Simply Splendid...

One Stitch, Two Stitch, Red Fish, Blue Fish

I'll admit that I've been enjoying sewing recently, but I really wasn't a big fan of yesterday's new stitch.

On the back of Max's head.

Thankfully, Grandpa Tom was able to take us to Urgent Care where he gave us some moral support and even some bonus commentary on Le Tour de France.

He also snapped a photo while we waited for the analgesic to take effect.

Nothing like a little bump in the road (or head) to make me realize how fast it can all go downhill, and how grateful I am for my pit crew. Thanks Mom and Dad.

Now, where did we put that helmet?

Great Balls of Fire

Once again, our home is buzzing with getsitement in anticipation of a summertime visit from my folks who are estimated to arrive tomorrow. Max and Sam are bouncing off the newly painted walls (thank you, Mr. "Mellow Yellow" Wonderful). The boys are digging out all the toys that they CAN'T WAIT to show Bubbi and speculating on how much fun they'll have watching "Cars" with Grandpa Tom.

The total self-absorption that defines this stage of child development matches perfectly with my parents' cross-generational adoration and delight in playing with their grandchildren; even if it's the same toy/movie/book played/watched/read a thousand times before on previous visits. Fresh and new is not what it's about.

It's not about scheduling an itinerary of activities to keep us busy and connected through similar experience; those days will come when we have teenagers with acne and ipods and attitude. Right now we have two little snuggle bunnies who want nothing more than to jump and run and show new tricks to an adoring audience. They can't wait to find a loving lap to snuggle on and someone who will read to them about sharks, or dinosaurs or Tow Mater without saying "Ok, I gotta get moving here guys, times up..."

This is what it's all about.

After having lost my own grandmother this Spring, I am especially nostalgic for that remarkable, unconditional grandparental love. I know how lucky our kids are to have this unique and rewarding relationship; and also how lucky I am to have the support of two sets of parents who think their grandkids are pretty special. This kind of love will build us up and stand long after the seeds we sow have been harvested, long after the lego towers have been knocked down or the sand castles washed away.

:::::::::::::::

So, here's our itinerary for the next week: Lots of snuggles and books and playing trains and racecars. Lots of walks in the woods, along the beach, and down the dirt road. And, of course, a bit of dirt digging and planting seeds with Grandpa.


Dirt under the fingernails and hugs around the knees. THAT's what summertime is all about. Ooooh, and some of these great seedballs, too...

Wisdom Beyond Years

"I already know what a funeral is.." Max softly told me this morning when I shared sad news with him.

"..it's where you look at someone's picture and you know that they'll always be with you."

Grandma LaVonne
December 16, 1916 - May 6, 2009

Carry That Weight

My grandmother, age 93, is resting comfortably today after undergoing surgery yesterday to remove a cancerous tumor. The burden on my father to coordinate her care and fill the void of last year's enormous loss of Grandpa has been great. Dad has rallied, organized and supported a team of cousins, friends, nurses and doctors to help manage his mother's care; all from nearly 2,000 miles away. He does so with humor, friendship, love and a remarkable capacity to curb his frustration as he deals with the bureaucracies and complexities of caring for a loved one from far away.

The love that my father has for his mother -- and her for him -- is a beautiful example of our capacity as humans to experience devotion and respect and appreciation throughout a lifetime. Just five minutes with them offers a glimpse of tenderness, concern, love and usually, a hearty laugh. She gave him the gift of total, unconditional love as she raised him and now he offers it back to her in spades.

The decision to operate on my 93-year old grandmother has weighed heavily on Dad, and it was hard for him to consider putting her very fragile body under the stress of surgery and recovery. I know he questioned it and worried over it, but apparently, it was the right decision to make. The relief for my father, and those who care about him and Grandma, is enormous.

++++++++++++

Some might consider my father's interest in YouTube videos to be yet another addition to the eccentricity column for my old man. On a semi-regular basis, Dad finds videos that he considers might be of interest to our boys and e-mails them to me. Over the past year, I've probably lost nearly a day of my life watching home-made videos that he's forwarded of animals at "watering holes"; tractors plowing wheat fields at record-breaking speed while backtracked to an Aerosmith song; and ancient folk singers scratching out decades-old recordings on tinny black and white film. Many of them I've viewed while shaking my head at my old man; many others have remained neglected in my in-box.

