Howya doin'?

Howya doin'? Sometimes it's just proforma, issued with a casual nod and smile when passing by. It's mere courtesy, acknowledging the others presence. No conversation required.

Nowadays -- nearly four years after my wife's death -- I try to hear howya doin'? as just such a friendly greeting. I shoot my finest smile and energetically respond with something like "Fine!" If the friend pauses signifying interest, I might add "How 'boutchu?" or "Whatcha been up to?" I get an extended response to that, and I know a newsy and interesting conversation may take place.

Interested and interesting exchanges are the basis of any good friendship. Strange fact: when we're truly interested, we sometimes find out as much about ourselves as we do about the friends we engage in interesting exchanges -- especially when we permit the exchanges to be unguarded. Sometimes we only realize we're doin' well when we discover the answer in the words we share with friends. So we need to pay attention. Otherwise we risk telling hapless people more than they really wanna know.

Of course, on some significant level, paying attention is the hallmark of all warm relationships. Even in a setting so formal as a classroom, paying attention is essential. What are students really trying to express? What confuses them about a topic under discussion? What do they know and how do they feel about things under discussion? How confident are they, how well prepared? How interested are they? How effective is the teacher in cultivating and sustaining interest? Classroom leadership demands that teachers constantly probe students, seeking answers for such questions. This is what I mean by paying attention.

Paying attention is even more important in a love relationship. Honeymoon over? If it is, it's prob'ly our own fault?! We callously suppose we've learned everything there is to know about some new (or old) friend. We're no longer interested, no longer find the person interesting. Strikes me as strange, because for nearly four decades I never lost interest in my wife. She was a whole, ever-new-world worth exploring. Plus she was always growing. She was clever and bright, a creative thinker, always interested in some new thing or new set of thoughts. I never tired of learning about her. She fascinated me. And not only because she was so striking in appearance. She was a beautiful person, a beautiful mind. She held my attention. She was challenging. I had to constantly live up to her.

My wife and I were always curious about each other. I think that fact made each of us more curious about ourselves, too. All of which brings me finally to what I want to talk about, to think out-loud about -- because I'm not certain exactly what I know and feel about the topic. Or exactly how to shape it.


Lately, no matter how I may respond to the friendly greeting Howya doin', the question leaves me wondering: How AM I doin'?

Lotsa changes in my life these days. The death of my wife has left me somewhat solitary. Retirement has required a whole host of changes, too. Loss of work requires major adjustments: new interests, new daily schedules, new responsibilities to fashion new work habits. Plus I'm aging -- which often leads to changes in body-mind functions. As Alice once said: "Curiouser and curiouser!" Lotsa questions about my unfolding new-old self.

I have to remain INTERESTED and ENGAGED in all these questions. I have to find creative answers. Otherwise I have no hope of avoiding decline. I'm determined not to die just yet. The challenge is to keep growing.

So! I have to develop some useful measurement scale I can apply to myself each day. For instance: how well did my yoga go this morning? How did my weight workout go? How's my energy level? Did my reading cycle go well this week? Caught-up on email? Am I on track to complete three postings this week -- am I satisfied with the quality of the writing? How can I improve? In general, I'm curious about what I'm learning about myself as the weeks unfold.

All these questions -- and many more like them -- are what I get for having read Ben Franklin's autobiography as a (much-too-impressionable) youngster! I can't blame Ben entirely. I've always been inclined to confront life as if it were an obstacle course, measuring my daily performance with a microscope and stop-watch.

Anyway: I recently spent a long weekend with my older daughter and her family. She always wants to discover evidence I'm happy, content, or satisfied. I'd tell her if I really knew. Trouble is, I'm not always sure. I want to think out loud about these terms and see where that might lead me.

First, am I happy? Define the term: I suppose happy implies a degree of excitement and delight about

sustained and growing relationships with family
and remaining good friends,
ongoing and up-coming activities,
daily work and creative projects,
household maintenance,
yard and gardening chores,
apparent physical and mental health,

and stuff like that. Seems to me that excitement, or at least keen interest and delight are important factors in happiness.

SO! How'm I doing? On a ten-scale, I give myself a seven-plus. I've developed a reasonable calendar of visits to family -- most of whom reside some distance out-of-state. I'm careful to eat a reasonably broad and healthy diet. Weekly, I eat long-lunches with my one or two remaining friends. This summer season is loaded with community activities, and my calendar's full. I'm not apt to get bored. I'm a good housekeeper-yard-and-garden guy. I make an effort to keep this place beautiful. Lotta work for one pair of hands. I maintain a vigorous yoga, work-out, walking routine. I'm a month or so beyond my scheduled yearly physical. But it's on the calendar next month. I see my counselor once a month, and she appears to be holding onto her sanity. (Not easy for her!)

