you wander slowly through my mind
waking what was napping
and if a gossamer thread
could hold a dream
this one would bethe first spin
if the shell fragments flung
when the world egg cracked
could find themselves in fragile ivory
and form a star
it would be the second
if the quicksilver of your smile
could fall on the wayside
and I could find it for my pocket
it would be the third
if I could stand in the shade of your breath
and feel the warm in and out
touch my hands
it would be the fourth
and if a reed
whistling green notes
could call you to my side
and I could keep you
it would be the last
oh
it would be the last
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Wilbur and no car
Yesterday I had lunch with my daughter, Lori, and her daughter, 12 year old Jordan.
Jordan wore royal purple pants, an olive drab tee, layered by a white blouse and black and white shoes. Her glasses are black Soho with rhinestones and her long blond hair was held back with blizzard blue barrettes. She is a fashion plate, my young granddaughter.
She ordered a bacon burger with no bacon.
"Please put the bacon on the side," her mother said. "I will eat it."
"Mom, how could you? That's like eating Wilbur!" Jordan eats any other kind of meat but eating Wilbur is abhorrent to her sensibility.
The three of us chatted for a while, mostly about my birthday, and then I asked Jordan what was new and exciting in her life.
"Not much," she said.
"New crush?"
She gave me a sideways look and I deduced that was a non subject. You never know what is off limits with a 12 year old. It changes like the wind.
I never ask that most hated of all questions, "How is school?' So I waited.
She gave her mother the bacon and picked the tomato off her hamburger. God forbid she should eat a tomato.
"You know," she said, peering under the bun for other offensive veggies, "I have been feeling pretty independent lately."
I was afraid to look at her mother. A smile was not an option and I was afraid I would slip.
"How so?" I asked, hoping I sounded casual.
"Well you know, when you are in middle school you have to make your own decisions, like which way to go to get to class and how many people you can talk to without being late and if you're willing to risk being late to talk to someone special. You know, it's not like when you're a kid and they make you line up and go everywhere together. I mean in middle school , you're really out there on your own."
I nodded. "Middle school is very different," I agreed.
"Sure is. Kinda like being an adult except you don't have a car."
Imagine that. Being in middle school is like being an adult without a car.
"How is everything?" asked the waitress.
I smiled at her, happy to have someplace to put my big grin.
"Wonderful," I said. "It's just wonderful."
Jordan wore royal purple pants, an olive drab tee, layered by a white blouse and black and white shoes. Her glasses are black Soho with rhinestones and her long blond hair was held back with blizzard blue barrettes. She is a fashion plate, my young granddaughter.
She ordered a bacon burger with no bacon.
"Please put the bacon on the side," her mother said. "I will eat it."
"Mom, how could you? That's like eating Wilbur!" Jordan eats any other kind of meat but eating Wilbur is abhorrent to her sensibility.
The three of us chatted for a while, mostly about my birthday, and then I asked Jordan what was new and exciting in her life.
"Not much," she said.
"New crush?"
She gave me a sideways look and I deduced that was a non subject. You never know what is off limits with a 12 year old. It changes like the wind.
I never ask that most hated of all questions, "How is school?' So I waited.
She gave her mother the bacon and picked the tomato off her hamburger. God forbid she should eat a tomato.
"You know," she said, peering under the bun for other offensive veggies, "I have been feeling pretty independent lately."
I was afraid to look at her mother. A smile was not an option and I was afraid I would slip.
"How so?" I asked, hoping I sounded casual.
"Well you know, when you are in middle school you have to make your own decisions, like which way to go to get to class and how many people you can talk to without being late and if you're willing to risk being late to talk to someone special. You know, it's not like when you're a kid and they make you line up and go everywhere together. I mean in middle school , you're really out there on your own."
I nodded. "Middle school is very different," I agreed.
"Sure is. Kinda like being an adult except you don't have a car."
Imagine that. Being in middle school is like being an adult without a car.
"How is everything?" asked the waitress.
I smiled at her, happy to have someplace to put my big grin.
"Wonderful," I said. "It's just wonderful."
just one of the Mamas
We went to the Grand Canyon to celebrate my birthday… my daughter, Lori, her daughters, Aleah and JoJo and Aleah's two children, 6 year old Maddie and 6 month old Yayshee. Four generations of mothers and daughters and one sweet baby boy.
