are a part of the local landscape. I remind Ruby to be on good behavior and not cause any traffic jams nor embarrass me with a moving violation.

I'm tired and a bit low on cash but look for the positive. The mountains loom around me. I drive up through a state reservation, the car climbing the twisting roads higher and higher. I'm feeling quite alone and then pass a mountain biker who is tackling what, to me in the car, seems to be the Mt. Everest of mountain biking. Bikers and scullers. Somewhere in between, I hope to find my calling.

Postscript: I phoned the sheriff to ask for the location of the motor-vehicle registry and he's actually called me back twice since then. He's a golfer. I won't need the bowling ball.

Formal dress not required

I did my civic duty and tidied up the common driveway today, shoveling up a spilled bag of charcoal which someone had dropped the other day. I came in and promptly got out of my dirty, sweaty jeans and was about to turn the shower on when the smoke alarm started blaring away. Mega decibels and there I am naked and not knowing what to do next. I threw on all the dirty clothes while looking through papers to find the landlord's phone number. Rushed down the steps and placed the call.

Two handymen showed up in about five-ten minutes. These guys are cute. They've already patched my kitchen screen and given me a new mailbox. They're probably a little younger than me. I hope they don't think I'm finding excuses to have them over. Then again, what's the harm? We decided that it may have been some "dust" which triggered the bloody alarm. Not sure. Great. Next time I'll be sleeping and in my nightgown. Ray and George and I are certainly getting acquainted.

Do you think the household ghosts are having some fun at my expense? Maybe they're nudging me back into the world of men.

Where there's smoke, there's fire.

Ghosts and posts

It's a dark and stormy night and a perfect time for some out-of-this-world news. I thought I'd post some intriguing notes about these past couple months. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

Mr. Pipe may still be hanging around my daughter's house. I went to hang up Hannah's dress in her closet the other day and caught a faint whiff of ... pipe smoke. I actually spent the night at Jenn's. Unfortunately, Mrs. Kitchen did not surprise me with breakfast the next morning. But there are surprises galore regarding the ghosts in our closets.

I have been told by my researching daughter that the house I've chosen is actually the same space occupied by Mr. Pipe's and Mrs. Kitchen's son and his family in the 1920s. Mere coincidence or are Jenn and I really meant to discover the Richmonds and learn something about them? From them? What do they have to teach us?

Let me fill you in a bit more. Tree (of the amazing tattoo and psychic ability) told me that she was getting a sense of "multiples of twos" and my mom's presence when she thought about my moving on up to the Berkshires. In fact, she told me that she felt that the choice of the house was "already decided". Now this was before I had even selected or looked at the place I took. Somehow my mom was communicating the location to Tree. My mom died in 1985.

This is how the deal went down. I was on a long waiting list for this particular place and, therefore, didn't even think anymore about pursuing it when I drove up to Jenn's to look at properties. I didn't even call the realtor about it. By the end of a week's worth of house and apartment hunting (almost in a panic because I still had not found something), I got an unexpected call from the landlady telling me that this unit was suddenly open for me. It's an upper floor of a duplex and set right in the middle of a row of duplex apartments. "Multiples of two." It was built on the foundation of the old houses which were once situated on a Magnolia street or lane almost a century ago. Jenn has reminded me that magnolia is a symbol for perseverance.

Once I signed the lease, the fun began. Jenn went through the local archives and found out that my upper unit is, indeed, the exact place the Richmonds lived. They had four children and little Buddy was the boy who died at age four in 1930.

Jenn has already taken me to the cemetery to meet the Richmonds. We do seem to have this thing about cemeteries, don't we?

What were the odds, randomly, of my choosing my new house and actually making a connection to Jenn's friendly household spirits? Tree was right. This was not purely chance.

The house chose me.

Hay and Propane

I don't have to pinch myself to realize that I have made the move to small-town life. All I have to do is open the local yellow pages and see the above listings to know that it's a whole new ball game. There is still much to be done and I have read and re-read all your wonderful and practical comments on how to unpack and get on with my life.

These past two weeks have sped by even though I'm no longer in the fast lane of city living. The bedroom and living room and bathroom are mostly comfy and settled. The dining room and study hold many more boxes awaiting my attention because I've been helping out at Jenn's while she was away on a mission of her own this past week. We have had only a few brief moments together since I arrived but it's already starting, that mom-daughter dance. Jenn has reminded me of my table manners and our decorating differences more than once. For this I moved 300 miles.