I'm disciplined. I care about staying healthy. I've made steady progress toward an improving outlook since Nancy's death. Zero-minus to Seven-plus in the past four years is not bad. Things could keep getting better. Finding a good-woman friend would help. But at my age, most good women are either dead or firmly attached. Over the past 18 months, women I find attractive have taught me a better option for me is to continue learning to fend for myself. I'm seven-happy so far.

What about content? For me, the word has negative connotations. I think of content as

fat and lazy,
snoozing through my days
without measurable goals,
drifting aimlessly,
undisciplined.

Bless his heart, Gatsby-kitty is content. He should be. That's okay for him. I'm responsible for his care and well-being. He's good company, quiet and responsive. Petting and grooming him soothes us both. Being good to him is several steps above a household or garden chore well accomplished. He's a companionable spirit. And he has no real responsibilities beyond hitting his litter-box accurately and making himself available for purr-producing rubs and brushing. When he's content, I know I'm fulfilling my responsibilities to him. He's mostly lazy, but at times he's also delightfully vigorous. Give him one of his play-toys or some catnip, and he'll bounce around like a kitten.

Right now he's snoozing an arm's length away, over on my desk calendar -- sunk together all small, looking like a tiny sphinx. Content and lazy's okay for Gatsby. Not for me. Right now I'm trying to shape this posting. . . which for me is hard work I enjoy. I'm not the least bit content, and I don't wanna be. I keep telling myself I prefer vigorous and challenging work. (For awhile yet, anyway!)

Satisfied is more difficult to define. Like content, satisfied has troublesome (slightly) negative connotations. Plus there are several levels of satisfaction, and all my life I've felt driven to grow beyond merely satisfied. I've wanted to feel increasingly accomplished, perhaps even proud. . .or at least I wanted to behave in ways that made my wife and family proud of me. I don't mean I wanted to appear prideful or (worse!) self-satisfied. Whether its been good for me or not, I've always wanted to improve and grow.

So here's what writing this posting has taught me. One potentially bad thing: I share with most people the fact that I am not fully happy. I may find a solution for that if I find new things designed to challenge me to grow. Three good things: I'm neither satisfied nor contented. And lately some of my old drive has returned. The problem now is to figure out how best to steer my returning energy. I've been thinking about guitar and/or singing lessons. Maybe ballroom dancing lessons. Busy-creative is better than just busy.

So THAT'S my new problem!
What's up with YOU?

In Praise of Parents. . . .

I've undergone a conversion. And all it took was a measly two games of Coach-Pitch-Tee-Ball.

Over the past four decades I've blithely stood aside, without helping or even closely watching, myriad young parents carting their young children to organized sporting activities like tee-ball, flag-football, ice-hockey, and soccer. I've watched them volunteering large chunks of time organizing and administering, coaching and officiating, carting their kids hither and yon to far-flung athletic facilities. Who were these avid soccer moms and dads, would-be athletic aficionados, board members and van-chauffeurs, caretakers and fans?

Well!? I went to grandson-Taylor's final game last Saturday. This time I studied these young parents. I recognized them. They reminded me of the young graduate students I'd always admired so much when I was a professor -- hard-working teachers by day, late-afternoon (and evening) students, but renegade sports enthusiasts-all, hard-bent on supporting organized athletic activities for their kids.

They're energetic and caring people, somehow managing to sandwich into their busy days one more deeply-caring parenting activity. And they're having loadsa fun doing it.

I remember with some embarrassment, how often in the past I've listened quietly to pseudo-concerned conversations among largely uninvolved and uninformed older folks who charged that young parents are organizing their elementary-aged children, like so many automatons, into rigid, never-ending after-school-activities.

Tut-tut. . .a bad thing, all these parent-organized athletic activities? Hmmmnnnn!?

Ah YES! (the story goes): in the GOOD OLD DAYS, young children supposedly organized and participated in energetic sports activities all on their own. That's what playgrounds were for, after all. A better time, a time when children took the initiative. No colorful jerseys and matching socks provided by wealthy sponsors for US! No expensive fields (with advertisements for donor commercial firms on the fences) for the tough-minded-do-it-them-selvser kids of MY much-better era.