Though Aleah is the mother of two she looks very young and I tend to think of her as "one of the kids."
We had a great time for two days and three nights then we packed the SUV for the drive home.
Lori was driving and I rode shotgun. No sooner were the doors closed and the seat belts fastened than I heard an ear splitting scream and the cry, "BUG!"
Next thing I knew there was a pair of long legs and a lot of blond hair flying over the seat and JoJo was sitting in my lap, screaming into my face, "BUG!" as if somehow I didn't know what that word meant! Maddie was hot on her heels! I got clipped in the head by a pair of pink and white sneakers! Ouch! I opened the door, the girls tumbled out and flew across the parking lot screaming at the top of their lungs, stamping their feet and flapping their hands!
Unfortunately, every last one of is afraid of bugs! Seriously. Still someone had to be adult and take control of the situation.
Lori, Aleah and I opened the back and began to look for the bug, knowing full well we would never find it in all the blankets, jackets, bags, and suitcases. We looked at each other, shaking our heads. "You know we're never going to get out of Arizona tonight, don't you?" I asked. They nodded.
We shuffled things around a little more then Aleah made the decision on her own. She grabbed a Kleenex, scooped up a non existent bug and dramatically screamed her way across the parking lot to throw it in the trash. She dusted her hands and said, "Okay! Problem solved! Everybody get in the car!" The girls climbed in, satisfied the bug was gone and we took off. Only Lori, Aleah and I knew that bug was still somewhere in the car.
It was at that moment I realized Aleah is no longer "one of the kids." My baby, my granddaughter, has become one of the "Mamas."
Though Aleah is the mother of two she looks very young and I tend to think of her as "one of the kids."
We had a great time for two days and three nights then we packed the SUV for the drive home.
Lori was driving and I rode shotgun. No sooner were the doors closed and the seat belts fastened than I heard an ear splitting scream and the cry, "BUG!"
Next thing I knew there was a pair of long legs and a lot of blond hair flying over the seat and JoJo was sitting in my lap, screaming into my face, "BUG!" as if somehow I didn't know what that word meant! Maddie was hot on her heels! I got clipped in the head by a pair of pink and white sneakers! Ouch! I opened the door, the girls tumbled out and flew across the parking lot screaming at the top of their lungs, stamping their feet and flapping their hands!
Unfortunately, every last one of is afraid of bugs! Seriously. Still someone had to be adult and take control of the situation.
Lori, Aleah and I opened the back and began to look for the bug, knowing full well we would never find it in all the blankets, jackets, bags, and suitcases. We looked at each other, shaking our heads. "You know we're never going to get out of Arizona tonight, don't you?" I asked. They nodded.
We shuffled things around a little more then Aleah made the decision on her own. She grabbed a Kleenex, scooped up a non existent bug and dramatically screamed her way across the parking lot to throw it in the trash. She dusted her hands and said, "Okay! Problem solved! Everybody get in the car!" The girls climbed in, satisfied the bug was gone and we took off. Only Lori, Aleah and I knew that bug was still somewhere in the car.
It was at that moment I realized Aleah is no longer "one of the kids." My baby, my granddaughter, has become one of the "Mamas."
be a duck
When I visited my Florida family in December I stayed in what Kasia and Little Mary call, "Nana's Room" … the guest room.
Every evening, after dinner and "projects" Hooch and Jill spent time putting the little girls to bed and I went to my room to relax. It was then that my 16 year old granddaughter, Evan, visited me. She wandered in, sometimes carrying Baby Ursula, sometimes alone and sat on my bed. We talked about her life, her problems … her teenage angst… her boyfriend, job, school and friends.
"Nana, sometimes people say and do things that hurt my feelings, " she said, "and I don't know what to do about it. If I say something they just get nastier and if I don't they won't stop."
That was a hard one. I wanted to tell her, "Tell them you are hurting me!" but I knew that wouldn't help my girl. People usually see that as weakness.
"Evan," I said, "practice being a duck."
She laughed. "What does that mean?" (My children and grandchildren are accustomed to me speaking in riddles.)
"When people say and do things to hurt your feelings it is all about them and never about you. Let the things they say and do roll off your back like water off a duck's back. Take yourself away from them. You can always go to the bathroom if nothing else."
