Things My Grandma Friends Didn’t Tell Me

    I was just about the last of all my friends to become a Grandma.  So for years I’ve listened to all those other Grandma’s expounding on all the special joys of Grandmotherhood.  But there are some things that those other Grandma’s forgot to tell me.

    They all told me that the best part of being a grandma was that when you got tired, someone else takes the baby home.  What they forgot to tell me was that sometimes, even though you’re tired, you sort of wish that the baby would stay.  In fact, some days you would like it if that baby would just move right in!

    They all told me that the best part was watching your child become a wonderful parent.  What they forgot to tell me was that sometimes, even though your child is a very wonderful parent, you have to bite your lip VERY hard so that your own (outdated, though they may be) parenting ideas and suggestions don’t come bursting out!

    They all told me that the best part was getting to watch that beautiful baby learn all sorts of new things.  

    Like maneuvering all over the house in the brand new walker that his loving grandma and grandpa picked out even though the Academy of Pediatrics strongly recommends against them.  (For the record, because of the recommendations of the Academy of Pediatrics, even though I think there is nothing cuter than a baby sound asleep on her tummy with her little butt up in the air, I always, always put James and Zoe to sleep on their backs.  And, even though sometimes, it felt a bit chilly in their bedrooms, I never, never cover them up with even the lightest of blankets.)  (and  furthermore, for the record, we did pick out a walker with all sorts of safety mechanisms, including a stair brake and extra wide sides to prevent babies from going through doors.)

    Just like those other Grandma’s said, it’s been great fun watching Baby James streak around the ground floor of his Chicago house, shrieking at the top of his lungs from the sheer joy of movement and freedom and accomplishment!

    But those other Grandma’s didn’t tell me what is the very best part of being a Grandma.   The very best part of being a grandma is that sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, if you turn your head just right or just quickly enough when you hear a happy baby shriek, you catch a momentary glimpse of another much loved baby, one that was loved just as much, one that grew up a bit too quickly. 

    The very best part of being a Grandma is loving your child’s baby and remembering just how much you loved your own.

Jury Duty

    Several years ago when she was the Public Defender for Clark and Edgar counties, my sister Jeanne found herself defending two brothers on a murder charge.  The alleged crime took place a decade before, and no bodies were ever recovered.  Using her considerable skills Jeanne was able to convince a jury to deliver a non-guilty verdict based on reasonable doubt.  Shortly thereafter, the mother of the defendants gave Jeanne a large handmade wooden plaque carved with flowers and etched with the words:  “To Jeanne Sathre, a Rose in the Thorns of Justice.”

    When I got my notice to appear at the Champaign Court House to serve a week of jury duty, it occurred to me that while I was never going to be a Rose in the Thorns of Justice, this might be my chance to be part of the bouquet!

    This was not my first notice to appear for jury duty.  Almost thirty years ago, when I came home from the hospital with my newly born twin daughters, waiting for me, along with five year old Steve and three year old Leslie, was a summons from the Champaign County Clerk.  I remember calling the Clerk’s office and telling some anonymous person that “I would be happy to serve, but that currently I was recovering from a C-Section and trying to take care of 4 children under the age of five,including two newborns.”  I distinctly remember that person saying,  “Oh you poor thing, don’t worry about it!”  I can only infer that this sympathetic person put some sort of giant star by my name and buried my name under piles of bureaucratic red tape since my name never again came up on the jury roster until now.  

    All these years later I walked into the Champaign Court House fully confident that I was very well prepared to be a standout juror.  After all those years of refereeing battles between the aforementioned twins, after years and years of watching reruns of Law and Order, after reading every John Grisham book, after years of observing the telltale signs of four teenagers speaking less than the full truth, I was ready to bloom in a courtroom!