I usedta listen quietly to this stuff and wonder why it sounded so cranky.

Makes me reflective. Could it be true that the good-old days were not so altogether better? Could it be they were, in fact, not altogether so different? Could it be there have always been energetic and caring parents who in their own ways organized wonderful activities for their kids?

Quite possibly.

I offer in evidence the case of Mr. Glassford.

The Glassfords were an Irish-Catholic family living across the back fence from me when I was growing up. They may have had more than sixteen kids, but I remember when Joseph Bernard Glassford was born, just before I left home to enter college. And I remember Dorothy, who was a high school cheerleader, who later became a nurse with an advanced degree. And I remember Jamie, my older brother's age, who taught me to swim when I was very young. And Jackie, a year younger who taught me a small measure of auto mechanics -- and to recite The Shooting of Dan McGrew.

I remember how some of the older Glassford kids were charged with the responsibility of watching over their toddler siblings. I remember watching that process and realizing suddenly one day WHY Jamie Glassford felt obliged to teach me to swim -- and why he did it so well.

The Glassfords ran a satellite outlet for Slick's Laundry, too, thereby providing service to our neighborhood -- while providing a natural activity that taught the older kids to handle money responsibly, that taught them common-sense human-relations skills, as well.

The Glassford family was so close-knit. The kids were all healthy, good-looking, and bright. They all got good grades. From the outside, it appeared they all got along and liked each other. But what I'm remembering especially this minute is how tightly the family was organized. And how well they played together. . .and how often and well they integrated neighbor-kids like me into their activities.

Work-up softball was one example. Mr. Glassford -- I never knew his first name, and would not have hazarded using it if I had -- worked in one of the Gary (Indiana) steel plants as an electrician. He was part of the little Gary-bus-community that included my mother. Summertime afternoons, he'd get home around 5:30, wash up, and the family'd all sit down for supper. After supper, in good weather, the family'd assemble next door on a grassy empty lot for a raucous game of work-up-pitcher's-hands-out softball.

Often as not, all the neighborhood kids would join in.

In fact, the game was organized pretty much like the game I watched my grandson Taylor play. Only the ball was soft, the field was simple, and paper plates served as bases. And we had no colorful uniforms. Mr. Glassford was the pitcher-umpire.

Everybody played -- toddlers and all. Each toddler and caretaker came up to bat. The older child knelt on her knees, holding the younger against her chest. Four hands on the bat -- two little hands grasped the bat while two older hands held and swung it. Here came the looping ball -- WAP! There went the piddling-little grounder, straight to the pitcher. But Mr. Glassford would be facing the outfield, directing traffic on the bases or gazing blithely skyward, his hand to his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun: where WAS that ball? Never could find it in time!?

We older kids would hit the ball, sometimes deep to the field, but sometimes not. Sometimes the ball would dribble into the infield, and we'd field it ourselves on the way to first base. But, of course, Mr. Glassford either didn't see the ball when we threw it to him, or didn't catch it, if he DID see it.

The games were a rollick!

Mr. Glassford was Buster Keaten, Charlie Chaplin, and Laurel&Hardy all rolled into one. In fact, he could've been a talented film-comic in another life. Remember: the game was PITCHER'S HANDS OUT. One of us would field the ball and toss it to Mr. Glassford -- but of course he couldn't catch it. The ball would bounce lightly off his hands and roll away. He'd run after it, bend over to pick it up, and kick it by mistake. However, soon as the runner crossed first base safely, Mr. Glassford somehow regained his considerable athletic powers, retrieved the ball and soft-pitched it to the next would-be hitter.

The games were hilarious. We all followed Mr. Glassford's example. Nobody ever was called out. The bases were always loaded. Everybody crossed home plate and rotated back out into the crowded field. Imagine a diapered-child, waddling precariously over bumpy ground toward first base, squealing with glee, his older brother or sister walking close behind, hands-off, but alert to snatch the child up in mid-air should he stumble and fall.

I remember those sweet games so fondly. Such family loyalty and responsibility. Such mature, yet playful behavior. It touched me then. It touches me now as I remember. The memories come in waves of sepia. I remember thinking back-then what I still think now. Those games made me wish I were a blood-member of the Glassford clan. I wish I were still brand-new, playing softball in their family-league.

Makes me think. Could be that present-day Little League Baseball is no more about learning baseball than it is about providing a rich extended family experience. I hope so.

