When You See a Fork in the Road, Take It.

Thanks to Loulou for inviting me to join the flock. As life would have it, events this week make our current topic all too relevant to me:

Thank goodness blogs don't require regular feeding/watering/exercise, or this little site of mine would be flickering dimly away to nothing. On Monday I was - or thought I was - all ready to scribble out a week's worth of witty posts, but then I got the sad news of a cousin's passing, and took a little perspective break for the rest of the week. You could say I've sort of had to pull over to the side of the information superhighway here, stop for a while, and look at just where the heck I'm headed, literally and philosophically. (But don't give me a GPS to tell me where to go - I want to map out my own route, and pretend I know where I'm going ahead of time!)

Sometimes I feel like I'm navigating one of those notorious roundabouts they have in New England, where a moment's indecision or uncertainty results in a missed turn and damns me to drive around again to get it right. If I'm lucky, I only need to go around a second time to get headed where I want - or need - to go. I get annoyed at myself for screwing up, but as long as I have enough gas and plenty of time to reach my destination, driving in circles and taking the scenic route is really no big deal in the grand scheme of things.

As time goes on, though, it seems more important to get things right, to not take any wrong turns enroute to doing and being what I have to do and be. My cousin's cancers manifested themselves suddenly, and he became so ill, so quickly, it was shocking. Until a few months ago there wasn't any reason to think he didn't have time to take his time getting wherever it was he was going. Isn't that what we all believe?

Leaving work yesterday, I heard someone singing that gawdawful Garth Brooks song, "If Tomorrow Never Comes," and in spite of my dislike for that kind of schmalz, I thought maybe the cosmos decided to put the song on my playlist to remind me that any one of us, at any time, could run out of tomorrows. I am beginning to feel a sense of urgency, not to cross things off my ever-growing To Do list, but to make sure that I have prioritized it, to make sure I do the important things. Yet while I struggle to keep friendships and relationships in good working order, I have to get my taxes done, pack for a conference, write a paper, and yes, even schedule a long-overdue physical for my own self, even though the thought that something more malignant than my hatred for Fox News could be manifesting itself makes me hyperventilate....

Not that I feel bad, mind you. Except for having "If Tomorrow Never Comes" stuck in my head now, I think I'm probably doing just fine. And if this post has put that tune in your heads now, I do sincerely apologize, and offer this antidote:


Now go blow your nose and tell someone you love them.

Succinct

Please forgive my brevity (in comparison to my previous post - singular); 3 root canals in two days has done a bit of [reparable] damage. 

I often find it difficult to articulate my thoughts when writing about my grandmother. I understand what I mean, but I'm not certain how (or if) they will translate. In this instance, I am confident she knows what it is I mean, so I'll not concern myself further. 

I've always found beauty & grace in watching flocks of birds purposefully shape-shift through the skies w/precise and dynamic choreography. 

...Similar to a school of fish as the students instinctively dart away from their tightly knit forms and back again with a magnetic energy. Whether a flock or a school, each new shape is unique, perfect, and never replicated. 

Since Grandmama died, these small swarms of birds have become a connection for us; an inexplicable signature of shared presence. I share this today (written 2/11/2011) in honor of the 6 months which have passed since her death, and in celebration of the 6 months I know she has been whole, without pain, and in the company of those she has missed dearly. My personal healing is more slow in coming, but I'll admit - our birds do help :). 

...With unending and ever-present love...♥.

An unapologetic note from the author: against all evidence, I do have other thoughts, ideas, and areas of interest outside of my lovely grandmother (though she is as an entirely deserving subject). My next post will indeed be about something else entirely. Porcupines, guava juice, water towers...something.

How's my hair?

Preface: it has taken me considerably longer than my fellow hens to hatch here on our blog. I was quite premature when born in true life, I've been running behind ever since ;-). 

Quick back-story: I've never liked snow-globes. My world was violently shaken and disturbed like one on the 11th of this month when my grandmother passed away. Her death was not unexpected; in truth, it was a blessing. And in truth, my heart remains splintered. At my core, I know it's best; still the fragments that split off from the rest of me hurt like hell and want her back more than anything. Not everyone is gifted with a profound relationship with their grandparents...many of my friends have never met or hardly knew theirs. My gift was two-fold: a grandmother who spoiled me rotten, and a beautiful heart who made up the difference for what I lacked, a mother. 