    But, as is too often the case, neither John Grisham nor Law and Order had prepared me for the reality of jury duty in Champaign, Illinois.  Day 1 I reported as ordered to the jury room where, along with 150 of my fellow potential jurors, I watched a video that told me what to expect, all of which I already knew from those Law and Order episodes.  Then half of us were excused for the day while the other half were told to come back for the afternoon.  I was in the returning group, so after a quick lunch, I soon found myself back in the jury room.  Where I remained for quite a long time, long enough to get well into a police procedural mystery book.  Finally, however, my wait was over, and my foray into the halls of justice was about to begin.  As a group, forty of us were led upstairs to a third floor courtroom where a jury for a residential burglary case was ready to be empanelled.      

    Four potential jurors were called to the jury box, and the judge began asking them questions.  ‘Did you,’ he asked, ‘recognize the defendant, or either attorney?’  “No,” I answered to myself.  ‘Did you,’ he asked, ‘recognize any of the names of potential witnesses?’ “Mmm,’ I thought, ‘well, I knew the policeman from the soup kitchen backpack program.’  ‘Do you have,’ he asked, ‘any close friends or family members who are attorneys?’  ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘my sister is a public defender and a thorn in the side of Justice.  And then there’s Helen Grandone and Peg O’Donoghue and Jim Hagle and Bill and Andy Hatch and Dick Joy....’  While I was still naming attorney friends, the judge was continuing, ‘Do you have, he asked, ‘have any close friends or family members who are police officers?’  ‘No,’ I thought.  And then the killer question, the one that was going to keep me off this jury.  “Have you or your family members ever been a victim of a crime?’ he asked.  And I silently gulped, remembering the time in Chicago that I was the victim of armed robbery, the time my apartment was broken into.  I remembered the time in St. Louis my car was stolen.  I remembered the time Steve was mugged on the Illinois campus, the time he was arrested in Madison for disturbing the peace, and the time a roommate fraudulently wrote checks on his account.  I was still coming up with crimes when the judge asked ‘Have you or your family members been convicted of a crime?’ and I was happy to realize that, discounting traffic tickets, we were a non-felonious family.

    I sat for an interminable afternoon as more and more of my fellow jurors were called to the box, as more and more were rejected for cause.  I was pretty sure that my own residential burglary, albeit one that took place almost 40 years ago, would be grounds for the Assistant DA to reject me.  But I never got a chance to find out.  A full jury was picked before my number was ever called, and the rest of us were thanked, told to call in to see if we were needed the following day, and dismissed.

    Disappointed, I called the jury coordinator’s number that evening, only to find that numbers 1-50 were required to show up the following morning.  Ever optimistic, I headed out on Day 2, sure that this would be my chance.  After all, surely there were many crimes beside residential burglary, armed robbery, car theft, mugging, check fraud, and disturbing the peace that occurred regularly in Champaign. 

    After another long wait in the jury room where I finished the police procedural mystery that I began the day before, potential jurors 1-50 were told that the case had been settled, no jurors were needed, and that we were dismissed for the day.  But please call and see if we were needed on Day 3.

    Day 3, jurors 51-150 were needed.  Number 11, me, was not needed.

    Day 4, no jurors, including #11 were needed.

    Day 5, no jurors, including #11 were needed.  

    ‘Thank you for your service’ we were told.  

    No one etched it on a wooden plaque.     

        

Aging

    I read an article about aging recently that pointed out that most individuals don’t take on new personality traits as they age.  Rather, aging tends to exaggerate traits that have always been present.  For example, a sweet tempered person doesn’t usually become grouchy.  It’s the person who always was a bit of a complainer who becomes downright crotchety.

