100 Things to Do Before I Go

Blogging not only rocks. It rolls.

I introduced Michelle to Laura Munson who led Michelle to Karen Walrond. Michelle posted Karen's book trailer, which left breadcrumbs to Mighty Maggie and her life list.

This idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go. As both Karen and Maggie note, the point is not that you have to do all 100 things before you die. The point is that writing them down forms a commitment with your soul to reach further. To live bigger. And smaller. To remember that we all go. To recognize the time is now.

My list kept me up until 1:00 am and woke me at 5:45. I haven't finished, but I'm posting it here and now. I am committing to my self. I am committing to others. I am saying yes to life.

In no particular order...

100 Things to Do Before I Go

1. Fall in love again.

2. Ride my bicycle across Tuscany.

3. See the Grand Canyon.

4. Visit Yosemite.

5. Walk my daughter down the aisle.

6. Teach my granddaughter to swim.

7. Write a book from my heart.

8. Stomp grapes at a vineyard.

9. Attend Crescent Dragonwagon's Fearless Writing workshop.

10. Fly a kite on a beach.

11. Take a barefoot sailing cruise.

12. Return to the Bay of Fundy.

13. Spend a weekend in Kinsale, Ireland.

14. Drive the Pacific Coast Highway.

15. Learn to bake good bread.

16. Visit all 50 states.

17. Take dance lessons.

18. Sleep at the Beagle motel.

19. Meditate at the Joshua Tree

20. Take a barge trip down the Seine.

21. Learn photography.

22. Make jam from strawberries I grew myself.

23. Volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.

24. Take a moon bath in the full moon.

25. Bike Mackinac Island.

26. Finish or give away all unfinished projects.

27. Make the Astrid sweater.

28. Take painting lessons.

29. Make 100 lovely things.

30. Sleep in a treehouse.

31. Get an essay accepted by the NY Times

32. Spend a summer in a small house by the ocean.

33. Spend a summer in Bayfield, Wisconsin.

34. Volunteer with a theater group.

35. Make pasta from scratch.

36. Find a spiritual home.

37. Hike in a fern glen.

38. Drive the Going to the Sun Road.

39. Stay at the Plaza when I visit my publisher.

40. Ride the Katy Trail from one end to the other.

41. Take my granddaughter to Disney World.

42. Learn 100 new words in English.

43. Waterski again.

44. Try 100 kinds of tea.

45. Donate 1000 books to a library.

46. Hike Kitchen Mesa.

47. Create a comfortable, funky workspace for myself.

48. Read 1000 more books.

49. Attend 100 local festivals.

50. Dance from dusk to dawn.

51. Watch the Leonid Showers from a desert or forest

52. Attend a concert at the Sydney Opera House.

53. Listen to 100 new-to-me musicians.

54. Make giant bubbles with my granddaughter.

55. Visit all the Great Lodges of the National Parks.

56. Spend a long weekend in Mendocino, CA.

57. Record my father's carny calls.

58. Attend 100 author readings.

59. Learn to stand on my head.

60. Recycle at least 50% of all garbage I create.

61. Hug a redwood.

62. Learn Tai Chi.

63. Meditate 100 days in a row.

64. Buy a book at Over the Transom in Fairhope, Alabama

65. Get a story published in Glimmer Train.

66. Attend the Erma Bombeck Writer's Workshop.

67. Read 1000 poems.

68. Post a YouTube video.

69. Make an illustrated book of my favorite quotes.

70. Swing for 30 minutes.

71. Write a six-word novel.

72. Write a 10-word personal ad.

73. Take fly-fishing lessons.

74. Make 100 angels.

75. Make my own Pandora radio station.

76. Find 100 heart rocks.

77. Make my blog look like me.

78. Donate 100 warm hats to Micah Ministries.

79. Can really good salsa.

80. Journal my progress on this list.

Edgy

I've slept 5,739* nights since the divorce, most of them alone. And despite my efforts to switch sides or move to the center, I cling to the edge. Of my bed.

Last night I stirred, started to turn over, and realized that if I moved even a hair, I'd fall off the bed. I had to move the dog and my pillows to adjust myself in the slightest. This morning, I woke on the edge again.


One of the things I do for my major freelance client is review the work of the 110 editors assigned to me. Writing each review is a laborious process that often involves making retroactive corrections and emailing various people on various matters. When I started in this position, my manager explained what needed to be done and how. I had no idea how many reviews I was expected to complete each week. I did some calculations and came up with what I thought they would expect. I've stayed up half the night, night after night, meeting this expectation that I made up. Earlier this week I discovered the rest of the team had been given a target. And that target is exactly half what I'd been driving myself crazy to accomplish each week. Half.

For this same company, I sometimes edit when the backlog gets too big. I'm not required to do this, but things get complicated for everyone when the system backs up, so I pitch in when I can manage it outside my usual hours. In an attempt to encourage editors to catch up, the company promised a bonus to the top 50 editors in terms of volume for a 30 day period. Yesterday I received auto-notification that I would receive the bonus. My "help when I can" habit put me in the top 50 producers out of 1200 editors--for a job that is not mine.

So often, I plug along, trying to keep up, only to discover that what seems normal to me appears excessive to others. Could this be why I've slept alone for 5,739 nights? The reason I'm on the edge? It's truly something to think about.




*No worries, folks. I don't keep track--I did the math just for this post. I'm working on my writing, and 5,739 says so much more than "a long time."

Teagan Day!

It's remarkably difficult to take good pictures of a baby by yourself. You really need someone to hold the baby while you take her picture. Out of the dozens I took yesterday, only these reflect any portion of her gorgeousness.


My darling granddaughter, ready for our first walk together.


My darling granddaughter, after our first walk together.


My Teagan is coming today!!!!

I get to take care of her for a couple hours this afternoon. Pictures to follow.

Stopping

Today is Ringo Starr's 70th birthday. Seriously. RINGO frickn' STARR turns 70. Today.

I was 10 years old when Ed Sullivan me to introduced the Beatles. Sure, I knew the lads from Liverpool were adults and I was a child that Sunday night. But somehow I'm shocked to discover Ringo is closer to my father's age (79) than to my own (56).


Last night I took part in an open forum on Laura Munson's blog. Laura, the author of This Is Not the Story You Think It Is, led a discussion of "stopping." As in stopping to notice, stopping to celebrate the beauty around us. As in stopping to buy lemonade from a child's stand.

The conversation included talk of surrender. It evolved to a discussion of saying yes to the Universe. Now that I've had time to think about it all, I don't think we drifted from the topic.

Stopping is surrender. Surrender is saying yes to the Universe. Something inside us--that spark of God that connects us all--wants us to notice the glorious gifts we're given. Every single day. Jack Gilbert wrote, "The treasures hidden inside you are hoping you will say yes."


It feels like a few years ago that Ringo Starr was a skinny, mop-haired boy launching a musical revolution. Today, he's 70. And still on stage. Still saying yes to the gifts he was given. He still can because he still does.

Ringo has asked that everyone stop at noon today (each in his own time zone) and wish the world "Peace and Love."

Please say yes to that.

Open Sesame

Managing daily tasks on the computer and Internet requires user names and passwords and secret phrases. Transferring money from one account to another--within the same bank--means I have to remember a user name and three passwords. Getting online to work requires two. Paying my utility bills requires three more. Secret words and phrases fill my brain, and accessing them at the right moment gets more and more complicated.

I've been waking in the night again. Words circle me in the dark, phrases begging to be written down. I want to tell these stories. I want to be a disciplined person who writes 500 words every day, no matter what. I want to step forward, believing the path will appear. I want to plug into the current that flows through me when I write from my heart.

Part of what holds me back is the idea that I have to find a magical combination of words that will open all doors. Anne Lamott believes in "shitty first drafts."

Maybe that's the password.

Fearless

Some of you may remember my fascination with Crescent Dragonwagon, about whom I have written several times, including here and here.

Dragon, as she calls herself, briefly attended the same high school I did, although I can't say I knew her. Tremendously colorful and mysterious, she remained my most unforgettable character for decades. In the mid-80s, I ran across her work via the suggested reading list for a curriculum product I was editing. In 1993, she popped up again in various articles about Bill Clinton's inauguration. In 2002, my brother-in-law gave me Passionate Vegetarian as a Christmas gift. In 2008, I came across her blog, Nothing Is Wasted on the Writer.

