Tiny Joyfuls

This afternoon after all of the grandchildren had been picked up I decided to go upstairs and take a little nap.  It had been an incredibly hot day and the cool percale of my bedsheets and the steady whirr of the ceiling fan was too much to resist.  How lovely, I thought drowsily.  How perfectly lovely that I have the sort of life that allows me to do this.  In keeping with that thought, instead of falling asleep as I had planned, I found that random snippets of happy memories, dusty and nearly forgotten, began parading in and out of my consciousness.  There were so many, I thought with a start.  So many tiny joyful experiences that drifted through my life.  They sound almost too banal and inconsequential to list, but I'll share a few. 

When I was growing up it wasn't uncommon to find corner stores or restaurants that had screen doors with push bars advertising one thing or another.  You would go into the shop, the door banging behind you, and feel like you were home.  These kinds of places always smelled so good - a bakery, a candy store, a sandwich shop, a mom and pop grocery - you just knew that some wonderful treat awaited you there.  Popsicles on a hot summer day...  I could never decide between blueberry, banana or root beer.  Remember how they used to come as doubles and you would break them in two while still in their wrapper?  Or rows and rows of penny candy to choose from.  There was some magic in that screen door, I swear.  Now when you see those doors they're largely in modern stores staged to look nostalgic.  

I loved second grade.  There was just something so cozy, safe and almost familial about my classroom.  We sat in reading circles and muddled through Dick, Jane and Sally stories and  used Sanford tempera paints and water colors on thick manila paper to create works of art that were proudly carried home to our parents.  Above the blackboard (which was actually green), there were examples of each letter of the alphabet, written in cursive in upper and lower case that we would practice writing on our lined tablets with fat pencils.  Sometimes a big storm would roll through town and through the classroom windows I would see the menacing dark clouds, jumping at the claps of thunder and the jagged bolts of lightning.  Inside the classroom, though, it was bright and cheery and I felt so insulated from everything scary.  My teacher's desk had the peonies I had brought her from our backyard garden displayed in a vase.  My mother would go out to gather them in the morning before I left for school, wrapping the stems in a wet paper towel, then covering it with foil and I would shyly hand them to her, hurrying to my desk in time to say the Pledge.

There were so many kids in my neighborhood!  We played hard every day - venturing outdoors right after breakfast until being summoned home by our parents at dark.  During the day we played all of the familiar games - dodgeball, SPUD, statuemaker, tag, hide and seek, softball, jump rope and many more.  One of my friends had a fort her dad had built for her in their backyard that became a sort of clubhouse for us.  We drifted from yard to yard, pausing to play on swing sets, sometimes bringing out board games, progressively getting dirtier by the minute.  I remember my friend and I picking firm, round tomatoes from her garden, dusty and a little warm from the sun, and eating them like apples.  We played Milles Bourne under a shade tree with some kids we didn't even really like that well, but summer was a great equalizer and somehow we all managed to get along.  At night, after my bath, I would put on my babydoll pajamas and my sister and I would fall asleep in our bedroom with no air conditioning (!) - just an old oscillating fan and open windows.  We weren't afraid of abductors or predators, only wary of the stories we'd heard about hobos who jumped from the freight trains that passed through town and lived in the woods.  It makes me a little sad that my grandchildren live in a different kind of world without the simple childhood freedoms that I had always taken for granted.

Truly, there are thousands of these little memory snapshots that span my entire life (so far) that I can call to mind instantly.  They aren't milestones or life changing events, just the tiny joyfuls I've collected along the way.  Things like the scent of suntan lotion; the sound an oar makes as it dips through the water on a lake; fireflies in a Mason jar; singing along to a favorite song on the car radio or sitting on the bleachers at a Little League game.  It's the taste of water straight from the hose, sleeping on a screen porch while being serenaded by crickets or how you feel when you see the first snowflake of the season.  My hope is that you will go to sleep tonight recalling those sweet everyday moments that were woven into the fabric of your own life while savoring the new ones as they're encountered.  Sweet dreams!

Disclosure

Today my son asked me if I was happy with my life and if I had any regrets.  I deflected a little.  "We all have regrets," I said, which is trite and true at the same time.  "Like what," he pressed, "name some things."  I was driving at the time and concentrating on turning onto a busy street so I managed to not answer and turned the conversation to another topic as soon as I swung into the traffic flow.

In made me think about how much of my past is proper to disclose to my children, even though they're all adults and married with their own families. Well, let's see.... I was growing up in the 60's and 70's so you know from jump street that there's a few things I might not be eager to share.  Add into the equation that I was going through a major phase of rebellion (long story - remind me to tell you about that sometime) and the end result is that there are plenty of regrets that I've compartmentalized and filed away from my youth.