Healing through humor: My grandmother, Martha Elizabeth "Betty" [Rose] Meigs was not a vain woman, but like most women (especially southern women of her generation) liked to look her best. When she was well, she (again, like most women of her generation) had weekly appointments at the "pretty shop"...her salon. She had the same stylist, Darlene, for nearly 30 years. I thought of her salon as her personal version of Cheers; rather than "Norm!", she received a rousing "Ms. Meigs!"...accompanied with the obligatory (though genuine) darlin', hon, or sweetie. Once she's been washed, curled, and set - the 6 days until her next appointment were dedicated in large part to maintaining her 'do. This involved a special pillow behind her neck while she was seated in her recliner (which was an electric lift-chair), button-up blouses or tops which where placed very carefully over her head, bonnets for bed, bonnets for rain, caps for the shower, umbrellas for wind, daily maintenance with a pick & either Aqua Net or White Rain, and in case of emergency...curlers or touch-up with a curling iron. Aerosol hairspray was undoubtedly the primary contributor to her carbon footprint. The bedtime bonnets were hysterical. She and granddaddy ordered or bought anything they thought might work better than what they were using at the time. None of them worked, but like her dedication in the 80's to Publisher's Clearinghouse, she was persistent. She'd fuss at me for sharing these photographs, but did allow them to be taken...and also had a great sense of humor. One of them is of her (hair fixed) after a trip to see Darlene. The others are just a few examples...

Priorities: Grandmama, Granddaddy, and I went to TGIFriday's for dinner a few years ago. Once we'd eaten, I pushed Grandmama (she was in a wheelchair) to the parking area behind the restaurant where Granddaddy had pulled the van around (there wasn't enough space between the two handicapped spaces to let wheelchair lift down). I stood with/behind her (our backs facing the van so she could be wheeled backward onto the platform) while Granddaddy operated the lift. It wasn't working properly, so we traded places...hoping I'd have the Midas Touch. Being the stubborn the man he is, he insisted on trying to help me and turned away from Grandmama to fiddle with the buttons. It's important to note that the brakes on this particular wheelchair left a lot to be desired. He turned back to her a moment later - only to see her and wheelchair, suddenly equipped with turbo speed, flying across the [ever so slightly-inclined] lot. She hadn't squealed, yelled, or said a word. Her body was positioned just as it had been, perfectly seated with her hands folded in her lap. The only movement was the rolling of the chair and her - bobbing up and down (in a perfect upright..sort of fixed form) as though she were being wheeled by one of us...just at warp speed. Granddaddy yelled "SHIT!", which caused me to turn around as well; the chase was on. The area was clear of cars and she was headed for a curb + hedge. She had a lengthy lead on us and reached the curb before we did. Her front (smaller) wheels rammed into the curb; the chair tipped forward, paused, and fell flat black onto the [much larger] wheels. We were panicked...worried that she had been hurt through the violent jostling and confident she was frightened. Her concern? Her concern was that she'd nearly gone head first into the hedge...which would have messed up her hair. Clearly, she was fine. I was doubled over with laughter that reached 'round to my obliques. Granddaddy, entirely flustered, snapped at her...and asked her why she hadn't yelled for us. She hadn't been able to see we were distracted with the lift, and said she figured Granddaddy was pushing her. Why (or for that matter, how) he would have been pushing in that direction or at that speed...I have no idea. Because she was okay, I can say without guilt that seeing her fly across a parking lot with zero reaction on her part, is one of the funniest things I've seen. We had met at the restaurant that evening; once in my own car, I called my Dad...barely able to tell the tale because I was still laughing so hard. 

Thank the Lord it didn't mess up her hair. 

Reflections of a Grandparent

“…this curious & pathetic fact of life: that when parents are old & their children grown up, the grown-up children are not the persons they formerly were; that their former selves have wandered away, never to return again, save in dream-glimpses of their young forms that tarry a moment & gladden the eye, then vanish & break the heart.”–Mark Twain

As a grandparent, this quote seems to become more poignant as the years speed by. I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to relive, in some ways, through my grandchildren’s lives those moments that perhaps I was too harried or ignorant to recognize and enjoy as a parent. Parents are often caught up in the race to the next milestone: that first step—check; those first words—check; the first day of pre-school—check. We always have our eyes on the future and before we know it—it’s here. But in the meantime, that child we were in such a hurry to move along to the next level is “gone”—only to be seen and remembered in photos, and nowadays, captured in videos. It’s not the same.

Sometimes I laugh as I find myself sneeking a sidelong glance at my grown children while wondering “Who are you?  What have you done with the kid I used to know?” Both my son and my daughter have turned out to be successful individuals in life (despite my parenting!) and I’m extremely proud of them.  But there is a sense of loss which overtakes me at times for the goofy kids I knew when they were little.