Her presence is a recurring theme/dream.

Crescent runs a workshop called Fearless Writing. For years now, I've longed to attend one. I'm finally back at work on a "real" project these days. My biggest issue, as always, is the uncertainty, the not knowing where the story is going. Thus we circle back to Crescent and her workshop and fearlessness.

My major freelance client offers a monthly grant to help writers realize their dreams. I am not working today. I am not playing. Today, I am writing an application for the July grant. If I receive it, I will immediately sign up for the Labor Day edition of Fearless Writing. I will go to the Green Mountains of Vermont and meet Crescent again, for the first time. (She's changed. I've changed. We never really knew one another.)

In one way, this seems an impossible dream. In another, it feels like destiny. I can't know which is true. I can only write the best grant application possible and turn loose of the outcome.

Wish me luck.



* Green Mountains in fall. Photo from University of Vermont website

Planning a Lunch and a Wedding

N (Katie's birth mother) and I are having lunch next week. We haven't seen one another since Mother's Day 2009, which is far too long. She's a lovely woman.

As the wedding planning ramps up, I realize how complicated this could be. My nephew and his bride-to-be are going crazy trying to mollify two two-parent families. Katie has four sets of parents in addition to her extended family, step-family and birth families.

Danger, Will Robinson!

My dream for Katie is that her wedding be peaceful and joyous. She will be at peace only if her families are. The night she asked me to help her find her birth mother, she said she wanted to know her well enough to have her at the eventual wedding. The eventual has become the actual. She has the dress, the guests, the cake, the whole darn thing. We're supposed to sign a contract for the reception location today.

I want to know Nancy's dreams for herself and the wedding. All final decisions are Katie's, of course, but I can influence the course of our ship of dreams. Knowing what N wants gives me a sort of star chart to work with. Katie is careful to be respectful of my feelings, and I appreciate that more than she'll ever know. Even so, I don't want the two of them to miss out on things they'd like to share. If I know enough to make the right suggestions, Katie won't have to worry about hurting my feelings, and she won't have to worry about disappointing N.

And so, I've asked N to lunch. My hope is that we'll talk and laugh and share our dreams for our daughter. My job here is to compromise. To make room. To live my love for my daughter. Come to think of it, N's job is pretty much the same.

We have a lot in common.

Grandma News

After saying they wouldn't be there, Evan and Kristin and Teagan came to the shower yesterday. I was thrilled.

The highlight was carrying Teagan around, introducing her to friends and family. Teagan is, of course, a particularly beautiful baby, and she looked darling in a little yellow dress embroidered with tiny cupcakes. I even got to give her a bottle. (Kristin had expressed milk so she wouldn't have to breastfeed during the party.)

This grandma thing is a good gig.

Finding My Grateful Heart

As Dad tells stories, one of the things most present to me is how blessed we--his children--have been. Through intelligence and hard work and love and loyalty, he and my mother transmuted our lives. The timing of my nephew's text about the limousines was ironic, to say the least, and I couldn't stop thinking about the metaphorical distance between the childhoods of my father and my children.

Those of you who've been reading a while know that my former husband can be...difficult. And loyalty is not his strong suit. And...well...you know. But the challenging things about him are not the whole of him. The truth is, he is part of the reason our children will never live in a boxcar. His intelligence and hard work have contributed to our family's journey.

Thursday morning, after a night of fitful sleep and constant thought-loops about all this, I called him. Very briefly (he hates to hear me talk) I outlined the story of the boxcar and the limo. And then I thanked him for his part in the safety and comfort our children enjoy.

He did not say a word. I waited a moment, and then said, "That's all I need to say. Just 'thank you.'" More silence. "Good-bye."

In a voice so tight you could feel his vocal cords vibrate, he choked out, "Thank you for calling."

We hung up without another word.

Friday, he called to ask me to find a way to get Evan fitted for a tux for a wedding in his step-family. "If I just ask him to do it, nothing will get done. Can you help?" After receiving the emailed measurements on Saturday, he called to thank me. He was gracious and kind.

We've exchanged more pleasant words this week than we have in some years since our divorce.

Now, I've been down this road long enough to know this isn't a storybook happy ending. We will not ride off into some rosy sunset. We will not hold hands around campfires, singing Kum Ba Yah. But it is a crack in the wall of bitterness and anger between us, an opening in my own heart as well as his. Because, as much as I've worked on forgiveness, as much as I've tried to let go of resentment, the best I've ever managed is a shaky kind of inner detente. I may not dwell on the old anger, but I certainly leap to new irritation when his present actions confirm my beliefs about him. And the thing is, Anais Nin was right. We see things not as they are, but as we are.

A grateful heart is a fine filter through which to see the world. I'm working on it.

Photo courtesy of Haiyen

Buster Brown Gets Busted

So, get this. Grandpa and Uncle Forest were driving their truck through a small town in Indiana when some sort of incident stopped traffic. They were sitting in a railroad crossing, waiting for the problem to be resolved, when they heard a train in the distance.

Uncle Forest (not known to be a tactful sort) jumped out and screamed at the driver of the truck behind him to back up. The driver, who must not have heard the train coming, took exception to Forest's language or his tone or his attitude. He backed up, but only a few feet. Forest backed the truck as far as he could, trying to maneuver around the other truck. When the other driver recognized what was happening, he leaped from his truck and ran for cover.

Forest was still trying to get his truck off the tracks when the train hit them. Grandpa, snoozing in the sleeper, was oblivious to the situation until the train hit the cab. After that, he was oblivious to everything for a while. Family legend has it that Grandpa's habit of sleeping with one pillow beneath his head and another over his face was the only thing that saved him. I have trouble seeing how a pillow protected him from a 150-ton locomotive, but maybe that's just me.

Anyway, Grandpa sustained a concussion and an impressive assortment of bumps and bruises. Shorty, Forest and Grandpa's guard, was not seriously injured. Forest was trapped in the burning truck. Good Samaritans finally managed to free him, but his body was broken and badly burned. After a week or so in a local hospital, he was transferred to a larger hospital in Indianapolis, where doctors amputated his leg to save him from the gangrene that set in.

Here's what I want you to picture: Grandpa and Forest were carrying a load of Buster Brown shoes. The train dragged the truck nearly three-quarters of a mile before it got stopped. The impact ripped the canvas cover off the back of the truck and scattered shoes for almost a mile. As darkness gathered, townspeople scuttled over the tracks and through the ditches, trying on shoes.

That just knocks me over. There, in middle America during the heart of the Depression, some of those people probably hadn't had new shoes for years. A shower of Buster Browns must have seemed like manna raining down from Heaven.

Can you see it? A crumpled truck. A derailed train. Flashlights dancing on the ground like fireflies as people searched for matching shoes amid the smoking wreckage.

Damn. Somebody ought to write a book.



photo: Jeremy Brooks on Flickr

From Boxcars to Limos

Working in the basement again last night, Dad was telling me stories of his life. Some I knew. Others I'd never heard.

Before Dad was born, his mom and dad and two older brothers lived in an abandoned boxcar for a while, probably during 1929 or 1930. Grandma baked pies and made sandwiches that Grandpa and his brother sold to men working in the train yard. Grandpa must have rigged up some kind of metal box Grandma could bake in over a campfire, because she sure didn't have an oven in the boxcar. Or a sink. Or a bathroom.

Eventually, Grandpa got a job driving a truck for Globe Cartage, and they were able to rent a small house. Times were so desperate that driving loads of valuable cargo--cigarettes and liquor--required two drivers and an armed guard. Grandpa and his brother Forest took turns driving/sleeping in the sleeper cab, and their guard Shorty slept in his seat with a shotgun in his lap. They once were highjacked, a story I'll write in detail later. That job ended when the truck got hit by a train, badly injuring Grandpa and costing Forest one of his legs. Grandpa used his $700 insurance settlement to buy a house, the first he ever owned.

While Dad was telling this story, my nephew sent a blast text to the 116 people coming to his Caribbean-themed wedding shower on Sunday. Not enough parking is available in my sister's neighborhood, so they've arranged permission to park at a nearby school. Limos will carry guests from the parking lot to the catered party, which is being held poolside.