Today he sent us this little diddy from his i-phone, "Ikey", with the note that I may or may not want to share it with my boys. This generally means that they would probably get immense pleasure and delight from it, but that I might not want the behavior replicated in my living room.

He's thoughtful like that.

In fact, my father is one of the most thoughtful people I've ever known. Quirky, for sure, and absent-minded on occasion, but truly at the top of the list of thoughtful and caring human beings to ever walk this great, green earth.

And so today, while I watched this video, I thought of my Dad. Not just because he sent it, and not even because the Beatles will always remind me of my childhood lived to the soundtrack of Abbey Road. I was reminded of he Christmas when our family received a book on juggling and Dad learned a few tricks. Wham-bam, next thing you knew, the guy was constantly in motion. Oranges, apples, softballs, and small animals were tossed in the air -- much to the delight, laughter and cheers of us small kids.

I also thought of my dad as the man he is today: Juggling his mom, career, marriage, fatherhood, grandfatherhood, and the enormous heart of his that feels so much joy and pain. Carrying that weight a long time.

But, no matter how many balls in the air, TJ still makes me laugh and cheer for him.

This morning, Dad is sitting in a hospital watching over Grandma's golden slumbers, hoping to make it back home soon, and searching Ikey for some distraction. And I am still laughing and cheering for him.

Thank you, Dad. Thank you for showing me that the love you take is equal to the love you make.

+++++++++++++++++
In honor of my Dad and his 65th birthday that I did not acknowledge on the internet last week, I offer you this four minutes of spectacularness:

Happy Birthday To You...

Virtual hugs, virtual kisses and virtual birthday wishes. May the year ahead bring great happiness, health and humor. Thanks for all that you are.

I love you, Mom.

Happy Golden Days of Yore

I've been searching in my ornament boxes for something to put on our tree that doesn't have wheels, treads, propellers, a sword, or a corn cob pipe. Even my favorite glass icicles, dangling all shimmery and oh-so-breakably, add a rather phallic tone to the Man Tree in our living room. The Man Tree is complete with a star on the top of it that Max made in preschool out of an empty roll of toilet paper covered in aluminum foil. If an empty roll of toilet paper doesn't scream male to me, then I don't know what does.

While plucking through these boxes of Christmases-past in search of something that represents the feminine in our family, I came across a picture.

A family photo taken ten Christmases ago, when my brother and I both had hands without gold bands and not even a glimmer of the little monkey boys who would one day change the holiday season forever for us. We look well-rested, unfrazzled, and well, calm.

It was the Christmas in which Mr. Wonderful asked me to do him the honor of becoming his bride, and my grandparents had come out to visit. Grandma has on a festive vest and I'm sure she told Grandpa to wear The Red Shirt. Or maybe she didn't say a word, but after fifty Christmases together, he knew.

We went to visit my mom's cousin and his family and shared our last Christmas with my Great Aunt Valerie, who had a tradition of sewing matching night gowns and night shirts for me and my brother every year. We joked about sleepwear while drinking martinis and eating cannelloni by candlelight. My little cousin, who now towers over me and knows all the songs being played in the Brass Plum section of Nordstrom, was five and she BELIEVED. Her mom believed, too. We all believed that year.

The next year, for the first time in my life, I didn't come home for Christmas. Mr. Wonderful and I shared our first Christmas tree and started our own family traditions that continue now and will continue for our boys in the Christmases to come. Hopefully some of these traditions and memories will even remain well after I'm no longer in the picture.

The holidays, while certainly merry and bright, also bring out the ghosts of Christmas Past, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. The ache can be overwhelming, especially at a time of year when we're supposed to be happy and bombarded with imagery of family and sentiment and mournful versions of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".

Today I send out hugs to all who are missing dear ones. Whether that footprint is fresh or old, it still leaves a mark. Polaroids don't replace the hugs and laughter shared over a glass of eggnog. But I'll offer a toast to those no longer decorating the tree, and to those who still make it merry and bright while feeling the pull of the past.

*Clink*

It's not just my tree that needs more angels.

Mahalo

I could not let this day go by without some heartfelt and way overdue gratitude.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for caring for the little keiki while we sunned and snorkled. Your gift was immense and will be treasured always. Now go sleep.

Thank you, Mr. Wonderful, for saving the tiny umbrellas from our Mai Tais and promising to return them to me in the dead of winter when I'm rainlogged, overrun by muddy and stir-crazy boys, and my eyeballs are receding into my skull from the absence of sunshine.