Toss that hay and light that propane - city gal is a hankerin' for a hayride with that deputy sheriff. Actually, there seem to be a lot of stray men my age wandering around. I hope daughter doesn't think I'll need a chaperone. There's even a local bowling alley. Drats. I should have kept the bowling ball.

So now it begins. I'm somewhere between Sex and the City and the Golden Girls. I'll figure it out.

Law and order

I've been sleeping at the kids' because the bed is still not up. Sophie has given me her bed and is sharing space with her daddy while mommy is in a distant state making friends with Gloria Putnam Smith. (See Jenn's blog.)

I'm checking out my new neighborhood. I do the grandmother thing today and take the girls to a local playground which is just a few short blocks from my house. "My house". It's starting to settle in. Sophie swings on the monkey-bars and Hannah learns how to climb a net. I watch an older gent pushing his two grandsons on a tire swing. Hmm ... I smile and make small talk. Not bad. Babci's checking out the neighbors too. I figure it's safer in a playground than a parking lot.

The girls and I walk back to "my house" and I take them on to the porch and feed them chips and ice water and you would think I've given them a happy meal from McDonald's. They watch me open the most gorgeous sunflowers sent by a cyberspace buddy. Mucho thanks, Geogirl! The flowers now grace my living room. Hannah strokes my mom's large, multi-colored afghan and exclaims: "These colors are very pretty. I like this blanket." I am beaming. My mother, wherever she may be, is beaming too. I'm sure of it.

Grandparents are plentiful this week. David's parents are in town making their annual pilgrimage from Calgary. The girls are getting smothered with attention. I'm glad to share as I have lots to do in "my house". I take the girls downstairs and we wait for Bubba and Grandpop George to pull up; it's now their special time for lunch with the munchkins.

Just as their car arrives in the common driveway, another guy pulls up in back. He wanders into the duplex next to mine and comes out as I'm waving goodbye to the girls. I look at him and smile and he smiles and announces that he's a local sheriff. Was he serving a warrant to my next-door neighbors?! I ask him if the neighborhood is, like, user friendly? He assures me that it's really a good place and that I should just phone him up if I have any concerns. Phone him. Anytime. He then hands me a business card and in one breath lets me know that he's a) a bachelor b) 67 years old c) works in law and order d) goes out a lot but has an answering machine. He pulls out. I wave. I look at the business card: deputy sheriff, notary public, and auctioneer.

I'm in town less than a week and I've already met a guy who's good with handcuffs and respects antiques.

Things are looking up.

Simple pleasures

I'm sitting at Jenn's house borrowing David's laptop while the girls are watching Sesame Street. It's hard to believe that Bob and Gordon and Maria are all ready for AARP membership. I see that the past thirty years have taken their toll on the original cast but heck I'm older and a bit longer in the tooth too (if you count crowns). What a joy to have Hannah and Sophie propped on either side and watching a show that I watched with Jenn on my lap so long ago. Score one for the home team.

It's a good morning. I managed to step into the shower last night and wash the grime away. It was not just physical but also a psychological need for cleansing - washing away the mental dirt the movers left in their wake. I slept at the kids' last night as my bedroom is still not set up. In fact, it's in quite a chaotic state. David and I wanted these guys to unload my stuff as quickly as possible and get the heck out that horrid night. So the bed frame and hardware are lying on the floor next to the propped mattress and box springs keeping the strewn dresser drawers company. The drawers are a mess as most of the brackets have detached and need tending. A lot needs tending. But a lot got done yesterday.

I had to force myself to go back into the house. Strangest thing. I felt that these jerks had contaminated my new home.

Solution: see the place through a fresh innocence. I took Sophie for the afternoon and we explored the whacky world of Babci's boxes and furniture. When you're five years old, every stack of boxes is a castle tower and every room contains hiding places. We played hide and seek. She was easy to find by the giggles emanating from behind the mattress or the closet.

A real moving company would have carefully brought in each box and paid attention to the directions of where to go. Instead, I have a dining room almost filled to ceiling with most of my boxes. Luckily, one of the first I opened, after Sophie and I had our lemonade on my private porch and discussed how to arrange my future garden, was a box containing a bag of plastic horses and figures that Sophie's mom played with as a kid. Sophie took each out and was enthralled. She hugged the golden palomino and named her "Bella". I explained that the name meant beautiful. The moment was beautiful. Sophie was spreading her fairy dust throughout the house. Her giggles and delight and sweet, sweet voice started to lift my spirit and dispel the bad air left by the movers.

