Sweet Baby James Cooper

September, 2011

    I’ve been a grandmother for three weeks now, thanks to the happy arrival of Baby James Cooper Rydberg.  And with the eminent arrival of Baby Harms in the next few week, after a long and emotionally draining wait, suddenly in the Harms family, it’s raining grandbabies!!  

    So, what does it feel like to be a grandmother?  Well, it’s wonderful.  There’s nothing better than cuddling with a baby, sniffing that sweet baby smell.  I’m thinking that this grandma gig is going to be really great.  

    But...

    When Joe took me in to the recovery room to see Baby James for the first time, it was an amazingly emotional experience.  I was beyond thrilled to meet my new grandson, but it was seeing the joy on Leslie’s face that brought the tears to my eyes.

    When we brought the baby home that first week and he was struggling with breast feeding, I was never concerned about the baby’s weight gain.  Instead, I was worried that Leslie would feel depressed and guilty about not being able to feed her baby in the way she wanted.

    When the baby had trouble sleeping, it was Leslie that I worried about being tired.

    When Leslie checked the baby’s diaper and was worried that his circumsized penis might be infected, I took a peek and offered my opinion.  I thought that everything looked okay, but I was immediately concerned about how tricky it was going to be for Leslie to combine being both a mother and a doctor.

    And when Leslie struggled with trying to decide whether to call her baby Jamie or James, it never occured to me to try to figure out which one he more looked like.  James Cooper is Leslie’s baby to name; I have already named mine.

    Don’t get me wrong.  I am truly enamoured of James Cooper.  I think he is the the most beautiful baby on earth right now, a title he will hold at least until his cousin in born!  I can stare at him for hours and like nothing better than for him to take a nap on my chest.  I love the times when I have him to myself and I can whisper love words in his tiny ear and pretend he is smiling back at me.  I am having a wonderful time wandering through baby stores and picking out cute baby clothes that I would probably have never been able to afford for my own firstborn.  I lay in bed at night and imagine all the fun things Baby James and I are going to do over the years.  

    But...

    When the phone rings and it’s Leslie, I ask first how she’s doing before I ask about James Cooper.  Because, I’ve realized that no matter how old I am, no matter how old Leslie is, she is, and will always be, my baby.

   Just as Baby James Cooper is, and will always be, hers.

Remembering Marshall

     There's a new page on facebook where people who grew up in my small hometown of Marshall can post their memories about growing up there.  It's only been up for about a week and already has a following of nearly 700 people.  Which is a pretty good turnout for a town that graduates less than ninety seniors each year and whose population has never topped 3,500.
     And, I have to say, Marshall's coming off looking pretty darn good.  Of the hundreds of posts, I haven't seen a single one that's negative.  All the teachers across the generations are loved, the catholic priests are revered, the mushrooms are to die for, the food in the school cafeteria is tasty, and everyone who moved away misses the town and still thinks of it as "home."  There are no memories of bullying in school, boredom at home, economic inequality, joblessness, break-ins, or worries about food being on the table.  Nor is there a single mention of alcoholism, even though the town has as many taverns as churches.  According to the facebook page, Marshall is the idyllic model of a small town--with happy families, rosy cheeked kids, no crime, no poverty, and no problems.  Mayberry at its best.
     Which is pretty much how I remembered Marshall too.  That is, until I moved back for several years in my mid-40's and started doing public defender work and seeing an underbelly of the town that I never knew existed. Murders in Marshall?  No way.  A serious drug problem?  I don't believe it.  Child abuse and neglect?  Not in my town.  Crippling poverty?  Not a chance.
     But it was all there underneath those shady elm trees.  And I'm pretty sure it was there when I was growing up--that there were a lot of kids who grew up in something other than idyllic conditions.  I thought I  knew everybody in town, but somehow I didn't know those kids.
     Which all makes me wonder about the facebook site and the Pollyanna picture that it portrays.  I suppose it's possible that people with really bad memories wouldn't be drawn to the site or wouldn't want to publicly post about them.  But what about the smaller problems that can play havoc with a happy childhood?  Is it possible that not a single person who was bullied in school has joined the group? Where are the memories of bad teachers, being the last one picked for the kickball team, loneliness, boredom, never getting off the bench in group sports, not having the quarter to get into the pool, the alcoholic cousin, the unemployed uncle?
     It may be telling that nearly all of the followers of the facebook site are over 50, with a well-worn AARP card in their wallets.  Maybe those 50 years are the time it takes for bad memories to fade and for the good ones to take on a prominence that they might not have always had. Maybe that's the time it takes for us to rewrite our memories in a way that deletes the bad times.
     I kind of hope that's the case--that bad memories get overridden by good ones as we get older. It makes me feel better about the bad things I saw in Marshall, especially those involving kids.  And it makes me think that there might actually be a silver lining to this whole aging thing--something better than my AARP  benefits and the promise of Social Security--which isn't looking all that promising lately.
     But I don't want to think about Social Security right now.  And I don't want to think about how my own memories of Marshall were a little tarnished when I moved back. I want to read about that 2 cent carton of milk we all used to buy at school.  And do you remember how much fun we had playing "Home Free All" late into the night?  Sleeping in the back yard in tents? Walking barefoot to the pool every day in the summer? How we all knew everybody in town?
     It really was an idyllic childhood.  Or so I think.