He has no idea about the boxcar. His is a limousine life.

Come On In

As we were growing up, Dad sometimes sang while he worked around the house. More often, he "barked," in the sing-song, cajoling tones of a carny. "A winner every time for only a dime. One thin dime, a winner every time. Come On In."

Dad's father chased success from the bottom of an Iowa coal mine to the hills of Snohomish County, WA and back across the hills of Missouri and the farmland of southern Iowa. His favorite book was Think and Grow Rich. He never stopped believing his next idea would be The One. Handsome and charming, he could have been successful at most anything if only he'd stuck to it long enough. But no matter what he was doing, when some other idea glittered in the distance, he chased its sparkle, with his wife and five children bumping along behind him.

Dad was 15 when Grandpa dragged the family from St. Louis, Missouri to Bothell, Washington, where he started building houses. They nearly starved for a year or so, but Grandpa built good, solid houses, and his reputation got around. In 1946, babies and houses were booming. The family loved Washington, and they had a little disposable income for the first time in their lives. Until....

Grandpa came home one day and announced that he'd bought a cookhouse and some game booths and committed the family to traveling with a carnival. Dad and his brothers argued. His sister and mother cried. But in the end, they packed their belongings into a 1.5 ton 1941 Ford truck and struck out for the MidWest. For two years, they lived in that truck, cooking over a campfire and bathing in ponds or creeks. "Hot and Good and Good and Hot. Come On In."

Grandma and Grandpa cooked hamburgers. Well, to be more accurate, Grandma fried hamburgers inside a steaming tent under the summer sun of Iowa and Missouri. Grandpa stood outside, luring people to the counter. "Half a Cow on a Bun for One. Come On In."

Dad ran a string game. "Oh, these strings. These lucky strings. One thin dime. A winner every time. Come On In."

After that first summer, Grandpa rented a dilapidated old house and garage in Exline, Iowa for the winter. The garage gave him a place to work on the equipment he was building for the new and improved carnival he would roll out the following summer.

Mom lived in Exline. She and Dad met in school. The rest, as they say, is history.

Cleaning out the basement yesterday, Dad picked up a worn wooden stool. It had come, he said, from the carnival cookhouse. When they finally quit the carnival, his mother wanted nothing from it, so Dad gave the little stool to my mother's mother, whom he adored. Mom's mom used it in her kitchen and on her porch until her death, and then Mom's dad continued to use it. Dad claimed the little stool from the junk pile when Mom and her brothers and sisters cleaned out their father's house after his death.

And now it's mine. "Every Time You Play, You Win. Come On In."

Unlikely Angel

Walked into Mom and Dad's house yesterday and followed the sound of the shop vac to the basement. Found Mom on her hands and knees, sobbing as she sucked up sawdust from under a large piece of woodworking equipment.

"What are you doing, Mom?" I asked.

"I've got to get this cleaned up. Your dad's got someone coming here tomorrow to buy all this stuff," she answered.

I asked what stuff she meant, and the whole story tumbled out. Over the last few months, Dad has asked each of us if we wanted any of his woodworking stuff. Each of us has answered in some vague, "I don't know what I'd do with it" manner. What we meant was, "We want your stuff in your shop where it belongs."

Dad, you see, is a woodworker. Through the years, he has built tables and chairs and cabinets for Mom and for each of us kids. But the real treasures that emerged from his workshop were the toys. Each of his grandchildren has toys the likes of which most people have never seen. Each girl has a handmade miniature Queen Anne dining table and chairs along with a matching china cabinet. Both boys have drop-leg desks. Each child has a rocking horse. Each child has cars and trucks and tractors. Evan has dinosaur pull toys. Katie has a dog pull toy. Now adults, the kids have pieces of their grandfather's love to share with their own children. And their grandchildren after that.

Dad has not been able to work in the shop for quite a while now, and it's been on his mind. "I am not leaving this mess for your mother to deal with," he said yesterday. "It took her brother five years to take his wife's robe off the bathroom door. What in the world would she do with the tools I collected over a lifetime?"

And so, Dad placed an ad in a woodworker's forum. Someone responded immediately, of course. Dad made arrangements to sell all his equipment--the table saws and the band saw and the joiners and planers and the drill press--for mere pennies. More painful to me and to Mom, he planned to give the man all his hand tools. The big equipment I could stand, but not the Jorgensen wood clamps, daubbed with glue and stain from decades of use. Not the brace and bit--one of the first tools Dad owned. Not the hand plane or the chisels or the calipers. Not the things he wrapped his hands around as he worked his magic. Not the things that the bear marks of his living and his loving.

Just before I arrived, Dad had run to the store for a bolt. Mom was in the shop alone, vacuuming and sobbing. She did not want to let these things go. We talked and cried. I promised to keep this thing from happening, grabbed my phone, and drove home to make calls in private.

My brother doesn't want the tools and didn't have time to talk about it. My nephew got defensive. In desperation, I called my former husband.

"Don't let him sell his tools to a stranger, Jerri," he said without hesitation. "I'll buy them. Whatever the man offers, I'll pay more. I'll drive down and pick them up. I'll come whenever he wants. Please, don't let your dad's things just disappear. At least, if I have them, they're still in our family."

We've been divorced for 16 years.

Bill has a full shop at his home. He has no actual need for a single one of these tools. For him, as for me, it is simply too much to think of Dad's things in the hands of a stranger.

When I thanked him, and Bill said, "I love your dad. I always have. And I respect him as much as anyone I ever knew. I don't want strangers to have his tools."

When I told Mom and Dad that Bill wanted the tools, they both broke down in tears. Dad called the man to cancel the appointment. He sobbed as he explained that his kids wanted his things to stay in the family.

Mom picked up the phone twice yesterday afternoon to call Bill to thank him. Both times, she ended up crying so hard she hung up before she could finish dialing. She plans to try again today.



The growths in Dad's good lung are growing. He's having a PET scan on the first and we'll get the results from that as well as a battery of other tests on the 12th. He's known this for a couple weeks but didn't tell anyone until yesterday. All this flurry of activity, this press to get rid of his things is his way of trying to soften the blows headed toward us all.

Please pray or hold him in the Light or simply hold space for the great heart of this good man.

Goose, Goose, Grey Goose

The noisiest goose in the world has lived on our pond for three years. The goose wars drove off all the Canadian geese, but this lone grey goose stayed. It honks at all hours of the day and night, the loudest, most plaintive cry I've ever heard from a fowl.

Seven weeks ago, her silence woke me in the night. Her cries had waked me at least once a night for three years, so her silence was palpable and a bit alarming. A few days later, a glimpse of her at the edge of the pond reassured me. In the last two or three weeks, I've neither seen nor heard her. Yesterday, my neighbor happened to be outside when I was out with Cassie, and I asked her about the goose.

"Oh, she's here," Carolyn said, pointing to the corner.

That poor goose has been sitting on a nest of eggs for seven weeks. She's now rail thin and cannot manage even a bleat. I got fairly close to take this picture. Her beak opened. Her tongue fluttered. No sound came out. She is literally dying to become a mother.

I recognize her desperation.

This Is Not the Story You Think It Is

Laura Munson is one of us--a seeker and a thinker; a wife and a mother. She is a writer, one who had not found her way to being published despite 20 years of dedication, 14 completed novels and reams of "good' rejection notes in her office.

And she decided to stop suffering. Just in time, too. When her husband announced he no longer loved her and may never have loved her, she was given an opportunity to practice non-suffering. A big time opportunity.

Munson says, "It is possible to commit to non-suffering in a time of crisis. To let go of outcome. To truly live in the moment as a way of survival, not just as spiritual preference or practice. When we are living like that, we are living in freedom."

As a writer, Munson did the only thing she knew to do in this uncharted territory: She wrote her way through it. On August 2, 2009, her essay "Those Aren't Fighting Words, Dear," was published in the NY Times "Modern Love" column. The response almost crashed the paper's servers--they had to shut down comments to slow the overload. Within 48 hours, Munson had a contract for a memoir, a book she had written as the story unfolded. "This Is Not the Story You Think It Is" was published in April, 2010.

