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!

Swimming lessons

I usually write positive things but this seems the perfect day to release some bad news at the micro level.

My job is 'being eliminated' on July 1. My boss told me the same afternoon I found out that I have some dental problems. The dental problems have turned into three surgical procedures. No dental plan. Small amount of savings as a nest egg for the unemployment will now be re-directed to the periodontist.

Sophie's favorite goldfish (it was actually black and silver) went belly up under my watch. I have yet to tell Sophie who named this little fish Midnight and faithfully reminded me to sing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" each night to both Midnight and Goldie. At her last sleepover, though, she announced that the fish were older now and didn't need the lullaby. I think I need the lullaby. Goldfish is tucked away in a plastic cup in the freezer. I owe it to Sophie to let her decide how to settle the remains of her little friend. One if by land, two if by sea ...

Jenn is still trying hard to keep herself afloat. The latest there is a hole in the roof. You can't even make this stuff up.

May day, May day! I guess we'll keep treading water until the rescue ship arrives.

A mother-daughter sitcom. Or the Titanic.

Declarative sentences

"I'm glad you moved here, Babci."

It was spoken softly by the little dark-haired girl descending my staircase. I was in back of her and almost missed the spontaneous words. Sophie's sincerity caught me by surprise.

"Sophie, I'm glad I moved up here too, to watch you and Hannah grow."

"You would have missed a lot."

"I know." Oh, dear heart, I know. Believe me, I know.


"Thank you, Babci, for having me for a birthday sleepover."

"My pleasure." My delight.

Lambs and sinners

March has suddenly morphed into early April and still the cold lingers. Sophie spent another delightful weekend sleepover and we raced to the car last night while blowing snow tickled our faces. At least Easter will be arriving soon with its message of renewal and redemption. I think I need both. I've been a bad girl.

Sophie and Hannah and their mommy had treated me to dinner out a few weeks ago to celebrate my birthday. I made the mistake of ordering grilled lamb. Ah, by the time our dinner plates arrived, both girls had scolded me into losing my appetite.

"Babci! You're going to eat LAMB? Poor baby lambs?! Aw, poor SNUGGLY, CUTE baby lambs?" Hannah, in between her chocolate milk and fresh rolls and butter, continued to fix me with a mother-superior glare which wilted the lettuce on my plate.

"I promise not to order lamb ever again, girls." Wink, wink. Nod, nod. When did kids get to be so politically correct?

Faced with their pleading looks and the knowledge of just how much those two shriveled lamb chops were costing, I opted for the economical solution. I ate the lamb.

Years ago, when their mommy was about their age, I was a member of a church folk choir aptly named "Lambs and Sinners". Some weeks, depending on how well we played and sang, we were the lambs; other weeks, the sinners. We took turns spreading the collective catholic guilt around based on our musical performance.

Yesterday, at another restaurant, I tried to swat a tiny fruit fly buzzing around my drink but missed. Good thing I missed. Sophie, the lone witness, delivered an incredulous stare while asking, "Babci, you weren't really trying to kill that fly, were you?!" Sigh. Foiled again.

You think I would have learned my lesson but it doesn't end there. While shopping for some household items at the same mall, Sophie grabbed my hand as I reached for the Windex. She nodded a firm 'no'. "It's bad for the environment, Babci." I passed.

Life's teachable moments. But aren't I the one who's supposed to be the teacher?

Ecological awareness in the youngest generation ...

Lambs = 2
Sinner = 0

Mary

My mom was born in Greenfield, Massachusetts. Greenfield is less than an hour away from where I, my daughter and granddaughters now live. I find this quite amazing considering that all our family stories are set in Philadelphia.

Just why Mom was born in New England remains a family mystery. Philadelphia was where she and her folks set down roots, where I was to grow up. Perhaps my granddad (who became a steel worker) was cheap immigrant labor on a railroad project. Driving from western Massachusetts to Philadelphia is an effort even now, six hours by car. How the heck did my grandparents make the trip up here in the middle of winter, a century ago?

They are all gone, long gone. The mystery will not be solved unless Jenn and I do some serious genealogical research in the state archives. We plan to one day.