On Turning 60

    I made a bank deposit at the drive through the other day and drove away  with both my deposit slip and  the big pneumatic cylinder that they return the slip in.  I didn't realize it until that evening when I looked over and wondered what the odd thing sitting on my passenger seat was.  Oh.....
    When I told Alex about it the next morning, she just rolled her eyes and shook her head.  If Bess had been in the room,  I'm pretty sure they would have exchanged one of their knowing glances--that irritating, conspiracy of youth look that says, "I think Mom is losing it." 
     I'm turning 60 in a couple of weeks and the girls seem to see this as some sort of milestone, although not necessarily a good one.  I'm pretty sure they've started looking for signs of deterioration.  And I don't doubt that they're finding them.
     Saturday, for instance, I couldn't come up with my cat's name.  Which is a little bit pathetic since her name is "Kitty."  But, really, it was no big deal.  I  just used the anonymous call of, "Here kitty, kitty, kitty," and the cat came running.  No harm, no foul so to speak.
     My girls tend to see it differently though.  They seem to think that forgetfulness is a bad thing.  That it's tied up with aging.  Or brain cells dying. Or Mom losing it.  And so they look for signs.
     I probably should just ignore them.  But it's kind of got me worried that Alex may decide pretty soon that she can't let my grandson Flynn ride in a car with me. Come to think of it... I've never actually driven him anywhere yet.  And last weekend when I offered to drive home from St. Louis, she and Andy were quick to say that they weren't the least bit tired even though neither one of them has had a full nights sleep since Flynn arrived eight weeks ago.
     I think it might be time to sit down with the girls and explain to them that I'm okay, and that 60 is the new  40.  That I can still finish a crossword puzzle before either of them, name all of the finalists on Dancing With the Stars,  read several books a week (even if I can't remember the titles), and react in record  time at seeing anything vaguely resembling a mouse scampering across the floor. And that car accident this past winter?  It was absolutely not my fault.  Okay, I might bear a little responsibility for the broken back window in the Harms' Explorer, but that other accident...I was faultless.
     "Being able to text," I'll explain to them, "or having a phone with a keyboard, is not an appropriate test for competency."
     "And a little forgetfulness at a bank drive through is not a sign of impending senility. After all, I did remember to get my deposit slip.  It's right over....well, it's somewhere around here."
     All those signs they think they're seeing--they're really just nothing.
     When I was expecting Alex, I spent the entire nine months embroidering a special hand made blanket for her.  And then, on our very first outing, I set it on top of the car while buckling Alex in, forgot about it, and lost it forever somewhere along highway 40 in St. Louis.  My guess is that it probably ended up right beside my three gas caps that had the same fate.  And these things happened while I was a young 30-something.
    Surely the girls must remember me driving them to grade school and arriving with my coffee cup still on top of the car.  And I was how old then?  A baby...no more than 37.
     And what about that time that I wore two different shoes to the mall and shopped for 30 minutes before looking down and seeing one brown, one black, one flat, one with a heel.  I don't think I was even out of my 40's.
    That lost book that I finally found in the freezer....I was no more than 42 when I put it there.  Using hand lotion instead of conditioner on my hair....I've done that fairly regularly for decades. Forgetting to put the eggs in the recipe...not all that unusual over my lifetime of cooking.  And what about your Aunt Ellen?  She was only in her 30's when she drove the carpool and remembered to pick up everyone except her own daughter, who she left stranded at the grade school.
      "So girls," I'll explain, "the next time I drive off with the bank's cylinder, or forget your name, or open up the freezer when I'm looking for my book, don't assume that I'm losing it.  Because, believe me, I lost it a long time ago."
     And by the way, if you don't see me when you're reading this and think I might have wandered off, don't worry.  Flynn and I just went out for a little car ride. 