I remember the Glassford Family League. It included the entire neighborhood. It was summertime. Sunset came late. Usually games lasted about an hour. Those were simpler times.

But it's true: in the 1940's we didn't have present-day Little League.

But that's okay! We were super-lucky.
We had Mr. Glassford, a softball and bat,
some paper plates for bases,
and his lovely family.

Tee-Ball: Peanuts and Joy!

Late yesterday afternoon, my daughter Tara finally managed to drag me to a Tee-Ball game. There aren't really many games in the season, and what with garden-chores, my trip to Europe and subsequent trips outa-state, and other distractions, I was fairly close to losing my high-status rank as Grampa -- it was the next-to-the-last game of grandson-Taylor's first season. Apparently there's more to grampa-ing than

occasional baby-sitting,
reading to kids and telling stories,
just barely surviving wild sword-fights,
avoiding mortal injury while tussling on rug or sofa,
mastering and teaching"athletic" activities on wii,
helping neophytes solve the mysteries of skipping,
bike-pedaling, or throwing and catching a ball.

Nor does taking grandchildren out to meals and to movies suffice. Nor does taking them on walks in the park. It's simply NOT-ENOUGH to do lots of active things with your kids -- and your kids' kids. You must also sit idly by watching them do things with other kids' kids -- whether they do these things very well or not.

Hence: soccer, Tee-ball. . .anything short of robbing banks. And: OHmaGOD. . .I forgot about eventually teaching them to drive.

So anyway, bravely donning my best won't-this-be-fun face, I went to this Tee-ball game yesterday. The trip there made me feel slightly holy: kinda like I was willingly submitting myself to an undeserved death sentence, or worse: 'Tis a far-far better thing I now do, than I have ever done before. The guillotine kept clopping down in the background.

One good thing: all the way there, I was able to reach back from my shot-gun position, suitably attending poor Konnor, who sat nearly defenseless, tightly strapped into his car-seat. I gently poked and tickled him in the ribs, stole his nose and gobbled it up along with his right ear, tickled his knee, grabbed his outstretched foot and stole his shoe, and generally pestered him lovingly all the way to the park, thereby making him feel important. After all, this was not HIS T-ball game, even though he clearly wished it were. I wanted to keep him laughing.

A grampa's duties are not easy! They demand vast creative energy and an unquenchable appetite for childish mischief.

My technique musta worked: because Konnor later held my hand tightly, all the way through the busy parking lot, twisting around all-wide-eyed, guiding me carefully, reminding me at nearly every-other step that "this place is just like the road" -- thereby delivering me safely to the ball diamond.

Taylor ran ahead. The rest of us got there just in time to set up our canvas chairs along the third-base line and get settled in.

Some impressions:

Gorgeous day! Cloudless blue sky. Temperatures in the low 70's. Nice breeze. Juicy-Tasty bubble-gum -- for the first few minutes. Lotsa beaming-proud parents.

Beautiful field. Smooth and grassy. Recently groomed, newly-raked, brown-sandy-clay base-paths.

Taylor's Orange Team: about 14 players. Red Team about the same number. A few pony-tails and braids peeking out beneath the backs of large baseball caps. All outfitted in crisp uniforms. The orange team wore white leggings, the Red gray. Nifty little baseball shoes with rubber ridged soles instead of spikes. Their baseball caps were huge with appropriately rolled bills so long it was difficult to see the players' faces.

Some of the kids were tiny: not quite thirty inches tall. Each player looked something like a character from a Peanuts cartoon. Endearing, that's the precise word. Hilariously inept. . .the precise phrase. I never laughed so hard in my life. Watching these kids play was the most fun I've had in years.

There were four adults on the field: the pitcher, the catcher, and one adult placed casually where the shortstop and second basemen might settle in a regulation game. They may have been the most helpful of all the adults near the field. Keeping kids orderly and safe is not always easy. I don't mean they were bossy. I mean they were busily helpful to the kids. As in, a quick tap on a shoulder, a warm smile, a hand pointing toward third base: "That way, Billy. . . ." Or, a quick side-step to the left, a big foot clamping a hard roller to the ground, a wink and: "Get it Holly!" (Geez! I loved those guys! Heroes all!)