How do you move into a place quickly? I can't and for now I decided to create two small oases of comfort: my living room couches and the back porch. Jenn, bless her, found a delightful little vintage bistro set for the back porch along with new plants including a "hardy Mum". Appropriate, eh?

My eyes were still bloodshot but this hardy mum was digging her way through the boxes unearthing lots of treasures for Sophie. Next I found some old photos of my mother as a child of nine or ten, dressed in her first communion dress, long dark hair framing her pretty face. I showed Sophie the picture and we both agreed that she does look like Nanny Mary. Then I showed her Mary's mother and told her that this woman was her great-great-grandmother and that this was my Babci. I also told her that this lady had been orphaned when she was little, had older sisters to take care of her, and that she and my mom were so poor that they would play with dolls made out of rags and remnants.

Sophie took this all in and then we decided that each time we use something special from the past, we will try to remember the person who first had it. Sophie wants to be a veterinarian and a dressmaker when she grows up. So I opened an old box marked "Mom's sewing stuff" and there we were amidst my mom's past: her needles, threads and thimbles. I told Sophie that we could use Nanny's threads to sew new clothes for her dolls and we looked at all the lovely colors. One particular spool of blue caught my eye and I instantly saw my Mom in the dress which matched this thread. She came so alive to me in that moment.

I continued to open and move things around through the rest of the afternoon while Sophie contentedly played with her mom's horses and then fell asleep under my mom's crocheted afghan, snuggled on my sofa. What a picture. What a beautiful memory.

Welcome home.

Long day's journey into night

I didn't expect to be curled in a fetal position on my granddaughter's bed this morning ... this was to be the morning of new beginnings, early-morning coffee and maybe even the dreaded cinnamon bun with Jenn and David at the local coffee shop. Not.

My son couldn't be here but had some trepidations about "movers and scams". He was following a reliable gut instinct. I kind of pooh poohed his concerns but then encountered his worst fears - a shady company and a con game.

My trusting nature and lack of time to do the proper research for the moving company that was to handle all my modest earthly belongings did me in. They came, they saw, I was taken. Have you ever heard of waiting on an outside porch from 9:30pm until almost 4:00am for the movers to show up with their truck? It's hard to even write it about it yet. Jenn has and David, bless him, is a mensch. In my mind, he's Han Solo in Birkenstocks. The man is a dragonslayer.

I'm here, sleepless in Massachusetts (except for this morning's brief nap at 7am) and I just looked in the mirror to confirm that I'm still here and tried a smile ... a genuine "God it's great to be alive" smile just to erase the Bosch smiley scream that was forming during the wee hours of the morning. It was easier to smile with the sun shining and two little imps running around in princess dresses. Yes, that's the real world. Let them be innocent and naive for a bit longer. When it's time for them to know about the schemers and the liars, I'll be glad to teach them the lesson I learned last night.

Oh, Jenn was right too. I managed to lose my checkbook on the trip up.

Sacred spaces

I went to the cemetery today on my way to work. I probably should have been in the apartment packing but I knew that I had an important appointment to keep ... with my family.

"The gang" as my Dad so fondly called them were waiting silently beneath a brilliant cloud-swept blue sky and neatly clipped grass. Two families, close in life, still close in death. My maternal and paternal grandparents' plots are only a couple hundred yards apart. They were immigrants who settled in Philadelphia and whose children fell in love. From family stories and old photos, I can tell that the merging of the clans was filled with fun and good humor. There were picnics and haystacks and live music. These people knew how to enjoy themselves even though they were living through some pretty rough times (Depression and WWII). Yes, there were family feuds and jealousies and some sad times too. But it all seemed to play out well in the end. Here there is such a feeling of peace.

I remember coming here as a kid with my Babci (mother's mom) so we could place a blanket on the grass and have a kind of picnic at my granddad's grave. There were old-fashioned water pumps throughout the cemetery and I was always sent with glass jars or buckets to pump the water and bring it back to sprinkle the many flowers my grandmom would plant and tend at her husband's place of rest. This was a part of the grieving process.

These simple immigrants did not forget their dead. The ritual of gardening brought healing. The graves were not seen as ominous but as welcomed spots of rest for the living. There were conversation and laughter and memories shared on a blanket over the place where a loved one lay.

Years later, the cemetery decided that it was too much of a bother to maintain the flowers on the graves. Signs went up and flowers were banned. By then my grandmother already had her place next to her husband. I was glad that she didn't live to see the stark landscape that replaced the flowers of the families who mourned. Bureaucracy is so sterile and clueless.