Thank you, Max and Sam, for understanding that Mommy and Daddy needed some time to finish their sentences, meals, thoughts, and laughs. We even managed to talk about a few things other than the two of you.

Thank you Ocean, for your soothing sounds, salty silences and tireless reminder that the constants in our world roll back to us like waves. Some days are gentle and warm, others are fierce and chilling in this limitless sea called LIFE. Waves return, though never in equal form, and it all rolls on.

Mahalo nui loa.

Unmodified - Genetically or Otherwise

Corn has been KING near my grandparents' farm since I was a child. Perhaps (gasp) even before that. But in the age of ethanol and high-fructose corn syrup and corporate farming and corn subsidies and sugar tariffs and a myriad of other modern developments that may eventually lead to our downfall, corn is now higher than any elephant's eye and is everywhere. Regardless of how one may feel about genetic engineering and the decline of the family farm, even our youngest family member is noticing that something peculiar is happening in America's heartland.

I made this little video while out for a drive with my grandparents last month. My brother quietly drove, my grandfather told him where to turn, sometimes without words and only the point of a thumb, and my grandmother gripped Sammy's delicious thighs and kissed his chubby cheeks with the silence of a cat tracking a mouse.

Sam, as you can see, does not subscribe to the virtue of a peaceful Sunday drive.



And for that, and so much else, I am truly grateful.

Sailing through the heavens

Today we buried Grandpa.

We lay him into the fertile farmland not ten miles from which in came, in the very month that gave him life 89 years ago. We set him down in the cemetery surrounded by family and brown corn stalks tinged with the memory of green. We listened to Taps on a lone bugle, serenaded by the whistle and hum of the 2:20 train. He would know that train. He would tap his watch to that train. He would mimic its whistle, as if to announce that which we'd already heard. Just as the VFW did when they presented Grandma with a perfectly triangulated flag on behalf of a grateful nation. It was so long ago, so deeply buried, and yet not. Still fresh. The whistle of a train. Still stuck in sorrow and honor and the knowing of that which has just passed.

My soft, sweet, gracious and ever-loving grandmother said goodbye to the good man who had held her for seven decades. The man who opened the door for her and wore the sailor's uniform of a grateful nation when she was a wavy-haired young mother standing in front of a Buick with the excitedly constant movement of her four year old boy, just as I do today. She poured her heart into that tender child and give him all her love and nutrient and heart and let him know that he was the light and love of their lives.

Together, they raised that sweet boy who would become my dad. They guided and loved others that they collected along the way; continuing to feed and harvest the fruit from their own family tree. Grandpa, with the arms and hands the size of tree limbs and the strength of a machine, could hold and hug and laugh and dance as if it were his last. And yet, it never was.

Today, as the autumn sun angled lower over the last of summer's red-ripe fruit, we put Grandpa back into the very earth that had borne him and sustained him. We honored him, loved him and recollected about him. And in that honor, we acknowledge those who created him, molded him, loved and accepted him. Those who escorted him into the dark days of passage and made his farewell a gentler goodnight.

And yet, we also say good morning. To the four year old boys who love tractors and snow plows and horses and harvesters. Good morning to the sisterhood of widows who will hug, and hold hands, and pour over the recipe books of family memory and life not yet lived.

As the County road intersects with the State highway, I merge onto something new. Just paved, fresh and dark and unmarked. The rear-view mirror reminds me of the cornfields from which I have been and the dark clouds through which I have passed. Tick, tick, tick, tick. The blinker acknowledges my airport exit and I say goodbye.

Fair winds and following seas, Grandpa Ralph. Much love and laughter to the original R.W.

Happy Trails

Grandpa Ralph
October 29, 1919 – October 8, 2008

“Happy trails to you,
Until we meet again.
Happy trails to you,
Keep smilin' until then.”

Champs and Grips

If you're ever looking for the right medicine to deliver to a nursing home, I highly recommend bringing something like this:


Ice cream is optional



Well, maybe not.

Sam and I took a trip back to the Midwest to visit my grandparents after getting some sad news about my grandpa's health. My brother joined us, which was very special considering that he and I shared so many memories of visiting the family farm together as kids. Now the farm has been sold, we've grown and created the cousins for our kiddos that we never had, and age is catching up with all of us

But corn is still king, my grandparents are still our biggest fans, and hey, how 'bout them Cubbies?


