By land and by sea Part Two

It’s been rainy and cool this past week and my thoughts drift back to the bright blue sky and sunny weather which graced our trip to Victoria. Even though we only spent one night in this lovely capital city, every minute was filled with rich experiences - from strolling to dinner with the little ones and settling them into bed to an impromptu Starbucks breakfast in our suite the next morning, then on to a morning of exploration at the Royal British Columbia Museum and, finally, sightseeing and shopping in the city itself.





I was a bit doubtful as to how two small children and a baby would handle a few hours in a world-class museum. Would there be meltdowns? Boredom beyond belief? My worries soon subsided as there were so many fascinating exhibits that all of us got caught up in different rooms and time periods.

We passed impressive dioramas of wooly mammoths and native wildlife, walked through a Victorian town peering into shop windows and living rooms, replicas of what life must have been like for the early settlers. Olivia was a bit leery of the darkened streets but was soon reassured that it was all just make-believe and no ghosts about.



There was a large totem collection along with many artifacts of the native tribes. The First Peoples Gallery was dimly lit and mystical. Its sense of serenity even put our little Iris to sleep as she clung to her momma, Katie, in a shoulder sling similar to how these native women may have carried their babes too.

Ben and I got to walk through a replica of the stern section of the HMS Discovery showing its captain’s quarters. He turned to me, quite excited, and said “This is where Captain Gruffy Face sleeps!” Ah, the power of a grandparent’s imagination on impressionable youngsters.



After a final stop at the museum gift shop (yes, I indulged the kiddies) we then walked into the heart of the city by way of the signature hotel in the harbor. Joseph obliged and took some photos of me and the munchkins in front of The Empress. This will probably be the closest I’ll ever get to crossing its portals as I cannot afford the royal prices.





Spring really was in the air and we enjoyed the beautiful flowers in bloom along the grand old hotel’s promenade. It seemed that everyone was out and about in shirt sleeves or light jackets. The locals confided that the sunny and balmy weather was long overdue. There was even a reggae band doing a bit of street entertaining to add to the upbeat mood. I wandered into a British department store to look at the tartans and tweeds but didn’t linger long as the warm temps and the street band lured me back outside.

Before heading back to the ferry, we stopped at an outdoor café for lunch and, again, the cheerful crowds and clear skies were producing a carnival atmosphere. I half expected the street band to break into a rendition of “Let the Sunshine In” from Hair. I would have danced down the main street!



We walked back to the hotel to collect our luggage and returned to the ferry terminal. Ben and Olivia were tired and Katie entertained them by reading a chapter of Nancy Drew while we waited. I looked at their faces, both engaged in the story, and thought how lovely that they like books, the joy of books. Joe walked baby Iris up and down until the ferry arrived and we all trekked aboard. I went on deck as we moved slowly out of the inner harbor and just missed a whale sighting on the port side. Soon the excitement faded and the Olympic mountains gradually came into view.





To be surrounded by the sea and mountains and those I love was just the perfect ending to a perfect trip. We came home on Good Friday. It was a very good Friday indeed.

Be it ever so humble

This photo was taken in an English garden a couple years ago and just leaves the door open to so many possibilities. Excuse the metaphor, but I love this picture and the memories behind it and thought I'd share it here. It has nothing to do with the piece of real estate listed below. It's just my happy place for day dreaming.

Every once and awhile, I dream of larger spaces and a house of my own, exploring options for settling in the Berkshires. I find myself picking up realtor guides at the local market and borrowing back issues of Country Living from my daughter. I am not yet ready to make the move from apartment to house ownership but now I may have to think twice. How did I miss this one? Practically in my back yard. Princess Sophie and Princess Hannah could have their very own Pretty Pony and private turret …

I’ll have to play the lottery. Sometimes dreams do come true.

Haiku for Mother's Day

The fruit falls not far
From the tree which was its source
A delicious thought

Let the blossom fall
Ready or in disarray
It’s just gravity

Trees and mothers shed
Limbs grow tired and must let go
‘Tis the stuff of life

To lose is to gain
To release is to retrieve
The fruit falls not far

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY

By land and by sea Part One

One of the highlights of last month’s trip to visit the clan on
the Olympic Peninsula was a family excursion to the lovely harbor city of Victoria, the capital of British Columbia. My son, Joe, had asked what was on my wish list of tourist attractions and I requested a ferry boat ride across the Juan de Fuca strait to Canada.



He and his wife, Katie, find a wonderful harbor-side hotel, bundle up all three kids, tandem stroller, backpacks, and we’re off! We drive to Port Angeles, leave the van, and traipse onto the ferry with our overnight gear and kids in tow.



Seattle and the region in general are interconnected by
a great system of ferries. The boats are large and roomy, have snack bars, and offer a fantastic view of the beauty that is the Pacific Northwest, the many islands themselves, and the glorious mountains of Washington state: the Cascades on the mainland and the towering, snow-clad Olympics on the peninsula.



The ferry leaves the Port Angeles harbor and the kids settle down. It takes an hour and a half to make the crossing. Joe, Ben and I and go top side for a better view. The sky is cloud swept and blue and the Olympic mountains shimmer in the haze. Ben scans the horizon for pirates while I look for whales.









It’s so awesome to be standing on a ferry boat, crossing an international boundary line and stepping down in Canada. A sudden blast from the ferry announces our arrival and startles all of us as we line up to disembark. The baby recovers quickly and I am impressed by what good travelers the little ones are. We clear customs and enter a lively scene during one of the first truly spring like weekends of the season. The hotel is only a couple blocks away and we find it has some great views of the harbor and the city.





That evening we take a stroll with the kids past the parliament building and find an Italian restaurant where Ben becomes quite interested in a group of teenage girls who are sitting at the next table. For some reason, their giddy girly behavior annoys him and he announces that they are definitely too loud. I imagine, in another ten years, he will want to be sitting at the same table and making them laugh. For now, though, I feel sorry for the boy - saddled with two younger sisters and two girl cousins. As he told me ages ago while rolling his eyes, “too many girls!”

