The last time I saw Paris

... was the first time I saw Paris. It took me fifty years to realize a dream.

Four years of high-school French with a fiery little nun, Sister Zita Marie, had planted the seed. By senior year, we were only allowed to speak en Francais in the classroom. It was a heady time of hope and vision. We wrote glowing biographies of Jacqueline Kennedy, the elegantly bilingual First Lady, seated at the side of our handsome President.  Refrains of Camelot filled our innocent young minds. Somehow, teenaged illusions of mythic kingdoms and immortal gods provided the perfect backdrop for our newly "crowned" First Couple. They, and we, were invincible. Jackie took Paris by storm, charming DeGaulle. The French were in love. But, then again, aren't the French always in love? French class was the perfect place to nurture fairytale dreams of romance and happy endings. Paris, the City of Light and Love.

Sister Zita fanned the flame. Looking back, I am certain that the good sister had quite a history of her own. She, who warned us not to wear the color red nor patent-leather shoes, was a passionate woman at heart. I can see that now. It was just hard to picture any nun, almost totally covered in black, as a real woman. I suspect that my teacher had at least walked along the Left Bank with a lover before she took up her vocation. There was just too much life in the lady to contain her to rosary beads and the color black. Seriously, how did she deduce that "red excites men"? Oh, Sister, you were imparting much more than a French vocabulary lesson in that classroom!

Camelot crumbled on a sunny day in Dallas. Dreams and illusions of youth, romance, and enduring love dissolved in the wake of gunshots. Later, other assassinations would follow. As children of the '60s, we paid a terrible price for our coming of age.

Yet, my desire to see, to experience Paris, endured. It remained a distant possibility through many years of marriage, children, divorce, and new directions.

It wasn't until I found a group of younger friends online, that my trip to Paris became a reality. Oui, I spent one glorious week en Paris last November. It seems that some dreams do come true.

Look for a Paris Retrospective, coming soon!

Man with a banjo

My dad, Joe, was a banjo man. He lived through two world wars and a great depression. For him, music was a way to make sense of life's more painful and confounding moments. It was blue-collar therapy.

He was mostly self taught. The music was in his genes. He played through his sorrows but also his joys. I don't think I ever heard a more striking sound. It was a constant in my growing-up years. And, when I was old enough to learn a keyboard instrument, Dad was ready to teach me the songs of his youth: the depression-era jazz tunes, the bluesy sounds of New Orleans and, of course, the polkas and waltzes that were so much a part of our Polish American heritage. I learned gladly. This was something so special ... I on my accordion, dad on his banjo. He was passing down his favorite songs. We didn't need music books. This was just a hand-me-down form of fatherly love. I lapped it up like a puppy.

The years passed. I grew up, married, and started a family of my own. Dad became a grandfather. The music that was such a part of my early life seemed to fade away amidst the newfound responsibilities of parenthood. Dad, too, became more involved with his new role as "pop pop" and somehow did not feel the need to play his banjo anymore. It was put away. Sadly, I don't think the kids ever heard him make music. He died, quite suddenly, when they were still very young. And the banjo music was, indeed, forever silenced.

Yet, life is full of surprises and serendipitous moments.

The first Christmas after my dad's death, a close friend who was a social worker asked me to entertain at a Christmas party for a local housing project. There was such a void in my life that Christmas. I was still grieving my loss, missing Dad so much. Something made me take my accordion to this event. I figured that providing a bit of holiday music for others might help mitigate my own sadness. The only thing missing would be dad at my side with his banjo.

So I went. The party was a great mix of young and old, residents of the apartment complex and nearby youth centers. About halfway through my repertoire of Christmas songs, I noticed a silver-haired gentleman standing on the sidelines really watching me play and tapping his feet to the music. I smiled and he came over to talk. He was about 60-65 years old and shyly asked if he could join in.

His name was Joe and he played the banjo.

Once I nodded an okay, he went up to his room and came back in a few minutes with his instrument - a tenor banjo, just like my dad's. Now that the kiddie Christmas music was mostly done, we tuned up and started to play one song after another. It was like we had been playing together for years. All the songs my Dad taught me, this Joe also knew. We played on and on. It was such a gift. I felt like my dad was there with us, just lighting up the room with his smile.

The party ended. Joe and I packed up our instruments and shook hands. I told him how much his music meant to me and why. He just smiled and seemed to understand. And then he went back to his room at the project and I went home to my life as a wife and mother. We never saw each other again.

Many years later, I watch with pleasure as my granddaughter, Sophie, becomes very interested in learning the ukelele. Playing the strings seems to come to her quite naturally. She is with me when I take my dad's old banjo to a family friend, a master woodsman, who actually restores the instrument to its former glory. He offers it to her to pluck a bit. She plays some chords and smiles shyly back at me. I have a lump in my throat.

 

There is something about a banjo ...

Disturbingly informative

This past summer I took Sophie on a road trip to my hometown, Philadelphia. While there, she got to see where her mom and uncle grew up, learned to play pool, enjoyed a cheese-steak hoagie, took a train into Center City, and cruised South Street.