    This phenomena was very apparent in my parents.  Dad, who was always frugal, became extremely parsimonious as he aged.  Late in life he discovered the Goodwill store, and from then on, it was his favorite place to shop.  My mother, who had always been a fashionista, albeit on Dad’s frugal budget, and who was by that time disabled by Parkinson’s and by debilitating eye problems, ended up wearing clothes that Dad lovingly picked out with an unerring eye for what was the least flattering!  Dealing with cataracts himself, the new clothes that Dad picked out for himself usually had stains or spots he didn’t see.  If pants didn’t fit, rather than spend money on tailoring, Dad just hemmed them up with staples!  At Christmas Dad’s grandchildren learned to express their gratitude with a straight face for the bags he put together every year, filled with Goodwill treasures he’d collected for months.  Dad also loved to shop for bargains at the grocery store, particularly at the meat counter.  Jeanne was the frequent recipient of steaks sold for half price after their expiration date.  Eating a dinner that Dad cooked always felt like a bit of a gamble.  Dad, however, was always the most loving and sweet tempered of men, and, even after a debilitating stroke, he remained cheerful, loving, and happy.

    Mom was always a bit of a worrier, and this trait magnified as she aged.  Where once she worried but also delighted in new experiences and opportunities, as she aged, she began to only see hazards.  No, Alex shouldn’t go off to Yale, it was too far, too big.  No, Leslie shouldn’t study in Rome or Paris for the summer, she didn’t speak the language, she might get lost.  Mom’s propensity for worrying eventually led to the family’s withholding information from her to spare her distress, but it also separated and isolated her.

    As aging begins to hit home as something that is happening, not just to other people, but to Jim and me, it’s a bit disconcerting to think about what traits we have that may become exaggerated.  Unfortunately, this phenomena is not something that we have any control over.  We can’t pick what parts of ourselves we’d like to enhance!  Nor can our children--and I’m sure that they’re concerned!

    Jim, already a man of few words, will probably become even more terse.  However, his hobby of photography will probably become even more annoying now that he has grandchildren to take pictures of.  And there is the possibility, if unchecked, that he could end up one of those pathetic old men who end their days in a house filled from top to bottom with clutter.  Not a pretty thought!

    I will probably end my days lazing on the couch, reading ever trashier novels, in a house filled to overflowing with mermaids and Marlene paintings.  The voice inside my head that occasionally says “Enough, ellen, stop nagging,” will be permanently silenced, and I will spend my declining years critiquing everything from my children’s spouses to their wardrobes and their hairstyles.  And I will probably sing a lot!

Lightning Bugs

   Six years ago I was surprised to get a postcard from Mary Kay Tiefel Hedges, the mother of Robbie, my best friend growing up on North 8th Street in Marshall, Illinois.  It said “I’m sending you something that reminded me of the summers when you girls were growing up.”  

    Robbie and I grew up in a small town in the days before houses were air conditioned, before televisions had kids’ programming on all day long, before video games, ipods, and dvd players were invented, before most mothers worked and most kids spent their days at day camps or sports camps.  We spent our summer days outside with a big group of neighborhood kids playing hopscotch and baseball, roller skating, running through sprinklers, swimming in backyard kiddie pools, daydreaming, coloring, riding bikes, playing paper dolls, playing monopoly, playing school, playing house, jumping rope, putting on plays, running kool-ade stands.

    I spent the week before Mary Kay’s package arrived trying to imagine what she had found that reminded her of those long ago idyllic summer days.  Could she be sending colored chalk for making hopscotch squares or even a perfect flat throwing rock?   Maybe a skate key, like the ones we used to wear tied around our necks?  Maybe she had found an old set of Betsy McCall paper dolls like the ones we used to scatter all around her living room?  MIckey Mouse ears?  A Davie Crockett coonskin cap?  Bright red paraffin lips?  A Nancy Drew book?  To this day I always think of Mary Kay whenever I eat cinnamon toast, a favorite treat I first tasted in her kitchen, but I’m pretty sure that she wasn’t sending a tin of cinnamon.

