Inch Three: Past and Present

The past slipping in through the back door

Sometimes the past comes in through the front door, plopping on the couch and catching up on the local news.

And sometimes it slips in quietly through the back door, and you suddenly come face to face with it and exclaim, "Oh, there you are!"

The past few days have held each of those moments.

Through the front door? As of this morning, I am back on Metformin, a standard out-of-the-gate medicine for diabetes. Now, I have had diabetes since 2018, and was on Metformin from July 2018 to about 2020, when my A1C, the gold standard for tracking diabetes, had stayed at 6.6 for months and my then PCP took me off of it. Given my, frankly, more demanding medical issues—from the myeloma to the MDS to the hospitalizations in 2023 and 2025—the diabetes was not the most important player in my medical panoply. But now it is standing in the front row, demanding some attention. Given my age, my genetics, and the beating my pancreas took in 2023, neither I nor my doctor is surprised. And my PCP Melissa takes a good, no-nonsense approach to it all: "Let's get you on Metformin and see if we can bring that number (8.4) down." She is not making me do finger sticks and I loved her frank comment about that: "Why would I make you stick yourself twice a day? To what end other than bruised fingers?" Melissa knows that I walk several miles a week, and I noted I could be a little more diligent about my diet, which is decent but not strict. She nodded on that: "Just live your life, April."  I will have my labs repeated in three months and we will go from there.

As for the back door, the past entered the house through a letter from my dear friend Tani. Tani and I write several times a week to one another, with our letters crisscrossing in the mail regularly. Last evening, I opened the one that had just arrived and out slipped a photo. A very old photo. A photo of our oldest two children: Wolf, maybe 18 months old (I just wrote Tani asking her for Wolf's age) and my Ben, all of seven months old. July, 1986. 

Oh my. 

I stared at the photo, tears in my eyes, and put my hand to my heart.

Oh my.

My 70th birthday is fast approaching and Warren asked me this morning if I "wanted to do anything" for it. We famously are low-key celebrators, so no, I did not want a party or a big feast or presents. Warren has a rehearsal in Columbus the next morning for an Easter Sunday service, so I mentioned that will impact the day (more than likely picking up a trailer, then loading the timpani that evening). I will make my own birthday cake, probably the Depression-era cake I did in 2024, and that will be plenty. 

Besides, I already got my present: that piece of the past in Tani's letter. Those children are long grown. They are in the present, as am I. But that tug from the past?

Priceless. 

Inch One: Sam

I have written about my son Sam off and on over the almost 17 years I have been blogging. (Yes, 17 years as of March 17! Frigging unbelievable for lots of reasons, starting with my health.) The younger of my two sons, Sam has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years. I know, I know. All children provide parents with those same things; Sam maybe just doubled down on challenges at times. 

And, in all fairness, if you were asking Sam, he no doubt would say the same thing of me as his mother: "Yeah, yeah, Mom has provided me with a plethora of challenges and laughter and stress and joyous moments over the years." And then laugh and go on his merry way.

So why Sam now? Because a week ago he and I had one of the best conversations we have had in years. 

Years.

The phone call was set in motion when I texted him the above photo, asking him if he remembered that mug. Sam bought that for me decades ago, when he was a kindergartner or first grader and attending the Santa Store for students at his elementary school. I still have the mug and have been using it regularly as of late. In my text, I touched base with him; I last talked with him on Christmas and knew he had changed jobs since seeing him last July. I was curious how he was doing and how his partner Georgia was doing. 

Sam replied later that night: "Great mug," adding he would call the next day. And he did.

Sam started immediately on the biggest change in his life: he had just the week before quit his most recent job (as a mail handler with the USPS). Why? Sam didn't mince words: "It was the worst job I have ever held. Just horrid." He was working long, middle-of-the-night hours (biking to work at 3:00 a.m. when he started); his body clock was a mess; he rarely (very rarely) had days off or evenings free; he could not see his friends or spend time with Georgia or go biking or cook for the sheer enjoyment of cookng. He hadn't been able to see his brother in a long time. In short, Sam was disconnected from everything and everyone that gave his life meaning. So, with Georgia's enthusiastic blessings, he quit. (Note: Sam and Georgia live frugal lives, intentionally, so his quitting would not sink their lives. He can take some time, catch his breath, then move on into another job.)

And even though he had just quit, I could hear the change in his voice and his laugh. His body clock had already reset. He was already seeing friends. Life was immediately better.

Sam, Sam, Sam.

From the beginning, my sons (and their families) have been threaded throughout this blog. Even with the 2450 miles between us, I hold them in my hearts and am often reminded of them: a comment, a shrug, a book, a mug. In an early post about Sam's upcoming birthday, I noted how he had once had a perfect day, ending with his scooping up a penny on the ground and exclaiming "Is this my lucky day or what?" 

When we talked last week, I heard that same joyful, lighthearted exhilaration in Sam's voice as that long ago little boy spying a penny. We finished the call and I sat there with tears in my eyes: happy for my boy and his decision to quit an unhealthy situation. 

In that long ago post, I wished Sam a life full of lucky days, and, more importantly, that he never lose the ability to recognize them when they came along. I'd say that wish came true. 

They Do Indeed Grow Up

Ramona (far right) as Mole in "Wind in the Willows" at the end of June.  

Back in July, Warren and I flew west to spend time with my sons and their families. It was the first time we had been out in Portland and Vancouver (WA, not BC) since 2021 and, with the exception of Ben, who flew back in 2023 when I was hospitalized and again in 2024 with Orlando, I had not seen the Pacific NW contingent for four long years.

And that was when the reality of Ramona, who I last saw as a little girl, hit me: she grew up.

Oh, don't get me wrong. At just 13, Ramona is a teenager, not an adult. But what I mean by "she grew up" is that she was no longer the elementary-age girl who talked and giggled and shared Lego creations and her favorite books (MS level, for the most part) and was, basically, still a little girl back in 2021. And even though I had seen photos over the years, and talked on the phone occasionally with Ramona, it had not sunk in that she was no longer that little girl. 

Nope, nope, nope. Ramona grew up. So much so, in fact, that it took the two of us a few days to figure out how to talk with one another. We finally found a topic that worked for us both: writing, especially writing poetry. She is passionate about the creative writing track at her school, Vancouver School of Arts and Academics, and it was a joy to talk with my new-to-me granddaughter about writing.

Yesterday that same reality that children grow up hit me in the face again. We attended a reception for longtime friend Marilyn, who just turned 91. Marilyn was Ben's preschool teacher for 9 months when we first moved back to Delaware; my connections with her go back even farther (her oldest child was a year behind me in high school). We arrived, signed in, stood looking at the people in attendance, talked with a few, including one whose son had run around with my Sam during their middle school ages ("How did our boys get to be 35, April? How?") and then a young man walked up to me to welcome me and introduce himself. 

"I'm Marilyn's grandson, Beau."

Oh. My. God. Beau. 

"Beau! I'm sorry. I last saw you when you were...maybe three?" I held out my right hand and lowered it from his probable height close to six feet down to nearer my knees, bending my knees to move my hand down. 

Beau smiled and bent his knees down too. Then we both stood back up, laughing a bit.

"Yeah, I know. I grew up."

He and I then had a wonderful short conversation about who he has become, what his life holds, and such. He has a deep commitment to family and taking care of people (a father with health issues, his aging grandmother, a job that involves assisting someone with dementia). I told him that I admired his values and then said, "Let me speak as an elder to you, which I am." We both grinned. "Save some time for yourself."