She had a choice of museums and chose the Mutter, much to my astonishment. Forget the walk-through artifical heart at the Franklin Institute. This kid went for the hard core. Even med students enter the Mutter with awe and trepidation. It's not for the fainthearted. Housed within a quite respectable 19th century brownstone, the museum is a forensic treasure of polished skulls, preserved tissue, deformed skeletons, and myriad medical oddities all made even more surreal by the grand marble staircase, rich wooden paneling, chandeliers, and other genteel trappings of the past. Kind of the Age of Innocence meets Goosebumps. Sophie loved it!

She then picked a small plush "microbe" from the Gift Shop. (Yes, I was amazed that there was a gift shop. How does one choose a gift after viewing preserved body parts and ancient medical tools of dissection?) Her "germ" was the organism responsible for acne. It seemed appropriate since she's on the cusp of tweendom anyhow. Her pink cuddly was aptly named "Pimple".


Next, we take a tourist trolley to Independence Mall and walk to South Street, the mecca of all things hip and fadworthy. Wow, did I just make up a word? After browsing all the bling in the various trendy shops, I treat her to a pair of feather earrings. We then top off the experience with ice-cream sundaes as we watch and listen to the many strange sights and diverse languages of Philly's melting pot, certainly a far cry from rural Massachusetts.

On the walk back to the train, Sophie keeps reading the shop signs and comes to a sudden halt, pointing across the street to "The Condom Factory". Cough.

"You really don't want to go in there, Sophie."

"Why not?"

Cough again.

"Because it's ... for grown-ups. Did mommy ever tell you about ... condoms?"

Pause. Widened eyes.

"Ohhhh. It's that kind of store." The kid is savvy. Knows much more than I did at her age.

We keep walking and come to another store window which looks like Victoria's Secret lingerie until I see the sign above. Crap! The Erogenous Zone.

Sophie stops again, puzzled. "Erogenous" is not a word she has seen on Word Girl.

"Well, Soph, it's kind of a grown-up word for feeling good but it's not a store for kids either."

She looks at me. Puts two and two together. I smile and suggest that The Erogenous Zone should actually be next to The Condom Factory in the previous block.

And we keep walking.

Months later, we are lying side-by-side in my bed during one of her regular sleepovers. She has always loved to read. We are long past bedtime stories. Each of us has our favorite authors now and one of our pleasures is reading ourselves to sleep. She has also become a sci-fi enthusiast, sharing my love of all things Stargate. A typical sleepover usually includes a DVD marathon of Stargate SG1 and Atlantis. And then to bed with our book selections. This particular night, Sophie is browsing through my collection of Stargate books and reading quotes from the show's episodes.

I'm deeply absorbed in my Kindle until Sophie interrupts.

"Babci, what's a eunuch?"

Holy Hannah, I'm back on South Street!

I turn to her, not quite believing what she's asked.

She points to a Jack O'Neill witticism: "Eunuchs! As in snippitty doo-dahs?"

Oh joy. Another learning opportunity.

Considering my daughter, Jenn, has done such a fine job so far of sex education, I hopefully ask: "Hasn't mom talked to you about ... eunuchs and ... boy parts?"

Well, the kid is clueless - not about the boy parts, but the status of a eunuch.

Double crap!

Thus begins the grandmother's rather clinical explanation of just what can happen to some unfortunate lads and men with regards to "snippitty doo-dah".

Sophie asks all the right questions and I try to give all the right answers. Heck! This is a far cry from handing out the Time Life "underwear" books I gave my own two kids on the cusp of adolescence. I am having a bonafide, face-to-face discussion of male appendages with my ten-year-old granddaughter. Who woulda thunk?

Of course, once I step into the deep water, it gets even deeper. I find myself trying to explain the Middle Ages and boy choirs and just why those boys never lost their angelic soprano voices and youthful faces.

Sophie is enthralled. I am appalled. Our eyes meet and we giggle and cannot fall asleep. Snip, snip.

Tears running down our faces, we try to put the eunuch information out of our minds but it is hopeless. More muffled laughter.

Sophie stares at me, enlightened, as she squeals:

"Justin Bieber!"

For those who did not ...

When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah, hurrah!
We'll give him a hearty welcome then,
Hurrah, hurrah!
The men will cheer, the boys will shout,
The ladies they will all turn out,
And we'll all feel gay,
When Johnny comes marching home.

The old church bell will peal with joy,
Hurrah, hurrah!
To welcome home our darling boy,
Hurrah, hurrah!
The village lads and lassies say,
With roses they will strew the way,
And we'll all feel gay,
When Johnny comes marching home.

Get ready for the Jubilee,
Hurrah, hurrah!
We'll give the hero three times three,
Hurrah, hurrah!
The laurel wreath is ready now,
To place upon his loyal brow,
And we'll all feel gay,
When Johnny comes marching home.

Let love and friendship on that day,
Hurrah, hurrah!
Their choicest treasures then display,
Hurrah, hurrah!
And let each one perform some part,
To fill with joy the warrior's heart,
And we'll all feel gay,
When Johnny comes marching home. - Patrick Gilmore


My cousin, Johnny. KIA July, 1944, liberating France.

Turning ten

Sophie celebrated her tenth birthday today. My oldest granddaughter went to have her hair cut and streaked (blue) with her momma. I spent the afternoon with little sister, Hannah, who graciously allowed the older sibling to spend some quality time alone with their mater.

