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.

Madison is in high school

Not very long ago—I’m sure it was yesterday—Maddie, my first grandchild, was a beautiful baby with dark, curly hair and wide brown eyes that stared at me when someone said, "This is your Juju." Then she was a toddler, walking and talking early, so beautiful that people in restaurants and shopping malls stopped to comment. It made her mom nervous, and she’d say, “No, no, she’s not that beautiful.” She was our diva, the focus of family gatherings, given to temper tantrums over we weren’t sure what. I remember once it had something to do with a special dress, and I was the only one she’d come near—not her mom or her Aunt Jordan. Pleased me no end. Another time, spending the night here with her mom, she wanted all eyes on her and said, “Stop talking, Juju.”

Then suddenly she was in school. Once I visited her class, at the suggestion of a teacher, but the day I went there was a substitute who said, “Maddie’s grandmother is here because she has wrote some books.”  I considered fainting. The teacher provided no guidance as I tried to talk to the kids, but it didn’t faze Maddie. She took over the class.

As other grandchildren came along, Maddie was the caretaker—she played with them, changed their diapers, got them into pajamas—and they adored her. By then she had Eden, her younger sister, and being the two oldest they often shared babysitting chores. Once—only once—Maddie spent a weekend with me when Jacob was a toddler, and she played with him most of the weekend. At the time, she said it was the best weekend of her life, but she never came back without her family.

There are so many memories—one phase I remember distinctly is American Girl dolls and how pleased she was to get one for Christmas.

Another Christmas, she saved money to buy me a turquoise bracelet because she knew how much I love turquoise. She was front and center at a family gathering where she sang for us in a beautiful, clear voice, and we thought she had a future in music. She sang in the Frisco Youth Choir, and she wanted to go to Julliard. But then she wanted to be a chef, a teacher, a writer. She wrote wonderful funny pieces about her mom and dad and one about me as a role model which I can almost recite verbatim because it thrilled me so. Now her goal is to play basketball, and she’s darn good at it.

Maddie with basketball superstar Kevin Durant

at basketball camp this summer

Maddie’s strong, with an independent will and, for fourteen, an amazing sense of who she is. But she’s not the rebellious teen-ager. No insolence, no piercings, none of the things parents dread. Perfect? No, I’m sure she’s not. But as a granddaughter, she comes darn close.

Maddie starts high school next week. How did that happen? She’s grown up behind my back. In recent years, I haven’t seen as much of her—her family has an enormously busy schedule, including her heavy involvement in basketball and Eden’s track activities, and when she’s here, Maddie has her nose in a video game or a book—I’m amazed at how easily she transitions from print to digital. But where I once understood her world, these days she lives and moves in a world I don’t understand—a basketball, digital, hip world. And she’s going off to a new adventure.

There are six others behind her, and I know they to will go through these various phases and eventually I won’t understand their worlds either. But I trust them to grow into good people. Meantime, I’d sure like to put some bricks on their heads to stop all this growing up.

Morgan, who just earned her blue belt in karate

 

Kegan, who was named Soccer Star of his team

 

Stay sweet, my Maddie. I love you, and you carry my best wishes with you as you start this next phase of your life.

 

Holiday blues

I have a friend who, when asked how she is, replies cheerfully, "I have my usual holiday neuroses" (she has good cause but that's another story). Lots of people suffer from the blues in one form or another during the holiday season--maybe it's loneliness, maybe it's remembering holidays past and fearing this year won't be as good. I suspect for too many the holidays are tinged with bad memories--sad events, dysfunctional families, you name it.
I am blessed in that I have nothing but happy memories of the Christmas holidays--from my own childhood, from the years when my children were young (we celebrated Hanukah and Christmas with four children--if you don't think that takes logistics, think again). There was the year one of the kids found the hidden presents and showed the others--they all agreed it ruined Christmas. There were Hanukah suppers with latkes and a friend's father who used to peel dollar bills off a huge roll and hand them to the children. There was that unbelievable mountain of presents under the Christmas tree every year. When the children were older, I took them to Santa Fe for several years and even after they married Christmas meant Santa Fe to us. In recent years we've alternated--Alter Christmas one year, Alter Thanksgiving the next, and we've gone different places--like a trip to Breckenridge when everyone got sick--not so much fun but even some pleasant memories out of that. And this year I have Jacob and the magic of the Elf on the Shelf, and I'm looking forwarad to being with other grandchildren.
But somehow this year I feel my old friend anxiety hovering just under the surface. Maybe it does that every year and I just don't realize it. Or maybe this year is different. A couple of weeks ago I woke in high anxiety worrying about a speaking engagement in January--for Pete's sake, why now? I can worry about that in January. Recently I had another bout with the "I can't walk from here to there" kind of anxiety following what I thought was going to turn out to be a debilitating nosebleed--I did finally get it under control, and I'm sure it was due to cold weather and dry heat. And I had in-the-night anxiety after Newtown, but who in this entire country didn't? But I figure two steps backward demands at least one step forward, and I'm working on it.
The good thing is that I find myself these days better able to deal with anxiety, to recognize it for what it is, and to know that it will pass. I'm not always sure analyzing what is behind it is a good idea, and I don't try. I'm learning to say that's how I am--other people have allergies or stomach problems or migraines: I have anxiety.
And it hasn't stopped me from enjoying the holidays--a lovely lunch at a boutique hotel, a warm and caring get-together with some members of my memoir class (and the best food--thank  you, Anne Kane), dinner tonight with Betty, lunch with old friends. My life is full, and I feel truly blessed. Get thee behind me, anxiety.