Munson's book is worth reading. And rereading. And reading again. She is a woman who lives her belief in people and principles. Despite her husband's "dis-affection," as she calls it, she loves and believes in him. Despite 14 unpublished novels, she believes in herself as a writer. Despite the tidal pull of anger and bitterness and reactionary choices, she believes in the freedom of choosing not to suffer. She doesn't paint this as easy or herself as a saint. She simply keeps putting one foot in front of the other on a path to peace.

Her path did lead her to peace and to being published and to living the life she imagined.

Long may it wave.

Unexpected Pleasures

Driving home from MN yesterday, I stopped in Des Moines for lunch and wifi to catch up with work a bit. Settled in with my ice tea and an electrical outlet, I zoned into the rhythm of work correspondence.

Katie called, just to check my progress on the drive, to make sure I was safe. When she makes the drive, I ask her to check in at the quarter, half, and three-quarter points. I feel better knowing where she is on the road, knowing she's still safe. She now asks the same of me. This slight shift in our relationship brings tears to my eyes. She feels protective of me, too.

Just before the three-quarter mark, Katie calls. She is at her second job and struggling. For the last two months, she has worked noon to 4:00 at her new corporate job and 4:30 to 11:00 pm (or later) at her old room service job at the hotel, four days a week. Fridays she works only at her corporate job. She is tired beyond tired.

She is, she says, thinking of turning in her resignation at the hotel. When I ask what the benefits are, she breaks into tears. "I just can't do it anymore," she says. We work through the list of "pros" and then the list of "cons," and she makes a decision.

"I knew you'd help me think clearly," she says.

20 miles pass before she texts: "Thanks for the guidance, Mom."

At dinner with just the two of us last Friday, I reminded Katie that I am, always and forever, radically on her side. This sometimes means telling her hard truths, but mostly it means helping her hear herself, helping her accept what she already knows.

I wanted babies and children so much. I looked forward to all stages of my children's childhoods. I looked forward to being a grandmother. What I didn't anticipate was the pure joy of being a witness to their emergence as adults.

It is monumental, this joy. And all the sweeter for having been so unexpected.

A Very Good Day

We bought Katie's wedding dress yesterday.

The wedding dress store is housed in four older homes in a beautiful part of St. Paul. We had a dressing room and an assistant to ourselves. The assistant pulled a curtain across half the room while she and Stephanie (Katie's maid of honor) helped Katie into each dress. When they were set, they pulled back the curtain to reveal the loveliness.

I cried every single time.

The sixth dress was THE one. Everyone in the room--Katie's prospective mother- and sister-in-law, Stephanie, me, the assistant, and Katie--knew we'd found it. And wonder of wonders, it was within my budget and available in plenty of time.

In the evening, we were invited to Craig's aunt and uncle's house, a truly gorgeous home on Crystal Lake in Minneapolis. Their yard is so beautifully maintained it looks like a park, and their house is stunning. Not enormous exactly, but spacious and gracious and comfortable. We had wine and rustled up some simple food. We talked and laughed and cried.

Dianne, the aunt, recently lost her mother. When we talked about her mother's death, Dianne told a lovely story about Katie and Craig. When they heard the news, the kids showed up at Dianne's and started getting ready for the activities that were sure to follow. They went to the grocery store and liquor store and Target. They got ice and toilet paper, two things you always need when a crowd gathers. They ran errands and answered phones.

"I feel bad that I've never written them a thank you note, but how do you thank someone for that?" Dianne sobbed.

Later, I pulled Katie aside and told her how proud that story made me, how much I love her. She hugged me and smiled, and we went back to the group. Later, as we were clearing the table, Katie stepped close and put her arms around me.

"I didn't think anything about the things we did that day. You show up. You do what you can. You help. That's just what we do. That's who you raised me to be, Mom. It's what you taught me and showed me all my life."

All in all, it was as good as day as any one could ever hope to have.

Love.

Navel Gazing

Got to hold the baby for a little while yesterday. She's so beautiful. Evan and Kristin were squabbling and tense when they brought her over. For me, all that disappeared the moment I pulled T from the car seat. We walked and rocked and sang. I read Good Night Moon. It was all good.

And can we talk about what the miracle of the belly button? Both my kids had belly buttons before we met, so I've never watched that transformation. T's stump kind of scared me when she first was born. It was black and had a weird texture. That clamp looked fierce, and I didn't know what to do with the top edge of her diapers when I changed her.

Now she has the most beautiful little navel. It's amazing to me that belly buttons simply right themselves over time.

Lots of things work out unto good when we give them enough time, light, and air.

Something I need to remember.

No Answers

At 6'4" and nearly 300 pounds, his body is not built for blending in. His clothes do not help: a Mizzou golf shirt with bright gold stripes from his underarms to his waist. From the moment he appears in the cafe area of Barnes and Noble, he seems to be trying to fade into the background.

Mizzou-guy doesn't bother with coffee or even a cookie. He picks a one-person table and shifts the chair to position himself behind a nearby column, facing the back of the store. He takes off his glasses and sets them on the table, then opened the hot-rod magazine he carries. He can't see the magazine with the glasses and can't see the object of his attention without them, so he reads a moment, puts the glasses on to check whatever it is, then takes the glasses off to read. Periodically, he leans a bit more to the right, putting more of his body behind the column, and then peers around it toward the back of the store.

Fifteen minutes into this peculiar dance, Mizzou-guy leaps to his feet and practically runs toward the back of the store, abandoning his magazine. His belly, hanging down at least 5 inches over his belt, ripples from the sudden movement, something like the water in a pool after a teenage boy's cannonball.

What or who was he watching? Where did he go? Why is a tired looking, middle-aged man hiding in plain sight in the cafe of a suburban bookstore?

I'll never know, but I've got the itch to make up a story for him.

When the Rainbow Isn't Enough

At a coffee shop the other day, I met a lady dressed--head to toe--in yellow and orange. From her feet to her ears, she matched and coordinated: yellow and orange caftan, orange earrings/necklace, yellow bracelets and watch, amber rings, orange shoes, orange and yellow purse. She seemed to be 80 or so, and the vibrant colors washed out her pale skin and hair. She looked like she was wearing a "costume" instead of an "outfit."

She saw me observing her, so I smiled and said, "You have such an eye for accessories."

Thrilled, she explained that she saves time by choosing a color theme for each week. On Sunday morning, she enters her walk-in closet, which is organized by color and laid out like a rainbow, and picks the week's theme. Then she selects her accessories for the week and the week's first outfit. For the next six days, all she has to do is choose an outfit from the right section of her rainbow--she wears the same accessories until she "resets" the following Sunday.

I wanted to hear more. Not just how she does this, but why. What is the story of an 80-year-old woman who can't go outside her bedroom without perfectly matched jewelry, shoes and purse? What chaos is she holding back with her rainbow? Does she see herself or only all the colored plastic?

She was meeting a friend, who arrived while we were talking. Otherwise, I might still be sitting there, asking her questions.

Photo: Photo-Fenix.com

A New Song Waiting

I saw Letters to Juliet last night. The story was just as predictable as expected, but I loved the movie. I may go see it again today and will surely buy the DVD. Not for the story, but for the chance to see the hills and valleys, the trees and hillsides, the golden glow of Tuscany.

I am meant to go to Tuscany some day. I'm interested in many places in the world, but only Tuscany calls to me in the night. Something waits for me there, and when the time is right, I'll find my way to it. This, I know.

On Thursday, I worked from 6:00 am to 2:00 am Friday. I did go to a local coffee shop for a few hours of the marathon, but mostly I sat in a chair with my nose pointed toward the screen of my laptop and the deadline in front of me. This is of no particular importance other than this sort of leaden lumpiness is the exact opposite of the feeling I have for Tuscany.

As I knew it would, the scenery of Tuscany lifted me, gave me a frisson of my favorite feeling in the world, that of being in alignment with the Universe. It has happened to me a handful of times, always when I've stepped beyond my normal boundaries and risked something, always when I've followed my heart to places my head would not lead me.

Maybe it's because being in alignment is about vibration and sound is a vibration, but every one of these experiences has a sound track, a song so present I feel as much as hear it. I've written here about the 4th of July I rented jet skis and screeched across White Bear Lake, screaming along with Tom Petty's voice in my head...and my bones and my heart. "I'm free...free falling...."