We return to the hotel quite late. After some jumping on the bed with Iris, Ben and Olivia fall asleep on the living-room sofa bed while I tell of the further adventures of Captain Gruffy Face. I then retire to my private bedroom and take one more photo of the city’s skyline from my balcony. The harbor is aglow with lights which are reflecting in the water. I pinch myself and smile. A Hallmark moment.



Everyone sleeps well, even Iris gives her mommy and daddy a few hours of rest before the morning dawns. Katie, hopefully, gets another reprieve while Joe and I take the baby for a walk in her stroller to find a local Starbucks which provides a takeout breakfast. It’s great walking leisurely, sipping a sugar-free vanilla latte, and catching up with a grown son whom I rarely see. I’m in my element. La dolce vita. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.

Kids eat, dress, and brush teeth with new super-hero toothbrushes (it doesn’t take much to make them happy either). Soon we are exploring the city streets, taking in the colorful sights and sounds of Victoria.

Boomerang friends

Life has been moving along nicely since I relocated here in the Berkshires last August. I found an apartment and then a job and manage to see the kids often. I haven’t gotten involved in the local community enough to have established a network of new friends my age though. So, this past weekend, when I had some personal and professional issues to wrangle with, I found myself phoning old friends to just touch base and have a sounding board.

After spending time with these friends, I realize just how wonderful it is to have people in your life who are good, caring listeners - people who let you understand yourself better just by giving you the space to hear yourself think.

One friend, a colleague from my former workplace, allowed me to talk and talk tonight. It was a pretty one-sided conversation but helped me gain new insight on things which seemed a bit undefined and unsettled. I laughed and called her my “boomerang friend”.

These are the friends we all need. They allow us to come full circle by their presence and receptivity rather than by their advice.

It’s a gift to be able to put your own agenda on hold and really allow your friend to speak freely.

How many boomerang friends are in your life? Can you return the favor?

Use it or lose it

Thanks to Terry at And Sew It Goes, quilt mistress extraordinaire and new grandmother of Sofia, for this gem of a video clip. Of course, Terry and I have a few more years to go before we join this rock band but it does look like a fun gig ...

My Generation

Gotta love those Brits!

Six and four (well, almost)

Ben (age 6), upon my arrival: “Babci, say tyrannosaurus!”

I indulge him and manage to mispronounce the word once again. How does he remember my tendency to place the accent on the wrong syllable? I haven’t seen the kid in a year and a half!

Ben giggles with delight and carefully corrects my mistake.

Sophie (age 6): “Babci, you’re silly. That’s crazy.” Dubious looks at whatever words of wisdom I think I’m dispensing. Cynicism at six? I no longer walk on water. It starts this early?



Olivia (age 4): “Babci, I love you.” Adoring look and quiet affirmation as she pours imaginary tea for me in her plastic cup.

Hannah (not quite 4): “Babci, you’re the best.” Sleepy words of satisfaction as I tell her a favorite bedtime story and rub her tummy “in circles”.

In all fairness, Ben told me I was “the best” too when he was four years old. But now he and cousin, Sophie, are moving on … kindergarten, friends, learning how to read and write, growing beyond simple trust and finding new voices to raise questions and challenge the adults in their lives. Losing baby teeth, cutting new teeth. Jokes and pranks and feeling so sure of themselves. Firstborn cousins, trying to assert their positions in the family circle.

I laugh at their teasing and impatience with me. They expect answers and dialogue now. It’s simpler with the younger siblings. I don’t have to work so hard. I can still lead the dance. With Ben and Sophie though, I have to let them take the lead and flap their wings a bit - stretching the boundaries but still wanting to know that it’s okay.

Different ages, different stages.

“Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I’m six and four”

Always.

A pirate and a princess

Flying out to the Pacific Northwest last week and spending time with son, Joe, and DIL (daughter-in-law), Katie, and their growing family was such a gift. I am so blessed here with daughter, Jenn, and clan but miss the long-distance connection too.

It had been fifteen months since last making the trip which involves two planes to Seattle and then either a two-plus hour car trip to a Victorian seaport town on the Olympic Peninsula or a ferry from Seattle and then an hour’s car trip to the kids’ house. This time Joe and Katie were in Seattle for the day and picked me up at the airport.

Stepping into the family van was as if time had not really passed at all except, of course, for the new member of the family sitting in her baby car seat. Ben and Olivia were firmly anchored in back of me and Ben was almost jumping out of his socks to pick up where we had left off.

“Babci, look at my new sneakers. Babci, I have a story to tell you.”

It seems that story telling runs in the family.

While Olivia slept, Ben recited a Chinese epic that he had heard in kindergarten. His mom, Katie, in the front seat had to be called on as a prompter when he occasionally missed a point or two about the dragon or the Mandarin magic. Finally, the never-ending story reached a conclusion and with that, my only grandson nodded off. We arrived home and dutiful parents carried the kids to bed. It was a long day for all of us. Ben was totally spent from his exciting recitation in the car. His imagination knows no bounds – dinosaurs, super heroes, Scooby Doo (one of his dad’s favorites too at that age), and, of course, pirates.

I contributed to the pirates by a tale I started telling on prior visits, the saga of Captain Gruffy Face and Razatazz. I created these two quirky pirates and Ben eagerly listened at bedtime whenever I visited. We would lie side by side and I would spin a story. Then, about two years ago, I drew some pictures, had them framed and sent to Ben for his birthday. Little did I know that the epic adventures of my misfit pirates were waiting to be rekindled with this visit.



Not only had Ben remembered every nuance and arc from the original story, he was ready for them to set sail once again at bedtime. And now little Olivia was just as thrilled to share in the pirates’ adventures. It was time to add a little romance and introduce Petunia and Princess Elena. (Every female heroine has to be named ‘Princess Elena’ according to Olivia. It’s her princess du jour.) Both kids shared a huge air bed in Ben’s room while I slept in Olivia’s bedroom for the week and this added to the fun.