Beau lit up. "I know! I have learned that when I don't, I get worn down and sad."

We then talked about where Warren and I lived (because I told him that Marilyn and I mail postcards to one another, even though we live about five blocks apart) and he lit up again. "I love your neighborhood," he said, adding that he really loved the diversity of homes in our part of town, then making a disparaging comment about homes in new subdivisions looking all the same.

I cracked up. Telling him that I was a retired lawyer who did a lot of zoning and development law in my day, I explained to him that when developers submit their plans, they spell out in the plan the pattern of facades on the houses, typically either a 3-house or 4-house pattern: a stone veneer facade, a brick veneer facade, a clapboard facade, repeat. 

"Next time you are thinking about it, Beau, drive through one of our local subdivisions and count the facade types. You'll see the pattern really fast." 

He grinned and nodded his head. "I will, I will!"

We finished talking, Warren and I talked with a few others, including the Ancient Birthday Girl (Marilyn's term, not mine), we sampled some of the pies made by a friend (the key lime was superb), and then left. As we walked away, I reflected on meeting and talking with Beau, then thought back to July and Ramona.

Children grow up. Indeed they do.

And that is a thing of wonder.

Grateful and Lucky

My friend Tani recently shared the story that her two sons, when they were young, had a wonderful ritual. When they came across two cherries connected with a single stem, they would hold them up and shout, "I am grateful and lucky!" 

Tani recently bought herself a necklace with a two-cherry pendant on it to remind herself that she is truly grateful and lucky.

I wrote her that her sons' shouts reminded me of Sam, my youngest, when he would have an unexpected surprise, such as finding a penny in a parking lot. He would burst out with a joyful "Is this my lucky day or what?" as he danced up and down in glee.

Grateful and lucky. Both Tani and I have had a heaping serving of health concerns lately, so her words resonated with me. 

In picking tomatoes (yes, they are finally ripening), I found this when I turned them out to wash:

I am grateful and lucky! Is this my lucky day or what? 

Boys' Week

The past week has been full of boys.

Boys as in "long ago boys." Boys as in "they are all grown men now." Boys as in "they were at various times a huge part of my life and my world."

Boy #1 was Jacob.

Boy #2 was Sam.

Boy #3 was Danny.

Boy #4 was Ben.

[Note: They are numbered in order of chronological appearance, not in any priority.]

Let's start with #1, Jacob. Our Symphony just last week closed out its 40th Season with a truly stunning concert. How stunning? Two world premieres for compositions, one world premiere of an orchestral version of a composition, one world premiere film by a (truly) world renown photographer, and the professional orchestral debut of a pianist performing George Gershwin's "Concerto in F" (which is no walk in the repertoire park).

The pianist making his professional debut? A DMA student at the University of Cincinnati's College-Conservatory of Music, an amazingly gifted performer. Here is a link to a snippet of his rehearsal with the orchestra (You do not need a Facebook account to open it):   https://www.facebook.com/centralohiosymphony/videos/2154174351363365/?t=0  The pianist bringing the concert to a halt at the end of the first movement because of the storm of applause, and then receiving a shouting, cheering standing ovation that lasted several minutes? The pianist walking into our after-concert reception (in honor of all the artists and our 40th season) to wild acclaim? That one?

It was Jacob. Jacob who I have known since he was 4, Jacob who I coached (along with my son Ben and several other brilliant, gifted students) for five years in Odyssey of the Mind and Destination Imagination, Jacob who at one point as a young adult in his 20s walked away from piano totally. That Jacob.

We hugged repeatedly Saturday night at the party, both of us over the moon and not a little dumbstruck that, after so many twists and turns for each of us, here we were celebrating an event that at more than one point in our respective pasts neither of us were ever sure we would ever see, Jacob for personal reasons and me for health reasons.

That Jacob. That boy.

Sam was #2 last week. Sam my youngest son, Sam my son who became a welder, Sam my son who sometimes is just a blur. Sam popped up out of the blue in my mailbox. Oh, not because he wrote me a letter. Oh, no, no, no. My sons (plural) do not write letters, a clear failing on the part of their mother. Instead, he popped up because the grandmother of one of his childhood friends, Clayton, has been winnowing out the decades (decades) of accumulated papers, clipping, and photos in her home, and whenever she comes across ones with either of my children (Ben was in her preschool, so pictures of him surface from time to time too), she mails them to me.

I suspected what was in the envelope before I opened it and I was not disappointed. There was Sam, maybe 5, maybe 6—all grin and skinny. One photo was taken on a school bus, the other at one of Clayton's birthdays. And suddenly we are back 23, 24 years and my youngest boy is just that: a little boy.

I mailed the photos on to Sam, who is almost 29 and long grown. With them I included a letter from mom, commenting on this or that, nothing too weighty. I plan on being out in the Pacific Northwest later this summer, and we will talk and laugh together then, that boy all grown up.

Then there was Danny, Boy #3. Danny was Ben's first best friend when we moved to Ohio. He lived across and slightly down the alley and they became friends when the weather warmed up (we had moved into the house in January) and the kids were finally outside. Danny spent hours and hours in our house, playing with Ben, fighting with Ben, tormenting Sam (when Sam was a baby and unable to tell on him), causing havoc, causing joy, causing all kinds of things. Ben tolerated a lot from Danny over the years, but they were genuinely close. All the same, there were limits even to Ben's patience.  I was at the kitchen window looking outside the day Ben finally punched Danny in the face, after years of being pinched, punched, kicked, and laughed at.  I admit it, I cheered (and so did Bethany, our next door neighbor, who came running into our house to make sure I'd seen it). Danny and Ben drifted apart as they got older: Danny was a year ahead in school, his family stayed in the neighborhood but moved farther down the block, and there was a painful rupture between the adults, but over time we (we meaning his father Ted and I) reestablished a connection, so I often knew of Danny even if I didn't see him. And not unlike the other boys in this post, Danny had his own twists and turns as he moved from childhood and teen to adult.

Ted just retired from OWU after 30+ years of teaching in the sociology department. There was a packed reception for Ted and another sociology retiree; Warren and I dropped in briefly to say congratulations. I saw Ted's daughter Allie and son-in-law Joe right away, but not Danny. "Around the corner," said Joe.

I headed in that direction and saw Danny talking to two of his dad's colleagues. I stayed back, watching him laugh and interact as an adult. Then he looked up and saw me. His eyes grew big and he excused himself from the conversation.

Oh my gosh. Danny, Danny, Danny. A long hug: is it really you? We laughed, we talked quickly and excitedly. Danny said, tears in his eyes, that when he thinks back to his childhood, it is our house and time spent at our house that he remembers most vividly, not his childhood home. I told him I still have the dining room table that he deliberately and methodically defaced with fork tines over the course of several months. Danny turned bright red. "I'm sorry. I was really awful." "Yeah, you were sometimes."

We only talked for a couple of minutes, maybe three, maybe five. He asked about Ben and asked me to tell Ben hello. Then it was time for both of us to turn to something else—the guests in his case, leaving in mine. Another long hug, kissing one another on the cheek. "I love you," we said, simultaneously.

When I got home from the reception, I texted Ben about seeing Danny and all the memories. Warren was taking apart a marimba he had to transport the next day and was surprised to see me crying when he looked up (the marimba was in our living room—isn't everyone's?). He was concerned: was I okay?