Lindsay Buckingham and Fleetwood Mac reverberated through the Wrangell Mountains, telling me to "go my own way" as I meditated on a rock in the middle of an honest-to-God tundra during a break from a bike ride across Alaska.

Kenny Loggins boomed from my radio early one morning, assuring me I was right where I belonged as I rounded the curve down to the harbor of Duluth, MN. The man I was dating was running Grandma's Marathon, and I got up that morning wishing I could see him cross the finish line. The kids were at their dad's house for the weekend, and I rattled around the house a bit, vaguely dissatisfied and sad. As though my fairy godmother touched me with the wand of understanding, all at once, I realized I could go, I could just get in my car and drive there. It was a revelation, a recognition of freedom.

I had only the vaguest idea of where Duluth was (north), and no idea where the marathon was actually run, but I followed the highway signs 154 miles, got off on an exit that "felt right," and parked in a church parking lot. The first person I passed was kind enough to explain that the path of the race turned for the finish line about two blocks away. "Right where you belong," Kenny echoed in my head.

Everyone I passed smiled broadly and went out of their way to be kind and helpful that day. It might have been because I was the only woman in the crowd dressed for a tea party: a beautiful steel blue linen dress with buttons the color of old pennies, ankle socks and shoes to match the buttons of the dress. Oh, and a flower on my lapel. And a copper-colored straw hat. Even so, I think it was because they could see or sense that I felt at home in my own skin, sure of what I was doing. Free. Holding the tail of a cosmic kite.

I didn't recognize my love crossing the finish line--not consciously, anyway. But I did cheer and hoot and holler for strangers accomplishing this tremendous thing. And I made friends with a family sitting next to me on the street. Together, we wandered the street fair down by the harbor and ate snow cones. It was one of the most wonderful days of my life.

The scenery of Tuscany in "Letters to Juliet," evokes sense memories, a phantom hum throughout my body. Not Tom or Lindsay or Kenny, but a new song waiting to be heard, a new adventure waiting to be lived.

My jar is open. Time to fly. I can't swing Tuscany right now, but next weekend, I'm going to Duluth.

Point of View

Read an essay in which a writer describes writing the same story from several different points of view, just to get down the details. Then she actually writes the story.

Umm...wow.

The story I submitted, the one I've been obsessing over, is the story of the day I met Katie's birth mother. Most of it was posted here at the time. It's written in first person, as it was lived.

By that, I mean--I didn't give a thought to what was in Nancy's mind as she walked up to or through my front door. I wrote about my nerves, my self-talk. I did not mention hers because I couldn't. I have no idea what it was.

What an exercise it would be to write that day in third person, to put on the hat of omniscience and imagine the view from the far side of the mother equation. Of course, it would be pure fiction. But, in its own way, so is the story I wrote, which kind of presumes that mine was the only heart breaking that afternoon.

Damn. AFGO*



*another freaking growth opportunity

Glimmers of Hope

Since mid-May, every morning, I've logged onto my account at the literary magazine where I submitted my story. Every morning, I steel myself for what I will see. So far, all I've seen is "In Process." I choose to see it as very good news that they've had the story for over a month without rejecting it.

Last night I read an interview with one of the magazine's editors. She says she reads the first page of every story submitted, right off the online system. She responds right away to the immediate "NOs." She marks others for continued reading, and then weeds out a bunch more from that stage. Some, she prints out and reads in full. From that group, she passes on a smaller number to her co-editor, who winnows down further.

From this, I deduce that my story was not an immediate "NO." I base this on nothing but supposition. And ego. Let's not forget ego. But seriously, it seems likely, after five weeks, that she surely has read at least the first page and judged it worthy of further consideration.

Evan and Kristin went home Sunday. Kristin is not supposed to be doing the stairs yet, but they were very anxious to get home. They actually stayed here only a few days, and then Kristin went to stay with her grandmother. We had no drama, and no cross words. They just left. I haven't seen Teagan since Saturday. Katie drove 1000 miles to be here for the weekend and saw the baby for a total of 30 minutes.

Teagan has not yet worn even one of the outfits I made for her. In fact, Evan and Kristin haven't taken a single piece of it home with them, not even the quilts. When I tried to pack those pieces up for them, they said, "No. She's going to need some things here." I choose to see that as positive, an indication that she will, in fact, spend some time here.

Every day, I log into the magazine's system and see I haven't been rejected yet. Every day, I am relieved and happy for an instant before reminding myself not to get too comfortable. Just because I haven't been rejected doesn't mean I won't be.

And so, I wait to see what will happen.

In process.

Learning From the Past

My darling granddaughter should be here later this evening. Evan and Kristin will be staying with me until Kristin can navigate the stairs to their apartment--probably two weeks.

I am thrilled. And I am scared. Most of you probably remember how difficult Evan finds it to be around me for long stretches of time. He didn't speak to me for several months after he moved out a couple years ago. I'm hoping things go better this time.

I am a slow learner. Bill was here for a few hours the day after the baby was born. I made a special effort to take pictures of him with the baby and to give him lots of time to hold her and rock her. He was his most charming self, joking and laughing. I thought we might finally be learning to make all this work.

The next day, Bill called. Without preamble and in his fiercest, most demeaning tone, he demanded: "Where are my photos, Jerri? I checked both my emails and I have nothing. Why didn't you send them like I told you to?"

His voice transported me from the fairy tale I'd constructed--the one where we're cooperative grandparents and get along well enough to do major celebrations and holidays together--and dropped me smack into reality. And the reality is, he does not want to co-parent or co-grandparent with me. He is no kinder and no gentler than he ever was.

Forgiving is good. Forgetting is not.

That's as true of the situation with Evan as with Bill. Meeting him halfway is the goal, not turning myself inside out.

Wish me luck.

So Much to Say

I am a grandmother.

Strange to say, but this is one of the things I wanted most while struggling with infertility all those years ago. I wanted to be part of the great Circle of Life. I wanted children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren--the whole messy, imperfect, loud, beautiful, loving, crazy lot of it.

My son's arrival was the beginning of a miracle. The moment I took Teagan in my arms, I felt a "click" within me and throughout the Universe, another piece of my miracle snapping into place.

Our lives are not without challenges. I didn't ask for perfection. I only asked for the chance to tangle myself with the lives and loves of a tribe I could call my own.

Yesterday, I unfolded Teagan's blankets to change her diaper for the first time. She caught one of my fingers and wrapped her little fist around it. Blinking away tears, I realized this little soul had joined the band of folks for whom I would unquestioningly give my life.

And so it goes.

Meet My Granddaughter

OH, BABY!

Teagan Michelle

8 lbs. 2 oz.
19 inches long

Haven't seen her yet, but we've seen pictures, and she's beautiful. BEAUTIFUL!

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

T Day

At the hospital, waiting for the surgery to begin. Evan is pacing like the proverbial caged tiger. Kristin remains unflappable. They packed every newborn outfit they have for Teagan, which is dozens.

I have a book and magazines and my computer and phone. All I can do is pray.

48 Hours

I'm wound so tight these days, if you bounced a quarter off my brain, it would rebound higher than Bango, the Milwaukee Bucks mascot.

My heart beat sings, "Please. Please. Please."

Less than 48 hours until my granddaughter arrives.

Over the weekend, I went to Springfield to watch my 48-year-old cousin graduate from college--summa cum laude--after eight years of night school. Laura is living proof it's never too late to be what you might have been.

Miracles happen. One is scheduled for 7:00 am Wednesday morning.

No News Is Good News

Kristin is scheduled for a C-section on May 19 at 7:00 am. She's holding her own and the doctors say the baby is fine. She will go to the doctor again Thursday, and I'll post any news that comes from the appointment.

Kristin is amazingly brave and incredibly calm. Evan is not quite so calm. He's counting the minutes.

Holding Her Own

Teagan refused to turn--she's still breech. Kristin had a lot of contractions following the procedure, but after two shots of terbutaline, it looks like things are under control.

The doctors plan to do a Cesarean, probably on May 19.

Stay tuned.

Thank you for your prayers.

An Even Shot

The odds are about 50/50 that my granddaughter will be born today.