The truth is, I think I squandered some of my youth by making a series of poor decisions.  Luckily, I've never had to live with any consequences of the dumb things I did aside from the profound sadness of knowing that those days are gone forever and there aren't any do-over options.  Some mornings when I look in the mirror and see silver hair and aging skin I find myself so wishing that I could jump in a time machine and erase the stupid things and re-write my life history.  But then, I suppose, things might not have unfolded for me the way they did.  I might not have married Mike or had the great kids we were blessed with, so that does assuage a lot of the regret that backs up into my soul some days like a clogged drain.

Even though these life secrets are destined to remain secrets, I still wonder if any of my friends have memories of things they did that make them cringe when they think of them.  Make them squirm.  Things they maybe never shared with their spouse.  Now don't go thinking I've done things that would make the evening news because my regrets are nothing like that.  They are just some things that embarrass me or make me feel ashamed even though hardly anyone knows about them.  I have trouble imagining any of my friends harboring real regrets like I do.  In my mind, their lives were generally blot free and the worst mistakes they made would be ones they could talk about now over drinks and laughingly shake their heads while saying "What was I thinking??"  Then everyone else at the table would try to one-up and share stories about one night stands or smoking up in their bedrooms while their parents were downstairs.

I may dole some sanitized tidbits out to my kids on an as-needed basis if it helps to make a point.  And I have made peace with God and myself for bad things I've said and done, but the one thing I can't change is that my twenties are long and irretrievably gone.  On the upside, despite the regrets that I still hold in that secret pocket of my heart, I am happy with my life.  So happy that if I had to repeat all those stupid choices and live with those regrets to still be blessed with all the goodness that I have, I would do it all again in a heart beat.  I guess as imperfect beings we may all be works in progress and I am certainly no exception.  My son confidently predicted that I would be around for another 30 years or so (sounds optimistic to me, but we'll see..,) and there's still a lot that I can do.  Looking back, I guess if my twenties are the only decade that I really have regrets over, it's been a good run and I expect more of the same in the decades to come - however many there are left. 

My Entertaining Everest

Time to push myself to do something that frightens me. Not skydiving or snake handling, though I'm talking about something that strikes the same amount of terror in my heart - planning a get-together of some sort, inviting people and, well, entertaining. 

It probably seems like a weird thing to have a phobia about, but believe me, I'm a textbook case.  The whole process acts like a catalyst to bring out feelings of inadequacy on many levels and I've spent years perfecting the art of weaseling out of hostessing altogether.
My family can testify to this.  As anyone who knows me well is aware, I am a horrible cook.  Worse, it isn't just a case of me not spending the time to learn and perfect cooking - if that was the case I could take a class or even go to my mom for help.  I am just one of those folks that find meal preparation and cooking tedious and time consuming, so I've never bothered learning.  I jokingly (but not) have always said if Mike wanted a wife who cooked, he married the wrong girl.  I can make a couple of decent things, but none of them is "company fare" that could be served at a dinner party.

Problem #2 is my deep seated and irrational fear that everyone will notice my house is inferior.  Stains on the carpet.  Smells like a dog.  Dust on the fan blades. Decidedly un-fancy furniture.  Of course, my friends and family remind me that anyone who is a true friend would not be judging us on how nice or mediocre our house is or even how good of a cook I am - they like us for who we are and would just enjoy spending time together.  On a cerebral level I know this is true, but in my heart of hearts I can't seem to shake the paranoia that whatever event I create would be an epic failure.  Low expectations of myself to be sure.   And I've been this way for long enough.  I figure the only way to overcome this aversion is to force myself to do it and do it until I can invite people over without a feeling of dread washing over me.

I want to be one of those people that entertains effortlessly.  Spur-of-the-moment invitations for friends to stop by for pizza;  ladies lunches with quiche and salad; holiday open houses with fancy dips and hors d'oerves - I want to be that girl.  Some of the people who seem to have this whole thing down pat don't seem overly concerned if there are stacks of mail on their dining room table during these impromptu get togethers and nobody seems to mind anyway.  This is about to become my new mission in self improvement.

I'm thinking of starting of with an afternoon tea party.  Elegant sandwiches, delicate pastries, aromatic teas in hand painted cups - the whole nine yards.  I am not going to let myself cheat by just inviting my daughters, daughters-in-law and mom because they are my "safe zone" people.  Or maybe a barbeque or even an informal crock pot dinner.  Whatever I decide, I know that by posting this I am making myself accountable.  Even writing about these plans make me slightly nauseous, but hey, all the more reason I have to do it, right?