The girls had just spent the weekend in Boston with their dad and had driven back this morning. Both were wilting by the end of day but exhaustion didn't preclude the trip to the beauty salon. When Sophie arrived back home, Hannah took a very close look at the new blue streak and promptly observed, "Sophie, you look SO Goth!"

Sophie, at ten though, is a not-so-little girl who defies categories. She loves "Goosebumps", a British telly series of Steven-King proportions; possesses a ready and dry wit; sings Irving Berlin and current Broadway tunes like a lark; has read all of Harry Potter (a couple years ago); asks me intriguing questions such as "What was the most advanced technology you had when you were growing up, Babci?"; shows compassion and care for those younger and weaker, be they human or pet; has a strong sense of right and wrong and the need to find fairness; is appreciative and voices her gratitude for even the little things like a milkshake treat on the way home from singing lessons.

Oh, Sophie, dear heart. I probably should find a way today, as you begin your next decade, to write a poem or a letter expressing just what it means to have you in my life. I guess this will have to do ...

Your tenth birthday. Scary movies. New earrings. A fashion scarf. Jewelry box. A chic new hairstyle with a signature streak! (God bless your momma who is much more tolerant than I was when she dared to color her hair in the bathroom and it turned orange-pink. I now wish I had taken her to the beauty salon instead.)

Your past few years have been a bit rough. You've had to make peace with life's not being so fair after all. And, yet, you continue to shine. You are brave and funny and bright and kind. I look at you now and catch a glimpse of the beautiful woman you will become. Your mom and dad have done their job well. But I think you already know that.

You were so tiny when you were born. I held you carefully, in awe of my first granddaughter. You still have the lifelike dolly I bought for you when I came to the hospital. (So big, it barely fit in the elevator!) Now, you tower over the doll and are almost ready to tower over me. Soon, we'll be sharing the same shoe size.

There may be some changes in both our lives this coming new year. We may be moving away from each other. It's too soon to tell what our immediate future holds.

For now, I play "Happy Birthday" to you on the piano and you smile back at me, your special Sophie smile. We share a moment.

That, my sweet girl, is enough.

No matter what happens in the months ahead, we will always be connected.

So Happy New Decade to you ... and me.

Continue to do what you've been doing. Go gently. Be kind while being tough enough to weather the storms. And, always, always keep a song on your lips and in your heart.

I am so proud of you.

Love, Babci xo

Sweet little-boy sounds

Another cold, blustery day. Knock on the door. My neighbor's car won't start. He thinks his battery needs a jump. I throw my coat on and trudge out onto the seemingly perpetual ground cover of crunchy ice, snow, and gravel which comprises our apartment parking lot. It's been a brutal winter and all of us are just about keeping up. Dead batteries only add to the misery. Last night we had a blast of freezing rain which leads to scraping all the car windows free of ice before we can even drive out the parking lot. Gabe helps me with my windows and I then back my car up and next to his. His younger son, Seth, is huddled in the back seat of dad's car, patiently waiting for the motor to turn over. Cables attached, Gabe continues to turn the ignition key but the car just cranks, coughs, and fails to start. Somewhat embarrassed, he grins at me and realizes that he may be out of gas. No problem. I offer to take him to the nearest gas station for an emergency fill-up. He brings Seth over to my car and straps him into one of the girls' rear car seats. Then Gabe goes to find a container for the gasoline.

Seth and I are alone in the car. This little four-year-old kid is fairly shy but seems to be handling his time with me okay.

Suddenly, out of the back, I hear him playing out loud, making imaginary sounds and creating his own special world of sound effects.

I feel like I have just been transported back in time about 30 years or more. I'm hearing my son, Joseph, in the back seat doing what little boys love to do ... making all the excited inflections that only a boy fighting dragons, or flying an airplane, or swinging a sword against a pirate can utter.

I turn in my seat and Seth is, indeed, holding a slightly raveled crocheted football in his hand and, most likely, running down field for the touchdown in his mind.

What a beautiful sight to see this little guy totally self-contained, playing out loud, unaware of the older neighbor lady in the front seat grinning back at him.

This is exactly how I remember my little boy playing. And his little boy playing too ...




Joseph and Ben. Son and grandson. The two guys in my life.

I am so used to the play sounds of my four granddaughters that I completely forget just how different the energy and tone of boys can be. Girls coo, giggle, sometimes sigh and shout, but boys seem to express a much more primal energy. They thrust, weave, choreograph and swish in another dimension.

A neighbor's child helps me revisit that wondrous, magical kingdom once again. And I remember just how much I miss it.

For a few precious moments, I'm hearing my boys ... being boys.

Cabaret

Who knows? If we keep practicing, we may take our act on the road ...

Old song, new wisdom

Had Sophie for another sleepover and, finally, we got to make some inter-generational music together!

I never heard this song before but Sophie introduced me to it today. Irving Berlin. Possibly WWII vintage. My accordion may have drowned out some of the words while Sophie was singing, so I will post them here as the message is timeless, no matter which generation we're a part of ...

"It's A Lovely Day Tomorrow"

The front page of your paper is bound to make you sad, especially if you're the worrying sort.