Yes, yes, I was okay. I was just caught in a long look back over 28 years, over my sons' childhoods, over the old neighborhood, over the delight of seeing Danny not only grown to man's estate but looking and sounding grounded and healthy and positive. "I miss my sons," I said, and burst into tears.

And that brings us to Boy #4, who popped up this morning, not directly like Jacob and Danny, but through another medium, this one Facebook. A Facebook friend posted this meme:

I immediately sent it to Ben's page, with this tag: I read your very first book to you (Are You My Mother?) when you were less than 48 hours old. I believe we sailed past the 1825 mark long before your 5th birthday. Hell, we may have hit it by your 2nd birthday. Thinking of you with lots of love and memories. 

And that is true. 1825 books? Piece of cake. Ben was the child I read to all the time. All. The. Time. Don't get me wrong, I read to Sam too, but as soon as Sam gained mobility, he chose chasing after his big brother to sitting still and being read to. But Ben? Daily. Daily. And it was something we kept up until he was in almost in high school—not because he couldn't read, not because he didn't devour thousands of books under his own power, but because reading connected us in some deep, inherent way that we both needed. Books were our safest harbor in a house filled with turmoil and conflict. Books kept us alive and I will always, always feel that way.

But that was then. That Ben is as long gone as that 5 year old Sam, as that Jacob playing Sam's small cello while on his back (I have photo proof), as that Danny who left his permanent mark on the table. (Danny just bought a house in Las Vegas, where he has lived for several years. I told Warren over lunch that I am strongly tempted to box up the table and send it to him as a housewarming present.) That was then and this is now.

All those memories. All that love.

All those boys.

Inch One Hundred Seventy-Four: Detroit

I spent three days this past week in Detroit, attending the national conference of the League of American Orchestras. When you are married to the Symphony, you often end up at these things.

The League has stepped up its focus on and push for diversity and cultural equity in the orchestral world. These are topics that resonate deeply with me, so I was thrilled to attend three excellent panel discussions (two being interactive with the audience) on these themes. I came away with new points of view, some new discussion points, and some new approaches for the implicit bias workshop I will be co-facilitating at work later this month.

The conference was held in downtown Detroit, at the Renaissance Center. The Center is the world headquarters for General Motors, backing up to the Detroit River. We stayed at a small, just adequate motel within walking distance, and so walked the 4 or 5 blocks daily to the conference. I also went off by myself to walk around the downtown, exploring a little before I caught the QLine (light rail) to the Detroit institute of Arts.

Much was made at the opening plenary session, a panel discussion, of Detroit's rebound from its bankruptcy of 2013 and the Detroit symphony's rebirth from the musicians' strike of 2010-2011. Rebuilt neighborhoods, urban farms, the QLine: these are all measures of forward progress. The Detroit Institute of Art, one of this country's great collections, was saved in the Grand Bargain. But some panelists reminded us that much is yet to be done. This July is the 50th anniversary of the violent Detroit riot and, some reminded us, the city is still dealing with the aftermath of that event.

What struck me hardest about Detroit was the visible and omnipresent poverty. I am not a newbie when it comes to poverty and I know that in big cities, I am more likely to run into people asking for spare change, for a few bucks, for some help. What I saw in Detroit was far beyond that. Yes, there were people asking for change, but there were adults, mostly men but some women, who were sleeping nightly in the green spaces downtown or in a little protected back entrance of a building with no place to go. Unless you deliberately turn a blind eye, you cannot help but see them. It cut me deeply. Call me a dupe, but I gave away every bit of pocket money I had. I don't care what the recipients did with it; once it left my hands, it was theirs to spend.

On Thursday, the last day of the conference, I took a break late morning. I crossed over to the park that runs alongside the Detroit River, just behind the Renaissance Center, and sat for a long time in the dappled shade of a tree, looking across the river at Canada. A musical duo was playing steel drum and keyboard somewhere over my shoulder behind me. In front of me was a sidewalk fountain, a series of jets that shot up different lengths (a variation of a dancing fountain, but larger and more complex than the ones I have seen). It was a warm, sunny day and children were playing at the fountain. Children shrieking, laughing, dancing, jumping, drinking, squatting, yelling with delight. They would run back and forth to their parents, sitting or standing in near proximity. I watched in particular one little girl, maybe all of 3, who saw an older child bend over and wet his head in a spray. She carefully bent over and doused her own head: her forelock first and then all of it. Standing up with a gasp, she shook her head and trotted back to her parents, laughing in delight. There are far worse ways to spend a long half hour in Detroit.

We left Detroit a few hours later, and I carried a swirl of images: the tiger sculptures at Comerica Park, the woman who slept each day in a sleeping bag, one medium-sized purse near her, on a grassy sward just yards away from the Renaissance Center, the Rivera Court in the Detroit Institute of Arts—stunning enough to make me gasp when I entered it, the young teen, who looked surly and unapproachable, but who helped an older woman with a cane boarding the QLine car to a seat, and helped her up when she reached her stop down the line, listening to passionate musicians of color talk about the need to stop talking and to move forward on breaking down the barriers, and the elderly man to whom I gave money, who thanked me and told me his name, and then asked me mine.

And the laughter of children. The laughter of children dancing in the fountain.

Explosions

"Something's on fire!"

Warren was out of his chair in a minute, as was I. Smoke was billowing up from the burners of the stove. Throwing open the oven door (more billowing smoke), I quickly assessed the situation.

Nothing was on fire, but bits of exploded batter had dropped down through the racks onto the heating element and had started to smolder.

Earlier that morning, I had carefully made a chocolate chiffon cake batter so I could later craft a dessert to take to our friends that night. The last step required whipping six egg whites until they stood in stiff peaks.

It was a great batter. It had a beautiful sheen and a nice heft.

In filling the cake pans, though, I should have known better. The 8 inch pans, the size called for by the recipe, were filled to the brim. Against my better judgment, I slid the pans into the oven.

Chaos followed. The batter rose. It rose some more. It began to quiver as it rose over the pans. And then the cake batter—both pans worth—exploded.

Once we cleared the kitchen of smoke and once I dumped the batter (which was not baking properly and indeed, could not bake properly), I thought through the situation. We were due at Margo and Gerald's at 7:00. It was still morning. Go to the store, get a box mix, and get it done.

I did. There were some later fluffs and tense moments, but it got done. Late that night, sitting around the fire ring, we laughed over the poor exploded cake while eating the end result.

Last night was another explosion. Not a cake this time, but a person. Me, in fact. Like the cake batter crammed into the 8 inch pans. there was too much of me in too small a container. I bubbled and churned and tried to rise above my discontent. But in the end, like that wayward batter last Saturday night, I exploded.

Warren has a very demanding job. He works very long hours with very little staff (albeit excellent, excellent staff) and not enough support. Concerts weeks, and this is one of them, mean even longer and later hours. This week, starting last night, Warren will be at a Symphony something—a committee meeting, a rehearsal, a board meeting—every single weeknight through next Monday. (The concert will take up much of Saturday and all of Sunday.) That includes Friday too.

Every. Single. Weeknight. Plus Saturday and Sunday.

At so many levels, starting with my love and support of Warren, I "get" it. I know the broad and deep reach of his position. I know his Board, made up of good, decent people, does not demand this of him out of callous disregard. I know Warren gives his heart to the Symphony and that a large part of its increasing stature in national orchestra circles is due to his vision, drive, blood, sweat, and tears.