So wish me luck as I start formulating my plan to plunge into uncharted and icy cold waters of entertaining.  One...two....three... jump!

In Defense of the Written Word

I was just over at my mom's house visiting with her and looking through her Christmas cards. She has received over fifty cards so far this year and nearly every one had a handwritten paragraph or two on the card itself or a personal letter - not the generic kind - tucked inside. The notes were filled with updates, warm sentiments, and remembrances of times the sender shared with Mom over the past year.  I can honestly say that awaiting the mailman's arrival and the day's bounty of cards have become one of the highlights of her day.  She treasures each message and the connection she has with her friends across the country.

The interesting thing is, Mom doesn't just receive these cards and messages at Christmas.  She really makes an effort, and has for as long as I can remember, to stay in contact with people that she cares about.  While she telephones those who are closest to her, sending cards and letters is her chosen form of communication.  A few weeks ago she was telling me what was happening in the life of the woman who used to clean her house in Illinois and I was surprised that she even knew.  She had written to Angie, she explained to me, and Angie had sent her a nice long letter back.  Mom showed me a card she received from Elena, the home health care nurse who looked after my sister when she was sick.  Elena had recently had a baby, so she sent a photo of her growing family.  I was amazed that she had maintained contact with someone who had passed in and out of our lives two years ago.  Mom explained to me that Elena had been a godsend to my sister with her gentle touch and compassionate words. Months after my sister had died, Elena had had her baby and Mom had sent a baby gift.  From that moment they continued to keep in touch - perhaps only a birthday and Christmas card, but both still choosing to make the effort.

It really got me thinking.  Back when I was a girl still living at home with my parents, I had several "pen pals."  Of course this was long before computers and smart phones so there were no emails, texts or Skype.  Each day's bulging mailbox was full of possibilities - who would I get a letter from today?  Now, sadly, it is mostly sales circulars and junk mail that I receive.  I realize that I have done a great deal to contribute to this lack of written communication in my own life.  For the past few years I have pared my Christmas card list down or not sent cards at all.  I barely remember to send birthday cards, and when I do, they are often hastily mailed with only an obligatory sentence or two dashed off inside, but devoid of the kind of message that would have required time and thought.  And letters?  Hah!  I've even gotten behind in emails more often than not because my life is so busy.  I've even noticed that when I write more than a paragraph in cursive, my hand hurts a little.  How sad.

I miss having a stack of letters tied with a a pretty ribbon to read and re-read.  I miss the excitement of posting a letter to a far-away friend or cousin, knowing that in a week or two an envelope would be waiting for me when I came home.  I used to receive Christmas cards from people I hadn't seen in years and those cards were our one connection to catch up and hear what was going on in our respective lives.  This year, I didn't even get a fraction of the ones I got like clockwork each year in the past.

If I am to make any resolutions for the new year, perhaps this is a good place to start.  There is real beauty and goodness in the act of putting pen to paper to share our thoughts and feelings with the people in our lives. Merely taking time out of our day to do this is an implied act of thoughtfulness and care and the words themselves - well, they can be the kind of message that's appreciated and can brighten someone else's day or they can be letters that are put away to be savored over and over again throughout the years. 

I remember a friend once told me that you only get out of life what you put into it.  It seems to me that putting more effort into staying connected with the people in my life will be something that I will never regret spending  precious minutes of my life on.

Legacy

When I woke up this morning I didn't have any intentions for the day beyond enjoying time with my granddaughter and a friend's little boy, doing some laundry and writing out a few Christmas cards.  You know what I mean - one of those unscripted but predictable days that would most likely play out like so many others, absent the manic highs and lows that drama often brings.

For the past week or two I had been thinking about Laurie, an old friend from my high school and college days, that I had lost touch with way back in the 70's.  Laurie and I met while working Saturdays and summers at Capper & Capper, a men's clothing store in the Chicago Loop, while we were both in high school.  I liked her immediately - she was a bit brash and occasionally irreverent with a razor sharp wit and and a wicked sense of humor.  We had scads of inside jokes and our own nicknames for the powers-that-be at work which kept us in stitches.
  
On our lunch hour we would walk over to St. Peter's Catholic Church and she would attempt to school me in Catholic doctrine while I was seduced by the scent of melting wax, flickering candles and beautiful statues.  These trips to St. Peter's and Laurie's private catechism class were my first real encounters with Catholicism, and though I didn't make the decision to convert until I was in college, I have no doubt that Laurie was responsible for opening that door for me.  This, for me, was a life changing event and one I never, for one second regretted.