I just know that, as a child, I never felt more alive than when running with the water lapping out of my bucket and bringing it to my grandmother sitting and smiling on her blanket. It felt like such an important task to be entrusted with.

Those childhood memories came back with a rush as I knelt and touched the cool stones today and told my folks that I would be leaving the neighborhood. I blessed them all and asked them to keep an eye out for me in my new location.

Somehow, I think they heard me.

With a little help from my friends

Enough is enough. I sent everyone home. You can tell that I worked poor Geogirl to exhaustion and my other friend, Joann, took to playing Jane of the Jungle with my potted plant. I knew then that both had over committed.

Geo and I had never met in person until this weekend when she showed up at my door and stayed over to give me a hand. An Internet friendship has grown even deeper as we got to know each other through funny stories and revelations while she climbed ladders and dismantled my hardware. Bless you, Geo. Joann and I have worked together for the past few years and she knew I needed help so she appeared just after Geo left. More time for personal stories and sharing while we wrapped and boxed the large paintings and prints which Geo had taken down from the walls.

Much has gotten done this weekend thanks to my friends. The pictures are bubble-wrapped and many of the dishes packed. I found things I didn't know I still had (my parents' bedroom mirror) and things I wish I hadn't (bowling ball from first boyfriend).

In one more week, I will have to get my act together and get it all out the door and myself up to the Berkshires. I am working full time through Friday. One more weekend for good friends to stop by and push me along. I could never do this alone.

Thanks, guys! You have a standing invitation to visit me in my new home.

A London tale told in haiku

Yes, I'm busy sorting and packing for my big move. I came to a pile of old emails and paused. Pack rat that I am, my hoarding does have its moments of reward. I found myself reading through travel notes and poems which I'm so glad I saved.

Daughter, baby granddaughter and I had flown to London two years ago which, in itself, is quite a story. At the moment all you have to know is that Hannah was ten months old and screamed a lot, on the plane and while we were traipsing about. We got to see Jenn's close friends in Kent, travel to Brighton Beach, visit an English garden estate, and return to Jenn's college flat in Shepherd's Bush and reminisce.

Homebase was a lovely cottage in the tiny town of Tonbridge from which we could walk to the train and venture into London as one of our many day trips. However, day tripping with a baby began to wear on both me and daughter, Jenn. Add to that, a baby who was nursing and a camera that had dropped on a tile floor and took some damage. We turned to poetry to relieve our stress. Below are some excerpts from one extremely long excursion into bustling London, a day which stretched us to our limits. In retrospect, it also brought us closer.

How to Kill Twelve Hours in London
A Three-Generation Literary Adventure

Jenn's Thoughts

Infant, I beg you
Do not choke on the biscuit
No one will aid us

If you lick the glass
Of the train window again
You will drink Purell

Nurse her on the train?
Car of frowning Englishmen
Rock, hard place, and me ...

London with baby
Only disabled homeless
Enjoy themselves less

Spitalfields Market
Baby bawls and Grandma gripes
We buy marked-down cakes

O, lively market
Sequins, rosettes, fashion blooms
I am large and dull

Still at Spitalfields
Masochists. Why is it that
Only my babe cries?

The famous Christ Church
Sir Christopher Wren, I say
Mother curls her lip ...

A thousand cafes
Cold wind, grey sky, camera broke
Spent, we choose Starbucks

The Tube. Hannah howls.
I pray hard for diversion
Rob me, pickpockets

Vacation? Pleasure?
With the baby and my mom?
This is pilgrimage

Eight tenths of a mile
Tonbridge station to cottage
New muscle group found

Fish and chips tonight
Fried cod longer than my shin
Eat it all? I do.

The smell of neglect:
Seven hours of urine
In a cheap nappy

“You bathe her.” “No, you.”
Hannah gets a bedtime bath:
Hand sanitizer

Three thousand miles
From home, routine. Funny that
All I want is sleep

My Thoughts

Daughter writes the tale
Hyperbole comes to mind
New “reality”

Only grief and woe?
Gen X meets Baby Boomer
Aware of complaints

Perception is key
Baby is interference
Screams and impatience

Rushing to appease
Camera falls on hard ground
Baby Boomer sighs

Costly things do cost
But which is of more value
Memories of what

Meltdown moments fade
Baby licking ice cream cone
Pigeons sunning selves

Castle on a hill
Camera works as before
Storm clouds threatening

Racing baby home
Standing at the window’s ledge
Giggling at the rain

Baby turns and smiles
Values quickly fall in place
Travel becomes joy

Inconvenience pales
Meaning resurrects itself
Sun returns from clouds

Camera is scratched
Worn down and out like daughter
Still captures the truth

Moments of magic
Glowing sun over chimneys
Baby falls asleep

Daughter takes to bath
Grandmom sits amidst the peace
Cottage holds all three

Life as a journey
Movement, tension, too much haste
For now all is calm

Tote that barge and lift that bale

To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind getting a little drunk right now. The weekend is here and I have exactly three sets of Saturdays and Sundays to get my act together, clean out the apartment and move on up to the Berkshires. In between the weekends, I'll still be working full time at my present job.