I really do get that. And I am so proud of him and this Symphony.

But now I'm sick. Now. Not theoretically, not "oh, the myeloma will be back someday," but now. Now I'm in chemo. I have moved from the quiet countryside of Cancerland into a downtown apartment over the main drag, with cars going by at all hours and red flashing neon signs lighting up the walls in the still of the night.

Now I have needs which, for the first time since Warren and I became a couple, trump—at least in my mind—any card he may hold in the Symphony's hand. I have taken all the tricks, I have laid down four aces, I have shot the moon.

And this week it doesn't matter. I am sitting at the card table with my royal flush fanned out and the card game is already over.

When Warren walked in from his meeting last night, I asked to talk. I tried to stay calm. I "get" that this is not Warren's doing, that it is not personal, that it's not about me or even about us.

I said all those things and then I burst into chunks of raw batter, just like the cake. I held the winning hand and I wept because I could not rake in the pot.

Warren quietly sat through my outburst, holding me close while I wound up and then wound down. He sat quietly while I ranted about having to act more "normal" than I am feeling so as not to worry him while he worries about the Symphony. He squeezed my hand while I gave voice to my fears and my dismay about the myeloma.

My game face is good. The chemo I am taking is not that bad. I won't lose my hair. I'm not that nauseated. My energy has already started to rise. My colleagues at work are supportive beyond words, as are my friends. My children (Ben, Sam, Alise, David) are there for me. Warren has not flinched in the face of what I am facing.

I am blessed blessed blessed and I know so every single day when I awake and every night when I fall asleep.

Yet the cancer takes a toll—physical, emotional, mental—on me. Myeloma is demanding. It wears you down with its slow relentlessness. There is no winnable war here. (Yes, you win the battles, but ultimately myeloma wins the war.) And last night I was battle sore and weary, and Warren bore the brunt of it.

When we got around to dessert last Saturday night, everyone oohed and awed. Despite the failed batter and the substitute box mix, and despite the haste in the later afternoon (shaving those dark chocolate curls and willing the glaze to set), the cake was finished. The mousse hid the smaller layers, some of which had cracked in assembly, and patched the pieces together well. The cake platter was large enough that the glaze did not pool onto the table. We all savored each bite. When the evening ended, I left half of the remains with Margo and Gerald and the other half came home with us.

When I was done exploding last night, Warren patched me together much like Saturday's dessert. He patched me with thoughtful listening and quiet love. He poured a glaze of understanding and comfort over my bruised spirits.

And then he served me the very last piece of the chocolate mousse cake.

Ramona Dawn

                             She came without ribbons. She came without tags! 

                             She came without packages, boxes, and bags!

                                                     With apologies to Dr. Seuss

We have been waiting forever, it would seem. Oh, not really forever, just nine months, but it seemed like forever. It seemed like dream time, when everything moves in slow motion, liquid syrupy slowness.

The sense of liquid syrupy slowness increased greatly after Alise called me over a week ago to say she was having contractions, that she and Ben had been to the hospital but sent home and told to walk around and return when she started to feel uncomfortable.

Walk around until she started to feel uncomfortable? By Monday, Alise was back at work. And Ramona was, well, not yet here. And so it went, until yesterday when Ben called to say "we are at the hospital."

We were on the way out the door to the home of our good friends, Margo and Gerald. I cannot think of friends I would rather be with while waiting for Ramona's arrival. Ben promised he would keep me posted, which he did up right up and through the moment he called to say, "mom, you're a grandmother."

Now the time is real time. Now the last nine months have been compressed into that one phone call. Now the clock is moving in the right rhythm. Now the dreaming is over and the real work begins.

Ramona Dawn has arrived.

Dad Stories

At the March concert this year, a family with several young children ranging from elementary school to middle school (maybe middle school), sat behind me just over my left shoulder.

I could hear them crunching chips loudly. One of them dropped a cardboard box of something; I heard it clatter on the floor. There were giggles and barely suppressed whispers. Occasionally there would be snorts of laughter, quickly covered up. I could not see but I could sense a great deal of squirming.

Then I heard their father hiss in a low voice, "Behave NOW." His words were followed by a nanosecond of quiet, then more giggles.

Those giggles catapulted me back to my childhood. Suddenly I was 7, I was 8, and we were eating out in a real restaurant (as opposed to a drive-in).

We didn't eat out a lot when I was little, given the number of us and the tightness of my parents' budget during those years. So when we did, it was a Big Deal. The time I remember most clearly was coming back from a day in northern Kentucky when we had been visiting family. Usually, we ate well when we were down there, but for some reason, that didn't happen this day and my mom and dad realized they would never make it all the way home without feeding us.

So there we were, all in a large booth at what was probably a Frisch's Big Boy, my parents probably ordering for us so we did not unwittingly blow the bank. It was probably something simple: burgers, fries (which could be shared). There were even drinks—maybe a Coke, maybe (maybe) a milkshake split between all of us.

Drinks with straws.

It was my older brother Dale, braver than the rest of us, who dared to go after that one last, all but unattainable drop in the bottom of the glass at the end of the meal. It was certainly Dale who looked at that drop, looked at his straw, and decided to risk everything.

How could he not?

My dad, who always sat ramrod straight when eating, sat up even straighter when he heard the first slurp of the straw. "Stop slurping," he hissed in as loud a whisper as he could manage without drawing attention to our table.

Dale was not done, though. There was still a little bit left in his glass. And, buoyed by his example, I was also ready to take on the challenge.

Slurrrrrrrrrp. Slurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp.

We tried to slurp quietly, but there is no such thing. Dad was on us in a minute. "I said, 'STOP SLURPING,'" he growled in a somewhat louder whisper, in agony that someone—a waitress, a patron, perhaps—someone would soon be turning around to wonder who had brought these little hooligans to such a nice dining place.

We must have been just out of arm's reach, because my dad was not adverse to administering a quick rap to the head to get our attention. It must have driven him mad. He had a whole litany of mealtime rules, ranging from "no elbows on the table" to "close your mouth when chewing" to "sit up straight," and here were two of his children—his own flesh and blood—humiliating him in public with their atrocious table manners.

He hissed louder, between gritted teeth, "I am NEVER taking you out to eat again."

That threat just caused Dale and me to giggle. Never taking us out to eat again? Ha! We didn't eat out ever, so what kind of threat was that? We tried to hold our giggles in but they came slipping out, just like they did for those kids at the concert in March. We had slurped our drinks, we were being hooligans, and we were getting away with it. 

Well, we were getting away with it until we each got a swat on the butt when we were marched to the car by our still steaming dad.

My dad will be 79 this summer. I have not slurped a drink in his presence for many, many years. I am not sure I would dare to. But every time I do slurp a drink (Dad was right: I am an incorrigible hooligan), I think of him and that long ago restaurant meal.

Dad stories. Those of us who grew up with a dad of any shape, size, or temperament, have a million of them. On this day of the year, we tend to remember them a little more: the good ones, the bad ones, the ugly ones, the outstanding ones, the screamingly funny ones.

Dad stories. My son Ben will become a dad this August, and Ramona will start accumulating her own Dad stories. May there be a million of them.

One Berry, Two Berry, Read Me a Newbery

Part 1 of 2

Back in September, for a lot of reasons I won't go into right now, I decided to read the Newbery Medal winners, or at least all of the Newbery Medal winners that I had not read recently (as in the last decade).