Evan and I had a wonderful time together. Sometimes her daddy would wander in during our talks and we would sit around and sing together. Sometimes we would make a cup of tea and talk about books or other things. She and I went shopping one night at Beall's department store… got goofy as kids, giggling and trying on all kinds of silly clothes.
Evan was at work when I left for the airport so I left a note taped to her door. It read…
Dear Bubba,
I will miss you so much. Practice being a duck. I love you like fire and for always.
Nana
Last night I talked to Evan for about 45 minutes. She told me she's practicing being a duck and we made plans to tear up a department store when they come here in March.
Then I talked to her daddy who said, "Mama, she cried every night for a week after you left and that note is still on her door."
I love that girl.
Every evening, after dinner and "projects" Hooch and Jill spent time putting the little girls to bed and I went to my room to relax. It was then that my 16 year old granddaughter, Evan, visited me. She wandered in, sometimes carrying Baby Ursula, sometimes alone and sat on my bed. We talked about her life, her problems … her teenage angst… her boyfriend, job, school and friends.
"Nana, sometimes people say and do things that hurt my feelings, " she said, "and I don't know what to do about it. If I say something they just get nastier and if I don't they won't stop."
That was a hard one. I wanted to tell her, "Tell them you are hurting me!" but I knew that wouldn't help my girl. People usually see that as weakness.
"Evan," I said, "practice being a duck."
She laughed. "What does that mean?" (My children and grandchildren are accustomed to me speaking in riddles.)
"When people say and do things to hurt your feelings it is all about them and never about you. Let the things they say and do roll off your back like water off a duck's back. Take yourself away from them. You can always go to the bathroom if nothing else."
Evan and I had a wonderful time together. Sometimes her daddy would wander in during our talks and we would sit around and sing together. Sometimes we would make a cup of tea and talk about books or other things. She and I went shopping one night at Beall's department store… got goofy as kids, giggling and trying on all kinds of silly clothes.
Evan was at work when I left for the airport so I left a note taped to her door. It read…
Dear Bubba,
I will miss you so much. Practice being a duck. I love you like fire and for always.
Nana
Last night I talked to Evan for about 45 minutes. She told me she's practicing being a duck and we made plans to tear up a department store when they come here in March.
Then I talked to her daddy who said, "Mama, she cried every night for a week after you left and that note is still on her door."
I love that girl.
YaYa's question
My 24 year old granddaughter, Aleah, better known as "YaYa" is a real treat. A couple of Sundays ago we sat cross legged on the floor and chatted.
"So how's life?" I asked.
"Great!"
"How's your marriage going?"
"Good!"
"How's Jack?" (Her husband was working.)
"He's great! He's working hard, he's good with the kids and he does anything I ask him. Of course, he's not fully involved in the program, you understand, but he's trying.
"What does that mean… fully involved in the program?" I was getting a little concerned now.
"You know, when Jack comes home if the kids and I are still alive and the house is not on fire, it's all good. I do the fine tuning; that stuff like who needs new shoes, who goes to the doctor, when is gymnastics class, when do the cars need to be tuned up, what to do on the weekend. That's all outside Jack's realm of thinking. He seems kind of simple. Sometimes I see him staring off into space and when I ask him what he's thinking about he tells me nothing. Nana, is it possible he's really that simple?"
I didn't think I was ever going to stop laughing. I am ashamed to say I have asked that very same question myself and I still didn't know the answer.
Two nights later I had dinner with my grandson Jacob, YaYa's 22 year old brother. We chatted about work and love and relationships and women and … men. At some point in the evening I asked him YaYa's question… okay, it's my question too.
"Jacob," I said, "when a man is just sitting and staring and his woman asks him what is he thinking about and he says nothing… what is he really thinking about?"
Jacob leaned across the table and looked me in the eye. "Nana," he said. "the real truth is we are thinking about nothing. We may be thinking about something that happened at work or something we saw on the way home or maybe even something someone said to us but the minute a woman asks what we are thinking about the word nothing just pops out. I know women would like to think we have something significant on our minds but we usually don't. I wish I could tell you we did but that's the truth. We leave that deep stuff to you women. We're too simple for that."
I suddenly saw the opportunity of a lifetime. "Jacob," I said, leaning in close, "if a woman ever asks you that question the answer is, 'I am only thinking of how wonderful you are.'"
Jacob paused for a moment, nodded skowly and said, "Why yes it is. Thank you Nana."