One hundred candles would have adorned her birthday cake today. Many live to that age now. She was not destined to do so. We lost her too soon, too fast. A doctor would tell me, after emergency open-heart surgery, that she was "in God's hands". We had her with us ten more heroic days but her damaged heart could not recover. In the end, she squeezed my hand and whispered, "Be good. I want to go to sleep now." She had earned her rest.

The family caregiver. The big sister. The loyal wife. The loving mother. Serious child (Sophie again). A flapper, a flirt. Funny (I hear her now in my daughter's laugh). An immigrant's child who scrubbed the marble steps of wealthy families. A laundress. Beautiful, in many ways. Her smile was radiant. Her patience and kindness, steady and admirable.




She was born just over those nearby mountains. I'd like to think she's found her way back just to be close to us. I'd like to think that smile is still shining down on the great-granddaughters she never got to know and on that one granddaughter whom she adored.

Happy Birthday, Mom. We miss you.

Love notes

Yes, today's the day. My Medicare card is on its way. I am turning the big "65" and have very mixed feelings about this whole getting older thing. At 60, I felt much more svelte, alive and adventurous. A lot has changed these past swift five years. Some good. Some not so good. Life happens, eh? I am working again, full time. Retirement seems farther away than ever now that the Ponzi schemers on Wall Street and greedy bankers have vaporized my one 401K plan which was modest to begin with. It's not like me to wake up with depressing thoughts, especially on my birthday.

A phone call from Jenn just now had me smiling and provided a much needed mood correction. If I jettison the self-pity and look at the adult kids and grandchildren, I can sit back and say, "Wow, did these amazing creatures come from me?" Nature versus nurture. It has to be both.

My mom would be 100 years old at the end of this month if she were still with us. I think she provided a true holding environment for me and I hope I carried on that tradition of love, laughter, common sense and goodness. "Be good." Those were her last words to me. I hope that's become a family legacy.

My daughter got me to sign up on Facebook a few months back. Recently, I challenged her to write a response to a list of questions that were being asked of small children. I felt that adult kids should have the opportunity to reflect on their parents too. Here are Jenn's answers:

1. What is something Mom always says to you?
a) It's going to get better, Sweetpea.
b) Did you take your meds?
c) I love you.
d) Want to go get a bite to eat?

2. What makes Mom happy?
Let me count the ways. Mom has a terrible psychiatric condition called euthymia...which means happiness finds her, everywhere.

3. What makes Mom sad?
Seeing me sad.
The past.
The things she never found out from her mom.

4. How does your Mom make you laugh?
Again: let me count the ways. We are so divinely different and so the same, it's a perfect setup for comic material. Her ethnic chameleon ways: "HOLA! I AM MARIA ELENA!" Rear-ending parked cars: "That wasn't so bad. I don't know why you had to act like that was so bad. Was that bad? Don't look. Was that bad? Get out and look but don't look like you're looking." Her posting Auschwitz pictures ON FACEBOOK.

5. What was your Mom like as a child?
Strapped to an accordion. Fearful of nuns, chubby until high school, where she was a laugher and adored.

6.How old is Mom?
I am answering this one - the big "65" today!!

7. How tall is your Mom?
5'3 to 5'4ish.

8. What is Mom's favorite thing to do?
Sunday drives, like her father used to do. Shopping with me. Writing fan fiction. Travel to London, Krakow, anywhere. Playing with her grandkids, on both coasts. Posting pictures of my brother and me on Facebook while we beg her to stop.

9. What does your Mom do when you're not around?
Write naughtier fan fiction than usual. Pray to the shrine of Amanda Tapping.

10. If your Mom becomes famous, what will it be for?
Writing a fabulous book about blogging with her crazy, but lovable, daughter.

11. What is your Mom really good at?
Again, let me count the ways: She taught me how to write. She is the least defensive person I've ever known. She is a GENIUS BRILLIANT MUSICIAN. She is wonderful at caring for me...still. She tries so hard to understand my brain, even though it is a foreign country, no map.