The Newbery Medal is given annually by the American Library Association to the "most distinctive contribution to American children's literature" for the prior year. One has been given every year since 1922. (The Newbery Committee also names "Newbery Honor Books" for the outstanding runners up for the year. No, I have not read all the honor books.)

Of the 90 Newbery books out there, I had previously read about 18-20 of them. That left all the rest.

I did not read them in any order, including chronologically. Our local library owns all but a scant handful of them, and houses many of them at the main branch here in Delaware. My selection method consisted of taking a printout of the list (found here) to the library, stand in the children's section (where most are typically found) and pluck a random bouquet. When the load grew heavy in my arms, I had enough. "Enough" usually meant that 15 books came home at one shot.

Over the 5 or 6 weeks it took me to read the Newbery Medal books, I heard some interesting comments from adults about my quest. One, a former school librarian, said he thought the list was put out by adults for adults, and that is why children don't read Newbery Medal books.(This theory has a number of vocal adherents, incidentally.) Another, a retired teacher, said he had rarely used Newbery books in his classrooms because the writing styles were too dated and the students wouldn't understand them (he taught primarily 5th and 6th grades). Another said she thought the Newbery had covered enough niches (homelessness, mental illness, drug abuse) and it was time to stop using "does this fill a niche?" as one of the selection criteria. A constant comment I heard was "but the process is so subjective."

Interesting theories all, and I now have my own thoughts on these points, as well as my own theory about the Newbery Medal books.

Is the Medal Book a book chosen by adults for adults? Other than a few winners in the earliest years, I would say they are not picked with adult readers in mind. I think we read the books differently as we get older, but I think almost all of them stand the test of time and interest to a young reader. (I'll write tomorrow about the ones that I think "fail" as selections.) In fact, my overwhelming response to many of them was to smack my forehead and say "dang, why didn't I ever put this book in my children's hands?" (Sorry, Ben and Sam, that we missed Lloyd Alexander, among others.) Watching my own children devour many of the Newbery Medal books of their generation (my copy of Holes came from Sam's insistence that we buy it) tells me a lot about the appeal of the books to children. I think we as adults either fail to put the books in children's hands or so sermonize about their value that reading a Newbery Medal book is seen as torture.

Are the styles of the older books dated? There are one or two books that I say time has not been kind to when it comes to style. I found myself reading all of them with a critical ear and eye for the style as well as the content. My test was whether I felt I could read the book out loud to a child. The vast majority passed. In fact, the very book that the retired teacher and I discussed (Rifles for Watie, 1958) is one that I would say still holds up when it comes to style, although I have other concerns about it. I don't think children are put off by style as much as adults are; we adults think something is tedious, and so we expect children to think so too. I think a child who is grabbed by a book will plow through it regardless of the style in which it is written provided the characters populating the story are engaging.

Are there too many niche choices? Hmmn, tougher question. There have certainly been some choices that could be considered niche selections. I look at the changing nature of the list as a reflection of the changes we as a country have gone through as we moved through the 20th century and into the 21st. (Although, surprisingly, the Newbery tackled mental illness as early as 1960.) I think ethnic and racial niches or selections point this change out the best. It took a long time for novels with believable African-American characters to crack the list, with Sounder finally doing so in 1970. True, a biography entitled Amos Fortune, Free Man, made the charts in 1951, and the beautifully written I, Juan de Pareja, about the Moorish slave of the painter Velasquez, made it in 1966, but Sounder was the first in which an African-American family living in America was featured. After that barrier was broken, others books featuring African-American characters followed.

What is glaringly absent from the list are books about modern day Latino, Asian-American, or Native American youth. I can make a convincing argument that a good book will captivate a reader of any age or ethnic background, because I believe that to be true. But I also firmly believe that, especially when you are young, it helps to be able to read a book in which the main character reflects your life experiences as someone of a different color or family origin. Louisa May Alcott established this beyond refute when she published Little Women and it became a runaway best seller on the strength of it being the first children's novel written about believable girls growing up in Civil War America.

I have my own little theory about the Newbery Medal books and why the older ones are not read more widely. I believe it is because we read, teach, and share those books with which we are most familiar. A 5th grade teacher in his or her thirties may be most familiar with the Newbery Medal books of the 1990s, when he or she was in 4th through 6th grades. They may have never been exposed to the works from the 1960s and earlier, unless they were either avid readers or had the good fortune to have had a teacher who knew the older winners and did not hesitate to make recommendations or read them aloud to the class. Otherwise, there is book after book on the list from every decade that I think stands up to the honor of being selected.

And finally, are the Newbery Medal Book selections subjective? Absolutely. They often reflect the times and the makeup of the selection committee. And the selection committee is only human. Look at the fact that neither Stuart Little nor Charlotte's Web, both of which are established classics, ever won a Newbery Medal. This is largely due to the fact that for a long time Anne Carroll Moore held sway over the committee, even when she wasn't a member of it. Moore, who all but created the concept of children's librarians and children's sections of public libraries, is remembered by many not for her significant contributions but by her intense and profound dislike of White's children's literature. In the end, although she won the battle and kept E. B. White from collecting a Newbery for either, there is little question as to who won that war. The 1946 winner (the year that White would have won for Stuart Little)? Strawberry Girl, by Lois Lenski, a period piece that has not held up well. The 1953 winner (the year White would have won for Charlotte's Web) was Secret of the Andes by Ann Nolan Clark. The 1953 winner is an oddly mystical, haunting fantasy that blends the ancient Incan past with the modern world, but it's no Charlotte's Web. I would have awarded the medal to White each time.

Sometimes I have to remind myself (while I am carping about subjectivity) that the Newbery is not the Nobel, in that the Newbery Medal is given to the most distinctive contribution published the previous year and not to an author for his or her body or literature. (More head smacking moments: what do you mean Beverly Cleary never won a Newbery for any of her Beeezus and Ramona books?)

In the end, the Newbery Medal selection is subjective. And so am I, as you will see in my free ranging critique of the Newbery Medal Books in part 2 of this post.

All the Angels

He ordered his angels

to guard you wherever you go.

If you stumble, they'll catch you;

their job is to keep you from falling.

                          Psalm 91:11 (The Message)

Walking downtown in the humid, sultry air last week, I kept my eyes cast down. It was already hot. It was only 10:15 a.m. My mind was on the heat.

I don't do well in heat. I was definitely not in the moment.

When I walk along in that mood, I am absent. I miss the little threads that make up the tapestry of the world: a cardinal alighting on the tree branch, a spray of petunias blooming despite the heat. Small moments whisper by me and I don't even catch them.

All the same, I snapped out of my trance long enough to notice the battered concrete planter sitting cockeyed on the downtown sidewalk. It was full only of foxtail grasses and a weed or two. Clearly no one had tended it this summer. I couldn't even tell if it belonged to anyone.

Just a weedy, discarded, beat up and battered planter. But it had cherubs cast onto its surface.

A whole planter full of angels!

A lot of us could use a planter full of angels, never mind the weeds. I could use a planter full of angels.

In recent weeks, there has been a whole lot of taking care of others going on in our household. I am helping an elderly family member through some major medical appointments. Amy's already precarious living conditions imploded and there have been several crises. (We hope she will be joining our household soon.) Warren is shepherding Season 33 onto the main stage while tending to a myriad of other demands and needs, including two rehearsals and a concert this weekend with another group in a town an hour from here. Sam leaves this Wednesday morning and we are trying to cram in just a little more time together before I put him on an airplane back to Oregon. I have missed him deeply this past school year and will miss him again this coming one. I miss my older son, Ben, and my daughter-in-law, Alise, deeply; this weekend was their wedding anniversary. 2500 miles away, I am too far out of the fabric of all of their daily lives and am feeling that distance keenly.