She and I went to see Franco Zefferelli's Romeo and Juliet the night it opened, then took the train back to her house in La Grange and spent the night up talking about the breathtaking beauty of the film.  We both bought the soundtrack and memorized huge chunks of dialog (which I can still recite to this day).  We had ice cream sundaes for breakfast while at her house with her mom's full approval - something that would never have happened at my buttoned down home- and laughed it off since ice cream was a dairy product.  These might seem like small, inconsequential things as you read them, but all these years later, they are such lovely, indelible memories.

During the kid's nap time today, I finally got on the computer and spent about 20 minutes doing various internet searches trying to find Laurie.  And what I found was that Laurie had died in 2003 - eleven whole years ago. Though I had lost track of her and hadn't even spoken to her for almost forty years, I felt like I was punched in the gut.  I was filled with sadness for her early passing, for her family, and for the missed opportunity to tell her how much I still treasure those crazy adventures we had so long ago.  How I can so easily recall doubling over in laughter over something funny she said; how she started me off on my faith journey; how I can still picture the two of us as if it was yesterday, walking down Madison street bundled up in our winter wear eating Fannie May candy out of paper bags.

It got me thinking, once again, about my own mortality and what sort of legacy I would be leaving.  I'm pretty sure, by this stage in my life, that I'm not going to be one of those people who goes down in the history books for doing something to change  the world.  After initially feeling sort of bummed that my life may end up being unremarkable in many ways, I realized that my purpose and legacy didn't have to be worthy of history books or the evening news.  Legacies and what we leave for those who have been in our life's orbit can be as simple as the kind of memories that Laurie left for me.  My initial wave of sadness at Laurie's passing gave way to gratefulness that I still had those fabulous memories to draw on - even though I didn't have the chance to tell her how much it meant to me.  My hope is, that whenever I'm gone, someone (and hopefully more than one person) will think about me years later and remember something we did or something I said.  I need to start each morning truly excited about the possibilities the day might offer and not settle for sleepwalking through it on auto pilot. Because you never know how the smallest daily interaction will be remembered down the road and if I live my life, really live my life, hopefully my legacy will be greater than "she was nice."

Identity

In the months leading up to the birth of my first granddaughter, Taylor, I agonized over finding the right Grandmother Name.  I always knew that I didn't want to be "Grandma"  or "Grandma Ogata" (a name that belonged solely to my mother-in-law), but didn't have a clue to what name I wanted to be known by my grandchildren.  

All of the other future grandparents in our family seemed to have their choices all sewn up.  Taylor's other grandparents would be "Oma" and "Opa", one of my daughter's in-laws would be "Nana" and "Bobba" and my other daughter's in-laws had chosen "Nannie" and "Pappy" long before either of the girls were pregnant.  I didn't really have grandparent models in my own life - both my maternal grandparents and paternal grandmother had died before I was born and my paternal grandfather died when I was about four, so my memories of him were hazy at best.

It became a bit of a consuming mission of mine, to find that perfect name.  At first I thought Mike and I would go with the Japanese Baachan and Giisan, but my son didn't like that at all and thought it was too much of a mouthful for little ones.  I poured over websites and message boards dedicated to grandparent monikers and polled my friends and eventually landed on "Mimi" which sounded both cute and hip to me.  But wait.... not so fast, Linda!  My daughter-in-law, Melissa, informed me that her entire family called her "MeMe" and it would be incredibly confusing down the road if we shared the same name.  Plus, she had already decided to be "Auntie MeMe" to Taylor.  Back to the drawing boards!

My son chided me for over thinking the whole thing.  "Just be Grandma, there's nothing wrong with that name," he admonished me.  There was an element of truth to what he was saying, but I didn't feel like Grandma.  I knew the upcoming role I was about to take on would add a new dimension to my identity and I desperately wanted it to jibe with how I saw myself.  I suppose there was a little bit of that Baby Boomer I'm-Never-Getting-Old mentality in the mix too, if I'm honest with myself.

At any rate, one day, out of the blue, I decided on "Gigi."  It was easy to say, it was easy to spell, and most importantly, it seemed to fit my perception of the kind of grandmother I wanted to be.  I was going to be hands-on, approachable (not stern), wise, playful, and infinitely loving.  

Now I have four grandchildren.  So far, two of them can say "Gigi" and to me, it is the sweetest word in the English language.  I've been happy with this name and never looked for or expected to find any kind of affirmation of my choice.  But find it, I did.