So turn the front page over where news is not so bad, there's consolation in the weather report.

It's a lovely day tomorrow, tomorrow is a lovely day

Come and feast your tear-dimmed eyes on tomorrow's clear blue skies

If today your heart is weary, if every little thing looks gray

Just forget your troubles and learn to say

Tomorrow is a lovely day

Playing this with Sophie just warmed my heart. I love that her teacher has introduced her to Irving Berlin. When I hear her sing Berlin, I feel like I'm back in my parents' generation, the days of the Great Depression and WWII. Yet, there was always an optimism and hope for better days which Irving Berlin captured in his music.

It seems that Sophie has found that message too. Enjoy.

Over the rainbow, under the boardwalk, and all points in between

It's been almost a year since Sophie started vocal lessons. She loves to sing and the lessons have helped her grow in confidence. Last spring she surprised us all by signing up for her school's talent show. Sophie, Little Miss Introvert, performing in front of her peers and teachers! True grit.

This past year, as her parents' divorce became final, she has grown in so many ways. Taller, sharper wit, determined, curious. Conversations are on a new level. She asks engaging questions and expects to be answered.

Sophie doesn't live 'over the rainbow'. She has her feet planted on terra firma. I credit her mom's honesty in dealing with her in a truthful way on a need-to-know basis. Sophie is dealing with divorce with books and music and friends and humor. She seems to know where to put her feelings and thoughts. Journal writing has been a part of the trip. She's not afraid to examine herself and the grown-ups in her life. I think she will become a beautiful young woman, tempered by suffering and loss, but also shaped by humor and courage and grace.

Here is an example of that courage ...

Yearning

There was a lot of activity at my daughter's house this past weekend. Jenn's friends drove in from Syracuse to build a surprise loft bed for Sophie. The husband, Zeke, is a master craftsman, teaches woodworking to college students. In a two-day period, he managed to create the most amazing bed and free up much needed space beneath for shelves, hooks, a dollhouse and reading nook. Sophie's very cramped room had an extreme makeover!

Little sis, Hannah, was in on the surprise and helped to take care of the couple's toddler while the house was turned a bit upside down. She was bursting at the seams with the secret she was keeping, knowing that she wanted to orchestrate how the surprise would play out when her sister returned home on Sunday. Most of Saturday and Sunday's focus was on Sophie's project, with a fair amount of attention on baby Thomas too.

I came over on Saturday and cooked a roast to add to the festivities. Jenn had taken down the Christmas tree and cleared out Sophie's room for the renovation. Hannah wandered about, carrying Moe the kitten when she didn't have baby T in her arms. She wanted to feel useful. Part of the plan was for her to sleep over at my house on Saturday night because Jenn needed to sleep in her bed in order to host Zeke, wife Karen, and Tommy in the main bedroom. Trying to squeeze into a twin bed with Hannah didn't seem like such a good idea so Jenn told her that she was coming with me for the night. Looked good in theory.

Normally, having Hannah for a sleepover is a lot of fun. As we drove down the hill to my place though, Hannah's demeanor changed. By the time I pulled into my parking space, she was in tears. Inconsolable. "I want my mommy." She stubbornly refused to get out of the car. "Take me back to mommy's." I tried to reason with her and be firm. She would have none of it. It was late; she and I were both tired. Frustrated, I closed the back door, immediately plunging the car interior into darkness as she screamed more loudly. I quickly re-opened the door and sat inside. "Hannah, come on. It's cold out here. You can't sleep in the car and you can't go back to mommy's tonight." The crying ratcheted up another notch.

Hannah, the second born, was having a meltdown in the back seat of my car. An entire day of being the good girl, mommy's helper, preparing the way for her sister's special surprise moment had finally taken its toll. She did all that was asked of her and then was 'banished' from her own house to sleep at her grandmom's. Any other time this would be a reward; tonight it seemed like a punishment.

I knew that Hannah would have to come to her own moment of truth. So I sat while she protested through her tears. I reminded her of next morning's breakfast (waffles, one of her favorites) and a video of her choice that we would watch together. Finally, she unbuckled her seat belt and wiggled her way out my side of the car.

As she trudged up the snowy path in front of me, I wanted to take her in my arms and whisper "It's all right, Hannah, I understand." I was torn between being firm and being compassionate. I also sensed that wrapping my arms around her would not be very welcomed at the moment. Hannah was hurting and needed to work through this with some of her dignity left intact.

We climbed up my stairs and she walked across the living room, in coat and boots, plopping down on the love seat while still proclaiming, "I miss my mommy." She seemed so lost and my heart melted.

"I miss my mommy too."

She looked at me as the tears started to run down my face. Cautiously, I sat next to her, close enough to let our bodies touch. She leaned into me, still whimpering but more receptive. My tears fell onto my sleeve and her hair.

"It must be very hard sometimes. One week at daddy's and then the next week at mommy's. Divorce is hard. It makes me sad too. I know you want mommy tonight but she really thought you would sleep better at my house in the bigger bed and she had to use your bed because of the company."

I couldn't give her anything else. Just my tears and my thoughts that sometimes we can't always get what we want.

