Grandparents Day

For the most part, I consider Grandparents' Day, which happened yesterday, to be a Hallmark holiday, something ginned up only for consumption value — cards, flowers, brunches out. 

But my Grandparent's Day was the real thing. It started the night before, when the four of ours who were sleeping over (thankfully, with their mothers) were running crazily through the house, doing headers off the coffee table, brandishing suction-cup arrows, and regaling us on the latest "Frozen" characters. 

It included a laugh fest so long and so thorough that it reduced all of us to tears, and it continued with a sweet (and yes, early) morning, waking up to the sounds of little voices in the house. 

In the four years since I've been a grandparent, I've marveled at how these kiddos change our perspective, test our resilience (how long can I pretend to be a mean tiger while crawling around on the trampoline?) and expand our imaginations. Most of all, my grandchildren remind me of youth, when all seemed possible. Because, for them, all still is. 

The Cassidy Kids

At the reunion, my cousin Cindy reached into a little basket and pulled out what appeared to be party favors to give each of us. They were small tulle drawstring bags, tied with narrow white satin ribbon. Inside each was a thumb drive full of old family photographs.

Talk about good things in tiny packages! I've been spending time I don't have today ogling the photos, ones I've never seen, glimpses of the past. 

One of my favorites is the one you see above. It's titled the Cassidy Kids.  They are, top row: Kenneth, Christine and Bernard, and bottom row: Lois, Dolly and Frank. 

The only one who looks like a kid here is Dad, who wears short pants, and even he shares the solemn, muted expression that was expected in formal family portraits of the day. 

I have no date for this photo, but I expect it was taken in 1929 or 1930. These kids are gone now. But their kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and great-great grandkids live on. 

Family Reunion

We gathered yesterday in Ohio, more than two dozen of us: brothers and sisters, kids and grandkids, aunts and uncles and cousins. Some of us traveled a few miles to be there; others flew or drove for hours.

There were burgers and brats, iced tea and lemonade, potato salad and jam cake. There was a poem, a song, a prayer and a hymn. And stories, of course, so many stories.

Most of all, there was connection — not just to each other but to those who came before, to the absent ones. It was as if in gathering we brought them back.

There was the spitting image of Dad in the face of my oldest cousin. There were his sisters in the eyes and smiles of their sons and daughters.

And then there was all the life and liveliness of the newest generations. They are the future. But it's good to remember where they — and all of us — began.

A Cabin in the Woods

As I re-acclimate to a quieter life from the whirl that was last week, I keep seeing our cabin in the woods. It's a tucked-away place but close to hiking trails and sand beaches. 

Seeing it empty, as I do every year in the final minutes of our stay, making the rounds to check that windows are locked and trash is emptied, I'm struck by how much people animate place.

The couch and tables, beds and chairs, even the perfect porch that spans the back, are nothing without the daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren who animate them. So even though I'm missing the cabin, I'm missing the people more.

Writing Quickly

I woke this morning, as I did yesterday, to the scamper of little feet and the noise of life being lived, hard, above me. It's the configuration of this shambling old cabin by the lake that the deck that runs the length of the main floor also runs above where I sleep. 

It's not until the respectable hour of 8 a.m. that the little ones are let loose, but once they are, further winks are impossible. 

They scamper, they giggle, they push plastic kiddie chairs across the floor. If there is a quiet moment, it's when bowls of cereal are being offered, fuel for further activity. 

I'm writing quickly because I don't want to miss a minute of it. 

Circle of Life

Yesterday felt more like a weekend with a daughter and two granddaughters here. At a visit to a nearby farm park, I found myself on the merry-go-round with Bernadette (pictured here with her mama a year and a half ago).

Yesterday I was the one holding way too tightly to the rider, too tightly being a relative term, I suppose. Bernadette will be 4 in October, but hold tight I did. And as we made endless rotations to patriotic favorites like "Stars and Stripes forever," I thought about how many times I took Bernadette's mother on carousel rides, and how particular she was about her mounts — her favorite being the rainbow pony at the National Mall carousel.

Now Suzanne was standing on the sidelines with her newborn, and I was back on duty. The circle of carousels. The circle of life. 

Family Bibles

They hold newspaper clippings, holy cards, photos of babies in long cotton gowns. Century-old flowers crumble in their pages, and their bindings are frayed and worn.

Yesterday I paged through a stack of old family bibles looking for names, dates, relationships. Some of them had elaborate closures; others were falling apart. Some of them gave up their secrets; others did not.