12. What is your Mom not very good at?
Parking at the movie theatre. Watching a movie without talking. Subtleties, nuance. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

13. What does your Mom do for her job?
Helps kids find internships and get into college. HARD work.

14. What is Mom's favorite food?
Those little cucumber and fish circles drizzled in vinegar at the Thai restaurant. Pierogies, the real deal. Carbohydrates, baby.

15. What makes you proud of your Mom?
Her ability to roll with the punches, and to keep an open, hopeful heart and fabulous good humor, no matter how bad things get.

16. If your Mom were a cartoon character, who would she be?
Maria Elena, the Ethnic Chameleon.

17. What do you and your Mom do together?
What DON'T we do together? Eat at every Bennigan's on the East Coast. Reminisce about family, old photographs. Take day trips together. Laugh together. Cry together. Get coffee together. Do laundry together. Watch 'Zack and Miri Make a Porno' together.

Wait, here's what we don't do together -- I can answer my own question: fight. We don't fight. We got that all out of the way a long time ago and now we're just crazy about each other.

18. How are you and your Mom the same?
Loving. Compassionate. Full of humor. Freak out at veins and IVs.

19. How are you and your Mom different?
It changes. Right now: She is white chocolate, sunshine, resilience, unencumbered, hopeful, outgoing. I am dark chocolate, a cloudy day, shaky, burdened, fearful, exhausted by social events. For now. And I don't mind the dog poo and Eli's enormous Shetland pony ways. Or 'Zack and Miri.'

20. How do you know your Mom loves you?
I know it with every fiber of my being. She says it in every phone call. She radiates it. It is the one thing I have never doubted, and that sure is saying something in a lifetime. She gives her all for me, no matter how exhausted she is.

21. Where is your Mom's favorite place to go?
London! And the Red Carpet (restaurant where she picks up hot dudes).

Thanks, Jenn, for this birthday gift! And thanks, Mom, for planting the seed.

Birthday Girl

You turn six today
Sweet sunny child of my son
Pisces just like me

Your blonde hair, shy smile
Make me smile back in return
Even if alone

Looking at your face
In a picture in my hand
Wishing you were near

Liv, my golden girl
So far away, so special
Six and then, sixteen

I want to stop time
Hold your childhood days in check
But you bounce ahead

Golden curls, giggles
Music, dolls, pretty dresses
Such a fair lady

Happy Birthday, Olivia!

Love, Babci xoxo

Some enchanted evening

I met a man tonight. In a restaurant. He offered to pay my bill.

It's the same restaurant I've blogged about before, nothing fancy or exotic. I love their beer-battered scallops. How can a place in the mountains serve such great scallops? Better than the Jersey shore.

So, here I am, first arrival of the dinner crowd. I have my pick of the place and choose one of my favorite booths - the one in the far corner where I usually sit facing the wall and thinking how much one of the hanging black-and-white photos looks like my son-in-law. Tonight, however, I decide to be social and sit facing the incoming patrons.

A large party arrives, very chatty, and seat themselves way up front near the windows. I order a glass of red wine and my scallops. Soon, a gent comes in and chooses the booth right in front of me. I'm reading the paper and pretending not to notice that he has now sat down facing me rather than sitting on the opposite side of his booth. Heh. This is something that usually annoys me, having another solitary diner facing in my direction. Tonight, though, I'm feasting on those juicy scallops and chilling out with Merlot. Life is good.

Suddenly, I hear someone talking to me. I look up and see a smiling face who is asking what I'm having. He wants to be friendly. I suggest the scallops. He says he loves seafood but he's allergic to scallops. I recommend the night's special, baked haddock. We are starting a conversation about ten feet apart and speaking over the booth. Quite odd, but the wine has kicked in and I'm mellow. He has already ordered a Heineken. I suddenly have the urge to raise my wine glass (above the rim of the booth) and say "cheers" but I refrain. As we eat in our separate booths, we continue to make eye contact and chat a bit. He's a bit hard of hearing and certainly older than I. But he really wants to talk to me.