The storm passed. She took her coat and boots off, even putting them in their proper place at the top of my stairs. One brief moment of panic, "I don't have baby blanket!" Ouch. We were still in a lifeboat and the water was choppy.

"No, but Jelly Bean and Fudge are waiting for you on my bed. I bet you can rub their tummies while I rub your back." She weighed the offer as her tears dried and then went back to the bedroom, climbing atop my bed to hug the two stuffed animals. She let me help her change into pajamas, we both went to the bathroom, and then I did what I was wanting to do all night. I rubbed lazy circles on her back as she held on to her little pets.

No mommy, no baby blanket, no real kitten. Just two weary souls who snuggled together wishing that life could be more fair.

"Leave the light on, Babci."

She had a restless night but woke up with plans on how she would lead the surprise for her sister. We did not talk of the previous night's tears. Instead, she asked for her favorite waffles and chose "Anastasia" for our video treat.

"Anastasia", the story of a lost Russian princess who was separated from her loving grandmother but, in the end, they both found each other again.

Tidings of comfort and joy

There are moments in my life when I catch a glimpse of something fleeting, something good which hints at hope and endurance. One such moment happened this past week.

Daughter Jenn appeared on my doorstep, Santa hat in hand and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Mom, a blogger friend of mine, Neil Kramer, is hosting his annual blog-community holiday celebration online and he wants us to contribute. You can play your accordion."

What to play? Deadline was upon us. Pressure was on.

My inner Child smirked and thought,"What the heck? It's only a virtual community, just play a Christmas song and act a bit silly. It's not like standing in front of a live audience." Anonymity rules.

So I hauled out the squeezebox, Jenn put on her Santa hat, and we let it rip.

Extemporaneous combustion. Something so right about the two of us giggling our way through an old holiday classic. Working it. Together. Mom and daughter. We had never quite done something like this before.

When I look at the playback, I am pleasantly surprised. I see the girl I had once been, the kid who grew up surrounded by a father and extended family of musicians who often spontaneously combusted into singalongs and party celebrations. Live music was a given in my family. The accordion I'm playing was part of a rite of passage for me, especially ordered by my uncle for my twelfth birthday. And the darn thing still plays! How amazing is that? All the voices and players are long gone. Yet, there is an energy they've left behind. My daughter comes to me with an unexpected request and, suddenly, I find myself tapping into that energy.

I think my ancestors knew exactly what Jenn and I needed.

It's been a hard couple years. Lots of tears, worry, and doubt. I've seen my daughter at some of the lowest points of her life. Monday changed all that. Her inner Child and mine got to play.

Pure JOY.

Seeing Jenn come alive and sparkle, carefree and funny ... to share that lightness with her is all the gift I need this holiday season.

**If you're looking for this magic moment, go to the embedded link above. Jenn and I are about #9 in the scroll-down list of performers. Take the time to view some of the other entries. They will make you smile and cry. A cornucopia of holiday cheer.

Matters of the heart

I've taken the plunge. After quite a long hiatus, I'm back into the intriguing, amusing, and frustrating world of online dating.

It's only been a few weeks but I've already been "quivered" and flirted with by men: a) looking for a mother or grandmother figure. Singlebiker is 29 but "prefers older women". Honey, I could have been changing your diapers; b) Mysteryman is 49 and thinks I'm hot. I know I shouldn't squelch the whole Ashton-Demi vibe, but this guy was in his diapers when I was going to my senior prom; c) Men with fish. What is it about older men and their online profile pics? Dear God, I have never viewed so many men in plaid shorts standing next to their dead tuna. Is this all about size? Really; d) Short men in black muscle shirts posing in front of their refrigerator. Do you think I'm stupid, bud? You're claiming to be 6 feet tall and yet you don't even come up to your freezer door. And I bet you just may have a year's supply of frozen tuna stashed in that freezer; e) You're gonna love this one: 88-year-old men who write IN ALL CAPS THAT THEY DON'T WANT A LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIP. Hell, at 88, it's pretty much evident. But they do want sex, plenty of sex. I think I should invest in the pharmaceutical company that makes Viagra. I'll be a rich woman in no time.

Amidst all these "catches" (sorry, I'm back to fish), I have managed to identify a few possibilities and started corresponding with men my age. Now it gets even more challenging. One guy seemed so compatible until I found his online questionnaire which revealed that he was in a former "slave/master relationship" and entertains rape fantasies. Babci and bondage? I think I'll pass and save the hot sex for my fanfic.

Yes, I am selective and do choose guys who: a) DON'T USE CAPS; b) know how to spell; c) know the difference between a comma and a semi-colon (am I being too selective?); d) Smile in their profile pics, seem to have good teeth (or dentures), and don't look like undertakers. It's not that I'm prejudiced against funeral directors but, recently, I've been having some heart palpitations. Low-grade fever. Breathlessness. All this without sex. I swear. Now my daughter wants me to make out a will and give her all my online passwords. Dammit, given the circumstances, I'd be crazy to start a serious relationship with someone who'd remind me of the Grim Reaper.

Mr. Right? Mr. Big? Mr. Halibut? Maybe he's out there in cyberspace just waiting for me to "flirt" him with a smiley emoticon. My ideal online match? A retired cardiologist with a great bedside manner.

I go for my two-day cardiac-stress test next week.