But all of them held the fears and triumphs of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, siblings and cousins. They were the ceremonial center of recorded family life. I studied them, photographed them, copied words from their pages. Then I brushed their dust off my hands and came upstairs, to the land of the living.

A Confluence

It happened regularly and would have happened today, which is both Mother's Day and Dad's birthday. I would make the trip out to Kentucky then, figuring the confluence gave me two reasons to visit. 

I always felt a bit bad for Dad on those days, worrying that the luster of his special day was dimmed a bit by having to share it with Mom. But Dad didn't seem to mind. 

Now I have so many reasons to revel in this day, which celebrates both my parents and on which I will see or hear from my own precious daughters and grandchildren. 

It's a confluence all right. 

This Old Door

It's installation time: the long-awaited day when the new back door becomes a reality — and the old wooden one becomes history. That one is in such bad shape that I won't even include a photo of it in its entirety. But it's served us well and is worth a backward glance.

The old door wasn't professionally installed, but for decades it has shielded us from snow, cold, wind, rain and heat. It has kept pets and small children inside, or swung open to let them run across the desk and down the stairs. 

The door has been slammed by teenagers — and snuck through by teenagers too, although they preferred the basement window for their late-night escapes. 

It has been gouged and scuffed by pets, starting with our old cat, Basil, whose claws were much sharper than his sweet temper, followed by our dear departed doggie, Copper, who might scratch the door a dozen times a day to keep us apprised of his needs. 

In other words, the years have not been kind to the back door. The glass is mottled and wind whistles through a gap at the bottom. But it's our door, and in some strange way, I'll miss it when it's gone. 

Out with the Old

Like many folks during these waning days of 2023, I've spent a few hours getting rid of stuff I've accumulated this year and many other years (emphasis on the latter). In particular, I zeroed in on an area of the basement where I've stored — dumped might be a better word — the girls' dolls and toys. The girls who are grown up and raising children of their own. 

Obviously, this is a task I've postponed for years. And no wonder. It's a bittersweet duty indeed. Here were favorite toys I'd long since forgotten — stuffed rabbits, a dancing mouse, an acrobatic lamb on a stick, a jack-in-the-box. Here too were boxes of school work, mostly middle school and high school, so not that precious early stuff, but still a potential minefield. 

I'll admit the tears flowed as I sorted through these treasures. They were good tears, necessary tears. I was mourning a time of my life that is no more. Like any other loss, it's better to acknowledge it, to kiss it and let it go. As I write these words, I can hear the garbage truck stopping in front of the house. Now all of those relics ... are truly gone. 

(An old photo of a messy garage that I trot out when I need evidence of Too Much Stuff.)

Arrivals and Departures

A trip to the airport in predawn darkness, the only illumination (as we grew closer) the ominous glow of many tail lights. The departure lanes were so backed up that we scooted into Arrivals and found the way clear. All the passengers had to do was take the escalator one floor up to check their bags. 

I've been thinking since then about arrivals and departures, how closely they are bound. In our case, this morning, inseparably. But they are always linked: coming and going, giving and taking, opening and closing. 

It's not quite as simple as "what goes up must come down," but for every joyous embrace of welcome at the airport, there is the bittersweet hug at the end of the visit, dear ones flying back across the country. I'll be counting the days until they return and I can head to Arrivals again — this time, for real.

Boxing Day

In England and other parts of the Commonwealth, December 26th is Boxing Day. Here there was a little party in honor of our British son-in-law and our youngest daughter, who celebrate a wedding anniversary this time of year. 

But even without that excuse, I'm all for feting December 26th. And December 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th and 31st, too. In my book, it's Christmas all week long. 

It cuts against the grain in this country, I know, with many folks returning to work only hours after the last gifts are opened. But in other parts of the world, Boxing Day — or St. Stephen's Day — is the second day of Christmas, part of a longer celebration that gives people a chance to take a breath after the busyness of the season. 

And taking a breath is just what I'm doing today. That and very little else. 

Palimpsest

Rain dislodges leaves and sends them dripping and dropping into the backyard, which is already covered with them. Nothing like the old days, when we would wade through them ankle deep, but still a presence, a reminder of the season. 

When I look at the leaves from my upstairs window, I see a palimpsest, a manuscript that tells two stories, the lines on top and the faint scratches beneath: a new story and an older one. I see the yard as it is now, but I also see the yard of yore, little girls jumping into piles of brown and gold. 

Those little girls are grown. Now their children come to jump in the leaves, to bounce on the trampoline, to run and dance and play. But when I look at the yard I don't just see the newest little people, I see the ones that are no more, the young women who are once again the children I knew them to be.