    Mary Kay’s package finally arrived several days later.  I tore it open to find.... A Bug Jar!!!  A bug jar just like the old mayonnaise jars that we used to carry around on warm summer nights and fill with the lightning bugs that flashed and flitted and turned those evenings into magic times.  Looking at the jar and laughing, I remembered so many evenings running through yards with Robbie, chasing the illusive creatures that would blink right in front of you and then disappear into the darkness as you grabbed for one and too often ended up empty handed until you spotted another one blinking again a few steps away and off you ran.  I remember filling the bottom of the jar with grass just in case the lightning bugs wanted something to eat and poking holes in the lid so that the poor creatures could breathe.  I remember sometimes crawling into bed and falling asleep watching a jarful of lightning bugs blinking away as they climbed up the sides of the jar, but more often my mother convincing me to free my captives before I went inside.  My mother was wise in the ways of lightning bugs because watching the bugs crawl to the very top of my jar and then launch themselves off into the night was another kind of magic, much better than waking in the morning to find them dead at the bottom of the jar.  

    My prime lightning bug catching days were back in the 1950’s. It’s been more than fifty years since Robbie and I spent summer evenings chasing after lightning bugs.  These days there seems to be fewer lightning bugs flitting around and fewer children chasing after them.  Although my four children grew up in the era of air conditioning and 24-hour children’s programming on tv, they, like me, also grew up in a neighborhood filled with children and with a mother who shoved them out of the house on warm summer nights to play Kick the Can and Hide and Seek--and to chase after lightning bugs.  (Johanna was the acknowledged neighborhood lightning bug champion.  My most patient child, her jar always contained the most bugs.  My softest hearted child, she always was the first to set her bugs free before bedtime.)  But it’s been years since they or I have captured a lightning bug.

    Not everything has improved in the last fifty years.  But my new bug jar is certainly the new improved version.  Although the jar arrived without air holes poked into the top, it came with something better.  It came with its own battery operated lightning bugs.  Last night I crawled into bed and fell asleep watching my jarful of lightning bugs happily blinking away.  And when I woke up in the morning they were all still blinking!

    Mary Kay died several years ago, but my lightning bug jar blinks on.  Already this spring the days are filled with sunshine and the evenings are growing warmer.  Soon, soon the lightning bugs will begin their summer dance.  

    Mary Kay’s lighting bug jar was a truly magical gift, reminding me again of the magic of memories, the magic of summer, and the magic of childhood friendships that last a lifetime.

I Miss My Front Porch

I house sat for Ellen last week.  Or more accurately, I dog sat for her two big golden retrievers who happen to live in her house and were able to find my chocolate covered peanuts within fifteen minutes of my arrival and get them out from the bottom of my duffel bag without pulling out a single piece of underwear.  They also woke me every morning at 6:00 a.m-- exactly an hour before I had any intention of getting up.

 

But get up I did, as there's little sleep to be had with over a hundred pounds of dog  sitting on your stomach and washing your face. 

 

Ellen lives in a big turn of the century house on a big lot that she moved into nearly 30 years ago and that still looks much like it did when our kids played Barbie's together or fought over Christmas presents. She has a tendency to avoid change, so that the curtains that she thought she might need when she moved in have never been put up and pictures that are finally hung are never taken down.  Even when she redecorates, she tends  to use the same colors and same styles that she had before, so that although the house has been updated over the years, it's never really changed.

 

The Little Tikes plastic orange and yellow picnic table still sits under the tall evergreen in the side yard, lonely now, but likely to be rediscovered by grandchildren soon.  The back yard still has a huge wooden treehouse that is standing, but will need some serious attention before those same grandkids are ever allowed to climb up.

 

There are two fenced sections in the back yard that are intended to separate the area for dogs and the area for grass and flowers, but which Ellen is neglectful about policing, so that there is never a lot of grass throughout, and the flowers so carefully planted by a landscaper don't always make it through the season. The hole that was being dug to China by little boys is still there, as is a small grove of saplings planted by neigborhood kids over twenty-five years ago, although they're now trees in an awkward place.

 

The overall effect is a homey house, well loved and well lived in.  A remarkable house, really, but not a showplace unless your preference, like mine, is for overstuffed bookcases with popular titled paperbacks, comfortable couches that you can sleep the night on, lots of unmatched pictures and photographs (not a single one in a silver frame) lining the mantle and hanging a little crooked on the walls.