It's been a while since I've done small talk with a stranger. I find, though, that I don't mind revealing bits of information as his words invite a response. We start with the weather. Doesn't everyone? He has a snow blower and I have been busy shoveling. He offers to clear my sidewalk when it snows again. Oh, boy. He was in the navy almost 20 years, traveled all over the world. And now I'm thinking, where have I heard this before? Is this the guy who was the lunch partner of "Stas"? Holy Hannah! Maybe I misread their dialogue after all. He seems quite interested in me.

He orders his fish; I order my dessert. He inquires about my "husband"; I give him the lowdown on my non-marital status. He shares that he was recently widowed after 40 years of marriage. And his eyes fill up with tears as he talks about his late wife and his stepson who is an architect in Maine (who designed something for the elder Bush). Funny how spontaneous conversations can reveal so much. He owns three apartments, was born and raised in town, and regrets that he never kept a journal or picture album of all his years in the navy. He doesn't have a computer but he does have an adopted grandson. I share that my son's a doctor and my daughter lives nearby with her little girls. He tells me that I don't look old enough to be a grandmother. This is as close as I've gotten to a date in years. He wants to pay for my meal, says it would give him pleasure. I defer but let him write down his name and phone number. He wants me to phone him at the next snowfall. Now this guy was in the navy during the Korean war and married over 40 years, maybe even a part of "the greatest generation" but, still, there is something sweet and kind about him. I listen to his story and I think that touches him. Two lonely diners. I finish my dessert sitting across from him in his booth. No harm done. He knows where I work and shyly mentions that he might drop in sometime. I get up and he stands to help me into my coat.

As I leave the restaurant, I am chuckling. A chance encounter, a man who has lost a partner whom he obviously loved very much. He wanted to talk to me. I responded. Nothing more, nothing less.

And, yet, why do I feel so much more alive and buoyant as I walk over the ice and snow to my empty apartment?

Yuletide Serendipity

Christmas has been filled with unexpected surprises.

I stayed at Jenn's for most of the week, helping where I could. In fact, I made pancake breakfast after Santa arrived (thanks, Peg and Don for the pancake mix) and then made a roast beef while Jenn, David, and the girls enjoyed the many presents under the tree.

Besides Santa's delivery, many of Jenn's readers sent or brought gifts of every size and dimension: homemade cookies (yum), chocolates (gourmet treats), knitted scarves (tx vbg), gift cards for all of us (iTunes and bookstores), personal notes and greetings. A cornucopia of compassion!! We could feel the love in the care that was taken with each gift.


The day after Christmas, girls having left for the west coast with their daddy, Jenn noticed a young woman coming up the front steps. Before we could get to the door, she was gone but left a carton of snacks for Sophie and Hannah and a big wrapped present which is now safely tucked under the tree until the kids return next week. It was snowing out and this woman had driven a distance just to leave these gifts. It amazed us that she did not even wait to be acknowledged. She quietly deposited her goodies on the porch and drove off. Such generosity of spirit! Largesse. Jenn received the good news that day that one of her essays on motherhood has been published in a new anthology, Labor Pains and Birth Stories edited by Jessica Powers. I read many of the essays and, believe me, this is a great book, powerful prose. Jenn can be proud to be part of the project.

So, my friends, I thank all of you who have helped to make our Christmas more bright because of your kindness.

A family friend whom I grew up with sent the most beautiful note about my mother's kindness to her when she was a child. Along with the tribute, she included money for Sophie and Hannah and the Polish traditional Christmas wafer called Oplatek. On Christmas Eve, Jenn and I continued the tradition and broke the wafer with the girls, wishing each other "peace".

We now wish all of you the same joy and peace you have given to us!

Polar bears and other sentient beings

I came across this photo at a National Geographic website. It reminds me of how life has changed this past year for Jenn and me. There's a 500-pound polar bear in the room which can no longer be ignored.

Jenn's illness and her ensuing struggle has called out the best in people, faithful readers of her blog who have shown they care in so many ways. And, of course, there are the girls who are dealing with "the polar bear disease" as best they can.

In this last month of a very challenging year, I offer a prayer for all endangered species, be they animal or human.

May those who hurt, find comfort
May those who comfort, find peace
May those who doubt, find patience
May those who truly care, find understanding
May those who find themselves on thin ice ...
Hold on, hold on, and trust.