Those of you who have followed this blog know that my 85 year old mom moved down here from Illinois last month.  To say she brought a lot of "stuff" with her is a huge understatement, and unpacking all of it (without pitching a lot of it when her back was turned) has been a challenge.  About 3 weeks ago in the bottom of one box I found a baggie with six tarnished silver spoons in it.  "Mom, what is this?  Is it something you really need?" I asked, hoping she would let me redirect it to the garbage pile.  "Oh, that's for you," she answered.  "These were from your Dad's family from way back and I thought you might want them."

Yes, I wanted them!  I loved having something that belonged to the grandmother or great grandmother that I never knew.  It was a gift - a connection - and really, aside from my maiden name and DNA, one of the only things I had from that side of the family.  I put the baggie in my purse to look at when I got home.

When I took the first spoon out of the baggie I noticed the initials MDC engraved on the back.  Martha Dennis Cushman, my great grandmother.  That alone put a smile on my face.  It was almost like she was reaching across the years to hand this to me.  "We didn't know each other", she'd say, "but you're my great granddaughter and a part of me and I love you."  It may sound silly, but having something tangible to connect with her meant so much.  And then, turning the spoon over to inspect the other side, I found the best thing of all.  Engraved on the front of the spoon that single sweet word, "Gigi."

A Matter of Perspective

Perspective is an interesting thing.  Lately I feel as though the tectonic plates of my personal landscape have been constantly shifting and I've come to expect the unexpected on a pretty much a daily basis.

Ever since my younger sister passed away about a year and a half ago, I've been after my mom to move down to Florida to be close to us.  Believe me when I say this has not been an easy sell.  My mom has lived her whole life in the Chicago area and at 85 years old, change of any kind is not especially welcome.  She frets about finding a new hairdresser, doctor(s), church and making new friends.  Truthfully, I had been pushing her for selfish reasons.  I wanted her to live a few minutes drive away instead of 1100 miles away so that I could be there instantly in case she needed me.  I also wanted to continue building our new "just the two of us" relationship that seems to have evolved into something much nicer than it was when I was a teenager.  And finally, I'll admit that aside from seeing her, I didn't much enjoy the trips up to the out-of-the-way farm community that she lived in.

Finally, this past spring she agreed.  She was insistent that she would not live with us, that she wanted to maintain her independence as long as she could.  Mike and I have a four bedroom house so we were at a bit of a loss to understand why she wouldn't just come with us, but she wouldn't waver.  After much hunting and reviewing several options, she decided to purchase a small home in a retirement community about 7 minutes away from me.  Perfect!  The plan was (is) that over the summer I would work with various vendors and contractors to get her new place in ship shape order and in mid September I'd fly up and drive her and her car down here. One week ago was the closing and I got to work immediately.

Suddenly, there is a potentially big wrinkle.  Mom has developed a serious eye infection in her left eye which is being treated, but could possibly cause her to lose all or some of her vision in that

eye.  She has acknowledged that this may portend the end of her driving days which scares and saddens her.  It scares and saddens me too.  I realize that even though she desperately wanted to be independent, she may end up being quite dependent on me after all.  

As I was explaining her situation to my son yesterday it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.  This could so easily be Mike and I in 25 (or less) years.  I love all of my children dearly, but do I want to depend on them to chauffeur me around or look after me on a 24/7 basis?  My immediate reaction is "no way!"  I may look at it differently if I eventually  find myself in a situation like hers - maybe I would be relieved if one or more of my kids stepped up and insisted on taking care of me.  The idea, though, of being dependent or being a burden on my children or grandchildren is abhorrent to me.  I picture them arguing amongst themselves "It's your turn to go see them, I went the other day!" - "No, it's your turn, I can't go - the kids have a soccer game" - you get the picture.

With this shift in perspective I can appreciate her insistence on independence, though if it turns out she loses her sight in one eye, she may well have to reconcile a much higher degree of dependence than she's comfortable with.  Whether she loses her vision or not, our dynamic is likely going to change in the coming months as she makes her move here.  The reality is that she's 85 and has mobility issues.  At some point, I may end up her full time caregiver.  I want to be a good daughter and be there for her for a myriad of reasons (far too many to delve into right now).  I hope that when our roles have truly reversed and I find myself  exhausted, impatient or resentful that I'm able to remind myself that one day this will be my reality, too and hold on to my compassion and sense of humor.  I see this as a test, of sorts, of my moral fiber and I hope I can be the person I want to be. Time, as they say, will tell.