Actually, the Tee (of Tee-Ball) was hardly used. This game was new to me. I think the game is what's called Coach-Pitch-Tee-Ball. After an apparently undetermined number of pitches, the catcher quickly sets-up the Tee, and the batter strikes the ball best he can into the infield. . .where all apposing players stand ready to jump nimbly to safety or retrieve any ball that comes near them. In fact, most of the kids managed to hit the ball thrown from the pitcher's hand. It seemed to me that the pitcher threw the ball more than intended, especially when it appeared the batter's swing looked increasingly promising. A kind of KIND baseball. What genius ever thought of THAT!

The adults on the field were wonderful. Everything they did and said was encouraging and helpful. It was as if they were willing the ball onto the bat, as if they were stopping the struck ball with a quick foot and nudging it toward the nearest kid's glove.

I have to say: the most impressive ball-handling was performed by the pitchers and catchers. Realize please: small kids, tiny strike zone. The pitcher threw overhand. Sometimes he knelt like a catcher. But the pitcher and catcher kept three balls in play, and kept on delivering the ball almost entirely within the strike zone. The pitchers didn't throw hard and fast. But they threw consistently into the strike zone. And most of the kids managed to put the bat onto the ball, though it may have taken a dozen balls or more before they did. The hitters were elated. I was impressed. As I watched the game, I thought: This is a wonderful , exciting, and kindly game.

The game lasted three innings. There were no outs! Every team-member came to bat once each inning. The hitter always got on base. Even if by some miracle, the ball was quickly fielded and thrown to first base where it might be caught before the runner got there, the runner stayed in play and advanced with each subsequent hit. Sometimes kids ran in the wrong direction. Sometimes they piled-up on a single base. Never fear: the line coaches shoo'd the kids along in the right direction whenever the ball was in play.

Nobody kept score. No fans could stop laughing. But the laughter expressed more fondness and sweet-delight than anything else. We watch grown children and perennially child-like men play baseball. They play astonishingly well as they grow. We forget how difficult the game truly is. I tell you the truth: it was the best baseball game I ever saw.

For instance, the fielding was a special delight. The ball would zip off the bat. If it got past the coach on the baseline and dribbled into the near outfield, four or five kids would converge on it as if it were a live thing, and bound down onto their knees trying to scoop it up. The lucky winner would then leap to his feet and throw the ball to the nearest base. It's difficult to throw a regulation-sized baseball with a tiny hand and an uncertain arm. But that's okay. None of the players could catch it anyway. When the ball did wind up in a fielder's glove, the crowd responded with astonished cheers and applause. Such catches were few and accidental, I'm certain.

It was a great crowd. Every adult applauded every bumbling error, every faltering swing of the bat, every failed catch, every wild throw,. There was no real orange or red.

Nobody won. Nobody lost. The only certain outcome was that at the end of the game the players lined up at the concession stand and collected a treat their parents had paid for before the game. It was all quite orderly and. . .sweetly delightful.

I have to use that phrase again.
It captures the essence of the game exactly!
One more game Saturday. I'll be there!

Remembering Nancy VIII: Easy Charm

Easy Charm: that comes close to describing Nancy.

But that was only part of how we experienced her. Four years ago, when I wrote her eulogy, I listed and elaborated upon her

unique, wholesome and unified identity,
tirelessly creative work ethic,
striking beauty,
intellectual and artistic talents, and
her extraordinary power to make all things beautiful.

Briefly put, Nancy knew exactly who she was, liked being herself, and never stopped growing. I loved being her teammate, and we often worked together around the clock. When we were young, our habit was to plan a project and work enthusiastically until it was complete. She had a fresh-faced, country-girl beauty. . .a beaming smile atop a slender-strong athlete's body. She had wonderful piano hands and sang beautifully. She could sketch and catch a likeness like magic. And she was a wonderful seamstress. She made striking quilts. She was a wonderful interior designer and made beautiful things.

But I come back to charm. . .because of all the things she was able to do extremely well, what won so many hearts among her loved-ones, friends, and colleagues was that she had a marvelous facility to make things beautiful. As I've said, Nancy could make beautiful things. Yet, there is something more, something elusive and magical about making things beautiful, about creating a beautiful atmosphere for others.

Here's a story that I hope clarifies what I mean.

It was late summer. Early that morning an angry thunderstorm had swept through quickly, leaving every surface damp. The rest of the morning, the sun barely showed behind a darkish grey, somber sky. The stiff breeze was damp and chilly. The first real chill of coming autumn was upon us.