Each night they would put on their jammies, brush their teeth and plop in bed, waiting for me to join them and continue the mighty tale. Ben would literally bounce up in glee as I added a villain or two and Olivia would giggle. It was such a joy to sit on the end of their bed and watch their reactions. The story has become one long soap opera and is very interactive. After the girlfriends, I was told to get them married and let some babies come. We added puppies and kittens and quite a few cannons to the Captain’s ship, enough to have him destroy evil Googly Eye’s boat and save the town. If I strayed in a direction they didn’t want to go, brother and sister would see fit to edit and direct the nightly production.

Having grandchildren has moved me in new directions. I never thought that stories I spun over a year ago would be so well remembered and then take on new life with my visit to Ben, the pirate, and Olivia, the princess.

I left with the promise that I would keep the story going and send them new chapters in the mail. Ben wants me to place a wax seal (of authenticity?!) on the back of the envelope. I will have to create a plot and character list just to stay on track. My pirate and my princess seem to keep all the details in their heads and will hold me to the task!

What is so endearing and rewarding is the fact that these silly made-up words from a grandmother’s mouth seem so special to the little ones who listen.

Perhaps that’s really the essence of becoming a grandparent, mutual admiration and remembrance – worth even more than a pirate’s treasure.

Meeting Iris

Dear Iris

Thank you for the pleasure of your company last week. I have to admit that our time together was long overdue. I jumped into the waiting van and looked over to find two bright and very awake brown eyes smiling back at me. Your sister, Olivia, was fast asleep in the car seat behind us and big brother, Ben, was already eager to share lots of news and stories with me. But you, dear girl, held my attention. You were the new kid on the block. We sat side-by-side while your daddy drove us all back home for the next two hours. You already had quite a full day with mommy and daddy in Seattle but were still awake, giving me precious time to gaze into those big brown eyes. You didn't fuss or cry at the stranger sitting next to you. You seemed perfectly okay with my entering your personal space. The feeling was mutual.

I was so glad to finally make your acquaintance. I wasn't there last July for your home birth and missed the first tooth and other early landmarks. Easter week was a good time to come though - new life, new beginnings. It did seem a bit surreal and took some getting used to. After all, last time out, I had two grandchildren and now there was you!

You remind me of your daddy and your Aunt Jenn with those large deep eyes and you seem to have a streak of brunette which certainly sets you apart from your two blonde siblings. As I got to know you, I could see that you are sturdy and spunky and that will serve you well around Ben and Olivia. You are very chatty and laugh easily. You also seem to know what you want and when you want it. Another determined female. Credit that to both sides of the family.

You are almost nine months old and just about ready to take your first steps, a force to be reckoned with. I'm glad that you got to take me to Victoria BC for an overnight stay with mom, dad, Ben and Olivia. You travel well.

Grandbaby #5, it still amazes me. Now I have to find a way to add your birthstone to my grandmom ring. You're not ready yet for the tall tales I spin for your brother and sister but that will come. You seem quite content to be the baby. You giggle at Ben's knock-knock jokes and light up when Olivia hugs you. I think you are enjoying your role in the family circle.

I don't know when I will see you again. It was hard saying goodbye. I will miss more landmark moments as things happen so fast when you are this little. Just to know, I have an imprint of our time together and it's safely tucked away. I can pull the new memories out each day and keep you with me. All the many photos I took will help too.

Welcome to the family ... welcome to my heart.

Love, Babci xxoo

Vanishing act

I wonder if ghosts get to play in cyberspace. I think I’ve brought back a couple from the mansion and they’re making mischief online.

My comments section has completely disappeared from my previous entry. I’ve been blogging about all sorts of things for over a year and this has never happened before. Funny that it did just as you, dear readers, were starting to post some fascinating replies to the whole subject of ghosts and psychic phenomena.

I’ve been troubleshooting for two days now and can’t seem to find the missing comments. So this is a test. Empirical research. Let’s see if my comments section is up and running again. If so, please, please come back and tell me more. Er, I mean you of the flesh-and-blood variety.

Have you ever had an other-worldly encounter? Just a trick of the imagination? Smoke and mirrors?

Or is this old world of ours just a rest stop for many other destinations?

Yowza, I’m going all Twilight Zone on you. Parallel universes and rainbow bridges … what do you think?

Ghost hunting

I love my job. Today I got to go on a field trip to a local “haunted mansion”. Our students have been studying the paranormal with a group of investigators who actually bring their equipment, video and audio, to various locations to try to capture some of the ghostly phenomena that have been reported.

Ghostbusters, New England style.

This particular house has a sad, tragic history. It seems that a wealthy politician and his family resided there in the early 1900s. The man had bought an automobile just as they were becoming popular. The family chauffeur took the gentleman, his youngest daughter and her girlfriend for a country drive, lost control of the car and there was a terrible accident. The friend died instantly; the daughter succumbed on the way to the hospital. The father survived and returned home to grieve. His wife and older children were not a part of the accident. Within weeks, the father died of unnamed causes even though his injuries did not appear life threatening. Some say he died of grief. He died in his bedroom. The young chauffeur, who was in love with either the daughter or her friend, was so distraught and guilt ridden that he went into the cellar of the carriage house and shot himself.

Almost 100 years later, this house still seems to have manifestations of its former residents. The ghost hunters have set up shop, so to speak, and continue to do research here. Today, they pass out cameras and tape recorders to our students and then we all get to wander through the many rooms, upstairs, downstairs, servants’ quarters, daughter’s bedroom, cellar. The kids love it. And so do I.


Now here’s the strange part. I walk into the house and have my own digital camera with me. As we gather in what must have been a formal living room, I start to feel breathless. It’s an odd feeling, a bit suffocating. I almost walk outside again but decide, instead, to wait it out and hope it will pass. The discomfort lifts as we all walk up the winding staircase to the third floor. I stop on the second floor landing and start shooting more pictures. My camera starts acting funny. I had charged the batteries overnight and here I am, getting a red blinking light (and other kinds of odd signals in my viewfinder). The batteries are now showing as almost depleted, very low power. What the heck? Luckily, I had brought other batteries and make the necessary switch. Boy next to me starts having problems with his camcorder. He reads that he has 89 minutes left to shoot but the camera keeps going off and on, erratic behavior. We look at each other and think “haunted mansion”. Hey, this is why we came. Bring it on!