I am feeling stretched thin. I am feeling worn down. The heat has finally broken, so I can't blame it today as I type, but it certainly has played a role.

I don't know. Like I said, I could use a bucketful of angels.

Composer Lukas Foss wrote a percussion concerto titled "All the Angels Have Big Feet." This line was taken from lines by Ezra Pound:

All the angels have big feet.

Hump, diddywim tum .... Hump, bump, stunt.

I'd never heard of Lukas Foss. My eye had caught the concerto title in an article Warren was reading and the image has stuck with me.

All the angels have big feet.

I could use some angels with big feet right about now. I want some big footed angels stomping around, shaking the ground, shaking up things right now. I need some angels leaving big footprints as they tread firmly through my life right now.

All the angels have big feet.

Saturday a week ago Sam spent the afternoon with me baking. (Yeah, yeah, I know. It was hot. Even with the air on. And we had the kitchen heated up for baking?) He made two pies, one apple, one key lime meringue. I introduced Sam to yeast dough and he made a deep dish pizza that was just excellent. Tomorrow when he comes over we plan on making mozzarella cheese and pasta. In the evening, I hope the three of us go to a favorite ice cream stand, about 20 miles from here, and sit on the steps of the nearby church with our sodas and our sundaes. Maybe we'll talk. Maybe we'll just watch the village life all around us.

Any time I spend with Sam is a gift to me. We have seen him only in spurts as he visits with this friend and that friend. All these weeks, we have been ready with a meal and a bed as he has come and gone. I have mended his clothes, done some of his laundry, and given him rides. Tomorrow we will cook and share a meal and maybe an ice cream cone.

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, 

for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." 

Hebrews 13:2 (KJV)

Sam is no stranger, but his feet are good sized, in keeping with his 6'4" frame.

All the angels have big feet.

A Plethora of Pantoums: French Lullabies

The pantoum below was written based upon hearing my sister-in-law singing French lullabies in the early morning as she went about some kitchen tasks.  For the record, she was not weeping, but having just said goodbye to both of my sons, I easily imagined a scene where a mother would combine gentle weeping and soft singing as she thought back over the early years of childhood.

*********

French Lullabies

The French lullabies that now are not needed?
They hang in the air yet.
She gently weeps as she puts things to right
in the kitchen.

They hang in the air yet,
Clinging to the curtains.
In the kitchen,
Little tears

Clinging to the curtains.
The French lullabies,
Little tears,
You could brush away unnoticed if anyone came in.

The French lullabies
She used to sing to him,
You could brush away unnoticed if anyone came in.
In the quiet morning, her clear notes rise up the stairs.

She used to sing to him.
The baby is gone.
In the quiet morning, her clear notes rise up the stairs.
The little boy is gone.

The baby is gone.
He does not need crooned to now.
The little boy is gone.
She croons the French lullabies.

He does not need crooned to now.
As she wipes the kitchen counter,
She croons the French lullabies
Gently weeping.

As she wipes the kitchen counter
She gently weeps as she puts things to rights,
Gently weeping
The French lullabies that now are not needed.

Time

Just a couple of weeks ago, the sun was rising to the south of the Victorian mansion due east of us across our backyard. I noticed this morning that the sun has moved a few notches further north and is now rising just on the south edge of the house, reminding me again of the infinite motion of the universe.

We had another vivid reminder today of the swift passage of time. Warren's son, David, turns 21 tomorrow, and we were addressing birthday cards to put in today's mail.

Warren was at a loss. "I don't know what to write," he said.

I looked at him, only to see unshed tears in his eyes. "I  don't know what to say. I haven't seen a lot of him in the last several years…and I just don't know."

We were both quiet for a moment. Then Warren blinked hard and finished signing the cards.

After I mailed them this morning, I found my thoughts turning to David, my stepson of now two plus years. I still find it improbable that I have a stepson at all, let alone the one I am blessed to have. And now he is turning 21.

Time flies. Time races.

I have known David for much of his life; I've seen him grow up. When he was a middle school student and I was still practicing law, he interviewed me as part of the requirements for a Boy Scout merit badge. I turned the tables and interviewed him when he finished his questions. David gamely went along with it, but I can only imagine he left that interview thinking "man, was that weird."

When Warren began divorce proceedings, David was a junior in high school. Because of the machinations of his then spouse and the gross neglect of the magistrate (long since removed from her position), he barely saw his children during the two years of proceedings. He missed almost all of the events that made up David's final high school months, including his becoming an Eagle Scout. There was a long, painful interlude where Warren had no children.

David was on the verge of leaving for college by the time the divorce was final, and now the emotional distance was joined by a geographical one. It was a time of a new start for him, a time of picking up pieces and starting all over again for his father.

For a long time, David flitted in and out of our lives on an erratic and intermittent basis. He would be funny and sarcastic and bombastic. He loved making provocative, in-your-face statements about his world views. "All mankind is evil and should be bombed!" When he talked, I imagined his words scrolling by in boldface 48 point type with exclamation points used liberally.

We would see him for five minutes here, an hour there, and then he would blow back out the door and out of our lives again. Warren would sigh and reflect that he hardly knew his son, hardly knew what to say to him.

But time moves swiftly and brings changes to us all.

In recent months, David has been stopping by more frequently and staying longer. He is still funny and sarcastic. But he is less swift to voice an outrageous opinion just for the sake of causing a stir. He will sit for long periods talking seriously about his studies, about his life, about topics of mutual interest with his father. When they made Hyer peanut brittle this Christmas, it was a joy to watch them work together in concert, each knowing the other's rhythms.

The teen has turned into a young adult, and the young adult is turning into a man.

A week ago tonight, David came by the Symphony office where we were participating in the downtown First Friday events. I was busy talking with those stopping in, so did not join David and Warren as they visited. When he left, David - my husband's son, my stepson - gave me a long, sweet hug.

My marriage has been a long string of gifts, starting with Warren. Two of those blessings have been his children. Under the circumstances, I didn't know whether they would accept me in their dad's life, let alone let me enter theirs. 

I am blessed beyond measure on all counts.

I have a stepson, David, who is 21 tomorrow. Happiest of birthday wishes, David.

Winter Night, Winter Memories

The first Friday of each month, our downtown stores stay open late and people come out to eat and shop. The Symphony office, located downtown next to the movie theatre, stays open for the event. So last night found both of us headed out for First Friday.

I had a book to return to the library, a block and a half down the hill from the Symphony office, so I walked there in the gathering evening before coming back to help Warren out.

It was snowing lightly when I walked down, and snowing a little harder when I headed back up towards downtown. As I walked up the small hill, I could see the lights of downtown burning bright against the evening sky.

I was hit with a strong, cold wave of memory as those lights came into view. Not strong enough to knock me off my feet, but it jarred me all the same.

When I first came back to Delaware 20 years ago, I worked as an associate in a very small law firm in the heart of downtown. For reasons sometimes too twisted to decipher even decades later, I rarely was allowed use of the family car. Fortunately, we only lived six blocks from the office, and I loved to walk.

I last worked at that office 11 years ago, but I still remember, strongly, emerging from the building on an early winter evening onto the very same street down which I was now gazing. Street and window lights would be on, often it was cold, sometimes there'd be snow falling. I would walk home quickly, bundled against the chill, eager to reach the shelter of the house.