Teagan is breech right now, and Kristin will undergo a procedure meant to turn her later this morning. We've been told that about half the time, the procedure ruptures the waters and the baby is born with 24 hours.

Please take a moment to hold my girl in the Light. Her mother, too. Although I'm anxious to meet her, I'm not exactly hoping for her to be born today.

The word "safe" thrums through me like a heartbeat. Safe. That's all I ask. Just keep them safe. Whenever. Whatever. Just please, keep them safe.

Ready or Not

I submitted a story to a literary magazine this morning. Took about 5 minutes to complete the process.

Well...5 minutes plus two years of dithering.

Two years ago I set the story aside, thinking it wasn't ready. Over the last few days, I changed about 12 words . This morning I pressed "Send."

The story may not be ready yet. I may never know where a story is going or how to get it there. But writing makes me feel alive, and leaving my stories in a digital file gathering virtual dust makes no sense.

I've missed the last few Wednesday night bike rides. Too busy at work, don't you know. Last night I was pressed for time to start with, then the brakes on my bike failed, the road I needed to take to the park was closed, and the wind was blowing 30 miles an hour. I stopped, took off my helmet, and wondered why in the world I persisted despite all the obstacles. I pulled my phone from my pocket and toyed with the idea of calling my dad to come pick me up, thinking I'd just forget the whole thing.

A cloud scudding across the sky caught my eye. I decided it didn't matter how long it took me or how hard the wind was blowing. I was outside. The sun was shining. Exercise is good.

I walked the bike half a mile down the torn-up road and headed to the trail. Two hundred yards down the road, I knew why I didn't give up. The juice is in the doing, in the trying.

This morning, I tried. I sent the story. Stay tuned.

Reviving the Color

I opened one of my old stories last night, one I wrote when I was working on being a Writer instead of working as a writer/editor/word flak.

My first impulse is to say I don't remember how to write like that, but the truth is, I never knew. All I did was open myself to it and wait. It's more accurate to say, I no longer remember how to open myself to the gift.

I do remember how it feels. I remember the pulse of energy, the rush of being pulled into and through myself by something larger and stronger and wiser. I remember electric prickles when something beautiful arrives on the screen, something for which I am the conduit but not exactly the creator. I remember the deep blue surprise and the blood red joy.

Working too much at making a living and not enough at doing the living has faded the colors of my life. I long for that rush, that connection. I long to see a story emerge from the great beyond.

The answer, of course, is to make the time. My acceptance comes and goes, but the giver never falters.

Maybe

My garbage disposal broke Friday night.

When I flipped the switch, the sound it made told me something was stuck in there. When I flipped it off and back on, it made no sound at all.

Resetting didn't work. I whipped out the special Allen wrench, but the impeller wouldn't turn. On Saturday, when I pulled the unit off and disassembled it as much as possible, I discovered a little screw had fallen in and gotten stuck between the impeller and the wall. It took forever, but I finally managed to pry out the little screw. Then I reassembled the unit and reinstalled it. Shortly after that, I was back in business, grinding up little bits of leftover food.

Year ago, my garbage disposal died, and I replaced it. Katie--then about 8--and her friends watched me struggle for hours, trying to get the new one in place. When I finally got it working without leaks, the girls and I danced around the kitchen, singing "I Am Woman" and dancing. We tossed old bread and a couple floppy carrots into its maw and cheered with abandon when it ground them up and washed them away. We had ice cream to celebrate.

Saturday, there was no dancing. No singing. No ice cream.

Sometimes I wonder if being so able to take care of myself and my home is a blessing or a curse.

Before the shower for Evan and Kristin, I power washed and resealed both decks and did a little maintenance on them. My neighbor came outside at one point, and watched me go up and down a 10-foot ladder about 100 times. When I came down from driving some screws to secure a loose spindle, she looked at me and smiled.

"Honey," she said, "you need a boyfriend."

Maybe if I couldn't tighten my own spindles and repair my own garbage disposal, I'd have one. Maybe I'd be more assertive or less picky. Maybe the Universe would be more cooperative. Maybe.

Part of Me

I dreamed of an infant in the back seat of my car. I would see her and think "Oh---I must take take care of that baby!" Upon arrival at my destination, I'd get swept up in the usual whirlwind of activity and forget. When next I heard her cry, I'd be overcome with remorse and promise myself to do better, then promptly forget about her when I reached my destination and got sucked into what the people there needed/expected from me.

The baby's name was Lorraine (the name of a cousin who died of SIDSs when I was 10). After days of this, I got into the car and realized Lorraine was near death--dehydrated, emaciated, nearly catatonic. My greatest concern then was how to get medical help without letting anyone know I'd forgotten her for so long. I wasn't afraid of being prosecuted--I was concerned about what people would think of me.

Lately, I've been working too much and at the wrong things. I edit furiously, 12 to 14 hours a day, and do the best possible job I can. I want to earn a full-time, permanent job with this client. From time to time, I think of my stories, the ones inside, longing to get out. Sense memories, the feeling of the act of writing arises and drifts away like a runner's breath on a cold morning.

And can we talk about my obsession with what others thing?

Know what I've been doing in my "free" time? Power washing and sealing my decks. I'm hosting a shower for Evan and Kristen a week from Saturday, and I've been obsessing over every inch of the house, including the decks and arbor. Three days in a row I edited from 7:00 am to noon, worked on the deck from noon to 7:00 or 8:00 pm, then edited until 2:00 am or later.

All this so no one looks at my decks and thinks I could use some help now and then.

What part of me is the baby in the back seat, slowing starving to death?

Out of Steam

I am home, safe and sound. Katie is recovering well.

My blog has been silent for long periods lately, only because I've run out of steam. Between working too much, sewing for my granddaughter-to-be, and getting ready for the shower I'm throwing for her, every day is crammed from morning til night. Throw in a couple elderly parents, an aunt with Parkinson's, a friend fairly well immobilized by a knee injury, and it's time to stick a fork in me. I'm done.

I may not comment often, but I read your blogs and I miss you all. I'll be back some time soon.

Love.

My Favorite Martian

Yesterday, Katie's fiance called at 5:30 am to say she was heading to emergency surgery to have her appendix removed. An hour later, I was on the road to Minneapolis.

She's fine. Sore, tired and cranky, but fine.

Katie worked Tuesday night. By the time she got home, she didn't feel great. By the middle of the night, she was in major pain. Craig googled her symptoms and decided she needed to go to the hospital. Katie was not in favor of the idea, but Craig insisted.

By the time the ER docs saw her, she was not in good shape. They prepped her and took her appendix before it burst, thank goodness.

Craig called me as soon as the docs made the decision. He checked in with me as I drove. He stayed with her until he absolutely had to leave for work, about 30 minutes before I arrived.

Men may be from Mars, but Craig now lives smack in the middle of my heart. He is so good to my daughter.

No Time, No Type

I'm baaaaack.

Everything's fine here, just exceptionally busy. I've been working like a wild woman and bouncing from helping one person to helping another. My dad's only sister is expecting a great-grandson in a few weeks. She wants handmade gifts for the baby but has Parkinson's and very limited vision. I spent all last weekend designing and sewing special outfits for him, and now I'm working on a quilt to wrap him in love when he arrives. That may sound crazy given everything else, but this woman has extreme health challenges and a husband with Alzheimer's. They lost their only child to a brain aneurysm about 14 years ago. It won't kill me to get up a little earlier and stay up a little later to make help her welcome her great-grandchild.

Besides, I'm sleeping better these days. Well...not exactly. But I expect to soon.

Remember the goose wars? The bottle rockets and air horns and slingshots? Well, the geese are trying to return and the goose haters are on full alert around the pond.

Funny thing is, one goose stayed through it all. For two years, no other geese dared land on the pond, but this one intrepid bird stuck it out. Unfortunately, it nests right under my windows and it has the loudest, most plaintive cry of any creature on God's green earth.

For two years, I have not slept through the night because IT has not slept through the night. Something rouses it and it screams for an hour. I wake, mentally shush the goose, and try to drift back to sleep despite the racket. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.

All Monday afternoon, I felt unsettled. Something was wrong, but I couldn't tell what. Finally, I stopped work to pace at the windows and realized the orange-billed goose was gone. Not under my windows. Not on the banks of the pond. Not in the water. Gone, along with its incredible voice.