Parental Equinox

Today is the birthday of our oldest daughter. I realized, as I counted the years, that today also marks a parental equinox of sorts for me: I've been a parent as long as I have not. 

What do I see from this perch, from this fine balance? Strangely enough, I see continuity. For me, becoming a mother didn't mark a revolution of caring but an expansion of it. Parenthood has been a way to give back the love that was given so freely to me by my own parents. It is the completion of a circle. 

I can't imagine a life without motherhood. I'm grateful beyond measure to have become a parent. But I've tried always to live as not-just-a-mother, to honor dear friends who live full lives without children, who are wonderful aunts and uncles (honorary and by blood). I hope this message got through to my daughters; I think it has. 

Most of all today, I'm thinking of the baby with a V-shaped mouth who seldom slept, who sang before she talked, who took us to places we never thought we'd go. She has grown and flourished. She has studied and learned. She has traveled to the other side of the world — the dusty red-dirt roads of the Sahel — and back. She has given us three other wonderful people to love: her husband and children. Because of her and her sisters, our hearts are full. A parental equinox, yes. But if I had to pick one side of the divide to live in always, I know which one I'd choose.

(Three-year-old Suzanne holds her baby sister, Claire.)

Toddler Time

To see the world through the eyes of a toddler — what riches that would bring! A kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, smells and textures. A riot of color. What a boon for a writer, to experience such raw sensation. 

The next best thing? Perhaps to follow a toddler around. A lively experience, of course, but difficult to document.

To capture a toddler in motion is like photographing a hummingbird. Too much movement to contain. Only when there's deep engagement can you move in and snap a shot. Luckily, that happened yesterday.

 

Savannahhh!

In 2015 it was Big Sky, Montana. In 2016, Chicago, followed by Huston in 2017 and St. Louis the year after that. And then we ran out of young'uns getting married, or at least ones having big weddings. 

This weekend, we made up for lost time. Savannah obliged by rolling out a pair of warm days and sultry evenings, perfect for strolling the brick-paved walks of this gracious southern city. 

I'm here to see people not scenery, but the place has wowed me just the same. 

Babies and Blankies

Parents in the know understand that blankets are no longer recommended for babies in the first year of life. Newborns are swaddled, infants wear wear sleep sacks, and only at one year of age are little ones thought ready for the real thing.

Who am I to argue against the wisdom of experts? That said, I do enjoy tucking a soft blanket around a sleeping baby. 

So yesterday I was thrilled to do just that with Aurora Anne, 12 months and two weeks of age. This morning I folded the blankie that covered her and put it away. If I held it close and inhaled it deeply I could pick up a trace of her sweet baby scent. 

Saving Posts

For the most part, I write a post, read it over once or twice to check for typos, then pretty much let it go. But today I've been making sure I have all the posts I've ever written, grouped in months, in PDF files on my computer. 

I couldn't help but read a few as I went along: There was the round-the-world trip of 2016. 

And something much smaller: riffing on journalism after seeing the movie "Spotlight," and remembering how my daughter said the film was "a little slow." That made me smile.

And then there was the couch sitting in a field in the Rocky Mountains. There's a story behind that one, as you might imagine. 

September 10th

It's Grandparents Day, and as we prepare to celebrate another family birthday (they come in clumps, don't they?), I'm thinking, actually, of my parents. 

They were never able to do what I'll do today, which is to wake up in my own house and drive 25 minutes to hold, tickle, cuddle and celebrate a precious grandchild on her special day. I know they missed this, and I wish they'd had it. 

I'll be the first to admit that I chafe at the suburbs, that I look for opportunities to leave and spend weeks wandering around European villages where beauty is given greater priority than it is here. 

But here ... is where my heart is. 

(Happy 1st Birthday, Aurora Anne! photo: CCG)

Bouncing Back

In the saga of returns, there is the personal return, as in people flying home to their primary residence. And then there is the return of the residence itself, when it comes into its own again. 

This old house was well cared for during our absence by the girls, who came over with their families to mow the lawn, water the plants and sometimes just to hang out. But last night was when it fully arrived. 

It was just a family birthday party, but these can be pretty lively. There were the toddlers shrieking, a baby cruising, and the oldest, the birthday boy himself, savoring the special meal and gifts. Hanging over it all, the parakeets sent out their joyous squawks. 

Now, more than ever, we're back.

(The trampoline usually plays a part in these big family gatherings. Photo: CCG.)