My thoughts would often be on the day I'd just left behind - the clients, the paperwork. As I walked, my mind would transition to whatever awaited me at home. In all likelihood, I had talked with my then husband and already taken an initial reading of his mood over the phone. I was too often tense over what probably awaited me when I got home, but that often propelled me to walk faster, not slower, to get the homecoming over with and to be there for my sons.

I missed my boys. I wanted to be home with them more, but as the sole wage earner, that was not an option. Despite the troubled household, despite the tension and pain that laced so many of the days, I gathered strength from the looks of their faces when I walked through the door each evening. I knew that for the next few hours at least, I could focus on Ben and Sam, the stories of their days, the bedtime books, the blissful look on their sleeping faces.

Last night's walk in the early evening brought back the feelings - the anxiety, the sadness - I used to wear almost every day but most especially as I walked back home each night. But it also brought back the bright moments: the joys in my children's faces, the warmth of a small boy snuggling up against me to hear a story or to tell one himself.

The poet Rilke, commenting on his decision to leave therapy, said "if my devils are to leave me, I'm afraid my angels would take flight as well." That sentiment applies to the past as well. The past is what it is and I cannot dwell too long in its deeper depths. But I can reach into the gloom and pull out the brightest moments, and those would be the times with Ben and Sam.

When I got back to the office, awash in these memories, I looked over at the bookshelf inside the front door. On it are rhythm instruments and a collection of children's books with rhymes and music and art themes. Most of the books are loaners from my collection. They are books that were interwoven through Ben and Sam's childhoods: Color Dance, Mouse Paint, Traveling to Tondo, Brother Billy Bronto's Bygone Blues Band (a picture book that magically features both dinosaurs and a train wreck, which automatically made it a hit with Sam when we first read it).

Looking at the titles, I could once more feel the weight of my boys on my lap, once again hear their quiet, rapt breathing while we read. Surely it is a prerogative of every parent of grown children to hold close such memories, especially when their warmth and glow are inextinguishable against the dark winter night.

Flaming Christmas Robins

In Blogville, when another blogger leaves a comment on one of your posts, it is good form, if you have not yet "met" the blogger, to visit her blog and leave a comment of your own. I have met some wonderful friends that way. That is how I recently met Stacey, a young mother in England, who blogs at Stay at Home Mummy.

Yesterday, Stacey wrote about holiday traditions, listing some of her favorites. As I was skimming over her list this morning, one in particular caught my eye: "Hide the robin - buy a Christmas robin with wire feet and he hides around the room, children have to come into the dark room with a torch and find him - a tradition when we were little!" [Emphasis added.]

I thought about that for several minutes. A torch? Children in dark rooms with torches? I was thinking of a stick with cloth wrapped on the end and set on fire. It took me more than a few moments to realize Stacey was talking about the children using flashlights, not firebrands.

While I am now convinced that England is not at risk to go up in smoke from robin-seeking children (although the riots over tuition hikes may indicate that other problems are smoldering), the image of entering a dark room with a flaming stick to look for an ornament has stuck with me all morning.

When my boys were young, they regularly played a self-invented game, called, I believe, "Dark." It was a simple game: players gathered in Sam's room (which was big) at night, all the blinds were closed, all the stuffed animals in the house were heaped in piles in the room, Ben or Sam shut the door and turned off the lights, and everyone started firing pillows and animals while running around the room, leaping onto the beds (if the player was lucky enough to know the room layout) and crashing into furniture (if one was not so lucky). The game was played at breakneck speed, with lots of screaming and shouting. It went on until either (a) someone got hurt enough to call for a parent or (b) everyone agreed to a mutual truce and turned the lights back on.

[Note: For those of you who are wondering what I was thinking allowing them to play this game, realize I grew up with only brothers and had only sons. So this game made perfect sense to me. When they got much older, Ben and Sam played a variation of it, using air pellet guns instead of stuffed animals, in the empty second floor space in the downtown building in which we lived.]

So the notion of seeking robins with lit torches holds a peculiar charm and fascination for me. It is a tradition (my version, that is) that Ben and Sam would have wholeheartedly embraced when they were little. They probably still would, for that matter. It lends a whole new meaning to the French carol, "Un flambeau, Jeanette, Isabelle - Un flambeau!" 

I can see my boys now, torches in hand, running through the house, looking for the robin in the dark, calling out for Christmas. 

Saying Goodbye

I have been saying "goodbye" to my boys since they were little.

"Goodbye, I'll see you after school."

"Goodbye, have fun at camp."

"Goodbye, let me know your plane got in."

Being a parent and watching your children grow up is one long series of goodbyes. Everything we do to guide them to adulthood is aimed at one day saying "goodbye" as they step into their new lives.

So why does it still hurt so much when that day comes?

When we were out in Montana for Ben and Alise's wedding, I had to say goodbye to both of my boys at the same time. The wedding weekend was over and Warren and I were leaving early the next morning to start our trip back to Ohio.

Ben now lives in Montana with Alise and I would be saying goodbye to both of them for who knows how long. And Sam was staying on in Montana for a week with Ben and Alise before heading further west to Oregon, where he will start at Portland State next month.

I've said goodbye to each of my sons many times and under many circumstances. But this time was different. Here was Ben, stepping into married life. Here was Sam, making some new and important life choices.

Our last day in Helena, the day after the wedding about which I hope to write soon, most of us went to Lake Helena for an afternoon of boating. Alise's father, Joe, took my parents and the boys' father and his fiancé out first, while the rest of us stayed on shore and talked about books and other things. Then Alise, Ben, Sam, Warren, and I joined Joe and Jenna, Alise's younger sister, and we went out on the lake for a couple of hours - my farewell tour, as it were, with the boys.

It was wonderful. I got to see Ben and Alise in a setting familiar to them, unfamiliar to me. I got to watch Sam, who back on shore said he was ready to experience life directly instead of through his computer, try out a new experience. We all got the chance to laugh and talk and joke and relax.

After we came in, we caravanned back to Joe and Mona's house for one last meal of wedding reception leftovers. We ate, we talked, I watched my boys.

And then it was time to say goodbye.

Sam was first. Sam, with whom we had had a most excellent time (well, if you didn't count the last ten minutes when we arrived in Helena and were looking for Ben and Alise's apartment) driving cross-county. Sam, who'd stood on the rail at the Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the North Dakota Badlands, gazing endlessly, saying "I want to come back here and hike." Sam, who'd just yesterday stood by his brother while Ben recited his vows and then broke into a loud cheer when the wedding was concluded.

That Sam.

Sam gave me a hearty hug. "Okay, mom, goodbye until whenever! I love you!"

Oh, I love you so, Sam.

A goodbye hug from Ben. A long, hard hug from my firstborn, who I have watched over from afar for so long. "Thanks for coming out to the wedding, mom. I'm really glad you did. I love you."

My dear Ben, how I love you!

Then goodbyes and hugs to everyone else - Alise, no longer my almost-daughter-in-law, Jenna, their parents, Joe and Mona.

I told Warren I was ready to leave. And although there was a large lump in my throat, I was in pretty good shape as we left the room.

Joe and Mona live in a tri-level house, and to leave the living room where we were, you walk down a short flight of stairs to the front door. As we were walking down, I glanced back and saw Ben standing at the top of the stairs, watching us leave.

He had followed us out.