Contracting, expanding

My social network has shrunk since moving up here to be closer to my daughter and her children. This is no one's fault but mine as I have focused mostly on the unexpected transitions occurring within the past couple years, changes which were not part of the future I had planned when I chose to leave job, hometown, and lifelong friends. The cup was supposed to be half full. I even dreamed of an in-law cottage. Happy couple. Happy grandkids. Happy me.

Instead, there has been a lot of pain and loss. It's not easy to watch a marriage collapse and dreams dissolve. Perhaps the only thing of worth I can offer is my presence. At times, it does not seem enough. Yet, somehow, I've managed to stay on my feet and offer steady comfort during some of the darker moments. I can see this in the eyes of my granddaughters and hear it in my daughter's words of gratitude.

Suddenly, there is a bit of slack in our relationship. My daughter tells me to think of myself, to find what gives me pleasure. My granddaughters smile and lovingly tease me to worry less.

I show up at the local ice-skating rink to take videos of the girls. Jenn straps on a pair of ice skates and ventures on to the ice with Sophie and Hannah. The three of them surprise me. They are sure footed, less wobbly than I had imagined they would be. Even the youngest, Hannah, glides by effortlessly and with such determination. Occasionally, they fall down but bounce up quickly.

I am amazed at their grace and resilience. In my heart, I compare their skating to the larger life lessons they are learning: holding on and letting go, slipping, falling, getting up again, regaining balance.

Watching and waiting. Seasons of sadness but, recently, subtle changes for the better. More laughter, less tears. Something good is happening. I can feel it, sense it. There is a quiet strength rippling under the surface, something new waiting to be born.

My gaze returns to the threesome on the ice. They are finding their rhythm, their speed ... testing their wings.

Dare I think of butterflies?

I want to believe in Spring.

Music lessons

Sophie loves to sing. Since she was a toddler, she would delight us with her sweet voice. As she got older, the once familiar nursery-rhyme songs turned not only to show tunes and pop music but also to original, lyrical creations of her own. I love that she finds joy in making music. I started my own music lessons at the age of eight. Now that she was the same age, what better Christmas present than to offer her singing lessons with a local teacher.

Tonight was the big night! I picked Sophie up at her dad's house. She was dressed in her Sunday best and wriggling into her golden slippers when I had to remind her of the snow on the ground and the need for boots. She obviously wanted to make a good impression. She also brought a journal and small matching notepad so that she and the teacher could make all necessary notes. Excitement was mounting ...

The teacher lives on a winding back road; it was an adventure just driving up the snowy hill. When we arrived, I asked Sophie if she wanted me to stay or leave her and come back at end of the lesson. Sophie chose time alone with her new teacher which I thought was very brave. She could not wait to meet her and jump into this whole new experience. She also needed to be assured that, if she practiced and stayed committed, I would keep my end of the bargain and continue to take her to weekly lessons.

I left Sophie and returned later to find her singing in front of a music stand while the teacher was accompanying her on the piano nearby. I had quietly let myself in and it was such a lovely moment to watch her singing so freely, her back to me and unaware that I was in the room. She seemed to be having fun and the teacher seemed pleased with her new pupil. "Sophie has such a pretty voice."

My dad and my maternal grandmother loved to sing. I have an old, old recording of them and other family members singing at my christening. They are, of course, all gone now - all the voices who expressed themselves in song, who found strength in music.

It warms my heart to know that a new voice will be heard, a new generation. Sophie, welcome to the club!

Decade

Ten years ago, I was ... selling a house which was a home for thirty years ... finalizing a divorce while celebrating my daughter's marriage ... anticipating becoming a grandmother for the very first time ... working full time as a college administrator and advisor ... surrounded by a network of family and friends ... twenty-five pounds lighter ... moving into my very first apartment ... starting over.

I spent New Year's Eve with a childhood friend as we both welcomed, not just another new year, but a new millennium as well. Wow, 2000 A.D. Millennial hopes and dreams did abide. I am usually quite the optimist.

Now, ten years later, I am ... not where I expected to be. Life is funny that way. I want to reach back and grab this decade, shake it hard, tell it to straighten up and fly right. But I can't. None of us can.

On this last night of this past decade, I will think about the next ten years, humbly, with lowered expectations. I am tired, feeling much older, knowing that I should pay closer attention to the words on a Christmas card from a family friend:

We yearn for
Peace beyond our fear
Light after darkness
Hope in the midst of despair
Joy following sorrow
Life coming from death
Compassion learned from pain

I will throw these words around my shoulders and let them keep me warm.

Cinderella

We had looked in several stores already, hand in hand as we searched for the perfect dress for Sophie's holiday concert.

I use the term 'holiday' loosely. Sadly, this year's songs had little to do with the religious traditions of the season. Certain parents had objected to the idea of actually singing carols and folk songs so the school played it safe and chose songs about the environment, community, and the 'power of one'. Instead of Frosty the Snowman (how politically incorrect could one snowman be?), the audience got to hear about falling rain and snow on mountain peaks with no mention of a Winter Wonderland. Nonetheless, the kids did their part and learned all the non-offending lyrics well.