     
 

Where Have All the Bookstores Gone

     When I opened my used book store four years ago, I discovered some pet peeves I didn't know I had: dog-eared pages, books with writing in them, missing dust jackets, broken spines, scribblings in children's  books, and prices written in ink on books that eventually made their way to my store.
     Small irks.  All things I learned to live with.  A little Wite-Out took care of the inked prices.  Broken spines and dog-eared pages came to be seen as signs of a well read book.  Lines of initials on first pages as proof of a well traveled book.  And children's scribblings as a sign of an early appreciation of all of the arts.
     A few of the peeves I even learned to love.  Like the personalized inscriptions that so often express a fondness for a specific book as well as for a certain person.  All in all, a more than even trade for the pleasure of spending my days surrounded by books instead of by lawyers.
     But lately my pet peeves seem to have gotten bigger.  I get irritated not at books but at people.  The ones who write letters to editors bemoaning the closure of a local bookstore but buy their books off of Amazon.  The ones who don't browse in a bookstore because their lives are just too busy with all their electronic gadgets.  The ones who buy Kindles so as not to clutter their homes with books, but have four sets of china and two more bedrooms than family members.  The ones who consider books clutter.
     Admittedly these new irritations are all in direct correlation to what I see as dwindling book sales and the willingness of people to give up the pleasure of holding an actual book, flipping through it's pages, cuddling up in a chair with it, writing a personal inscription in it and, when they're finished, handing it off to a friend who might enjoy it.
     A woman came into my store recently looking for paperbacks because she thought her new Kindle was causing her hands to cramp.  I almost cheered.  It gave me hope.
     Surely, amid all the warnings and testings for hazards that we do in this country, someone will verify a causal connection between the new book readers and some minor health hazard.  Maybe they'll even find a slight, but verifiable, harm from second hand exposure to the devices.  They might even want to test for any slightly offensive odor that they emit.  With luck, some sort of graphic warning will be required.
    I'm not hoping for a cancer connection.  Just something minor that we booksellers can grab onto.  Something that makes people just a little bit afraid or irritated.
    And while they're at it, I hope they also do a test to reaffirm that browsing used book stores and holding an actual book in your hands causes pleasure. Because too many people seem to be forgetting that.

Soap on a Rope

Jim isn't the easiest person to buy presents for at any time, and June is a particularly bad time because his birthday and Father's Day are usually only days apart. Years ago, one of his children had the grand idea of getting him soap on a rope for the shower. Jim oohed and aahed over the gift, used it daily, and hung it up in the shower where it became a very visible symbol of a successful gift. Forever after, soap on a rope became the present of choice for Jim--and the present that always created dissension among the four kids as they competed for who would find the first (and best) soap on a rope.

Many months ago Johanna and I found an amazing collection of soaps on a rope at our favorite TJ Maxx. They had soaps on a rope in the shape of a dog bone, a ghost, a frog, and a rubber duckie. Ever aware of the difficulty of finding soap on a rope at auspicious times, we bought out the lot and Johanna came home with a big grin and years worth of presents for Jim. And unique soaps on a rope that would probably outshine any that her siblings might buy.

We stashed the soaps in a drawer for safekeeping, completely forgot that we had a ghost soap on a rope for Halloween, but did remember the dog bone for Christmas. Then we promptly forgot them once again until, searching for items for Steve's garage sale, I opened the drawer and found a ghost, a duck, and two frogs!

We were heading down to Lake Mattoon for Father's Day and had invited our friends the Garlands and the Meents to join us. Jo and her friend Sarah love to sing and they had decided to compose a song in honor of Father's Day. It only seemed appropriate to incorporate soap on a rope into the song and share Johanna's soap on a rope bounty. Jim and Greg Garland ended up with frog soaps on a rope and Dick Meets got the rubber duckie. I'm guessing that they had no idea just how much panache attaches to soap on a rope, but they were still impressed. Jim, as usual, was pleased.

As I am sure that he will be next Halloween when he gets a ghost soap on a rope!

Jo, Sarah, and Matt's Father's Day Song

We like our DAds, /Yes we do

Jim, Dick, and Greg,/ What a crew!

Jim takes our pictures. / He makes us smile.

When it comes to fashion,/ he is out of style

Our coach, Greg, /always makes us hustle.

His son, Matt, /shows off his muscle.

Dick likes to talk a lot./ He's full of hot air.

That's why Sarah/ can lift him in the air.

Jim says that we/ are a bit squirrly,

He always yells/ “not another girly.”

Dick's favorite spot is/ his chair that reclines.

He likes to relax/ with a clicker and felines.

Greg is our favorite coach./ HE loves running drills.

When he's not coaching us,/ he loves running GRILLS.

Jim likes poker/ and he likes sudoko

We all think that/ he’s a bit loco!

Dick likes to drink/ a beer after mowing

We wonder where/ his hair is going.

Greg likes to make us/ run laps and jog.

He would really like/ to get a family dog.

We like our Dads,/ yes we do

JIm, Dick, and Greg,/ What a crew.

You’re the best dads,/ so lets give a cheer.

We’d like to give you/ a year’s worth of beer

But beer is too expensive/ and we’re too cheap

Jim, Dick, and Greg, /please don’t weep!