The first two nights I woke several times, waiting for the goose to call. Last night I slept through most of the night but woke in the wee hours, listening for the goose.

I did not love this goose. Truthfully, I hated its noise and didn't understand why the same guys who shoot off bottle rockets at the Canada geese couldn't capture this little orange-footed beauty and relocate it. Many, many times I cursed that goose under my breath during the night.

But now it's gone, and I wonder if it's all right. A silent night sounds good, but not if it's purchased at the price of an innocent goose's life.

Think I could have Stockholm Syndrome?

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Thanks for all your support around my previous post. Your comments and emails mean a lot to me.

You all probably can guess what happened. I never would have believed it.

At the stroke of 9:00 am yesterday, Mom called to ask me to go with her to the store where she buys embroidery supplies. She wanted me to pick out colors for an outfit for Teagan (my granddaughter-to-be). She also wanted me to pick out some embroidery patterns.

We spent the afternoon putting designs on onesies for Teagan.

Maybe the reason Mom always presumes I can handle things on my own is that I do handle them on my own. I don't ask for help. I wait. I hope. I rarely--very rarely--ask.

The message is loud and clear, and it's not restricted to this small issue or even my relationship with Mom. This is a Life Lesson.

Hiding my weaknesses has never been a successful strategy. Perhaps it's time to give it up.

Stitches in Time

It's gray outside (again), but the sun is shining in my soul.

I spoke up.

I said what I needed to say.

To review: Evan and his girlfriend are having a baby and that they're not in a good financial position to raise a child. I started making blankets and shoes but have moved on to sleepers and tiny gowns. My mother has been making bibs and changing pads and other darling little things.

Newsflash: My niece is pregnant. 25 and not married, she faces an uphill sled. The baby's father is 35 and not very involved in her life. She's barely supporting herself at this point.

Immediately, my mother kicked into high gear preparing for this baby, who isn't due until the end of September. Things she had been making for my granddaughter were pushed aside into drawers and boxes. The two of us went to Babies R Us yesterday, and everything she bought or looked at was for my niece's baby.

When my kids were small, their clothes were works of art. We embroidered and smocked and appliqued and painted on every single piece. Except the "we" was actually "me." My sister had three children; I had two. My sister was always in the middle of some crisis or another. When we got together to sew, I worked on things for my children. Mom and Deb worked on things for hers.

Debbie's children have heirlooms mine do not--beautiful pieces with shadow work and smocking and hand applique lovingly stitched by their grandmother.

Twenty-some years ago, I said nothing. Not when Mom smocked dresses for all the girls but Katie. Not when she spent weeks making Christmas outfits for all the children but mine. Not when she made entire spring wardrobes for Deb's kids and asked what I planned to make for mine.

All these years later, the same situation is developing. From the get go, Mom is pointing out the reasons my niece's baby will need help more than Evan's. Evan has the trust fund, so his basic expenses are covered. Last week, the trust administrator agreed to pay for the baby's health insurance and some other expenses, which is a load off my mind. My niece has no such back-up.

I understand and agree my niece needs help. To tell the absolute truth, years ago I understood why Deb needed help. I am willing to help. I am not willing for my granddaughter to miss out on heirlooms from her great-grandmother.

Today I told Mom this, quietly; graciously; emphatically. I mentioned how precious these heirlooms are and said I wanted my grandaughter to have them, too.

It might sound like a small thing, but it's enormous in my world.

E. Nor. Mous.

If You Learned It...

This makes me happy:

Crying Time

I find myself crying a lot lately.

It's strange, really. I'm driving or cooking or working and suddenly, I'm sobbing. Not sniffling. Not discovering tears on my face. Sobbing.

My son's girlfriend, my goddaughter and my niece are pregnant right now. None of them planned her pregnancy. None is married. None is prepared. All are both excited and terrified. I am both excited and terrified for them.

But that's not why I'm crying.

When I struggled with infertility, my doctor suggested joining a support group at an organization known as Resolve. My then-husband would not hear of it. Not only would he not go, he refused to let me go.

Yes, I know. Now, I know. He didn't have to let me. He had no right to dictate my path. But then, I was afraid to make him mad, unwilling to hurt his feelings with my grief. (We could not have children born to us mostly because he had radiation therapy for cancer. He took any sign of sadness as disloyalty--his survival was the only thing that should matter.)

That's an old, old story. The more interesting thing is that grief buried itself somewhere in my body. It lurked, waiting its turn. Now, these young women have accidentally achieved what I never could despite thousands of dollars and untold hours of painful treatments, and the pain finds its way to the surface.

I love my children. I wouldn't trade them for anything in the world--that is not and never has been in question. I lost something elemental and primal, something I wanted desperately. The issue is that I never really grieved that loss.

The crying doesn't bother me. I sob as long as it takes then wash my face and get back to work.

What Is "Bored"?

Saw this article on my home page this morning: "In a commentary to be published in the International Journal of Epidemiology in April, experts say there's a possibility that the more bored you are, the more likely you are to die early."

Reading the article, I tried to conjure the feeling of boredom, tried to imagine what it's like or remember a time when I felt bored.

I couldn't.

I always, always have more to do than can get done. In moments of forced idleness (waiting in lines and so forth), I ponder. I am a world-champion wait-er. Waiting gives me time to think deeply, watch and listen to other people.

Just last night I had to wait almost 45 minutes for Evan. (He went to work without enough gas in his car to get to a station after work. I filled a gas can and went to meet him after work. The process didn't take as long as I estimated, so I was a little early. The mall doesn't close until 9:00 pm and he had to close up the store afterward.)

The time went by amazingly fast. I watched people leave the mall, pushing and carrying and dragging small children. I listened to them call to each other and laugh at one another. I paid attention to the way they walk, just in case I need to describe how tired or happy or flirtatious someone is by writing about how they walk.

Maybe I'm too simple minded to be bored.

Oh, and in case you wondered--No, it doesn't worry me at all that a young man who can't keep gas in his car is going to have a child to feed. Not. At. All. And I didn't spend a moment of that 45 minutes worrying about it.

Red and White

A group of my summer bike-riding friends have taken me into their circle. One of these three women loves The Bachelor, which has to be one of the silliest shows ever produced. The rest of us don't especially like the show, but we like each other.

Every Monday night we get together for dinner and The Bachelor. We eat and laugh and talk to the television and each other. We bet on things and cheer like this silliness matters. We drink wine.

Last night we gathered at my house. I bought red wine because they all prefer it. They brought white because red gives me headaches. That small kindness and the fact that they remembered touched me.

This morning, my house--freshly cleaned and sparkly all over--still echoes with the laughter and fun of women who like and support one another. Few things in life are more precious than good friends. I am so thankful to have found these women on the bike trail.

Now...if spring would only arrive.

Designing Woman

When the kids were little, people stopped me on the street to ask where I got their clothes. 95% of them came straight out of my sewing room. Today, as I worked on a design for a little gown, I decided to photograph the process for this and several other projects and turn the designs into a book proposal.

Sewing no longer is less expensive than buying clothes--in many cases it's quite a bit more expensive. Still, it's an art that shouldn't die, one that might appeal to young women with an interest in the past and an eye for the future. Plus, clothing manufacturers have to be paying slave wages when they sell little sleepers for less than $10.

Publishing isn't what it used to be, so it would be an uphill sled. But anything is possible.

For Love of the Game

Last night I asked Evan to come help me with a small project--a bulb broke off inside a can light, creating a short that tripped half the breakers in the house. I needed his height and his brawn to fix the problem.

He arrived in a bad mood and got worse as we worked until I finally told him I'd figure it out later. Then I gave him a darling fleece blanket I made for the baby.

Evan looked at the blanket and shrugged. "I don't have room in my apartment for all this baby stuff," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the house, leaving the blanket behind.

I've been in a major funk since that moment, more than 24 hours ago. I can't understand why my adult son can't manage to help me with a (very) occasional small project, why he would be so rude about something I'd obviously worked hard to make, why he can't receive the gift of my love. Why. Why. Why.

As always, I finally came to the same conclusion I always come to: I'll never understand.