 

But best of all to my mind is the front porch spanning the entire house and then angling down the side with a separate section that is screened in and holds a ping pong table.  There is a wood floor throughout, wide front steps to sit on, and a swing to while away lazy days.

 

The daily newspapers are delivered there.  One at the end of the long driveway by an adult in a car with a huge route that might actually support a family.   The other more local paper right under the front door by a girl, maybe 13, on a bike.  Or at least it was a girl the last time I house sat.  This time I missed her, and I fear that I caught a glimpse of a slowly moving car delivering that second paper too.

 

The house we grew up in had a front porch nearly as big. It was the coolest place in the house on summer days and the wood floor was the perfect spot for sitting and playing all day games of tiddly-winks and monopoly and battleship. There was no swing, but the wooden railings encircling three sides became seats and horses and perfect jumping off spots that left huge holes in the hostas that grew at the bottom. There was only one lone lightbulb in the center of the ceiling so the shaded corners beckoned for good night kisses as we grew older. I loved that porch.

  

Ellen has a back deck too, added when they first bought the house.  I sat there sometimes while the dogs did their business and searched for tennis balls for me to throw. It's a nice deck with a hot tub and a weber grill and plenty of seating.

 

But it's the front porch that I miss--along with morning papers and papergirls.

Miss America

   When I was growing up in the pre-feminist 50’s, one of the yearly television highlights was the Miss America contest.  My whole family, Dad included, would gather in the living room to watch the annual pageant.  (Given that in those days our television received only two channels, this was not a huge sacrifice on my dad’s part!)  We would all curl up in the living room, Mom on the couch, Dad usually in his recliner, and Jeanne and me stretched out on the floor, where we would munch on popcorn while we admired the evening dresses, critiqued the talent contest, and cheered on our favorites.  

    Miss America was not just a one night phenomena that went away after Bert Parks sang to the winner.  For weeks after, Jeanne and I would play Miss America painting our lips with our mother’s lipstick and wearing gowns created out of her slips and petticoats.  My cousin Linda and I would spend hours walking up and down the stairs at her house with books on our head in an effort to perfect a graceful walk.  And I would fall asleep for many nights after imagining myself wearing a glittering evening gown and reciting a poem I’d written.  (I was enough of a realist to know that even in my wildest dreams I had no talent as a singer, dancer, piano player, or even a baton twirler but I thought I might make it as a poet. It does occur to me now, however, that in those simpler days, while I had doubts about my talent, I seem to have had no doubts about my beauty.)

    My Miss America dreams faded and dissipated as I grew older and the conservative ‘50’s turned into the rebellious and tumultuous ‘60’s and ‘70’s.  With one exception.  Miss American 1968, Judy Ford, enrolled at the University of Illinois in 1969 after her reign as the first trampoline jumping beauty queen, and I, an embarrassed budding feminist, hid behind posts in the armory and followed her around as she was registering for classes so I could see a real Miss America in person!

    The Miss America contest was an insignificant part of my life for many years after that ignoble event.  While I’m sure that I must have watched occasionally, I don’t have any significant Miss America memories while I was a newlywed or a busy young mother.  And, since by then televisions had many more channels than two, Jim certainly never felt compelled to watch the competition with me.     

    But the Miss America fascination must have been smouldering somewhere in my brain all those years.  That’s the only reason I can come up with for what I did years ago on a vacation to Florida.  My sister Jeanne and I established an annual tradition of a trip to Florida with her two daughters and my two youngest after the traumatic summer of 1988 that saw Johanna diagnosed with a brain tumor and Jeanne diagnosed with breast cancer.  For years we flew off to Florida in August right before school started for a week of sun and fun in a condo by the ocean.