Peace and love to all creatures great and small.

God bless us, every one.

Yes, Sophia, there is a Santa Claus

She's almost eight years old. Next Christmas, Sophie may not want to sit on Santa's lap and tell him, wholeheartedly, that she'd really like an American Girl named Molly. Santa told her that he would take the request up with Mrs. Claus who is in charge of dolls.

Black Friday had consumers scrambling around for bargains. I scrambled, instead, to scoop up Sophie and Hannah and drive to a Christmas block party in a town up in the mountains. We made it just in time to see Santa arrive (via Fire Rescue transport). What ever happened to his sleigh? The kids didn't seem to mind at all. The girls were two of the first to greet him when he started his walk up the hill to the local gathering spot. Santa took the time to speak with them and revealed that he preferred milk, cookies, and popcorn on Christmas eve.

It was a magical night filled with street vendors, hula hoops, Christmas lights, caroling, and a ride in an old-fashioned trolley.




Even though Sophie patiently waited in line to tell Santa about her wish for a doll, Hannah was content to browse the craft fair, eat free cookies, and slurp soggy marshmallows from her hot chocolate. The need to sit on Santa's lap wasn't a priority. Then again, Hannah has a couple more years to explore that option. Sophie, on the other hand, may surmise that her window of opportunity is closing. I felt a lump in my throat watching her, knowing that she is growing up much too quickly.

On the ride home through the mountains, snow started falling quite rapidly. Flashes of white were illuminated by my headlights and Sophie exclaimed, "Babci, those are snow fairies! Don't use your windshield wipers - you may kill them!" I wisely responded that snow fairies fly so fast that they are able to scoot out of the way of my wipers.

The girls soon tired of counting fairies and fell asleep to polka music. Go figure. My polka tapes seem to have a calming effect. I drove slowly, carefully, on the winding snow-slicked road asking the snow fairies to keep me and my two charges safe. I had no need for the mania of Black Friday. It was a snowy white Friday and my treasures were snuggled in the back seat.

Priceless.

Ups and downs

I climbed a mountain once. When the group leader asked why I wanted to climb the mountain, nothing profound came to mind. I merely stammered "to twirl on the top like Julie Andrews in 'The Sound of Music'." It was the best I could offer. It was honest.

Climbing that mountain (known as Indefatigable in the Canadian Rockies) was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life. It was also one of the most freeing, most rewarding. And yes, I did twirl at the summit ridge.

As challenging as the ascent was, the descent was even trickier. Every step had to be carefully placed as the loose rocks and pebbles were waiting to take you for a steep ride on your bum if you slipped.

Going up or coming down, you had to be mindful of where you placed your feet. While in motion, you had to be grounded. I can relate to that paradox.

I'm climbing again. Actually, I'm helping my daughter, Jenn, climb. There's not much of a guide to climbing an inner terrain. Still, determination and belief that the summit is worth reaching keep me going. This is more than a one-day hike. I'm in it for the long-haul. Some days the slope is steep, slippery, and I step more cautiously. Other days bring some sudden breathtaking views and I relax a bit and smile. This is life, my life at the moment.

November has never been an easy month. It holds a family history of decline and loss - family members, surgery. Yet, it is also the month that my godson, Donald, and my granddaughter, Hannah, were born. So November brings both struggle and blessing.

I'm an optimist at heart. What's at the top of the mountain calls me to look up time and again. I may not have the energy I had when I climbed Mount Indefatigable several years ago but I do have the desire to reach the summit. And bring Jenn along with me. One patient, vigilant step at a time.

The view at the top is all so worth it.

Three cheers for the birthday girl

Today was Hannah's fifth birthday. She got up early, dressed herself for her party, made her bed and gaily exclaimed, "Oh, Babci, it's going to be an exciting day!"

She had a joint party with her girlfriend, Zoe, who was born same day, a few hours apart at the same hospital in Vermont. They now attend school together. David sewed "royal skirts" for all the attendees and Jenn told improvised fairy tales and led the little dancing queens.


A good time was had by all and that's certainly worth cheering about!

