Sunday, November 16, 2008
It's been 11 weeks since I've seen my husband and I've probably got three weeks more to go before he gets home for the holidays.
I daydream about seeing him get off the airplane, though I'm not sure what I'll think about the dreadlocks he writes home about these days.
I daydream about Peter spotting me in the crowd of two people who'll be waiting for loved ones inside the airport terminal building here, and wonder if he'll recognize me up close now that he's lost his glasses.
He always claimed he could pick me out a crowd of women with his eyes shut. For the longest time I thought that was such a romantic gesture on his part, until I realized he'd have to use his hands to figure out which one was me.
In early September I’d anticipated my impending alone time would take some getting used to. In fact, it only took about three days.
And I still can't believe how fast the time has gone.
I decided back then to go full bore into my 'INTJ' mode. (That's introvert- intuitive- thinker-judger mode from www.personalitytype.com for those of you who haven't been reading my column in the last few months.)
I thought first (sometimes for days) then acted, focused on one thing at a time, trusted my gut, and thought about future implications.
Surprisingly enough, the days dripped slowly on the page only about 90 minutes total during the last 11 weeks, and when the "slo-mo's" hit, I soaked them up researching my family history and re-arranging the furniture and wall art in my living room.
Unfortunately I could not be convinced by rational arguments because I had no one to argue with, save a dog or two, and they were not remotely interested in anything sensible.
But I did finish my projects and found much comfort in schedules.
On two occasions I went to the big city and fell in love with shopping by myself for myself.
I also learned that when you think something is too good to be true it probably is and it comes with a $300 parking ticket if you assume it's your lucky day to get the parking spot right outside the restaurant door in downtown Thunder Bay.
Yes, I checked for signs and no, I didn't see the little sign hidden behind the lunch crowd mulling in front of it that said, "Handicapped Parking Only."
However, thanks to the power of deduction and a parking authority employee who was in a very good mood, I managed to get my fine knocked down to $100 for my stupidity that afternoon.
And back here at home when I needed a break from myself, all I had to do was invite some of my little grandchildren to come and stay with me.
Now there's a surefire cure for a magnificent case of the Dwindles!
As I have reiterated before, there’s something to be said for spontaneity—for just letting go and letting life have its way with you.
And when life alone makes Beth a dull girl, that's where the grandchildren are the kicker. They are possessed with the all-over-the-place essence of ‘Yukon Cornelius' from the movie classic "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," just like their Grampa Peter is.
Though I must admit defeat nowadays.
I can't believe I survived raising three kids of my own! Where did I find the energy and the coordination to feed them, wash them, dress them, and not lose them?
These superpowers are a challenge to find today in Granny's magic bag.
As recently as Saturday, during a cookie-making event with my grandson Adam, I forgot to add the peanut butter to the peanut butter cookie dough recipe because I was preoccupied with trying to name each kitchen utensil Adam was pulling out of the utensil drawer while at the same time answering his 20 questions that included where I’d bought each one.
"What is this called Granny? Where did you buy this Granny? Why are you doing that Granny? Why Granny, Why Granny, Why?"
Never answer a three year old's 'Why' question with "Because."
"Why because?" just starts the whole process over again.
And the taste of baby food has not changed in over 20 years. It's still gross.
I'd accidentally ripped off the food label from a jar of the stuff before feeding Adam’s eight-month-old sister Julie, who was poised like a baby bird with her mouth open and at the ready, and had to do a taste test of my own to figure out if it was pureed beef or fruit.
I'm still not sure what it was, but she ate it.
Adam was in the living room at the time and I thought was absorbed in watching ‘The Adventures of Toopy and Binoo.’ When I looked in on him, sure enough there he was watching television--and jamming pieces of Kleenex up his nose.
As I was picking out Adam's nostrils with one hand and feeding Julie with the other, I was suddenly reminded of my brother Jay, who as a little boy shoved pussy willows up his nose and which went undiscovered for some days until they started to ferment.
My other grandson, Ben, who is just shy of being a one year old and who can crawl across a football field in 20 seconds flat was, to my relief, still at home with his parents.
And thankfully Adam waited until he got home to his own house before he decided to shove a big wad of pink bubblegum up his nose and drink food coloring.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
You, me, and the family tree
November 3, 2008
It's Sunday afternoon and in a fit of some kind, I've eaten way too many jelly beans.
Awaiting the sore tummy, I shrug off the fact that my teeth are now impacted with gobs of sugar.
I shrug, because despite the challenge for my toothpick, eating jelly beans always makes me feel good.
And when I feel good, then anything is possible.
I sit staring into my laptop screen, ears on the voice of Enya and the violins of Itzhak Perlman.
I toggle between my OneNote chicken-scratch column and email messages from my husband.
He's lost his eyeglasses again and his spelling is atrocious. But blind as a bat, he can type 'I love you' and that's really all I need to see in my inbox.
The dogs are snoring on the floor on Pete's side of the bed, where they will continue to make themselves comfortable every chance they get until the man of the house comes home.
I'm not keen on the windy, fall day.
It's Day one of the many to come that spell shorter daylight hours.
Ho hum.
The dark tan lines are fast fading from the tops of my feet and it's not fair. It's cold in here and it's like summer never happened.
All that hard work outside on those hot summer days . . . . I'd better eat more jelly beans.
Alas, my mind is not on my work.
Instead I'm dreaming about jolly old England, the moors of Scotland, Pinchard's Island in Newfoundland and a visit I've had recently with a woman I'd never met before.
She is 75 years old, her name is Dorothy, and I could hardly wait to lay eyes on her and hear what she had to say.
She is a piece of the puzzle and a part of the story of where I've come from.