I have no idea who these people are but the photo reminded me of my friends - good souls all who are dropping by at one time or another these next three weekends and letting me use them as indentured servants.

One dear cyber-friend is driving up for an entire weekend just so that we can finally meet before I move even farther from her home state! I promised to feed her and provide lodging for the night. She, a younger and stronger gal, has promised to climb ladders and share my power drill to remove all hardware from walls. We'll be rolling rugs and boxing books and probably LOL all the time. Thanks a bunch, geo! You get a free limo ride one day when we attend one of Jenn's premieres in NYC.

Let me confess now that I am a hoarder. I breed paper. I'm sentimental about emails. I will have to make some tough decisions this weekend. Maybe I can follow what I just began at work. I really jumped in today and cleared one corner of my office and it was quite satisfying to see two large industrial-strength bags of trash outside my door. It took about two minutes to decide to ditch all my old teacher's notes from past semesters. Been there, did that.

Here's to letting go!

Welcome to the family, Iris!

Iris Kathryn made her debut on the west coast this past week. It was a home birth and my darling daughter-in-law brought forth my fifth grandchild surrounded by proud hubby (my son the doc) and baby's big brother and sister, Ben and Olivia. There were a midwife and a doula and Katie's mom and sister also present to add even more love and laughter and energy to the mix.

Ben is still safely ensconced as the Crown Prince of the family, now having to deal with two little sisters and two female cousins. I'm still remembering his "too many girls" comment last summer and laughing. The boy will need some serious male bonding.

I can't wait to see the newest addition. Word has it that she may actually look like our side of the family. After the move to the Berkshires, I'll have to track down some frequent-flyer air miles and cash in. Being so far way at times like this is difficult but knowing that the clan is growing is a reward in itself.

It's been a very good week.

Oh Hillary why did you fail?

I need to rant.

I'm following my North Star but it seems that health-care coverage will be left back on the trail. Tell me why a federally-mandated program like COBRA has this cute little clause in it that prohibits my getting on the program in Massachusetts because I'd have to have a Pennsylvania PCP (primary care physician) assigned! Now isn't that the stupidest thing ever? Next best thing is shelling out over $550 per month on a "basic individual" HMO plan which still doesn't cover prescriptions.

There's gotta be a better way. This venting does not mean I'm regretting my decision to pack it all up and get out of Dodge. Hell no! But I'm frustrated at this turn of events.

I'm getting an education on the plight of millions of my fellow citizens who, like me, are stuck between a rock and hard place when it comes to medical insurance. I plan to stay healthy for the time being and start looking for a fulltime job sooner rather than later.

Appreciate feedback and innovative solutions.

More takin' care of business

I've been in the Berkshires all week, tcb. I feel like one small step has been made towards the giant leap I'm about to take. I found a roomy apartment close to daughter which will welcome most of my furniture and belongings. No little thing.

I pared down drastically when I sold my house several years ago and now I'd like to keep the few pieces of furniture that are left. They include an old desk and rocking chair from my parents and several bookcases, computer desk, bedroom bureaus which I put together with my Sears variable-torque power drill. One of the first things I invested in after the divorce was a shiny red tool box and a cordless drill. It paid off. I managed to save money by buying various items and assembling myself. This was quite a feat for a woman who usually depended on a man to handle this kind of stuff. The furniture may be humble but the feeling of pride from doing it myself was priceless.

One of my favorite posters is the WWII print of Rosie the Riveter reminding "We can do it". My dad was a wartime supervisor in a steel-production plant. His assembly line consisted of many "Rosies". He once told me that after the war he hated to lose such terrific workers. The women were tough and dedicated and quick to learn a new skill. They produced a quality product. I wonder if they were content to return to their own homefront after the war as the men returned to the positions in the factories. That may be another story for another time.