By the time we get to the chauffeur’s alleged bedroom on the third floor (servants’ quarters), our ghostbuster-guide is telling the kids how the overhead electric light bulb went on one night as he and his paranormal buddies were leaving the house. They all looked up into the third-floor window and saw the light. One slight problem: there was no electricity in that room; the power was dead. The kids are eating it all up.


I’m a bit skeptical but he then starts talking about how some folks feel physically uncomfortable in the house, especially if they are more “susceptible” to psychic or paranormal experience. Cripes. I tell him about my breathlessness on the first floor. He smiles and seems impressed. Then I mention the batteries losing their energy even though I charged them all night and he simply nods. “Spirits sometimes draw energy or cross energy fields with whatever or whoever comes their way.” I smile back and so wish my daughter were here, she of Mr. Pipe and Mrs. Kitchen fame. Something tells me that Jenn would have been right in her element.

I take lots of pictures. I love old houses and staircases and, yes, there seems to be a lot of psychic activity on the grand staircase according to the ghostbuster. I’m now conjuring up visions of Loretta Young in a white flowing gown. I keep snapping away. Mirrors. Lots of mirrors. Maybe I’ll capture an aura or two.


The tour ends much too quickly. The kids are very well behaved throughout, totally caught up in a not-so-normal teaching experience outside their ordinary classroom. We all pile back on the bus, wondering just whose camera holds an ethereal surprise.

I take one last look at the white clapboard house and bless the spirits who may still dwell within. It’s almost 100 years since the accident and, according to our tour guides, they seem reluctant to leave.

There’s no place like home.

Taking note

I moved up here nine months ago
To be near the kids, get in the flow
Watch as the little ones play, learn and grow
What I didn’t consider were the ice and the snow

Winter came late so the tough locals said
Still it was hard to get out of bed
On mornings that were often bone-chilling cold
Warm bedcovers making me much less than bold

To open the door and risk a chilblain
While guiding myself over frozen terrain
So many days of sub-freezing weather
I should have kept a mid-winter’s ledger

Taking a stick to the snow on my porch
I decided against, wishing instead for a hot blazing torch
To erase all remnants of columns of snow
Then melt the icicles or propel them below

Spring has now come so the calendar states
The temps will get milder if only I wait
Soon I will hang up my storm coat for good
And set down fresh leafy plants where the Iceman once stood

Want whipped cream with that?

I know I've put on a few pounds this winter but am trying to deny it. However, Hannah became my reality test the other night as I was putting her to bed: "Babci, you're like a sweet plump strawberry."

Granted, I reminded her of a character in one of her storybooks, an "old woman" with large hips and a kind face.

Mary Poppins on Geritol.

Blue suede shoes and rose colored glasses

Sit back and put your feet up. I've some stories to tell.

Jenn surprised me last night with a lovely look back at some of my finer maternal moments. Thank you, dear heart. The pleasure was all mine. I don’t quite remember the bologna incident but do remember the Lone Ranger accompaniment on the organ. Since I’m the birthday girl here, I might as well wax a bit nostalgic. (You started this, Jenn.)

One of my favorite memories in raising Jenn and Joseph is draping my mom’s afghan over some furniture so that the kids had a “tent” and could make an imaginary campfire and roast marshmallows while “camping out”. We spent many an afternoon under our tent discussing kid things and life in general. I’d like to think that living-room adventure added to the creativity and whimsy they still embrace and give to their own children.

Another much loved recollection is the hosting of the Animal Olympics where the kids catapulted their stuffed animals down our long hallway to determine who won the gold, silver and bronze medals for broad jump. The competition was stiff as both kids had quite a menagerie. I remember the excitement and the tiny stuffed athletes scattered about the hallway floor. Somehow there were always winners on both sides.

There were also the more trying moments of scientific discovery. At one point in time Jenn had a real menagerie of guinea pigs in our basement segregated in several large glass aquariums. She built wooden mazes and observed to see if males or females were the smarter of the species. We had a confounding variable when one of the boys managed to leap out of his glass house and take up with one of the girls. We then got to observe the miracle of birth a short time later. Cleaning those darn aquariums out back usually fell to me. The neighbors just looked on and twittered and shook their heads. As a proud judge for the PA Junior Academy of Science, it was the least I could do for scientific advancement. Joseph did his own kind of research on secondary smoke. He was ahead of the game and won an award from the Cancer Society of America. Unfortunately, what he discovered didn’t stop his dad from smoking but it may have contributed to his later goal of becoming a doctor.

I never think much about this kind of stuff but it’s good to look back. I like that Jenn finds some of these moments endearing too. I like that she is appreciative of little gestures, like treating her to those blue suede shoes which she spied in a shop window in Brighton. I remember my mom squeezing some money into my hand when I was a young mother and saying quietly “go, buy yourself something”.

I think Jenn is right when she says that I may have contributed the happy DNA which points her to the light at critical moments. She told me recently that I’ve an overload of serotonin and should feel grateful. It may be true, all this talk of brain chemistry and how neurochemicals and hormones help to shape our moods. I have always been a fairly optimistic and upbeat person.


Lately, I see a lot of me in Hannah. Her favorite phrase is “Isn’t it beautiful?!” This can be just about anything she’s seeing – a mountain, the rushing river, the colors on her dress. Jenn bought her a pair of sunglasses and she was so excited and happy. They have an appropriate pink tint.

As feisty and stubborn as she can be at times, Hannah is also the sunshine kid. Life is good. The beautiful is bee yoo ti ful with the accent on the second syllable. It warms the heart. Pink is her special color. She loves pink. She loves life. She is three years old.

Blue will come later, probably in the teen years. Blue will have to share time with pink. Blue will be a part of the palette too. And maybe her mom will treat her to a pair of blue shoes. She’ll learn to walk the walk between joy and sorrow as we all must do.