You're the bestest fathers/ and that's not a joke.

So here's your present, / its soap on a rope.

Just Like My Dad

     I've always been a lot like my mom--small in stature, introverted, self-conscious in groups, and a little too quick to find something I'm dissatisfied with or worried about.  My dad, on the other hand, was portly, a people person, and completely content with all aspects of his unassuming life--including me.  I adored him.
     As a kid, I tried to be more like him.  I went to White Sox games instead of shopping, practiced softball more than piano, and collected autographs of major league players instead of movie stars.  I avoided the hard classes, reined in ambition, and on almost every night during my last years of high school I watched Johnny Carson with him.
     We had our regular seats.  Dad's was a big brown plaid recliner that I never had enough heft to make recline.  The fabric was worn in patches and the arms were smudged with grease that the Lava soap didn't reach and that Dad brought home every day from the chemical plant where he worked from my birth until his retirement.
     Mine was Mom's stuffed, blue tweed rocker that sat to the left of Dad's chair, separated by a lamp table that allowed them both to read their library books at night.  By the time Johnny came on Mom had usually vacated the chair and moved to the couch, where she'd recline and fall asleep with an open book by her side.  On the few occasions when she stayed awake, I'd lay down on the shag carpet directly in front of the console TV, with Dad at my back.
     Dad almost always had a crossword puzzle that he would work on during the show and I had Dad.  It was a more insular world back then and not a lot of popular culture reached our small rural town.  With only three TV stations and sporadic radio reception, I didn't know the majority of the guests. As they were making their entrance, Dad would patiently explain who they were and why they were famous, often adding a little of his own history to their stories.
     We each had our favorites.  Mine was an author, whose name I don't remember, but who was urbane and witty and always brought along his Asian wife, who was both exotic and gorgeous.  Dad liked anyone who was connected to sports or the big bands, but also had a particular fondness for Angie Dickinson, who never failed at getting him to set down that crossword.  We both liked the new comedians and Carmac the Magnificent, and rarely missed the opening monologue.
     Sometimes Dad would get up during a commercial to make us popcorn.  And sometimes, I would get up and bring back ice cream.  But more often than not we didn't need anything besides each other's company. It was an hour and a half each night where I was completely content--and just a little bit like my dad.

Sathre as a Surname

     I have an ongoing inner debate about whether the internet is a good thing or a bad thing.   It was a good thing when I found a "no egg" cookie recipe the night that I had a sweet tooth but an empty refrigerator.  It was a bad thing when I had a minor back ache and self diagnosed myself with any number of scary diseases.
    And earlier this week it was a good thing when I discovered yellowpages.com and realized that I could throw out all those Yellow Books that seem to arrive on my doorstep in multiples several times a year.  I  probably could have thrown away all of my white pages too.  Except that I have a particular fondness for white pages.
     Every vacation when I was growing up, I had a mission.  As soon as we checked into a motel room, I'd pull out the local white pages and search for other people with the name of "Sathre."  I never found a single one.  And  I always felt a little smug about having a name that no one else had.  It was almost like having our very own family crest.
     According to our family lore, my grandfather made up our name when he immigrated from Norway in the early 1900's.  Starting the journey as Peter Anderson, he became increasingly upset to find that a large number of the passengers on the crowded boat shared his common Scandinavian surname.  Not wanting to start a life in a new country with a name that so many people had, he decided he needed a new one and, somehow, came up with Sathre.
     Since my grandfather died when my dad was seven, this account was never properly vetted.  But I loved the story and was certain that my grandfather had done a great job of distinguishing our family with a wholly original name. I didn't know a single Sathre outside of our immediate family, and there weren't any Sathres in the phone book of our small, southern Illinois town.  But since our town had only 3000 people and a phone book of a mere 34 pages, I wanted further proof.
     And I got it. On family trips to Springfield, Illinois, Kentucky Lake, Kentucky, Kingsport, Tennessee, and McCormick's Creek, Indiana, I'd check phone book after phone book to confirm my singular distinction as a Sathre.  I was never disappointed.
    But it was our trips to Chicago and Indianapolis and St. Louis that really made me proud.  There, right next to the Gideon bibles, I found phone books the size of booster seats with more names than even my grandfather could have imagined.  I nervously ran my finger down page after page of S's and Sa's and Sat's and Sath's, and to my great delight, never found a single Sathre.
     I was able to travel through childhood and most of adulthood without ever having to see my name in print next to someone else's address.  It played a part in my deciding to keep my surname when I got married and in giving "Sathre" to both of my daughters as a middle name. 
     This morning, like I do so many days, I got up, got on the internet and opened my Facebook page.  I had a suggested friend.  It was no one I had heard of before.  His name was Joseph Sathre.
     The internet is a very bad thing.