This is where being a grandparent is a bittersweet experience. From the vantage point of going through parenthood and emerging on the other side somewhat unscathed, I can appreciate what is and what isn’t important in raising kids. Don’t sweat the small stuff, in other words.

And I acknowledge that these happy times with the grandkids also will vanish before too long. Before much more time passes they will have friends of their own they would rather be with and other interests besides the ones that please them now. Going to McDonald’s for dinner on Saturday nights with Memaw and Pappy will pale in comparison with going to the movies with friends. That’s inevitable.

So I try to enjoy every moment with them, even as I watch them grow taller and more mature as each day passes. And I will be doubly blessed if, someday, I’m lucky enough to see their children, my great-grandchildren, and be able to sweetly recall their parents’ childhood selves, if only in dream-glimpses.

Mama, Aunt Nellie Ruth, and Sex Talk

I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot here lately. September 15 of this year will mark the second anniversary of her death.

Mama had a great sense of humor and it is her laughter that I miss most. She came from a large family, 17 of them in all. Four of her siblings have survived her. My Uncle David, the youngest, has my mother’s sense of humor. We talk frequently and he always makes me laugh.

My mother’s oldest surviving sister, my Aunt Nellie Ruth, is in her mid 80’s. She and Mama were entertaining individually but together, they were ready for Saturday Night Live or Def Comedy Jam.

A few years ago, we were having Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' home, when my aunt announced that she had dreamed that her deceased husband, Turner, was standing in her bedroom. My father, who should have known better, inquired, "So Nellie Ruth, what do you think Turner wanted?"

"He looked like he wanted to," pause for effect, "have sex."

Without missing a beat my mother responded, "With whom?"

My aunt proceeded to explain that she was still a fine looking woman and that she could have any man that she wanted. She then gave my brother-in-law the eye, turned to my sister and announced, "I could have your man if I wanted him." I don't know what was said after that as I had to leave the dining table to get a cloth to clean up the iced tea that I had sputtered all over my plate. Never laugh when you have a beverage in your mouth.

I think my sister has never forgiven our aunt for having designs on her husband.

Aunt Nellie Ruth is actually a very proper lady; she never shows her bosom. She always tucks a scarf into the neckline of any dress that she fears may reveal her bosom. Actually, she refers to it in the plural, as in, "my bosoms." She has a yellow chiffon yard sale find that she wears a t-shirt under so as not to drive men wild with a glimpse of her bosoms.

I witnessed my favorite exchange between my mother and her older sister a couple of summers ago. I accompanied my mother to my aunt's home where she was sitting on the front porch. It was August; it was hot; and my aunt was sitting on her front porch with a paper fan and a fly swatter. Aunt Nellie Ruth isn't fond of air conditioning; she says it makes her joints hurt. Mama and I joined her on the porch and we were all making small talk, when a huge old beige Cadillac with shiny tail fins pulled up and parked in front of the apartment next door. The elderly driver took ten minutes to extricate himself from behind the wheel, nodded good day at us, and slowly shuffled into his home.

As soon as he closed the door, my aunt spoke up, "He ought to be 'shamed of himself, carrying on like that at his age."

My mother swatted at a fly with a rolled up magazine and gave her sister a puzzled look, "Ruth," my mother called her by one name, either Nellie or Ruth, when she felt that it might be necessary to chastise my aunt in some way, "what are you talking about?"

"He's been 'round to his girlfriend's house, laying up in there with her all weekend. It's just acting common; they don't even try to hide it."

I paused in my fanning and perked up at this allusion to sex among the elderly. My mother sniffed dismissively, "Ruth that man is over 80 years old and he can't even stand up straight, let alone have sex with anyone."

There was a pregnant pause as Aunt Nellie Ruth mulled this over before offering her counterpoint, "He could be having oral sex."

With another emphatic sniff, my mother opined, "He doesn't have enough breath to have oral sex."

The water that I was drinking went down the wrong way and I was racked with coughing spasms that were so distracting that my aunt neglected to make a follow up response. I vowed to stop drinking any liquids when I was in her presence.

Conversation just isn’t the same without Mama.

Meemaw's Watchin' Her Stow-ries

Major dilemma, ya'll! As a haughty, intellectual liberal, I can't afford have eschewed cable service in this little bitty small California apartment; we just drag transport our Roku player from coast to coast in a suitcase and stream the movies--I mean, films--from Netflix and Amazon. All us elitists think television is pure tee trash a vast wasteland anyway; we stick to quiet little British films and cerebral documentaries.  A-hem.  So what am I gonna do when my stow-ries start up again Sunday and I cain't watch!?  Help!!