For now, though, let her delight in pink.

Anniversary waltz

I always liked this picture. It certainly warms my romantic heart. I would think that they are dancing to the Anniversary Waltz.

I don’t have a dancing partner in my life right now but I do have an anniversary to celebrate. Some dear friends and readers have reminded me that it’s been one year since I started this blog.

Tempus did, indeed, fugit and I’m still having fun. I never thought that I could sustain my humble space here in the web universe alongside the many heavy hitters and blog celebrities du jour. Jenn’s loyal readers pushed and prodded and I’m kinda proud that I did risk it after all.

I've managed to reflect on Jenn's life as I write of mine. Truth be told, I'm probably the one in the painting holding an umbrella to protect the couple from the storm. Mothers do that you know. Reflect and protect.

This blog has been an exercise in self awareness and writing style. It's brought me new friends and has become a legacy to share with my family, especially the grandkids. Who woulda thunk?

Thank you to everyone who has been supportive. Hope you keep coming back, dropping in, and leaving a comment or two. Go ahead, make my day.

The dance goes on.

Bedtime story

Oy vey, what's a grandmother to do?

Sophie had her second sleepover in as many weeks and this time she brought a Jewish storybook provided by her beloved bubba. Yes, the children have the best of both worlds, a babci and a bubba.

I decide to do the ecumenically correct thing and give equal time to the other side.

We snuggle up at bedtime, under the watchful eyes of Jesus, Mary and Joseph (still perched upon the headboard of my bed) and I read the Jewish tale to the little one.

It is enlightening. I soon realize that keeping shabbat is just another form of spiritual mindfulness and certainly something that Jesus, Mary and Joseph knew all about (good Jewish family that they were).

It's important for the grandchildren to understand the concept of ritual, keeping the sabbath holy. So Sophie and I rest in my bed and read of dinosaurs and challah. I explain that the Jewish challah is the babka of my Polish grandmother. Bread. Later, wine. Keeping it holy. The sacredness of everyday things, of time passing. The religions of Sophie's grandparents share common ground.

The dinosaur at table? Er, that's a whole other dimension. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

Saying goodbye

In the end, he seemed ready to go. When I looked into his face, there was a serenity and almost a wistful resignation, if dogs can be wistful. I just know this much, he was surrounded by love and kind words and warm touches. Children’s voices told him of their love and sadness at his leaving. Hannah wiped his eyes because she thought she saw tears; Sophie fed him ice cream from her hand and read to him, a book about puppies. She asked that we take some photos.

He rested his head on our laps throughout the day. I then took the girls out of the house when it was time for the vet to come. We were all exhausted, each in our own way, each with our own thoughts and memories. The girls fell asleep quickly in the car so I just started driving and driving the mountain roads, classical music playing, my charges safe and sound in the back seat. I was grateful for these precious moments of peace.

I thought of Jenn and David back at the house with the vet. I thought of my close cousin who passed away yesterday morning in her sleep after a long struggle of her own. She was so afraid of dogs. I smiled as I thought of the irony in her passing the same weekend. I imagined them getting acquainted, making a connection which they could not have done in real life.

He died in Jenn’s arms. He was, indeed, the best boy dog in all the world. I still feel his warm silky fur under my hand as I scratched his head today. We all got to say our goodbyes. In the grand scheme of things, you can’t ask for more than that.

We have all boarded the sad train now, companions on the journey.

Falling

My daughter’s going through a personal crisis and I can’t help but feel guilty. It’s time for my dark little secret to be exposed. I let her down. Bike riding in the park. Many years ago. She was about ten years old and we were having a mother-daughter outing on the local bike trail. It was a sunny cheerful day but lots of muddy puddles from the previous day’s showers. Jenn was riding ahead and I warned her to be careful. Her tire caught a rut and she skidded and fell. I pulled alongside her and, instead of being caring and concerned, I got all huffy and angry.

She needed me to say “Ouch, I feel your pain” but my tone and look conveyed “How dare you fall off your bike? Not acceptable. Just pick yourself up.”

Her fall from the bike was my fall from grace.

After my initial anger and impatience, I saw that the kid really did bang her knee up and it was bleeding. Jenn was in tears and let me know that I wasn’t giving her what she needed, compassion not anger. To her credit, she called me on my shoddy behavior. I softened and promptly fell into mother mode, rummaging through my jeans for a tissue to wipe away some of the dirt and blood. We didn’t have any water bottles with us, but I did have a thermos of iced tea. Trying my best, I poured the iced tea on her scraped knee. She yelped and the tea probably stung but it let me clean the wound. Hey, you do what you gotta do.

That was then; this is now.

My daughter is falling. There is no room for my own agenda. She needs kindness and compassion. Her tears do not upset me. I feel her pain. I am there to lift her up.

I think this time I got it right.

Jesus? Mary and Joseph

I have these two ceramic statues resting on the headboard of my bed. They connect me to a dear departed aunt who was really into that whole ceramics thing of the '50s and '60s. She passed away last month at almost 100 years old, leaving much more than her ceramics as a legacy - five generations of beautiful people.

Sophie seemed quite taken with the two little busts during her sleepover. The following theological discussion took place.

"Babci, is this Mary?"

"Yes, it is. She was the mother of Jesus. And this is Joseph (my mistake), her husband, who took care of Jesus."

Sophie, contemplating, "Weren't your mommy and daddy named Mary and Joseph?"

Babci, flattered that she remembered, "Yes, sweet pea, they were."

Sophie, bright smile, "So Mary and Joseph are Jesus's parents and yours too!"

We both laugh at her clear, uncluttered logic. I share that I always liked the fact that my parents were named Mary and Joseph. Then I realize I've misnamed the statue.

"The man is really Jesus, not Joseph."

"Oh no, let's keep him as Joseph, your daddy."

Maybe she's on to something. Having Jesus as a brother has suddenly taken on a whole new meaning.

I didn't tell her, but my daddy Joseph was a carpenter too.