My opportunity to meet her could have happened a long time ago-- but as they say, "how quickly not now becomes forever"--a common by-product of the life that happens when you're busy making other plans.
But not that day. That day, the plan was to connect.
Expectations soared and my intuition told me Dorothy was going to play a key role in my discovery of what was behind door number one and the story of a woman named Pearl.
I did not go unrewarded.
I came home one step closer to filling in the blanks about the history behind a beautiful woman who passed away 74 years ago.
She is captured in photographs taken in the early 1900's and into the 1930's; youthful and demure in sepia, serene and blissfully happy.
A young spinster in 1917 whose soul mate would be John in 1923. Then on to become a mother gentle and caring of five little peppers.
Yet, as the Universe would have it, other plans than those who adored Pearl would have hoped for, unfolded in 1934 when at the age of 35 she died.
Her husband and five children would move forward without her.
I grew up knowing it was a love story to dream upon; captured in letters, stories, memories, and photographs.
For as long as I can remember and because she was loved, the woman who was Pearl has been inked in the books of my mind.
How could she not be? Her brief life created one who gave me my existence.
Yet, I miss that I never really knew her.
I always have looked for a resemblance in her photograph and always have believed she believed, as I believe, that anything is possible.
Today I am the caregiver of so many chicken-scratch notes stuffed in file folders by another late great woman named Barbara, who was driven to complete the family tree of her ancestors. An auntie of grandeur and big heart often touted an odd sock among us and chided for her eccentric ways.
Yet, she too is missed.
Truth be told, and though I didn't know it at the time, I think my auntie and I were joined at the hip as genealogy sleuths.
Me and you, Auntie.
You and me and the family tree.
You also confirmed my suspicions that it was you from whom I inherited the first-born trait of the note maker.
Today, you walk in greener pastures with a young mother who waits for her children in fields of daisies. Yet how I wish you were still here to see what leaps I have made in the story of Pearl.
Thanks to Dorothy who nudged the seed to grow, and to all those little notes you left me, Pearl's light is shining back 360 years to a little seaport village in England, where who we used to be lived in an old house with warm light and a little picket fence and where children played and Thomas dreamed that anything was possible.
It's Sunday afternoon and in a fit of some kind, I've eaten way too many jelly beans.
Awaiting the sore tummy, I shrug off the fact that my teeth are now impacted with gobs of sugar.
I shrug, because despite the challenge for my toothpick, eating jelly beans always makes me feel good.
And when I feel good, then anything is possible.
I sit staring into my laptop screen, ears on the voice of Enya and the violins of Itzhak Perlman.
I toggle between my OneNote chicken-scratch column and email messages from my husband.
He's lost his eyeglasses again and his spelling is atrocious. But blind as a bat, he can type 'I love you' and that's really all I need to see in my inbox.
The dogs are snoring on the floor on Pete's side of the bed, where they will continue to make themselves comfortable every chance they get until the man of the house comes home.
I'm not keen on the windy, fall day.
It's Day one of the many to come that spell shorter daylight hours.
Ho hum.
The dark tan lines are fast fading from the tops of my feet and it's not fair. It's cold in here and it's like summer never happened.
All that hard work outside on those hot summer days . . . . I'd better eat more jelly beans.
Alas, my mind is not on my work.
Instead I'm dreaming about jolly old England, the moors of Scotland, Pinchard's Island in Newfoundland and a visit I've had recently with a woman I'd never met before.
She is 75 years old, her name is Dorothy, and I could hardly wait to lay eyes on her and hear what she had to say.
She is a piece of the puzzle and a part of the story of where I've come from.
My opportunity to meet her could have happened a long time ago-- but as they say, "how quickly not now becomes forever"--a common by-product of the life that happens when you're busy making other plans.
But not that day. That day, the plan was to connect.
Expectations soared and my intuition told me Dorothy was going to play a key role in my discovery of what was behind door number one and the story of a woman named Pearl.
I did not go unrewarded.
I came home one step closer to filling in the blanks about the history behind a beautiful woman who passed away 74 years ago.
She is captured in photographs taken in the early 1900's and into the 1930's; youthful and demure in sepia, serene and blissfully happy.
A young spinster in 1917 whose soul mate would be John in 1923. Then on to become a mother gentle and caring of five little peppers.
Yet, as the Universe would have it, other plans than those who adored Pearl would have hoped for, unfolded in 1934 when at the age of 35 she died.
Her husband and five children would move forward without her.
I grew up knowing it was a love story to dream upon; captured in letters, stories, memories, and photographs.
For as long as I can remember and because she was loved, the woman who was Pearl has been inked in the books of my mind.
How could she not be? Her brief life created one who gave me my existence.
Yet, I miss that I never really knew her.
I always have looked for a resemblance in her photograph and always have believed she believed, as I believe, that anything is possible.
Today I am the caregiver of so many chicken-scratch notes stuffed in file folders by another late great woman named Barbara, who was driven to complete the family tree of her ancestors. An auntie of grandeur and big heart often touted an odd sock among us and chided for her eccentric ways.
Yet, she too is missed.
Truth be told, and though I didn't know it at the time, I think my auntie and I were joined at the hip as genealogy sleuths.
Me and you, Auntie.
You and me and the family tree.
You also confirmed my suspicions that it was you from whom I inherited the first-born trait of the note maker.
Today, you walk in greener pastures with a young mother who waits for her children in fields of daisies. Yet how I wish you were still here to see what leaps I have made in the story of Pearl.
Thanks to Dorothy who nudged the seed to grow, and to all those little notes you left me, Pearl's light is shining back 360 years to a little seaport village in England, where who we used to be lived in an old house with warm light and a little picket fence and where children played and Thomas dreamed that anything was possible.
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