Parents and grandparents came, took pictures, applauded and affirmed their progeny. I was shamelessly taking digital pics and video recording throughout. The girls looked lovely and lively onstage. I missed the familiar refrains of familiar songs but couldn't help but enjoy the excitement Sophie and Hannah were feeling.

The sense of mystery and wonder which was missing from the secular concert was provided by Sophie's dress. After several stores and no luck, she and I turned a corner in Macy's and both let out a small gasp. I tightened my hold on her hand as she dared to ask, "Oh, Babci, it's so beautiful. Can we buy this one?"

This dress even had a miniature dress attached which would fit her American Girl doll. It was so well made and it was on a 50% reduced rack. I could not believe my eyes and Sophie's good fortune!

We found the fitting room and, as soon as she slipped into it, I knew that Sophie and this dress were meant for each other. As I helped her step out of the garment, I looked at the label and my heart leapt. This carefully made dress was a Cinderella fashion. Memories came flooding back. My grandmother, an immigrant who never learned how to read and write, knew how to sew. She, in fact, worked as a seamstress decades ago for a mill which made Cinderella dresses. I remember my mom telling me how my Babci would often save her wages and purchase the Cinderella dresses for her granddaughters. Here I was, finding a Cinderella dress for Sophie!

How I wish my mom and my Babci had lived long enough to see this new generation of grandchildren, to see the glow in Sophie's eyes as she became a Cinderella for her school concert. The songs, themselves, no longer mattered as much. The magic of the season was in the dress.

Watch the tram car

This has been a whirlwind of a summer and I'm so overdue here. Let me share a rundown ...

The month of July brought: unemployment, birthday-gift trip to Vancouver BC (tour of a television set, hobnobbing with the cast and production crew of Sanctuary), the official "Mattern Cousin Reunion" with the Pacific Northwest Matterns descending on us here in the Berkshires, followed by a three-day August excursion to the Jersey shore. I'll start with the shore trip and blog later about the reunion and Vancouver BC experience.

What great fun to introduce my granddaughters to the Jersey boardwalk! It was a spontaneous decision and Jenn and I jumped at the chance. We found a family motel in North Wildwood, one block from the beach and boards. The first night we initiated Sophie and Hannah into 'walking the boards'. Actually, the Wildwood boardwalk is over two miles long so we also let the girls ride the tram car up and then walked back, checking out the rides and vendors. They were totally in awe and clamoring, "Oh, we love this place!"

If you've never experienced the chaos of a Jersey boardwalk (and three amusement piers), then it would be hard to describe. It's like a county fair on speed. I grew up with trips to Wildwood, Ocean City, Seaside Heights - this was the blue-collar solution to city heat and summer doldrums.


Jenn took her first baby steps in a motel in North Wildwood, just a block or two from where we stayed. Parents, aunts and uncles, cousins all were part of the flashbacks I experienced as I introduced the girls to life at the shore. Heck, I even spent part of my honeymoon in Wildwood! Now that I think of it, Jenn may have had her start in this town. Indeed.

After such a long hard winter, it was so much fun to watch Jenn and the girls as they savored everything. Sophie learned to boogie board and jump the waves; Hannah hit a 'jackpot' slot in the arcade and her eyes nearly popped out as a long line of coupons started spitting out of the game machine. She went on lots of rides but deferred to big sister when it came to the real thrillers - the old-fashioned wooden coasters and the many crazy, stomach-churning specialties that Jenn and Sophie loved. In that, they were so like my mom. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content to take Hannah to the Carousel or Duck Pond instead. The glow of the night lights shined in her eyes as she excitedly absorbed everything and told me, "Babci, I will remember this forever!" The four of us did share a ride on the huge Ferris Wheel and much to my astonishment, the dare-devils, Jenn and Sophie, were more nervous at the top than Hattie and I!


We were making new memories while I relived the old.

Each night we came back from the boards way beyond the kids' normal bedtime and happily exhausted. The girls weathered the entire trip so well, little troopers. Hannah decided that she and Sophie would like to live in Wildwood but how early would they have to get up for school? And could their girlfriends stay over?

I saw myself in their squeals and smiles, knowing that my grandmom, my Babci, was a part of my earliest Wildwood days too.

Summer on the boardwalk ... hearing my daughter laugh out loud and watching her share this wondrous experience with her own daughters for the very first time.

There's nothing quite like it.

Uplifting

It had to happen. And today was a perfect day to make it happen.

My daughter has been taking the heat all week for an article she had published in the Boston Globe. Writing in her usual humorous and self-deprecatory style, Jenn related how she and her two little girls handle the everyday occurrences of living in a very small house and how they often share moments of nudity (and hilarity). The vitriolic comments that followed her article were hard to read - mean-spirited and judgmental accusations which alleged that she was a "corrupter of civilization". How dare she show her naked body to her small children! How dare she answer their questions about such naked bodies!

What the inflamed, self-righteous readers fail to realize is that my daughter is one of the kindest, least judgmental people on this planet. She is also one of the walking wounded. Divorce and mental illness have become a part of her everyday life. She certainly didn't 'ask for' such heartbreaking circumstances but she has taken the cards she's been dealt and plays them with courage, compassion, and humility. She has had more than her share of what some will call bad luck for the past few years: job lay-off, nil finances, medications wreaking havoc with her memory and writing skills. Somehow she wakes up each day and struggles to find meaning and give meaning to the people in her life, including her priority - her precious two daughters.