School daze

If  you have children, five or older, this picture is familiar to you. You've been there, done that. Some parents thrive on school programs and carnivals. I was never one of those parents, and I confess to a certain amount of relief when my youngest child left elementary school--no more carnivals, programs, PTA. Okay, I could have, should have, but I didn't. Once they got to middle school my children didn't seem to care about my involvement, and I was the single wowrking mother of four. It was one burden off my back (I still had Scouts, etc.). Tonight I found myself back in a familiar auditorium, where I'd been years before, watching the kind of program I'd seen countless times. The kindergarten and pre-k put on the PTA program tonight at Jacob's school, and, yes, the children were adorable--lively, happy, animated. They'd memorized lyrics to seven songs--no small feat. I enjoyed the program and was proud of Jacob--he was one of many who held signs for the "Sight Word Song." The woman who teaches them has patience and skill, and she did a good job. I was glad I went. But I did have that deja vu feeling and I wondered how many programs I will go to in the coming years. No carnivals--I draw the line there.
Jacob always gets a smiley face for the day at school--I think he's gotten a frown twice. Yesterday he got his third, or as he says, he "pulled a tab." Not quite sure about the lingo, but he was punished for wrestling on the playground. His story was that he tried to stop a fight, and one of the boys jumped on him and began fighting him. This morning, a teacher corroborated that story, and I truly think Jacob got a bum rap--but then I'm a prejudiced grandmother. The lesson I hope he learned--and we talked about it this afternoon--is that fighting is one instance where it's okay to tattle. You go tell a responsible adult, but you don't try to break it up yourself. Poor kid--he was lectured by the principal, who came out to the playground; he was in trouble with his teacher, and big trouble with his parents. But today, I guess everyone sees Jacob's view of the event, and the nice thing is kids are resilient. They bounce back nicely and easily.
The big talk today was of the dead tarantula found in front of my house and duly transported to the school. I heard about it so many times, I began to feel guilty as though that dead tarantula was my fault. We went through "they won't hurt you, they're good for our gardens," etc. I think Jacob believed me but his father was still insisting, "If they don't come in the house."
School days--they're fun, and this is all making me a bit nostalgic. After the program Jordan sent Christian to take Jacob to the reception, and we hurried home to feed my dogs. Then we sat on the porch with glasses of wine and reminisced about her days at the same school. Good memories.

A moment to savor

Jacob is telling Maddie, my oldest grandchild, some secret--from the way he looked at me, I know it had to do with me, but the picture is so cute I'll forgive him if he was saying, once again, "she's old."

Jordan invited a few friends over tonight for drinks and snacks on my porch to celebrate her birthday tomorrow--my St. Patrick's Day baby. But Jordan's small parties always turn large, and there were probably 25 here, including quite a few children who ran and played on the front lawn and had a high old time. Two episodes of beach balls going into the street--one meant David, Jordan's first-ever boyfriend and still so dear to us, walked over a block to get the ball that kept rolling and rolling. The second time, a ball that is apparently beloved by four-year-old Abby next door sailed down the street, crossed the street, jumped the curb and tumbled down the incline into the parking lot behind the school--I watched its path in awe because the ball seemed to have a life of its own, twisting and turning as it would. Abby and her mother drove to get it because Abby was distraught. I'm always glad to see Jordan's friends, most of whom are dear to me. Lacey decided I should not be on my feet (well, I said the doctor said that) so every time I sat down she was in front of me with a stool or chair for me to put my foot up. And when I tried to clean the kitchen, she  yelled at me--she confessed that to Jordan. But she and Amy did yeoman's work cleaning up, and I have only a few things to attend to tomorrow. My heartfelt thanks to them.
Jamie and his family arrived long after I'd given up on them coming--traffic from Dallas was awful, as usual. But after most people had left, the grandchldren entertained us. Jacob is a great showman, and he did his hip hop moves for us--he's really pretty good. Then Edie did the splits and the  yoga pose, crow, and Maddie demonstrated how seventh graders dance these days. Great hilarity.
The moment to treasure came at the end of the evening when Jamie dragged out the old box of family photos that's behind the chair in my room--some of the kids have gone through and taken their childhood pictures but not all. He delighted in going throiugh the pictures, exclaiming about this person and that place and remembering instances and toys and people from their childhood. It made me happy to realize once again what a good childhood they had and how fondly they remember it and the people and dogs involved--there were a lot of dogs. Jame was particularly interested in how old people were and, of course, in many pictures his father and I were younger than he is now by quite a bit. That astounded him. He saw pictures of his brother as a toddler with one foot in the commode, pictures of himself as a fifth grader (dig that hair!), pictures of his older sister at what he called "an  unfortunate period of her life" (bad hair, bad glasses) and getting ready for her senior prom, and a picture of his baby sister crawling through the space left in a multi-paned swinging door after he kicked out one panel accidentally. All those memories--such good times. It occurs to me that today we don't save boxes of photos--they're all digital. I wonder how, forty years from now, the grandchildren will be able to go through them and say, "Remember? That was Aunt Jordan's birthday party on the porch!" And maybe Jacob will remember how he always told me I was old when I wasn't!
Anyone want leftover chili/cheese dip?