    One day, after a long morning on the beach, Jeanne and I brought everyone inside during the hottest part of the afternoon and instead of just letting the four girls veg out in front of the tv, I proposed that we have our very own “Miss Florida” contest, with bathing suit, evening gown, and talent competitions.  The girls were delighted with the idea and soon were busy scrounging bed sheets and towels and beach coverups to create their costumes.  At first there was just lots of laughing and giggling, but soon I began to hear other sounds and I began to realize that my fun afternoon game might not be quite the happy event I had anticipated.  “What’s the prize?” asked Jill.  “Who’s going to pick the winner?” asked Alex.  

    I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Competition between these two cousins was fierce.  If they were diving in the pool, they would argue about whose toes were the most pointed.  They argued over who found the biggest sand dollar or the most shells.  One day they were bobbing.  “How many bobs did you do?” asked Jill.  “Thirty,” answered Alex too quickly.  “I did thirty-one,” said Jill.

    I tried the old ‘this is just for fun’ trick, but they weren’t buying it.  Out they paraded in their bathing suits for the first competition, glaring at each other.  Even they had to laugh at Johanna, who had stuffed tennis balls into the top of her suit, giving her a Dolly Parton look.  But Johanna wasn’t the competition they were worried about.  Out they paraded in their evening gowns, Alex looking confident, Jill less so.  And then out they came, singing.  Jill, ever dramatic, sang her heart out.  She looked confident, Alex less so.

    If I remember correctly, the judges tried their best to make everyone happy.  Johanna, we announced, was the swimsuit winner.  Alex, we announced, was the evening gown winner.  Jill, we announced, was the talent winner.  And Bess was Miss Florida.

    Bess was thrilled.  Johanna was happy.  Johanna, in fact, may have also won Miss Congeniality, because she was the only child who went up and hugged and congratulated the new Miss Florida.  Jill and Alex were both irate and complained about the results for the rest of the trip.  As to prizes, Jeanne and I bought trinkets at a souvenir shop.  I don’t remember what Johanna and Bess got, but Jill and Alex got tiny ceramic crabs!

    Both Jill and Alex have gone on to their own successes, but Jill at least has never quite forgiven me for Bess’s victory.  I have a picture of the four cousins in their contest finery hanging at the lake house and Jill grimaces every time she looks at it. “But Mom,” she says, “Did you hear Bess sing?”

    I’m pretty sure that to this day Jill regrets not slipping tennis balls into her bathing suit top!

The Learning Curve of a First Time Mom

                     

It's been a long time since I had babies, but I'm pretty sure I would have gotten Flynn's seat belt right on the grocery cart and not made it into a shoulder harness like Alex did.  She's a first time mom and still has a learning curve.

Not that I would ever say anything.

She bought one of those big fancy strollers that weigh a ton and have more cup holders than my Honda.

"No!" I wanted to tell her.  "It's too big.  It's too heavy.  You don't need all those bells and whistles. They irritate people on sidewalks and in stores because you push people off the curbs and hog the aisles.  You only need one of those little umbrella strollers with no suspension and a wonky wheel like we had in the 80's."

She thinks babies can't have cheerios unless they're broken up into little pieces.

"No!" I want to laugh.  "You don't need to buy expensive freeze dried yogurt melts that I'm going to eat when you're not looking. Babies have been eating whole cheerios for generations.  Sure, we may have been wrong about the hot dogs, but whole cheerios are fine. Even generic ones. You ate so many whole cheerios as a baby you probably have a few still digesting in your stomach."

She thinks it's time for Flynn to learn how to walk. 

"No!" I want to yell.  "If he can walk, he can run.  Out into streets, away from you at grocery stores, into the middle of clothing racks at department stores where you won't be able to find him and will have to call security. Crawling is good.  It's controlled.  You can still go faster than him. You want to keep him crawling until he's six or so."

She moved Flynn's crib into my room when we stayed together in a hotel for two weeks.

"WHAT?! Doesn't he wake up in the middle of the night and need a bottle? How will you hear him?"  I think I said this out loud.

Because she just grinned.

She may be farther along on that learning curve than I thought.