Then he laughed.
"So how's life?" I asked.
"Great!"
"How's your marriage going?"
"Good!"
"How's Jack?" (Her husband was working.)
"He's great! He's working hard, he's good with the kids and he does anything I ask him. Of course, he's not fully involved in the program, you understand, but he's trying.
"What does that mean… fully involved in the program?" I was getting a little concerned now.
"You know, when Jack comes home if the kids and I are still alive and the house is not on fire, it's all good. I do the fine tuning; that stuff like who needs new shoes, who goes to the doctor, when is gymnastics class, when do the cars need to be tuned up, what to do on the weekend. That's all outside Jack's realm of thinking. He seems kind of simple. Sometimes I see him staring off into space and when I ask him what he's thinking about he tells me nothing. Nana, is it possible he's really that simple?"
I didn't think I was ever going to stop laughing. I am ashamed to say I have asked that very same question myself and I still didn't know the answer.
Two nights later I had dinner with my grandson Jacob, YaYa's 22 year old brother. We chatted about work and love and relationships and women and … men. At some point in the evening I asked him YaYa's question… okay, it's my question too.
"Jacob," I said, "when a man is just sitting and staring and his woman asks him what is he thinking about and he says nothing… what is he really thinking about?"
Jacob leaned across the table and looked me in the eye. "Nana," he said. "the real truth is we are thinking about nothing. We may be thinking about something that happened at work or something we saw on the way home or maybe even something someone said to us but the minute a woman asks what we are thinking about the word nothing just pops out. I know women would like to think we have something significant on our minds but we usually don't. I wish I could tell you we did but that's the truth. We leave that deep stuff to you women. We're too simple for that."
I suddenly saw the opportunity of a lifetime. "Jacob," I said, leaning in close, "if a woman ever asks you that question the answer is, 'I am only thinking of how wonderful you are.'"
Jacob paused for a moment, nodded skowly and said, "Why yes it is. Thank you Nana."
Then he laughed.
JoJo's poem
a poem from my 12 year old granddaughter, Jordan (JoJo)
"Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty."
-William Shakespeare
beauty is
the velvet of your voice,
the tinkling of a bell,
the calligraphy you scribble,
the odor of a flower,
the way you smile up at me.
death is
the perfect contingency,
the kismet we suffer,
the storm that approaches,
the shriveled rose bud,
the tears that fall down your cheek.
if death could mean
the rid of beauty,
then heaven holds
none of my interest.
"Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet upon thy beauty."
-William Shakespeare
beauty is
the velvet of your voice,
the tinkling of a bell,
the calligraphy you scribble,
the odor of a flower,
the way you smile up at me.
death is
the perfect contingency,
the kismet we suffer,
the storm that approaches,
the shriveled rose bud,
the tears that fall down your cheek.
if death could mean
the rid of beauty,
then heaven holds
none of my interest.
sisters
My sister Annie is seven years younger than I.
We went to a small school in Georgia, grades 1-8.
On Annie's first day of school she cried piteously! I remember seeing her blond head tucked down and her bottom lip quivering as we got off the bus. But I was in the 7th grade and anxious to find my old friends and meet new ones so I turned away and left her crying.
I was in homeroom, feverishly passing notes to my right and left, making sure my hand was under Mrs. Cobb's line of vision when the door opened. The principal whispered to Mrs. Cobb and she came and whispered in my ear. "Your little sister is quite upset and Mr. Dobbins would like you to see to her."
My face flushed I followed Mr. Dobbins to the first grade class. Annie did not leave her seat but held her arms out to me, her face tear streaked, her little chest heaving unevenly. I knelt beside her desk and she threw her arms around me and whimpered something that sounded like, "Please don't leave me. Please."
Don't leave her, I thought! I have friends to talk to, notes to pass, boys to make eyes at and maybe even English to learn. Don't leave her? What did she want from me? I was in the 7th grade. Did she want me to sit beside her and hold her hand?
Apparently so. Mr. Dobbins pulled a first grade desk up beside hers and there I sat, long skinny legs at an awkward angle, knees to my chest holding her clammy hand and wiping her tears. I stayed with her all day! All day! Me. A 7th grader.
That afternoon I jumped off the bus, ran in the house and yelled, "I had to sit with Annie in her stupid first grade all day!"