Mad Men, Season Eye-Vee, honey!  The season premiere is July 25th, Sunday 10/9c! We get to find out if Joanie gets back with Roger Sterling; if Pete divorces that fool Trudy to be with Peggy Olsen, who is such a total prig; and--I cain't hardly STAND it--if Betty and Don Draper wind up getting the parenting classes they so desperately need!


I've been worried about their children for months, poor little tykes.  Their mother, Betty Draper, fits the profile for what, in the sixties, we used to call the Refrigerator Mother--the very type who got blamed for causing schizophrenia in their children. The only loving those kids get is from their nanny and there's a brand new baby in the family?  I know perfectly well they had birth control back then, so what's Betty doing having another child when she hasn't got two seconds for the two she's got?!  Questions like this are gonna get on my last nerve if I can't get hold of a television in time.

Celia Rivenbark, who writes a syndicated column that I just love to pieces, admits to envying Betty's parenting style. Celia looks at her own kids who beg, plead, ignore, pout, and act Twenty-First Century normal, and asks herself WWBD?

I don't think Betty Draper's a very good mother but there's one thing she does every week on "Mad Men" that I truly admire.

At her terse command to "Go upstairs," Betty's children wordlessly untangle their legs, stand up, turn off the TV and do exactly that. Not even so much as a "Just two more hours of Mario Kart, pulleeeeeezzz." (Although, to be fair, the show is set in 1963 so it's not like the kids are being asked to give up that much.)

She says it all the time, even if the table is set for dinner and you know the kids are going to have to amuse themselves for at least another hour while she swirls a drink at the kitchen table with moody husband Don, and smokes a cigarette or 12.

When the kids are outside playing and it's time to get cleaned up, Betty steps onto the front porch, puts her hands on her hips and says, "Go inside." And they do. No back talk. No rolled eyes. No negotiations.

At first I figured they were just scared of her - Betty Draper is about as nurturing as Drano after all. In fact, she often looks at her kids with utter curiosity as if she can't quite figure out how these short people came to live in her house. 

I don't know what it is about Betty but right after I call Child Protective Services on her I hope everything turns out okay and she and Don who's such a hunk get back together because you know they have been through so MUCH together and it would just be wrong for them not to reconcile seeing as how they make such a cute couple an' all and I wonder how come Don hasn't ever hit up on Joanie.


Lest you think we're talking about a mere pop-culture phenomenon, I'll have you know there's a celebration in Times Square for the Mad Men season premiere.  The story focuses historically on the cultural changes that occur during the sixties, especially in regards to feminism, consumer targeting, and the demise of the nuclear family as it was known in the fifties. And there's that knotty pine kitchen of Betty's that makes me want to thaw a block of Snow Crop peas. And the tail-finned baby-blue car Don got her. And the clothes are to die for! And Peggy is gonna wind up OWNING that ad agency, girl, you just know she is!  And how come Roger is such a narcissistic hound dog?!  Maybe Peggy and Joanie will take over the place as a team even though Joanie treated Peggy like pigeon poop the whole ENTIRE first season she did give her some pointers about how to dress and how to handle those MALE CHAUVINIST PIGS!


Very high brow, actually.





I've just got to get hold of a teevee Sunday night!  I'm going to get my hands on a TV Dinner with meatloaf and mashed potatoes with one of those little fake butter pats and eat it on a TV tray and just be GLUED to that television!  Even if I have to check into a motel room--hey, maybe one that has those little cottages with cracked linoleum floors and knotty pine paneling and rusted metal showers and sway-backed beds with coin operated vibration and those old solid color cord bedspreads from Sears.


I'll be an an elitist intellectual again next week, or at least until "Eat, Pray, Love" comes out with Julia Roberts.

I Love Your Ridges

My youngest grandson, hereafter known as HEG (High and Exalted Grandson), is three and already obviously kind, beautiful, brilliant, agile, gifted--just like yours. When he rides in his carseat, I like to sit in back with him because that's when the magic happens.


We sing, hold hands, eat snacks, talk about the stuff we see through the windows, review our day so far, and pay each other immoderate compliments: he's the best and smartest big boy in the whole wide world EVER and I'm the best grandmother sitting beside him in the whole car. As we cross an overpass, he ponders how the cars get down onto the highway below and what, exactly, a "ramp" is. When a motorcycle zips around us, weaving at top speed through traffic, he tells me that is janederous. We practice our special handshake: high five, knuckle up, blow it up like fireworks, pretend to smack our own cheek in sheer amazement. 