That killed me.

I have seen Ben only three times in the last five years. I don't know when I will see him again. He's almost 25, he's married, he and Alise are forging their own paths. Yet there was my boy - all grown to manhood - watching his mother leave.

Maybe it occurred to Ben that he wouldn't see me for some time. Maybe he just wanted to see his mom for a minute more. Maybe it was just coincidence (but I don't think so).

I held my tears until I was in the car, and then they came. I cried much of the way to the hotel. Not torrents of tears - more like a spring that fills a basin slowly until it wells over. I cried the same, slow way through the night while Warren held me close.

The next morning we left Montana early, driving into a golden sunrise. We exclaimed over the trip so far, we talked about the wedding and the reception. We told each other "I love you."

The road was brilliant before us. Adventures lay ahead.

And I silently bid my boys goodbye one more time.

Stopping at the Lemonade Stand

Warren and I were westbound on Pennsylvania Avenue, headed to the gas station with a gas can so we could determine whether his truck was out of gas or worse. As I drove slowly past the line of houses, I saw two young boys jumping up and down in a front yard, waving enthusiastically at passing motorists.

"Lemonade here! Stop for lemonade!"

The sign said 25¢.

I waved as I drove past. At the gas station, while Warren pumped the gas, I scrabbled through the divider console and found a quarter. When Warren got back in, I handed it to him.

"Here."

"What's this for?"

"We're stopping at that lemonade stand on the way back."

Warren raised his eyebrows but didn't object. I retraced our route, slowing and pulling off the road right in front of the two boys.

Their eyes lit up and the younger one yelled, "Oh boy!"

They were probably about eight and six, just old enough to be handling a lemonade stand, and still young enough for it to be exciting and fun. An older man, Grandpa by the looks of it, hung in the back, watching, but letting them do all the work.

Warren showed them the quarter. "One, please."

The two boys consulted and the little boy got very serious.

"Orange or lemonade?"

"Lemonade," I called out through the window.

The bigger boy said something to him and the littler boy turned to us again, all work. "How many ice?"

We chuckled at his grammar but got the point. "One," I said.

Together, the two boys got the paper cup, extracted one ice cube from a cooler, and slowly, carefully, filled the cup. Grandpa hovered nearby, but let them do it. In my rearview mirror, I saw another car slow and pull up behind me.

The little boy carefully walked the now full glass over to our car, using both hands and never taking his eyes off of the contents. He sighed with relief when Warren took the cup from him. When Warren handed over the quarter, the little boy got a huge grin on his face.

Grandpa called out his thanks, I think as a gentle prompt to the boys. I'm not sure they heard as the older one saw the car that had come up behind us and was jumping up and down.

"Oh boy, customers!"

Many years ago, I read Stopping at Every Lemonade Stand, by James Vollbracht. Subtitled How to Create a Culture That Cares for Kids, it is about creating community by starting with the children in the community. It is about reconnecting children - and ourselves - to our families, our blocks, our neighborhoods, and the world beyond. His work takes small steps, child-size steps, starting with what we already have at hand and building from there. Vollbracht believes that children need meaningful, positive connections with adults in their everyday lives. Tonight, when we stopped and I saw the two boys leap up and down with delight, I understood exactly what Vollbracht was saying.

As we drove off, I said to Warren, "that was why I wanted to stop."

I wanted to stop to see those grins. To hear that glee ("Oh boy, customers!"). To watch them dance with anticipation.

I'm hoping those boys always remember the summer they had a lemonade stand in Grandpa's front yard.

I think they will.

Christmases Past

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"Long past?" inquired Scrooge…
"No. Your past."

I had intended this post to be a series of photos only, from Christmases past, but the popcorn balls intervened, so indulge me while I talk about popcorn balls.

My grandmother Skatzes, my beloved Grandma Skatzes, loved Christmas. It was her favorite holiday. She always announced loudly that Christmas was for children, not for adults, and she meant that. I think though that Grandma always carried a child's delight in life in her heart, and she reveled in the Christmas season.

Christmas in that household meant popcorn balls and Grandma was the sole possessor of the recipe and the sole maker of the balls. Until I was 13, we lived in the same house - my family upstairs from my grandparents - and I loved to come downstairs on popcorn ball day to be with her. When I was very young, she would give me a handful of popcorn or a few caramelized pieces and shoo me out of her kitchen and out of her way. But as we both grew older, she slowly started letting me help - first bagging the balls, then shaping them, then working alongside her cooking the syrup. Even after we moved out of the house, I would come back on popcorn ball day. On one of those days, she finally decided it was time to pass along the recipe to me.

I still have it.

Grandma Skatzes was all but blind, and so cooked the syrup by feel and not by a candy thermometer. Under her tutelage, I learned to judge its consistency with my fingers as it passed from soft to hard stage. (It occurs to me as I type these words that her extremely limited vision was yet another reason she did not want a rambunctious little kid hanging at her elbow while she handled the hot syrup.) She taught me to dip my hands in cold water before shaping the balls to minimize burns. (I quickly learned that burns were part of making popcorn balls.)

Everyone in her large family watched and waited for Grandma's popcorn balls. It was the one flavor that Christmas needed to be complete. Grandma made them in massive quantities; I remember bagging over 300 one day. She made them for the families of her children and any adult grandchildren who were known to be coming into town for the holidays. By the end of popcorn ball day, there would be paper grocery bags filled to the brim on all of the kitchen chairs.

What I never knew was when and how this tradition got started. Was it something Grandma began in the depths of the Great Depression, trying to make Christmas a little more festive? Did it date back to her childhood? All I know is that we all looked forward to the sack of popcorn balls arriving each December, and how everyone - young and old alike - regretted when there was only one left, because that meant the end of the popcorn balls until the next Christmas.

Grandma died in early 1978; she had stopped making popcorn balls some years before that. When she made her last batch, she gave me two pans - a large roaster pan and a very heavy pot - which were the critical pieces of popcorn ball making equipment. I have carried those pans from here to Chicago, to Oregon, to California, and back again to my hometown for the last 30 some years.

Over those years, I have made popcorn balls sporadically, but never in the volume Grandma did. My life was complicated and there were other demands. My children have only had them a few times at the holidays.

This year, I am making popcorn balls.

I popped the popcorn this morning - four pounds of it - dumping it into grocery bags to cool just like Grandma always did. I have already burned a finger on the heavy pot - the one in which I will make syrup later today - because I forgot that somewhere in its past the wooden handle came off and my grandfather's repair included a large threaded nut that gets as hot as the pan. It will scorch your fingers if you forget and touch it while cleaning up.

Laura Ingalls Wilder mentioned popcorn balls more than once in her Little House books - they were on the church Christmas tree in Plum Creek and they appear again at a Christmas in De Smet when Almanzo surprises Laura by coming home early from a trip east. They appear in Robert P. Tristam Coffin's Christmas memoir, "Christmas in Maine," where they were "big as muskmelons." My guess is that popcorn balls are woven into the fabric of our country's past and probably make more literary appearances than even I could imagine.

They are certainly woven into the fabric of my past.

It is that fabric that will be swaddling my heart later today when I make them. I cannot wait for the smell of the syrup, for the crunch as I shape them, and even for the small scorches which are part and parcel of the making. They will bring me memories of Grandma Skatzes, memories of my childhood, and memories of Christmas past.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Christmas, 1957


Christmas, 1962


Christmas, 1986


Christmas, 1991

Sam


Ben