Fairy tales and bridal dolls

I bought the new DVD, Tinkerbell, this week because I know both girls love their fairy stories. Hannah and I hung out on Saturday and she got to watch it first. She has loved Tinkerbell since she was a toddler. I have to admit that the sassy and spunky Tink definitely has something in common with our Hattie Belle.

Sophie had spent the afternoon on a play date seeing a live presentation of Beauty and the Beast. She seemed disappointed, though, that she had missed the Tinkerbell preview at my house. When she asked if she could have a sleepover, I agreed. She has this cute way of begging that melts my heart. Soon we were checking out Pixie Hollow on my computer before snuggling in bed and reading from a grandmother's storybook that a dear friend had given me a few years back. This has become a sleepover ritual. Sophie loves the book and gets to pick the story to be read. Usually, she's almost asleep by the time I finish.

In the morning, we have our favorite breakfast of pancakes and syrup. Somehow, I find myself telling her about my one Barbie doll which was made into a bridal doll for me by my mother's close friend and cousin, Ceil. It was a labor of love, down to the tiniest detail of a blue garter on her leg. The doll was the table decoration for my bridal shower almost forty years ago.

"Babci, can I see it?"

Luckily, I find the old shoe box, my mom's handwriting proclaiming "Bride Doll" on the lid. We unwrap the tissue and Sophie is in awe. Looking at it with her, I suddenly realize what I had long forgotten: Ceil patterned the gown and headpiece and flowers as exact replicas of my own wedding dress. How much work she had put into this doll! Ceil, who was never blessed with children of her own. Ceil, who sent Mrs. Santa Claus letters and Easter Bunny notes to my children as they were growing up, gifts of money wrapped in foil hidden within. In her honor, Jennifer took the name, Cecilia, for confirmation. My mother stood as Jenn's proud sponsor, in memory of the cherished friend she had lost a short time before.

On a whim, I go rummaging once again and find my wedding portrait. Sophie and I compare the doll and me and decide that it is, indeed, a very good match. "She just doesn't have your glasses, Babci."

Sophie sets about making a bed for the doll inside the old shoebox, using one of my mom's handmade doilies. She knows that this Barbie is special, not to be undressed or played with too roughly. After cuddling her a bit, she is content to put her back to sleep.


How beautiful that this gift of love, created two generations ago, comes to life again for another dark-haired charmer, Sophia Mary Rose - she who believes in fairies, pixie dust and dolls who need a cozy place to sleep.

Ceil, who believed in the joy and wonder of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, is still making my children smile. There must be some pixie dust in that old shoebox.

And in heaven, I'm sure.

I've been abducted

It's just another day at the new gym. I try hard to look like I know what I'm doing as I make the rounds of the fitness machines and adjust the different weights, knobs, seats and handles. I really like this part of the workout much better than shaking my booty on the treadmill or elliptical. There's more to anticipate: flexing my pecs, stretching my back, curling my legs, crunching my abs, pressing my chest, and my favorite - abducting my hips. As I read the names of the exercises, I feel as if I'm auditioning for an adult movie. I have to admit that I was taught that a lady never spreads her legs in public but, hot dang, these abductor machines sure are fun!

I even meet another older guy with a mustache; we share the spray bottle as we clean off our equipment. Luckily, he is using the treadmill and doesn't see me nearly fall on my face as I try to climb out of the hip abductor. Maybe I'll meet him again over at the chest press. Be still, my heart.

Do you like the t-shirt? I decided to be bold and advertise my other talents. Just give me a few more weeks, and I'll have those silver-haired Schwarzenegger wannabes treading by my side, panting in tandem.

Tomorrow night, lap tap dancing.

My dinner with Stas

It's been a busy week at school and TGIF. I decide to stop at a local eatery instead of making my own dinner tonight. I like this place. It's small and cozy, nothing fancy, and the waitresses remind me of the hometown diners in Philly. Sometimes I do get homesick, especially this weekend with the Phillies being in the World Series and all.