Watching HEG's brain wire itself is a constant source of delight In July's Scientific American, Alison Gropnik describes research on how babies (described as children from infancy to age four) learn.

One of the greatest mysteries of psychology and philosophy is how human beings learn about the world from a confusing mess of sensory data. Over the past decade researchers have begun to understand much more about how babies and young children can learn so much so quickly and accurately. In particular, we have discovered that babies and young children have an extraordinary ability to learn from statistical patterns.

More recent studies show that babies can detect statistical patterns of musical tones and visual scenes and also more abstract grammatical patterns...Even more impressively, children (like scientists) use those statistics to draw conclusions about the world. 

That's what HEG is all about these days...arriving at larger abstractions and finer distinctions by observing patterns that repeat or things that don't fit the pattern: he's got the difference between a house, an apartment, and a generic building, for example, simply by putting together the use of those terms and fitting them into the context in which they've been used.  (I SAID he was a genius!)  Kids his age only seem distracted; in fact, they have a laser-like attention that they can refocus in a heartbeat.  Some of those same smart-aleck researchers have concluded that it's the folks in my age group who grow more distractible. 


Having been taught the names of the days of the week and being told that today is Tuesday, HEG takes a breathtaking leap and tells me, "I think tomorrow is Gym Bus day!" (On Wednesdays, the school bus that's been refitted as a toddler gym arrives at his preschool, creating a memorable highlight in his week.) He didn't have that concept last week. Where did it come from?


While he's casually wiring his cerebral cortex faster than the speed of light, he's fiddling with my hands--his sweet little fingers pulling my untethered, collagen-deficient skin this way and that. We're talking about where we want to go tomorrow, maybe the library or the playground...and he stops on a dime, shifting the laser to home in on...


"Gigi, look at your thumb!  It's like Play-Doh!"  He refers to the fact that, when he mashes hard on the ball of my thumb, the indentation stays there...permanently, we decide.  I tell him for the five hundredth time that he's the smartest three-year-old grandson I've got. Yep. I'd not noticed that one new detail yet; my ability to detect changes in the pattern is a bit worse for wear. And I was distracted by the sun damage and age spots.


He turns my thumb over and strokes the nail: "And, Gigi, you've got STRIPES!" I explain that those are called ridges, and I have them because I am old. He's getting tired of that excuse; I use it to explain why I can't carry his forty-plus pounds as far as his Pappy can and why I can't sit down on the hard sidewalk for fifteen minutes, watching a worm's progress. He's detected a pattern to this excuse.


Brow furrowed, he announces, "I don't like old, Gigi!"  I somberly concur. Sensing that my mood had just dropped a smidgen, this kind little angel announces happily,


"But, Gigi, I LOVE your RIDGES!!"  


Wild horses couldn't keep me away from this kid.

Perpetually Twelve

It doesn’t seem to matter how old I become (I’m 63), my mother still sees me as approximately twelve years old. 

Since she lives alone and no longer drives (thank you, Lord) I offered to go to the store for her today so she could have her usual 4th of July dinner fare: hot dogs. I got her Hebrew National All Beef Kosher hot dogs.

It’s funny, but in a relatively small Texas town with probably zero practicing Jews, just about all the Hebrew Nationals were sold out when I got there.


Go figure.


I guess either the word is out they taste the best or maybe that whole Rapture thing is going down soon and everyone wants to hedge their bets.


I also got the requisite hot dog buns, “lightly salted” Lay’s potato chips and some potato salad from the deli. At this point in my 90 year-old mother’s life, pretty much anything goes food-wise. If cholesterol, salt and nitrites haven’t gotten her thus far, have at it I say. For dessert I popped for a lemon meringue pie from the store’s bakery.


Let’s party like it’s 1935!


I brought the goodies home and she was thrilled with all of it. She made herself lunch right away and I had a piece of pie while she scarfed down her pre-4th vittles. A good time was had by all. She thanked me several times for getting her all the makings for what looks to be a hot dog marathon over the weekend.


After refilling her pill boxes and chastising her a bit for missing a day’s worth (“If you took Friday’s pills, how come the box is still full?”) I started to make my departure.


She followed me out to her front porch and we exchanged kisses.


Then, as I made my way down her walkway to my car, I heard the words that have been the bane of my existence since I was twelve:


"Stand up straight!"