Bragging on grandchildren

 

Morgan and her clarinet

Got to brag on this Easter eve on my sweet Tomball granddaughter, Morgan Helene Alter. She is setting high school on fire. Morgan has been active in the marching band all through high school, playing the clarinet, practicing and rehearsing in all kinds of weather. Most recently, she and a group of band friends got together an ensemble, and now they’ve advanced from regional to state competition.

Morgan seems to be good at competitions. She is active in an organization called Family Community Career Leaders of America. In recent competition, her local group was in the food innovation category, and they put their own spin on Hello Fresh and other meal delivery services. They developed lunch box kits, created their own recipes, did taste tests, marketing research, and much more. They won the regional competition in Galveston and advanced to state in Dallas. Although they did not move up to national, Morgan and her colleagues all thought it was a great experience.

The FCCLA group is not Morgan’s first brush with food and cooking. She has been helping her mom in the kitchen for years, and it is a tradition every year that she fixes her dad a Father’s Day meal. Last year it was Beef Wellington with crème brûlée for dessert. I need to take cooking lessons from that girl!

One Sunday some fifteen years ago, all my grandkids were dedication in my church. We lined them all up on the chancel steps for a group picture with Madison, the oldest, holding Kegan, the youngest, then something like three weeks old. But it was Morgan who stole the show—she kept edging away from the group, giving them looks like, “I don’t want to be associated with them.” An independent spirit from the start. And a daddy’s girl—I remember how frantic she was, at maybe four, when her dad helped carry a chiffarobe up to the second floor of Jordan and Christians house.

Other scenes flash through my mind—when I babysat Morgan and Kegan and she told me she’d eat a whole tube of sweet rolls for breakfast. I told her she wouldn’t., but I made her open up her bedroom and get some fresh air in the space where she’d been hibernating. (I had a daughter who did that too.) Or her fondness for bread—one night at Texas Roadhouse when she quietly ate four or five rolls before we even got out dinner.

Or the weekend Colin and Morgan had come to Fort Worth. As they packed up to go home, Morgan said, "I think I've got everything, Juju," and I turned around to see that she had Sophie neatly tucked under her arm. 

And now all of a sudden, she’s such a lovely young woman. At Christmas just past, I had a couple of good visits with her, without the whole fam damily around, and was so pleased and proud of the person she’s become. Kudos to her and her parents.

Other grandchildren are doing well: Maddie, the oldest, has had a year out of school after earning her bachelor’s, but is preparing to start that advanced post-grad nursing program in June. And Kegan, Morgan’s brother, is limping along on crutches but hopes his broken tibia will heal in time for summer workouts. My suggestion of golf falls on deaf ears with him.

It's such a joy to watch grandchildren grow and develop—each their own person, each developing in such individual ways. I have Sawyer, who’s a genius on the guitar, and his brother, Ford, who’s an all-star baseball, basketball, soccer star, Eden at UCLA who excels equally in academics and college social life, Jacob and his absorption with golf. I look at them all with such pride.

Oh yeah, there are lots of days when I think back to the years when they were all toddlers—they did all arrive in bunches—and I get nostalgic. I want that cuddly little boy who adored me back, but he’s been replaced by a lanky, deep-voiced teen-ager who doesn’t talk a lot (though his sense of humor is intact). Or I want Edie back who used to say to me, “I believe I’d like to watch the food channel now, Juju.”

Grandparenthood (is that a word?) is like a lot of the rest of life as you age—you enjoy the present moment and treasure the memories. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Happy Easter, Passover, and Ramadan to those who celebrate. Tis a wonderful time of year, this spring season of renewal. My cup runneth over--I hope yours does too.

Morgan's mom, Lisa, on balloon duty 
for Easter at their church

Memories of my mom

My mom would be 114 today, or maybe I should say her soul is 114. As a child I had no trouble remembering her age because I knew it was the same as the year--after she got over that spell of telling me she was fifteen and my father 16. My fondest memories of Mom are of her happy silly moments--and oh, did she have them. Like the time a friend with no relatives came to the house because she needed someone responsible to sign some banking papers for her. It was  breakfast, and my mom was convinced that something really bad would happen if you didn't eat breakfast, so she put toast in for Rose and then wrote, "Alice P. Mac" on the signature line, checked the toast, and came back to write Bread instead of Alice P. MacBain. She told stories of when she and all our uncles were young and in school, and I decided they were sillier and wilder than we would ever be--like the time my aunt lost her husband in a one-room apt. She came out of the bath, couldn't find him, finally heard a soft knocking--opened the door to find him standing there stark naked. He had just stepped out to pull a fuse as a joke to a fellow who was bringing his bride home that night, and the door locked behind him. When Mom told these stories, the tears of laughter rolled down her cheeks.
She was delighted when grandchildren came along, rather late in her life. She'd read them fairy tales, but when it got bloody--as fairy tales can--she substituted, "She hit him." Once, when my two oldest were about one and two, Mom was in the back seat between their car seats. For some reason, they both set up a howl. The louder they howled, the harder my mom laughed. My father drove as if he didn't know any of us. My youngest daughter was her particular favorite because by then my dad had died and Mom had moved close to us. Jordan says to this day she can smell Grandmother's house, and she thinks she could draw the floor plan. We had family dinner at Mom's every Sunday night--a ritual we all enjoyed.
Mom was an incredible cook, and she taught me. She'd let me make a mess in the kitchen, and when someone asked why she did that she answered, "If I don't, she'll never learn to cook." I once made a cake that tasted awful, and she asked how much baking soda I put in it. "Nine tablespoons," I replied. She nearly fainted, but when she looked at the recipe, it was indeed a mistake there, not mine.
Mom's life wasn't all joy and happiness. She had hard times--I think some that I don't know about, but I do know she lived through the Depession as a young adult (and all her life she saved leftovers, bits of string and foil); she lost her first husband to a wound from WWI and she lost her last child, my younger sister, in infancy. Once, after we'd all left Chicago she went back to visit a dear friend. They were walking down Michigan Avenue when the friend dropped dead beside her. My mom had incredible strength, although these and other ordeals left their mark.
We camped every summer in a cabin without running water, plumbing or electricity. Mom cooked as though she were in that remodeled kitchen at home that brought her such pride. She carried more than her share of the packs as we hiked a mile through the woods to get to that cabin--we carried in all food and clothes and other supplies. I can still see Mom hanging clothes on the line to dry, her arms strong and brown from the sun. And she swam until she was in her eighties. I think her nonathletic daughter was a disappointment to her.
In her early 80s Mom's mind began that slippery slope, due to a series of small strokes. She was frightened and cross with my now teenaged children. And that ladylike woman, always known for being a model of decorum, did some outrageous things. I wanted to shake her and say, "Mom, be yourself!" But the woman I had known, loved and tried to emulate, was gone, replaced by a shell.
Today I try to banish those memories and replace them with the good times, the fun we had together, especially in the kitchen and with grandchildren. I often wish she--and my dad--could see how wonderfully those children have grown up and what great children they are raising. And I am sad that my grandchildren don't know my mom.
I love you, Mom, always have, always will.