What happens when you let trivia get you down

It's been a day of exasperating trivia. It really began last night when I found a dead rat in the backyard. I thought about it--for maybe half a minute--and decided to wimp out as a female and call my neighbor. He, bless him, rushed right over, and I armed him with a plastic bag and a stick. But as he approached the rat, he said, "I hate doing this." Instead of remorse at making him do something he hates, I felt a bit of relief--I mean, if he hates it, how does he think I felt? I asked him what finding it meant, and he said, "Scooby got it." I said, "Well, he's not interested in it any more," and he replied, "It's not a toy anymore." So the dead rat went into my garbage and, thank goodness, out of my mind.
Also yesterday I noticed that the airbag light on my dash was on--I didn't remember that it always did that, but I'm probably not really observant about such things. Today I looked in the owner's manual, and it said that should be checked immediately. So I called to see if something terrible was going to happen if I didn't rush right in--I really need my car tomorrow. They said no, it was just that the airbag wouldn't deploy. OK, I know they're safety devices, but the idea of one bursting in my face has always been slightly terrifying. So I'll drive tomorrow and I have an appointment early Wed. to drop the car off. It may be the result of that woman backing into me in her steamship "old lady's car."
Then I came home this afternoon to a letter telling me my prescription renewal was not being filled because I was not eligible for insurance. What? I've had the same insurance for years. It took an hour of waiting on the phone--I wish I had speaker phone at home as I do at work--to finally learn that the two prescription renewals are being processed, but I'm still not eligible--go figure. After calls to the customer service department and the TCU HR I discovered that "there's a glitch in the system." They're figuring it out, though I will say the TCU person was most helpful and inquired if I needed a prescription or anything immediately.
But all of these minor annoyances fade in the face of news I got this morning. Larry, my former boss, called to tell me that Andy Miracle, a mutual friend, had a catastrophic stroke on Friday and was not expected to live. I've known Andy since at least our kids were in middle school and maybe beyond, and the kids and I share many good memories of him and his wife. Andy had another catastrophic stroke about three years ago but he beat the doctors' odds and survived, albeit in a wheelchair with limited motion on his left side. They moved several times since then, landing back in Fort Worth for a while, and we lunched, shared memories, talked about the future. Then they went back to Santa Fe where, Andy said, his heart lives. They settled in a wondereful retirement comunity--Tina was taking tap dance, going rafting, doing all kinds of things (with severely limited vision) and Andy was in therapy that made him sure he would walk again, ride his bicycle--and, yes, downhill ski (my kids loved skiing with him and spent long days on the slopes). They were so happy, and life seemed on such an upward swing, that you want to say, forgive the language, that sometimes life sucks. I've spent the day thinking of images of Andy--the bookstore we once decided to open in Santa Fe, the way he'd walk through the halls of TCU with his laugh booming so that you knew without a doubt who was out there, the night we all ate sushi in Santa Fe and I was having such fun that my kids were angry because they didn't think I'd ever go home, his determiantion to write again, maybe even a novel. And Tina, herself disabled, who really became the world's best caretaker. I remember clearly one party at my house when Jamie had to take Andy's wheelchair down the steps and Andy kept saying, "Jamie, I'm so sorry." Jamie told him not to be, but Tina was right there with a firm, "That's right, Miracle, feel sorry for yourself." I harbor a secret small hope that Andy will beat the odds again, but then I know the odds are even greater that he would not have the degree of freedom he's had even in his wheelchair with limited motion--and he wouldn't want that. My kids and I are sad tonight for friends we love and of whom we have special memories. Yeah, sometimes life isn't one bit fair.