I can do things for Evan and for the baby, but only because I want to. That has to be enough--expecting anything else simply breaks my heart. Over and over.

And over.

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

This month starts my second year of Meatloaf Mondays. After a long weekend of work and home projects, I hit Sunday night with tired feet and a heavy heart. It's a cookie month (we alternate between cookies and cake for dessert at the shelter), and I wanted to make heart cookies for the kids for Valentine's Day. That meant cutting out and decorating at least 7 dozen cookies.

At 11pm, that sounded nuts, but I got a running start at it--4 dozen baked before bed. At 6am Monday, I baked the rest of the cookies and started frosting and decorating. Pink icing. Red sprinkles. Multi-colored sprinkles. Bright pink sprinkles. Pastel non-pareils. My entire kitchen was covered in sugar and sprinkles. By 9am, the cookies were ready to box up and I was more than ready for a shower.

At the church where we cook, the children's room was dressed for a party. "Oh, let's see," someone said. "We knew we could count on you to make something special for the kids." The craziness of the late-night and early-morning cookie baking melted like chocolate in a pocket.

One of the other volunteers brought a goodie bag for each child--beautiful red bags filled with chocolate hearts. Someone arrived with two dozen cans of applesauce, which the children consider a huge treat. Another volunteer sat in a corner, finishing a special project.

Last night, 400 adults and 75 children received a hot meal. Each child got a heart-shaped cookie, a bag of chocolates, and a pencil decorated with hearts, wrapped in a heart-shaped note.

Many of these children endure heart-breaking situations, but on at least this one night, they are warm and full and satisfied. They carry out a message: You are loved. Who knows what stories they might write with those pencils of love.

Blankets and Shoes

I've been sewing for Evan's baby. So far, I haven't made anything but blankets and shoes. Lots and lots of blankets and shoes. Fleece blankets. Flannel blankets. Cotton quilts. Cow-jumping-over-the-moon shoes. Frog shoes. Ladybug shoes.

Um...what's wrong with this picture?

Well, when you open the blankets, the baby is NAKED! Except for her shoes, of course.

I've got to move on to gowns and sleepers and onesies and the stuff babies really need. But first...I've got an idea for bumblebee shoes that would be so cute.

The Devil You Know

My little doggie and I have a love/not so much relationship. She always loves me. Every day. All the time. I love her until it's time to deal with her toillette. Then: not so much. When it's cold and snowing, her bladder shrinks to the size of a thimble. Deadlines activate her colon. The oven timer and the telephone and the email alert trip her potty system.

Many's the time I've stood outside on a dark, cold night, wishing she were a cat.

Litter boxes sound so convenient when you're thinking about how easy it is for the cat to make a deposit. Yesterday, I found out out the price you pay for that convenience, and let me tell you--it's muuuuuuch too high.

A sick friend asked me to come clean her cats' litter boxes. Four cats. Four litter boxes. Four days since she had been well enough to do it.

I was happy to take care of this, but really. I've rarely done anything more disgusting. Two litter boxes were in tiny closets, and you can imagine the joy of breathing in there for the twenty minutes it took to scoop and clean and vacuum stray litter from each one. The other two are in bathrooms, which were literally covered in stray kitty litter. I even washed kitty litter from the window sills. One tub was full of the stuff.

At each box, the cats pounced the moment I turned my back. I had to rescoop one box three times because cats kept soiling it before I finished the task.

So...Cassie, my love. I apologize. I may gripe about taking you outside, but I will never, ever again wish you were a cat.

Sticky

The hospital gave us a sonogram picture of the baby's tiny feet. I see that picture in my sleep. Maybe that's why I couldn't resist making little shoes for her.

They're booties, really--only good until she begins to pull herself up. Between now and then, she may have more shoes than any baby in Missouri. They're incredibly fun to make and so cute you can hardly stand it. For the first pair, I used fabric with a cow jumping over the moon.

When Evan was 9 years old, we all went camping with Mom and Dad and Deb and her husband and children. In the evening, Mom made funnel cakes over the camp fire. It's a laborious job, so everyone shared the treats--with one exception. Every child who could recite a poem or sing a song got their very own funnel cake.

Evan loved funnel cakes. Before the trip, we worked for days until he could say every verse of "Hey Diddle Diddle" and "The Owl and The Pussy Cat." Even as shy as he was, on two different nights he stood in front of the fire and said his poem, loud and proud. I can still see his crooked smile and the powdered sugar on his chin.

Working on the booties with Mom and Deb, I mentioned poems for funnel cakes. My sister didn't remember. My mother remembered but didn't know what poems the kids had said.

I texted Evan: "Do you remember poems for funnel cakes?"

"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea in a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note." His answer arrived in seconds.

"I can't believe you remember that," I wrote.

"I remember a lot of things," he answered. "My mind is sticky."

I hope some of what stuck will help him and my granddaughter.

A Very Good Start

Evan called to ask me how to establish paternity for the baby-to-be. He and the mother do not plan to get married, and he wants to have legal rights. He's especially worried about being able to authorize medical care in an emergency.

Evan, who rarely thinks beyond this very moment, is trying to figure out how to handle issues that won't arise until the end of May. He also wants to add the baby to his health insurance and wants to handle the paperwork so it's all effective the moment she is born.

We've got a long, long way to go, but this is a good start. A very good start.

Crystal Ball

Finally took my Christmas tree down last night. My house looked particularly beautiful for Christmas this year, and I've been reluctant to let it go. Plus, I've had all that not-panicking to do.

Wrapping Evan's "Baby's first Christmas" music-box ball, I sniffle. The baby should be 7 months old next Christmas. When I get these things out again, will it be for a joyous celebration? Or will I be trying to get through terrible sadness because the mother has taken the baby and run to her parents, five hours away. Will next year's tree be surrounded by bright packages for a beloved grandchild? Or will we be in the center of a firestorm because Evan and his girlfriend are not capable of raising a child or no longer together?

I stare at my distorted reflection in the big glass belly of a Christopher Radko Santa and wish for a crystal ball. Michelle told me this baby girl is a brave soul. I pray that's true. With everything in me, I pray that she is brave and resourceful and resilient. I pray that she understands the path she's chosen more than I do. I pray to be wrong about the impossibility of the situation.

In this dark night, I pray.

What Will Happen?

I am going to be a grandmother.

Evan and his girlfriend are expecting a little girl in late May. Yesterday I was in the room for an ultrasound. I got to see her heart beat and see the bottoms of her little feet.

Thrilled and terrified are at war in my heart. Evan struggles with his temper. He has not yet figured out how to support himself consistently. He and his girlfriend have an on again/off again relationship marred by insecurity and jealousy.

What kind of life can this child have? How can I help without being swamped by their problems? What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?

The relentless drumbeat in my head pounds out the same questions over and over. No answers appear.

Before Christmas I went to Target intending to buy a bassinet or swing or some other large piece. Fear swept me so hard I had to sit down on the floor in the middle of the aisle. When I finally caught my breath, I fled the store as though the hounds of hell were nipping at my heels.

Other than working, I do little beyond concentrate on not panicking. I haven't slept more than two or three hours at a time for weeks. I understand--completely understand--that I'm borrowing trouble. I know that staying in the moment is the only answer.

I am not equal to that task.

What will happen? What will happen? What will happen?

Binary

Last night I watched the moon rise over the pond with a sense of wonder. The deep blue light of a full moon on snow gave the landscape an eery glow. The shadows looked deep enough to fall into like Alice's rabbit hole. My back yard looked unreal, like a place hopes and dreams might come to life and dance.

01 01 10

A new year. A new decade. A blank page.

Today's date may be binary, but I hope to move past off/on, black/white thinking. It's one of my weaknesses, the feeling that things are right or wrong, possible exactly as I imagine or not possible at all. I'd like this to be the year of "This and...."

This year, I resolve to...

go to Oregon for my birthday in May;
work less;
donate things I don't need or use;
keep my spaces (mental and physical) clear;
treat myself to good health;
speak my truth kindly;
ask for what I need;
accept help that's offered;
offer help to others but not at my own expense;
find a church or meditation center where I feel at home;
go to a cultural event at least once a month;
read poetry;
worry less;
laugh, sing, dance, enjoy.