Urgent attention

Every time I log into my computer, my security software displays a red screen marked “Urgent Attention” with a “Fix Now” box that I click on. I wait a minute or so for the internal homeostasis to occur and then a green screen appears telling me all is okay and I can proceed. This is virtual reality. If real life were only that simple ….

My daughter is hurting.

There is no quick fix, no easy solution. She is in a lot of pain and I am helpless to make it better. I want to take her in my arms and slap a band aid on an open wound and kiss it all away. “Open wounds bleed profusely.” She read this once to me when she was only four or five years old. Even at that young age, words were important to her. She would find books and attempt to read whatever presented itself. The “open wounds” came straight from a Red Cross training manual lying on the coffee table. She looked so stricken as I tried to explain to her that, if she ever cut her scalp she shouldn’t be frightened, the bleeding would stop and she would survive. That I could do – explain and reassure. She believed and trusted in me.

She is no longer a little girl; she is an adult woman with little girls of her own. She is feeling sad and vulnerable and shaky. I am thankful that I decided to move nearby. In the grand scheme of things, I am just where I need to be these days. I can let the dogs out, feed the girls, tell bedtime stories and pick up the slack for both daughter and son-in-law. I can provide a buffer but I can’t resolve the pain. I can’t make it better. This is a midlife, closed wound kind of thing. It requires patience and rest and understanding. And great courage. I see a lot of that in her right now.

Through these difficult days, I watch and listen and learn more about who my daughter really is. The person I see is struggling with her demons but finding ways to do with her little girls what I did for her so many years ago – explain and reassure. The context is different. There are no open wounds to discuss. She is not bleeding profusely, not literally, but tears can be as copious as blood. She takes them in her arms and gently tells them that they are not the reason that mommy is sad. They are so loved.

As is she.

I remember the Red Cross instructions. Do not panic. Apply steady pressure. The bleeding will stop. Survival.

Tea for Two

Sophie had her first sleepover at my house last night. She packed her own bag, remembering her toothbrush and floss (father's child) and favorite blanket, snuggle pet and pillow. She put three books in her night bag but I barely read through one, The Littlest Angel, while she nodded off next to me on my bed. It was fun to finally have her sleep over and share private time the same way another granddaughter and grandmom did over 30 years ago.

Because of all the snow, I didn't pick her up in a car. Instead, I walked up to get her and we walked back down the snowy streets, looking for stars in the dark still night and watching our breaths form whispy clouds as we talked. There we were, two eskimos, bundled up and holding hands. The simplest things take on new meaning when you share them with a child.

She spied my seashells in the bedroom and I told her to choose the shells she'd like to add to her own collection. She had to examine each one closely and decide if the color, size and texture fit the bill. I had to find a metal box and by the time she left there were many new treasures in her possession.

Awaking from a good night's sleep, she worried that she disturbed me in bed. Did she roll over and wake me up? Would I have her back? I told her she was a perfect guest and sound sleeper, except for a brief giggle in the middle of the night which probably came from a happy dream. Eyebrows rose.

"But I didn't dream last night!"

"Maybe you just don't remember."

"At least I don't walk in my sleep. That could be dangerous."

She liked that I kept reading The Littlest Angel aloud even after she fell asleep. Yes, I finished the story. The littlest angel had a box of treasures too. The illustrations in the storybook reminded me of another little angel, a boy named Buddy who lived in my house and died in the month of February when he was only 3-4 years old. He belonged to the family whose history is a part of Jenn's house, Mr. Pipe and Mrs. Kitchen's domain. This was their little grandson. How odd that I found a house with a connection to the ghosts in my daughter's house. Sophie knows all about the Richmond ghosts, has even visited the family plots with her mom. She's also big on "Mother Mary", my dear mom, whom she never knew. She knows, though, that she was named after her - Sophia Mary Rose.

This morning I reach for an old tablecloth (vintage: depression era, my mom's) and throw it on the dining room table, then find my mom's tea cups so Sophie and I can have tea. I tell her that we're drinking from Mother Mary's cups. Sophie likes the white-and-silver pattern. She tells me that staying over was fun and can she do it again? She thinks that Mother Mary tickled her during the night.

I realize that sleepovers are not just for the youngsters. Hearing her sweet voice, watching her delight in sharing my bed and treasures, sipping tea with milk and sugar ("the way Mother Mary used to make it for mommy") all imprint themselves on my tired spirit.

It's a refreshing break from a stressful week - just my cup of tea!

Waiting

I hear the snow blowers rumbling outside my windows, a return visit from earlier this afternoon. The snow has come as predicted and icy snowflakes are still cascading down in windy gusts. I see my car almost buried in the parking lot. Night has come and we are still expecting several more hours (and inches) of snowfall.

I wonder if there will be another school holiday tomorrow. Or are these New Englanders such a hardy breed that all the plows will push and shove the snow away from the main highways and school buses will be on their merry way by sunrise? Bummer. Today was much too windy to enjoy the snow; tomorrow will be a great time to play.

This is my first winter in the mountains and the first major snowstorm of the season. I’m hibernating in warm robe and enjoying the storm from a distance. Tomorrow will be time enough to open the door and see what Mother Nature has left behind. To get in the spirit, I’ll post a picture from last year’s winter in Pennsylvania while waiting for this storm in Massachusetts to blow past.

I’m in-between my old life and my new.

Let the rest of the world go by

I have been spending a lot of time over my daughter’s lately, helping put the girls to bed and doing the usual grandmotherly schtick. Sometimes I think I see glimpses of myself in both girls – a fleeting gesture or facial expression. Of course, there’s much of their own mommy and daddy in them, but every once and awhile I see myself as a child. At least I think I do.

I decide to put my memories to the test tonight. I find an old videotape spliced together by a much loved second cousin who seemed like my kid brother. Ray and I grew up together in a large, closely knit Polish-American family. His dad started taking home movies in the late 1940s on those big 16mm reels. I can still remember the rack of bright lights which made it almost painful. My dad, especially, would usually make a fuss about posing for the camera because of the glare. Yet, when I watch this almost forgotten video of christenings, birthdays, first communions, vacations and proms, I am so glad that dad managed to stay in the room when the camera came on and sometimes became the comedian and life of the party that he often was.