I settle into one of the back booths, feeling a bit lonely and nostalgic. As I sip my red wine, two gents stroll in and sit in the booth across from me. They are both about my age and, to tell the truth, the guy just a few feet to my right is easy on the eyes: rugged face, silver hair, small neatly trimmed mustache. He catches my attention. Sitting there, staring into my spaghetti, I hear the other fellow call him, Stas, which is Polish for Stan. I grew up hearing a lot of Polish nicknames such as Juziu (Joey), Edziu (Eddie), Stasiu (Stanley), Wladziu (Walter). Everybody in a Polish household has a friendly tag to their more formal name.

I picture myself hopping right over to their table and sitting next to Stas, telling him I grew up in a Polish neighborhood in Philly. He would give me a brilliant smile and wink. Our eyes would meet and lock. We'd have a couple rounds of piwo (beer), salute Pulaski, and get to know each other. At my age, silver-haired, well-toned males don't come around often. Trouble is, I'm kinda rusty in the flirting department. In fact, I never get to practice 'cause when I play Barbies with Sophie and Hannah, they always make me play Diego or Preminger (not Otto). I have to be "the bad guy" who threatens their castle. They get to swish and act coy and do all the teasing. So I'm really out of shape.

Here I am, close enough to a healthy Polish-American specimen to reach out and touch him, and all I can do is eat my spaghetti and eavesdrop on his conversation with his buddy. I soon notice that this guy is not much for words. Eye candy but mute. He seems to be doing all the listening while the other guy goes on about his time in the navy and visiting Russia and something about 14-year-old girls and communism. Oh, and his snow blower is 23-years old.

By now, the restaurant is filling up with the dinner crowd and getting noisy, too noisy. I keep straining to hear what brilliant words will come from Stas and he continues to be the strong, silent type. I get desperate and cast a glance or two his way but he's oblivious to my eye contact, listening instead to his dinner partner who continues to utter Stas before beginning each sentence. I finish my last meatball and my wine thinking that I know a helluva lot about the guy I'm not interested in but nothing about Stas. Another daring glance - no wedding band on his finger. Finally, Mr. Tight Lips asks about "Steve". Steve? And then the other guy shares that Steve has come home to visit "Mom". Holy Hannah, Mom must be about 95 years old and still kickin'. Now I get it ... two old bachelors, catching up.

Then I watch as my sexy, brawny senior leans across the table and speaks multi-syllabic words to momma's boy. I am now practically leaning across the aisle because of all the chatter going on in the other booths. My hunka thunka Stas is having verbal diarrhea and whispering something important.

At last, the body language cuts through the white noise.

I really need to develop better radar. I can't believe it took me a glass of wine, one plate of spaghetti, and two meatballs to figure out they were gay.

Ain't love grand?

Hospitality

“Mom, come over. We have company.” A simple invitation.

I had already changed into my robe and pajamas, looking forward to just tuning out and going to bed early. Yet, an old friend, the mother of Jenn’s friend, Ali, was in town for Grandparents’ Day and now at my daughter’s house with her clan. We had already caught up with each other over lunch at our grandkids’ school. A lot of family history, hers and mine, has been written since we saw each other last. We both have been feeling vulnerable, responsible, overwhelmed, unsettled, challenged, surprised, euphoric and ... older.

I made the effort, changed clothes, and walked in to a cacophony of barking dogs, squealing kids, and grown-up chatter in the kitchen where Jenn was cooking up an impromptu batch of pasta for a now full house. The energy was palpable: three moms, two grandmothers, a close friend from Grinnell, two dogs and six little girls roaming about.

Ali’s mom and I, wine glasses in hand, found a cozy nook in the kitchen and settled in. We picked up the conversation where we last ended. Suddenly, I realized how much I missed being in touch with this woman. She and I first met almost twenty years ago when our daughters were college freshmen. Through the years, time and circumstance have brought us together. We have been through late-life divorces, daughters’ showers and weddings, births of babies. She came into New York city to applaud my accordion gig at the NUYorican Café; I attended an HBO film screening for her older daughter. She came to the production of Jenn’s one-act play at the Ensemble Studio theatre; I jumped for joy when her older daughter won an Academy Award, an Oscar for her short-film documentary. All the while, we were living alone, fighting our own private battles around the swirling events of our grown children’s lives. We’ve weathered some health scares and physical changes. Just to be in her company again, last night, was deeply satisfying, renewing. We get it. We may not see each other often, but there is a thread that ties us together. As she was leaving with her crew, we exchanged phone numbers and promised to spend a weekend together soon. I’ll drive down to her house (about a four-hour trip) and we’ll continue, once again, letting each other in. Our daughters have been there for each other; why shouldn’t we do the same?