Our first two granddaughters were visiting. Marisa was not quite four: a tiny-slender slip of a thing, perfectly formed, with shiny bright-whitish hair, deep-blue eyes, a beguiling smile, and a sweet manner that rarely varied. Jocelyn, not quite two, was also tiny, but a bit more sturdily built. Long-brownish hair, heart-seizing caramel eyes, and a quick-happy smile. The more aggressive of the two, she tumbled about like a dancer and was rarely still.

Both the kids were bright. Young though they were, they liked books, their tricycles, and messy cut-and-paste, painting-and-coloring, kindergarten-type learning activities. It was clear already they both were going to think school was the most fun-thing in their days. Bright lovely kids are a special blessing. Beware: most grandparents will tell you this sort of thing -- especially about their own grandchildren -- and tell you. . .and tell you. . .and tell you. . . .

But I'm trying to get to this story.

It was still dark out. Still sprinkling, wind all blustery.

School for Nancy and me was not yet in session. Marisa and Jocie had been visiting the past ten days.

Here's something about our child-rearing practices and the effect of these practices upon our home. After ten days of a visit by our granddaughters, the house was. . .rumpled, I guess I'll have to say. We were child-centered people, school-teachers. After a week or so, the long living room of our home was a magnificent array of scattered paint easels (over carefully-spread newspapers), mixed board games, plates of unfinished snacks, discarded clothing and sandals. . .and tents.

YES! Tents. You may not be aware that bed sheets, light-summer blankets, and tattered-old -- but too-dear-to-bediscarded -- bed spreads are only incidentally related to beds. Mostly they're tent-stock. For instance, you clamp one end of a large bedspread beneath the key-cover of a spinet piano, push the piano bench out three feet (completely blocking the traffic path), let the sides drop down to the rug, scatter some couch-pillows, and you have Sinbad's Cave. In fact, add a flashlight to the mix, and you have the perfect place to hide-away two seeming adults and two delighted children -- the perfect place to read any number of Sinbad picture books.

That narrow table behind the couch, with the bookshelves just beyond? Drop a blanket there, add more throw-pillows, invite-in a kitty or two. . .a perfect hideaway for reading Where the Wild Things Are -- or long passages from The Wind in the Willows. You might jam the corner of a large bedspread between two tight books high up on a shelf, blossom the far ends outward in a half-circle, secure the bottom ends with more books, thereby creating a (nearly) perfect teepee. Flavor well with two old wooden spoons, an old pan and a tom-tom, and whatever feathers you can dig out of Gramma's sewing drawers.

That long, high-armed-cozy couch across from the fireplace? Ask Grampa to push it back a few more feet from the fireplace, cover the whole of it with a double-bed comforter, throw in two large pillows and two summer blankets, and two sisters may even talk Gramma into letting them spend the night there. . .not a sure thing -- but maybe: at least for an afternoon nap.

And there are rules about such tents. Once erected and perfected, they stay up for the duration of a visit. Such refuges are limited only by the amount of spare bedding available. As I said: "The house was rumpled." The perfect child habitat. . .especially if the children are imaginative and like to act-out the books you read to them. . .and especially if you have collected Children's Books most of your life.

Look around your house. If you are of a certain age and your children have young children. If you have high-toleration for clutter. If you like books and story-telling. And if you are lucky: then, your grandchildren may come visit several times a year for two-weeks -- or more -- and clutter your life. You may also visit them and test their parents' toleration for loving clutter.

But I digress. The story. . . .

I awoke before light. The fireplace had burned down, the bedroom was chilly. I made a quick trip to the thermostat, clicked the lever from COOL to HEAT, pulled a quilt up from blanket-stool, jumped back into bed, and gathered Nancy in my arms.

A few minutes later I heard M&J's feet thumping as they crossed the hallway from their bedroom. Here they came tromping up between Gramma and me and slid down between us, all shivery and tooth-chattery. I pulled them close and pressed all three of us up against Gramma's warm body.

Soon we were warm. Conversation:

Marisa (prying one of Gramma's eyes open with light fingers): "We gonna go shopping today, Gramma?"

Gramma (head disappearing beneath her pillow): "Hhhhhhmmmmmph!"

Marisa (now full of life, sitting crossed legged, bending over Gramma, bubbling along smoothly): "To the Meijers? Groceries. We need cocoa and marshmallows. . .pretzels all gone. . . ." She ran through her fingers, sing-songing a lengthy list of her favorite snacks. This was not a meat&vegetable kid. Yet, for some reason, she always said THE Meijers, as if it were her favorite place to go.