Some of the footage is grainy and faded but it holds the key to my past. My family tree is onscreen with all its cast of characters, most deceased (including Ray who would now have been a grandfather himself). I watch, intrigued and hungry for the moments when my immediate family members are shown – my mother with her megawatt smile, my dad, much thinner at that time and still smoking his cigars, my grandmother sitting playfully on my dad’s lap, the trio of bachelor brothers who were part of the family. I smile at Ray’s grandparents who always seemed so welcoming and warm. I remember the smell of shoe leather and the whine of machinery in my uncle’s shoemaker shop at the front of the house. I see the many little cousins (some of whom would grow up into addictive, destructive lifestyles), the cousins who remained close and those who drifted apart. I wonder what happened to a cousin who was once like a sister to me. I look at a young, happy couple who are still alive, the husband now taking care of his wife who is slowly dying of Parkinson’s. Who he was then is who he is now. He is a sweet and good man. It is so hard to realize that the boyish-looking man on the screen is now over 80 years old and has probably been married almost sixty years.

There are scenes of my sixth birthday, hair dark like Sophie’s, quite serious minded (also like Sophie), opening gifts surrounded by this sea of cousins and family friends - filmed in the house where I grew up. I watch great footage of my parents’ surprise silver-wedding anniversary at my uncle’s bungalow in Jersey - my dad spoofing for the camera and later dancing a polka with my mom, my mom swigging a shot of liquor (totally out of character).

I see the faces, the many players and companions of my childhood years. I notice moments of interaction among them that remind me vividly of who they were, how they behaved. There is a timelessness to the experience. I recognize the tablecloth in my aunt’s dining room, laugh at the tiara and prom gown which will make me look like a Barbie Princess to Sophie and Hannah when I share this videotape with them.

There is one other video, misplaced at the moment, which holds early scenes of my daughter and son, spliced together from 1970s’ home movies. I am so hoping it is safely stored in Jenn’s basement. I plan to edit both these videotapes (actually find a professional to do the job for me) and transfer to dvd/cd storage for the kids and the grandkids.

The memories evoked are visceral. The images on the screen trigger feelings of how playful or composed or funny a person was. They are all as I remembered them. The family comedians are there; the quiet ones are there; the main and supportive cast are all there – foreground and background. These are the people who helped to shape me, the folks who held me and teased me and scolded and loved me. If it takes a village, this is my village.

I remember that I have several phonograph records cut in the 1930s and ‘40s of my dad on his banjo, my uncle on his accordion, my entire family at my own christening singing “Let the Rest of the World Go By” as another beloved cousin was about to lose his life on a WWII battlefield. There are also audiotapes of the 1960s with me on organ and accordion, often accompanied by my dad on guitar and my mom and aunt singing. I must find a way to copy this stuff too just like the old family movies.

I see them all tonight and I hear them in my mind. Their laughter, their music, their voices are almost within reach.

I am six-years old again. For just one cold winter’s night, it’s a very warm place to be.

Typing lessons

Jenn and I treated the girls to dinner at the local Friendly’s the other night, sort of a quasi-reward for the H-Belle behaving at daycare. The girls love to eat out.

Hannah plopped herself next to me and started chatting away.

“Babci, will you color with me? Oh yes, I want macaronis and cheese but no pickle. Can I have chocolate milk?”

As little sister continued to jabber, Sophie quietly took out her complimentary crayons and started her own busy work. She glanced our way and sighed. She and her mom know what they’re up against when we gather as a group - the “I’s” against the “E’s”.

Who would have thought that my older granddaughter would already grasp the concept of psychological types?

It started months ago. Sophie and I were hanging out, doing some project or other, when she turned to me and exasperatedly noted, “You’re an ‘E’!”

“Excuse me?”

Eyes rolling and repeating to dense grandmother, “You’re definitely an ‘E’, Babci. And I’m an ‘I’.” My need to talk a lot was obviously wearing the kid out. She had learned from her mom that some people were “the life of the party” and called extroverts while some people loved their private time and were introverts. She and her mom were in the latter camp; I and Hannah were definitely cut from the former cloth.

Shades of Carl Jung. Sophie was sizing us all up and had a pretty good understanding of how humans tend to behave. She seemed to like the idea that she could explain to herself just why she needed to be alone and play quietly at certain times … that it was good for her, felt right. On the other hand, even though it was frustrating to be bombarded by the exuberance of the other type, like me or Hannah, she also found it highly amusing.

It came full circle at the restaurant with Jenn at her side. Sitting across from us, they watched as Hannah proceeded to chat up the waitress, the older couple across the aisle, and then a family group as they passed our seats.

“No pickles on my plate!” as a final reminder to the waitress; “Why you not getting ice cream?” to the retired couple as they got up to leave; “I know you!” to the woman passing by who was a helper at Hannah’s daycare.

Jenn had Sophie giggling when she commented on the family dynamics. “Can you imagine going to the movies with Babci and Hannah?!”

I picked up on where she was going. “So, I guess you two would have to sit in another row just so you’d have some peace and quiet.”

Sophie chimed in and pointed at me and Hannah, “Oh yes, mommy, they’d be talking all through the movie!”

The die is cast. Hannah and I will continue to bounce and babble while the quiet ones, the deep thinkers, the family introverts will continue to sigh patiently and endure.

My son-in-law? “Daddy is an ‘I’ and an ‘E’”, observes Sophie. I think she’s right.

Move over Carl Jung, here comes Sophie.

Start spreading the news

Jenn sent me an email today about another mother and daughter. The daughter is a grad-school student in New York city, coincidentally another Jenny.

I remember my Jenn's days as a grad student in New York. So when I saw what this daughter was up to, I wasn't too surprised. It goes with the territory. Ya gotta love New York. Where else would email turn into art? (Maybe Berkeley but I've never been there.)