Sam cruised around Pinecrest Manor in style, rotating between my grandpa's ever-present silly side effects (always a hit with the toddler set), and my grandmother's fleece blankie on her lap.


We took the folks for a ride in the country, and I totally forgot to warn Sam about "The Grip", my grandma's trademark move.



I'm not sure what this yoga move is called, but I'm calling it "Showing Off At The Nursing Home". He likes to call it "Rook at me, guys"


It was a very memorable visit for all of us. No better medicine.




Ok, Cubs, let's go all the way for RW.

Spring Cleaning and Mother's Day - A Package Deal

I did a little site maintenance, cleaned things up, moved some stuff around and realized that I had never posted from my trip to visit my grandmother last month. Oops!

For Mother's Day, my family gave me the gift of time with someone very special, my 91 year old Grandma. I highly recommend the "Nursing Home As Spa" vacation if you ever the get opportunity. I had my own room, went to bed by 8 o'clock each night, ate food that was extremely easy to chew, and felt very grateful to have my health. Isn't that what Canyon Ranch offers on a much steeper price tag? Okay, so maybe I was just a wee bit desperate for a break.

All kidding aside, my grandmother offered me that spectacular gift during my childhood of unconditional, unencumbered, and unending love. The kind that only grandparents who aren't charged with discipline and nutrition and formal education can provide. The kind of love that feels limitless and also anticipated. The kind of love that is birthday cake frosting every time you are hugged.

The kind of love that says "Oh? You didn't want to brush your hair today? That just makes me want to hug you and squeeze your knee. Here, have a cookie. I baked these just for you kids."

Or, "Did you climb up on that counter all by yourself and get those potato chips down? Aren't you clever!"

Or, "Wow, show me how you can stand on your toes again! Why that's amazing! Where did you learn that? Ballet? Oh, show me some more and turn on some music and let me clap for you."

The kind of love that is so very reassuring to children navigating the treachery of growing up. Because childhood, while magical, is also full of learning new skills and trying to be good and figuring out how stuff works and how to write a paragraph and where do the arms go in third position in ballet? And where does the shortstop stand again?

As a young girl, I knew deep down that what I was doing wasn't really all that extraordinary or unique - I'm sure lots of kids could do cartwheels, memorize a poem, or wear a softball uniform - but Grandma always made me feel like what I did was impressive and brought her great joy.

And who didn't need that as a kid? And frankly, who doesn't need that as an adult? What a gift I have - a woman who thinks that I'm great just for being me! It's like my own private cheerleader, Ed McMahon, and personal snare drum all rolled into one lovely soft pink track suit.

And you know, we could all use a little more of that.

My grandma, like many women of her generation, has known hard work and sacrifice far different from anything I've experienced. Her mother died during childbirth, and she soon lost three sisters to childhood disease that she and one other sister managed to survive. She worked in a factory while raising a child during WWII, went back to school and became a teacher while raising my father and did all of this while finishing up a needlepoint or quilting project and maintaining a vegetable garden that was nothing short of victorious.

This Mother's Day I decided to spend some time cheering her on so I traveled to the Midwest to sit with her and visit.

Just me and Grandma. No worrying about little people pulling the rescue cord, or playing in the toilet, or eating the dried plums on the bedstand.

Just us.

Sitting in the solarium soaking up the sun and drinking coffee together. And home baked rhubarb crisp, because you just don't get to go to the Midwest without some divinely baked treat that originated in someone's garden and now is being served in a church dish.

Grandma and I enjoyed watching spring burst open together. She commented on the direction of the wind in that tone that comes with someone who has noticed such things for a long time. The wind really started to blow and bend the trees as if trying to force them to the ground.

And yet, they stood.

Grandma and I watched this together and marveled at their strength. Grandma talked of the tree's root system: imagine, underneath the ground were all those roots that you couldn't see holding it up in the wind. Why, they were probably just as big as those tree limbs spreading out over the courtyard.

And I had this image, almost childlike, of a tree upside down with its roots growing in mirror image under the ground. And it made me smile. And think of her.

That while all of us are out here blowing in the breeze and trying our hardest to stand upright on the windiest and blustery trials of life, we've got roots.

Strong roots that hold us upright even when it feels like the world is gonna tear us down.

And I'm so glad for the roots I've got.



I love you, Grandma!