Last night’s gathering at Jenn’s house wasn’t just two grandmothers enjoying each other’s company. It was everyone finding something they needed.

I drove home thinking of one of my favorite poems,
Plainness by Jorge Luis Borges:

The garden’s grillwork gate
opens with the ease of a page
in a much thumbed book
and, once inside, our eyes
have no need to dwell on objects already fixed and exact in memory.

Here habits and minds and the private language
all families invent
are everyday things to me.
What necessity is there to speak
or pretend to be someone else?

The whole house knows me,
they’re aware of my worries and weakness.
This is the best that can happen.
What heaven perhaps will grant us:
not to be wondered at or required to succeed
but simply to be let in
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones of the road, like trees.


Indeed, what heaven will grant. We are such fragile creatures.

Chicken soup for a grandmother's soul

Sophie and I had a date tonight.

A few months ago, I won a silent auction for a music lesson with a local professor. I bid on it because I thought Sophie might like the experience. She was eager to go when I picked her up after school. The college is only minutes away. As we walked across the leafy campus, Sophie exclaimed, "I bet I'm the first seven-year-old to go to college!" I laughed and said that, for tonight, she would probably be the only seven-year-old on her way to a percussion lesson.

She took everything in - the classic Greek columns and the students milling about. "Babci, how old are they?" I got to tell her about college life, a subject dear to my heart since I spent almost twenty years in administration, teaching and advisement.

The professor, not much older than the students, greeted us in a small studio filled with a grand piano (which took up most of the space), drum set, and marimba. Sophie told him that she liked all kinds of instruments. He took her over to the piano and showed her the sounding board and she placed her fingers over the strings as he struck the keys. She was totally engaged and could tell the difference in the tones as he told her to press firmly and then more lightly. Her initial shyness wore off quickly and soon he was leading her around the room, letting her try out the drum set and the marimba. She played a basic rhythm pattern with her foot on the bass drum and her hands on the snare, tom-toms and cymbals. He then played a riff around her drumming. I was so proud of her because she kept a steady rhythm as he joined in. He taught us about the history of the drums ranging from Africa to Europe to Turkey and the United States. Sophie managed to answer him back later when he quizzed her about the percussion instruments and their evolution.

My smile just widened as the lesson continued. From the drums, they moved over to the marimba, a beautiful instrument with a mellow tone. Sophie was given two mallets and shown hand positions and how to strike the center of the keys. I played a scale on the piano while the prof duplicated the notes on the marimba to show her how both instruments use the same tonal structure. Then he showed her how to play a simple melody and she soon recognized what she was playing. He even showed her how to change keys when she started on an alternate note. I was impressed - Sophie was really getting into it. Finally, he invited me to join them on the marimba and, before you knew it, Sophie was striking a bass rhythm line and the prof and I were playing a melody above her. The three of us played two songs together, Sophie staying in tempo all the way. He and she hit it off quite well. She was excited when he told her that he would invite us to one of his performances at the college in November.

As we walked back to the car, she told me that she was going to write about her music lesson in her diary. Since it was our special date night, I asked her where she'd like to go for dinner and she chose her favorite Asian restaurant. We had miso soup, steamed dumplings, ginger and green-tea ice cream. We shared fortune cookies, lucky numbers ... and girl talk, lots of girl talk.

The chicken-soup photo was taken four years ago. Sophie has grown by leaps and bounds since then. Her tastes have grown more sophisticated: miso soup and dinner out with grandmom instead of grandmom's homemade chicken soup.

What a joy she is! What a joy it is for me to watch her bloom.

We ended the night with homework. She loves math and spelling. Funny, I loved math and spelling when I was her age too.

Thank you, Sophie, for being you. May learning new things always bring excitement, like tonight.