Here I am, trying to lighten up and get rid of my stash of old emails while other daughters are savoring every word and putting their mother's correspondence on public display.

I have to talk to my son-in-law. He's busy painting fruit. I think I've got a box of old bills and emails and Christmas cards that he could turn into massive collages - cut and paste and find a gallery. I could be larger than life.

On second thought, where's the dumpster?

Fruits of labor

Yes, I’ve been remiss in this new year with the blog. Mea culpa. I’ve been occupied with the new school year at work and with the grandkids. Oh, and I’ve been housecleaning.

My daughter blew into my house last weekend quite unexpectedly, a determined look on her face.

“Mom, let’s open up the rest of your boxes. You’ve been here since August.”

Now, you have to understand, this was Saturday and I was still in my decadent Christmas-gift robe which renders me incapable of doing any housework. The robe is so soft, so fleecy, so cozy … it wraps itself around me and whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I’m enjoying its caresses better than my tryst in the parking lot. I can take this one to bed without feeling guilty the morning after.

Where were we? Yes, the daughter shows up on mother’s doorstep ready to purge mother of her past life’s possessions. She means business.

Mom, seeing that daughter means business, wishes she had a tranquilizer to pop but settles, instead, for a quick change into jeans and sweatshirt to better accompany daughter in the extraction and elimination of most of Mom’s earthly belongings.

We begin. Girls are underfoot. Sophie wants to color. Hannah wants to eat. Jenn is in my spare bedroom, having already raised an eyebrow or two at my choice of CDs and changing the music-to-work-by to something more upbeat and current. New Age is out; Jerry Garcia and Sheryl Crow are in. I’m easy, well just in parking lots in broad daylight but that story has already been told.

I realize that I have, indeed, a lot of unopened boxes left from the movers from hell. They are sitting in my dining room and spare bedroom. We decide that we will go through as many as possible, separate the really important I-can’t-live-without-it stuff from the you-gotta-be-kidding it’s-gone-with-the-wind knick-knacks.

My energy fields are erratic at best. No wonder I just want to lounge about in the robe. Feng shui has left the premises. There’s no room at the inn.

My daughter offers the solution. A new year is upon us. Starting over is as simple as tossing out the old to make room for the new. I need to lighten up.

Looks good in theory, eh?

About an hour into this project, I realize that Jenn is ruthless and will take no prisoners. I find myself snatching small items and stashing in bedroom drawers before the terminator sees them. The grandkids provide enough of a diversion to let me get away with this.

Finally, she cuts a deal with hubby who turns up to take the two little ones home so that mommy and babci can really get down to the nitty gritty - the going-over-by-hand examination of papers, photos, diaries and such (some of which I hadn’t sorted since I was in my 20s). Of course, the many photo albums and loose pictures take the most effort. Jenn alternately laughs and cries as she opens up not just my past but hers too. Photos of her and her brother, familiar toys, rites of passage like first communion and confirmation. We see family members now gone, the god-awful forest wallpaper in the dining room, the cartoonish legs painted in the stairwell leading to the notorious red shag rug in the rec room. Winnie the Pooh painted on her bedroom wall; a large moonscape filling up her brother’s wall. It was quirky and eccentric. It was us.

She finds a photo of me dancing at a high-school party and my four-year teen diary. I let her read aloud from my diary and we are soon laughing at how innocent it all was compared to her high-school experience. Hearing my written words come from my daughter’s lips is quite a revelation. As she reads about the common everyday events and brings up family and friends’ names, I can almost see myself again as that naïve 16-year-old. I was so protected, so trusting. My parents would always be there to take care of me. My friends were forever friends. My biggest worries were keeping up with my homework and making sure I didn’t scrape the side of the car pulling into the garage.

She cannot believe what she is reading. I think she pities and envies me my innocence, my “Father Knows Best” existence. Her generation did not have it so easy but that’s her story to tell, not mine.

We move on to all the remaining bric-a-brac. She is merciless and I keep hovering to see what treasure she is furtively ditching into the giveaway pile. We find ourselves negotiating over ceramic swans (she hates swans), wooden Easter eggs (where did they come from anyhow?), artificial fruit (“Mom, this is so old-fashioned”), and bookends which always reminded me of her and her little brother. Nostalgic? Yes. Necessary? No. With her prodding, I give up the fight and relinquish these artifacts and more, much more.


“Some woman with small children will find these bookends and love them, Mom. You will make her happy.”

The last major battle is fought over my David Winter Cottage collection. I have to be shown empirical data to be convinced that all these little houses are not worth keeping for the grandkids. Heck, they are nestled in their original boxes with certificates of authentication. They must be worth something. Jenn sadly and knowingly shakes her head and tells me to do a search on eBay. Sic transit gloria mundi. (That’s Latin for “dammit, the kid was right”.) The David Winter Cottages are dead in the water. No major activity on eBay. People are waiting and begging for someone to bid and no takers.

She knows this is a hard blow. My one set of collectibles is not being collected. We make a compromise.

“Take a photo of each cottage, Mom, and we’ll put the entire collection up on eBay for you as a one-time offer.”

I don’t have much of material value to leave my kids, grandkids. No college trust funds. No savings accounts. If my life had taken a different turn, with a different man, I may have gotten to what will be the non-events of my life: a Golden Anniversary and a financially secure old age.

Jenn stays late into the night. We fold curtains, sort books, and locate most of the priceless memorabilia which will be stored in the spare bedroom. The photos, the diaries, the handmade ceramics, my parents’ silverware, the music books all receive a reprieve. They are keepers.

The place is still in disorder but the cleansing has begun. I will break down the cardboard boxes and take other re-filled boxes, including my fruit and eggs and bookends, to the local goodwill store. These relics from my past are dispensable.

They may sit on a shelf and gather dust or they may catch someone’s eye, fill someone’s present need.

They are not a part of my future.

My future is here; it is alive and well. I see my future in my daughter’s eyes, my grandchildren’s faces. It is palpable and organic. It will not gather dust.