As Jenn mentions in her blog, it has been almost twenty years since she and I have lived in the same city. I had not even realized that. It was a revelation to think that when I sent my firstborn off to an out-of-state college in 1988, I really was giving her wings to fly away. So now we'll be neighbors and I'll get my cardiovascular workout walking up the hill to visit daughter and family.

Thanks for all your notes of support! There is still much to do but at least I know where I'm landing in August.

You can't go home again

Isn’t that a famous quote? I wasn’t convinced of its validity. Even after the divorce and selling of the house which held thirty years of family memories, I kept trying to go back.

Until this week.

I had to return to the old neighborhood to see my family doctor who happens to have his office at the corner of my old street. We lived right down the block and it was so easy to just walk over and tell a nurse what was happening. This was when the kids were little and managed care was just on the horizon. Life seemed so much simpler. The doctor and his young associate were accessible and friendly. Once a neighbor’s son had a heart attack in the driveway and good ‘ole Doc Welby came running. One of the reasons my son became a doctor was because of their good example. We had so much history together. They treated me, the kids, my mom and mom-in-law. As the years went by, they dispensed hugs and kisses along with the prescriptions. I love and respect these men. Often, the familiarity and comfort of just being in their presence was the panacea.

That was then. This is now.

This week I go into the office and am told that there have been some changes. The associate has left the practice. Managed care has managed to disrupt the expectation that he was going to be successor to the practice. It seems that once physicians buy into a health-care management system, they sell their souls to the corporate end of medicine and no longer are free to control outcomes. So Doc Welby and his sidekick are splitting up. More unsettling news – the older doctor is retiring. I get seen by a stranger, a somewhat harried but pleasant doctor who is just “filling in” until someone takes over the practice.

My two constants are gone. I don’t even get to kiss and hug them good bye. Sic transit gloria mundi.

Every time I went to the doctor’s, I went home. I found myself driving or walking past the old house, the house that welcomed me as a new bride, a new mother and a woman who believed that roots were important, family was important. This house was home to others in the family … elderly parents during times of crisis and transition. Our basement was turned into living space for my father-in-law as he became a new man and reconciled with his wife and family, and later housed my own mom as a new widow. Swings were hung in trees. Traditional Polish Christmas dinners and decorate-our-tree Christmas eves were celebrated. Choir practices in the living room. Pet menageries in the basement. There was a glorious energy to the house. In the end, there was an aching emptiness. Time to move on.

Even though I no longer lived in the neighborhood, in that house, I still felt connected. I always got a visceral feeling when I returned. I could almost reach out and touch the memories which would come flooding back. Playing on the lawn with my daughter’s dog … walks in the park … huge snowstorms and digging out the street and driveway with the neighbors, many of whom had already moved or passed on.

Until this week.

I walked out of the doctor’s office, got into the car, and drove very slowly and deliberately past my house for one last look, one final goodbye. I may not have had the chance to say farewell to my dear doctors, but by God, I was going to make the chance to say goodbye to my house. I looked up at the dogwood tree and the front window, lights glowing behind the closed curtains, and I blessed this house and said thank-you. That was it. My gut stayed calm. There was no strong feeling pulling me any longer. The connection was broken.

And now I am packing and driving up to the Berkshires this weekend to find a new house and a new life, to plant some new roots and find some new connections.

I have a strong feeling that my family will be waiting there.

Light up the sky

It’s happening. I knew it would.

The euphoria of the decision to leave my old life and start up again elsewhere is starting to wane. Reality and the logistics of making this happen are settling in. It’s often hard for me to make a final decision but once done, I’m pretty good at following through. This thought sustains me for the challenging days ahead. I’m adding on to my “to do” list daily and methodically making important phone calls, setting appointments and taking care of business. I know where I’m headed by September. How I get there is up to me.

Thank God for family and friends. They are my support and pep squad - keeping me honest and keeping me on task. Shining stars, each and every one.

It’s a holiday weekend here in the states but I’ve decided to sit this one out. Instead, I’m planning budgets, sorting clothes, throwing out some baggage. I’m also thinking of my son and his wife who are about to bless me with another grandbaby … Jenn and David who are about to welcome me into their community … Louise, my dear new friend across the pond who has become part of the family … all my old friends and Polish cousins who have and will continue to sustain me through life’s ups and downs. I see them all in my mind. I see them smiling and waving me on. Godspeed.

They light up my sky just as vividly as the fireworks exploding on a warm summer’s night. Each one has a special trajectory in my heart. Each has a unique sparkle and glow.

No need to attend any of the pyrotechnics this Fourth of July. My sound-and-light show is self contained.