Gramma (surfacing with sleepy-eyed interest. Smoothing Marisa's hair, pulling her close in a vain attempt to entice her back to sleep): "Maybe to the Stride-Right store for new shoes."

Both girls had tiny, narrow feet. We had discovered Stride-Right was the only store where we could find shoes that fit them.

Jocie (rearranging herself to place her little face beside Marisa's): "Oh Goooody! I need new sandals. . . ."

Gramma (now yawning, coming to life, tweeking Jocie's nose playfully, lightly snatching up Jocie's foot and nibbling at a toe): "Yer sandals're fine. Yer toes're pokin' through the endsa yer sneakers, you Silly Goose!"

A long conversation ensued: about buckle-shoes-just-like-Marisa's-PLEEEEZ. . . and some wide-eyed chatter about how-we-might-all-sleep-together-in-the-couch-tent-by-the-fireplace-and-stay-warm-tonight. . .and stuff like that.

The furnace had kicked on immediately. Pretty soon it had driven-out the chill. It was breakfast time. A long menu discussion filled with conspiratorial eye-rolling led to strawberry jam on toast, orange juice, milky cocoa, and one chewy vitamin each. Picky eaters, these kids. But Gramma was a Health-Educator. She understood nutritional requirements. There were no upsets over meals. And the kids were always energetic and always gained weight when they visited. In fact, our meals were always fun.

Breakfast complete, we bundled the girls best we could in their out-of-season clothing, added their light jackets, secured them in their car-seats, wrapped them in blankets, and headed for the mall.

First thing, we bought the girls some warmer clothing. But that turned out to be a long sojourn. The clothing they needed was still out of season. We tromped around from store-to-store until we finally found at Penney's some long-legged OshKosh corduroy jumpers and knee-length stockings -- just for good measure. Then on to StrideRight, where we had to order their shoes. A disappointment, though both found shoes that excited them.

By the time we finished those two projects, the kids were worn out, and we had to carry them . That wasn't the bad part. The bad part was they'd missed their short morning nap and were getting progressively tired and grumpy.

(Something like that never happened in my generation. . . .)


OKAY! Here's the short tail on this long dog. At last.

By the time we hooked the girls into their car-seats, they'd begun snapping at each other. Jocie declared in her best high-pitched, tearful whine: "Marisa's foot's on MY SIDE." That led to a series of ghastly charges and counter-charges which Gramma and I largely ignored. I tried vainly to redirect their attention with some dried-out Twizzlers I'd found in my jacket pocket. Kinda worked for awhile.

Gramma was somewhat disappointed as she navigated thick traffic north toward the closest entrance to the highway. I was disappointed too. The morning had started out so well. Now the girls were out of sorts. First time this visit. But we knew a nap would help.

At the last possible moment before the ramp, Gramma turned into MickeyD's, and bought two small hot chocolates at the drive-in window. She back-tracked about a quarter-mile, and pulled into a small park where there were swings and teeter-totters and some clean picnic tables.

A stiff North Wind blew up out of a creek bed behind the tables. But she and I were wearing long hooded wind-breakers with snaps and zippers. I took Jocie. Gramma took Marisa. We tucked them inside our windbreakers, zipped and snapped them in tight against us. Our hoods up, we sat squeezed tightly together on one of the tables, our backs to the wind.

It was chilly. But for about ten minutes Gramma and I sat hunched warmly together, our backs to the wind, the warm bodies of our grandchildren pressed tightly into our laps against our chests, their two tiny faces poking out just far enough to drink their warm cocoa through straws. They fell into blissful sleep before they could finish their cocoa.

We strapped them lovingly into their car-seats. They snoozed quietly all the way home and slept in our arms as we tucked them into their couch-tent by the fireplace.


I guess this story is about Nancy's even temperament and easy charm. I guess it's about her astonishing facility to remain calm and quiet, sensitive and resourceful, no matter what disturbing activity might be going on around her. She was so empathetic. She understood the children were worn out. She could feel their distress. She didn't get frustrated and angry with them.

Instead of thinking: "I'm gonna give them such a smack," she was thinking "What can I do to calm them down, to make them more comfortable?" She suspected that if we held them close, if we got them a small snack, then they would calm down. . .maybe even catch the nap they'd missed. And they did.

Now that I think of it,
she often worked the
same magic on me!

Happy Anniversary, Nancy!
Forty years. . .and counting.