There is not a mean bone in Jenn's body, so for her to read the hateful commentary following her magazine article came as a shock. However, she has met the hatemongers straight on and asserted herself online. I wish I could be as brave.

Knowing all this and how crazy a week it's been, I called her this morning. She needed a diversion.

Me: "Hey, Jenn, I really need to go shopping this weekend for clothes for my trip. I'm flying to Vancouver next weekend and nothing fits."

Jenn: "Sure, let's do it. I know you like to use me as your personal assistant on this kind of stuff. (Laughter at other end of the line.) Funny how I'm great at dressing other people but never take care of my own wardrobe."

Me: "Super. I'll pick you up for breakfast and then to the Mall. I really need a bra."

We do breakfast and a couple hours later ...

Jenn: "Find the fitting room. No, no ... don't touch the lingerie. Just give me your size and LET ME pick the bras."

Me: "You're such a good daughter. I have to look really nice for the visit to the television set."

Me (in fitting room with my daughter): "Wow, I hope these bras are what I'm looking for."

Jenn: "You've trained me well, Mom. A good foundation garment sets the tone - then we'll find you a nice top."

Now, if anyone reading this has had a problem with Jenn's Boston Globe article, I suggest that you stop reading right now. Go open your Reader's Digest. NUDITY AHEAD ...

Me (now stripped to my waist and struggling into Jenn's first choice for my foundation garment): "Er, are you sure this is my size?"

Jenn (chuckling): "Mom, the first rule of a good fit is to hang those puppies down and slide 'em into the cups."

Me (wishing I had inherited my father's genes rather than my maternal Polish peasant-stock knockers): "Okay, they're in. I hooked up the back. What do you think? It's a 'minimizer'. (Ha! That's like trying to hold back Niagara Falls with a bucket!)

Jenn (professionally as if she's done this for years): "Let me slip my fingers in here and pull the straps up a bit. Okay, this one works."

Me: "I need a sports bra today for when I finally return to the gym."

Jenn (looking dubious): "Mom, that's not what we came for today. Let's concentrate on everyday apparel and your upcoming trip, eh?"

Me: "Should I try the other two on?"

Jenn: "Mom, treat yourself. You certainly need more than one considering what you own right now."

I try, I squirm, I wiggle my aging, abundant flesh into my personal assistant's tasteful selections. She eyes me critically and helps me decide on the final choices. I look at myself in the mirror and wish that my youthful, perky bosom was staring back. As my best friend would say, "It is what it is. Deal."

By now, Jenn has found a bra or two for herself and proceeds to strip and try them on. She is now almost forty, the mother of two.

Our bodies are the bodies of women who have gone through many transitions. Jenn reminds me of this and we both take a moment to honor the reality of our soft flesh, curves and cellulite. We are what we are. We are real women.

We hug and smile. Our bodies are no strangers to each other. She sees her future; I see my past.

I suddenly say, "God, how sad about those commentators. They could turn all that negative energy into something positive, like an uplifting bra."

She looks at me and we are now laughing so loudly that we fear a sales assistant will come rushing in to check on us.

Between the giggles I manage to blurt out, "I meant an uplifting blog!"

Pilgrim soul

To my daughter on her birthday, a poem by David Whyte from The House of Belonging.

... one small thing
I've learned these years,

how to be alone,
and at the edge of aloneness
how to be found by the world.

Innocence is what we allow
to be gifted back to us
once we've given ourselves away.

There is one world only,
the one to which we gave ourselves
utterly, and to which one day

we are blessed to return.

I love you, Jenn, and bless you on your journey.

The wonder of it all

Twice in my life, I became a mother.

I was not ready, at first, for the tremendous responsibility of holding that tiny newborn and trying to calm her cries, giving her what she needed. Those first few weeks were a blur of anxiety and apprehension. Am I doing it right? The it, of course, being motherhood. My mother only smiled back at me, wisely and mysteriously. She knew what I had yet to learn, that children are resilient and everything was going to be fine.

By the time my son arrived, I had learned a lot. Not only was I more relaxed but so was he. Big eyes, quietly attentive ... watching, always watching.


I love the mathematics of motherhood. The years of struggling and caring and worrying and trying to get it right. Providing roots but also wings. The years fly by and suddenly, from 2, there comes a new generation of 1,2,3,4,5! Now it's my turn to smile and assure my grown kids that they are beautiful and strong parents, that they are certainly doing it right.


Beyond the abundance, I return to a simple act - holding my daughter, stroking her until she falls asleep. Doing what I did so many years ago, wiping her tears and providing a safe space.

I think being a mother takes you to the heights and depths of human experience. Your children's joys and sorrows carve niches in your soul. Sometimes, the richest moments are the most basic. Holding. Comforting. Knowing when to be silent. Looking down at your grown daughter's sleeping face and catching your breath ... remembering those eyelashes on a baby, held and sung to so, so long ago. Smiling your mother's smile and praying that everything will, indeed, be fine.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY TO ALL OF YOU AND THANK YOU FOR READING MY BLOG!