"I know," said my stepmother, "when Mr. Dobbins called I suggested he take you to her. I knew you could calm her down. Annie's scared, that's all."
What? My family knew about this and approved? I was sunk. There was no higher court I could appeal to.
Next day Mr. Dobbins put a 7th grade chair in Annie's class and I spent the day there again, listening to little kids recite the abc's while my friends had a wonderful time without me. I know they did because they told me all about it on the bus ride home. "Mrs. Cobb is superb! She taught us the "state of being" verbs today!" The state of being verbs? What was a state of being verb? I was going to fail 7th grade because of my little sister.
And still Annie cried every morning and still I held her hand and listened to the abc's.
Somewhere in the second week, someone said or did something just right and Annie smiled for the first time in her little first grade desk. I don't know what it was. I wasn't paying attention. Things got better slowly and by the end of that week Annie was talking to the other kids, smiling at the teacher and even saying, "a-b-c" loudly.
I returned to my 7th grade class and learned what state of being verbs were and what Haiti looks like on the top and on the bottom and that Mrs. Cobb's first name was Queequeg, yes, Queequeg from Moby Dick. Queequeg, the savage harpooner. I was so happy to be back with my friends, passing notes and whispering and I was totally enthralled with Mrs. Cobb.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that time of great personal sacrifice to Annie and she said, "That's what big sisters are for." My mind reeled! That's what big sisters are for? But she also said, "Thank you for being there for me Miss Scarlett."
Awww… what the heck! That's what big sisters are for.
We went to a small school in Georgia, grades 1-8.
On Annie's first day of school she cried piteously! I remember seeing her blond head tucked down and her bottom lip quivering as we got off the bus. But I was in the 7th grade and anxious to find my old friends and meet new ones so I turned away and left her crying.
I was in homeroom, feverishly passing notes to my right and left, making sure my hand was under Mrs. Cobb's line of vision when the door opened. The principal whispered to Mrs. Cobb and she came and whispered in my ear. "Your little sister is quite upset and Mr. Dobbins would like you to see to her."
My face flushed I followed Mr. Dobbins to the first grade class. Annie did not leave her seat but held her arms out to me, her face tear streaked, her little chest heaving unevenly. I knelt beside her desk and she threw her arms around me and whimpered something that sounded like, "Please don't leave me. Please."
Don't leave her, I thought! I have friends to talk to, notes to pass, boys to make eyes at and maybe even English to learn. Don't leave her? What did she want from me? I was in the 7th grade. Did she want me to sit beside her and hold her hand?
Apparently so. Mr. Dobbins pulled a first grade desk up beside hers and there I sat, long skinny legs at an awkward angle, knees to my chest holding her clammy hand and wiping her tears. I stayed with her all day! All day! Me. A 7th grader.
That afternoon I jumped off the bus, ran in the house and yelled, "I had to sit with Annie in her stupid first grade all day!"
"I know," said my stepmother, "when Mr. Dobbins called I suggested he take you to her. I knew you could calm her down. Annie's scared, that's all."
What? My family knew about this and approved? I was sunk. There was no higher court I could appeal to.
Next day Mr. Dobbins put a 7th grade chair in Annie's class and I spent the day there again, listening to little kids recite the abc's while my friends had a wonderful time without me. I know they did because they told me all about it on the bus ride home. "Mrs. Cobb is superb! She taught us the "state of being" verbs today!" The state of being verbs? What was a state of being verb? I was going to fail 7th grade because of my little sister.
And still Annie cried every morning and still I held her hand and listened to the abc's.
Somewhere in the second week, someone said or did something just right and Annie smiled for the first time in her little first grade desk. I don't know what it was. I wasn't paying attention. Things got better slowly and by the end of that week Annie was talking to the other kids, smiling at the teacher and even saying, "a-b-c" loudly.
I returned to my 7th grade class and learned what state of being verbs were and what Haiti looks like on the top and on the bottom and that Mrs. Cobb's first name was Queequeg, yes, Queequeg from Moby Dick. Queequeg, the savage harpooner. I was so happy to be back with my friends, passing notes and whispering and I was totally enthralled with Mrs. Cobb.
A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that time of great personal sacrifice to Annie and she said, "That's what big sisters are for." My mind reeled! That's what big sisters are for? But she also said, "Thank you for being there for me Miss Scarlett."
Awww… what the heck! That's what big sisters are for.
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