Everything Old Is New Again

We locals like to squeeze out every last bit of September's warm sunny days. Only when our tans start to fade do we reluctantly put away our shorts and pull out warm stuff, like the plain, old gray crewneck sweatshirt I've had for years that always gets complements. The sleeves have ribbons that tie into bows at the wrist, which is impossible to do alone-even with my teeth, so I have to wear it to work and make someone there tie them.  Despite being old and unmanageable, that sweatshirt makes me happy.

This summer, a few of my single acquaintances also found once unmanageable old things that are making them happy as well: they've up-cycled their ex-spouses.  

One couple fought so loudly at the kids' sporting events that no one would sit near them in the bleachers.  When they split, she just about put up a billboard talking about what an jerk he was. For years I'd see her out with guys at concerts, festivals and the like.  Beginning this summer, her ex started showing up at events she was at, and last month, they danced together on the boardwalk. Trying not to be nosy even though I was damn curious, when I saw her grocery shopping, I had to ask about the dance.  She rolled her eyes, smiled and said "the enemy I know is easier to deal with then the enemy I don't". Their kids insisted they play nice for the grands at family holidays and parties.  She said that since bringing a date was uncomfortable for everyone, they got back together.  "Besides" she said, "he's mellowed. We only have fights over whether the grands loves him or me more."

Another woman, a real go-getter when the kids were little, had a husband who was just a little more active than a sloth.  She threw him to the curb, bought a motorcycle and started traveling with a wild senior group all over the country.  It took a few years but her ex decided to go out and win her back with his own motorcycle.  They just got back from the west coast, sporting studded black leather jackets and pants,  She told me that she likes him a lot more now than the first thirty years because he's really a lot of fun.

In The Walking Dead, besides astronauts and kittens, zombies hate regifting.  In the broadest context, I presume zombies would have the same aversion to up-cycled exes.

Reconnecting with any of my past relationships, and there weren't many, is as futile as facing Mariano Rivera in the bottom of the ninth:  First Love-dead (strike one). Mr. Jock-married to a much younger woman (strike two). Wingman-dead (strike three and yer out). Who else was there??? Pre-Wingman, I dated a guy who, when I re-introduced myself one night, had absolutely no recollection of me at all.  Had I known he would make me feel so awkward, I would have brought the postcard he sent me from Florida where he wrote "I miss you and I miss my guitar". Or the guy a mutual friend insisted that we'd be a good match until he came out to me as gay and moved to San Francisco to run an Aids crisis center.  Or post Wingman, the widower who asked me out six weeks after his wife died and was a one-and-done date non-contender.  Sadly, he's dead too.

When Wingman died and Sandy flooded the house, I got everything new. New furniture. New flooring. New, new, new inside and out. The bedroom was newly painted sage green, which was the nicest and most comforting color.  Here in condo world, I stupidly picked the 2019 color-of-the-year pink which turned out to be just a little more subtle than Pepto Bismol. Opening one eye in the morning and looking at it almost makes me nauseous, so when November rolls around and I step away from my manager position, I'm painting the room sage green.  My favorite old new color will make me happy again.

As happy as that old sweatshirt. But I'm thinking as I step away from work, I'm going to have to find someone new to tie the bows.

We Are Family, I Got All My Sisters With Me

 

I am the oldest of five siblings with three brothers and one sister.  Today, all of us attended a memorial service for my sister's sister.

No, that isn't a riddle.  Or a joke. In June my sister's chosen sister of over fifty years passed away from stomach cancer. 

Their sisterhood began when they were ten and Lu moved to town. There weren't enough classroom books for each student so the teacher asked my sister to share hers, and a friendship was formed.  The two became three when another girl moved to town, and became a solid four when they hit middle school and a girl from the other side of town was in their class. Later, Lu's single mom rented my grandparents' home next door to ours and the sisters became inseparable.

Being seven years older than my sister, other than sharing a bedroom growing up, we had very little in common.  I had to set the table and dry the dishes every night while she played with her Fred Flintstone dinosaur and my Barbies. She was only in second grade when I started high school. I met my BFF soon after-a woman with no sisters and one pesky brother the same age as one of mine. I moved to NYC to attend fashion school about the same time she started cheering for Pop Warner football. She got her drivers license and I got my first apartment. We were two planets traveling around the same sun on different orbits.

That's not to say we were alienated from each other.  When I went out with First Love, his sister was that third member of the band of sisters, so we were usually in one of the two houses at the same time. The BFF and I chaperoned a party the girls had (but they were quite pissed that we didn't leave).  Again, the BFF and I took their 14 year old selves to Central Park to see a Beach Boys concert, where they were totally bored. When I married Wingman, she was my maid of honor and we spent my last night being single at a favorite bar where I bought her underage self drinks until the wee hours. 

My sister moved to Florida for college, and eventually started a new life there. Lu being single found it much easier to travel than Wingman and I with our deli and kids. We visited once right after we got married, once with when I was pregnant, and then not again until son #1 was at college spring training.  From the photos they shared today, Lu spent as much time in Florida in the winter as my sister did in NJ every summer. Being at one or another weekend baseball tournaments meant that I would be lucky if I saw her once or twice when she came up. It never seemed wrong-our lives just moved in different directions. 

It was early this spring that Lu started having stomach problems. Late spring she was diagnosed, and early summer, she passed.  In the meantime, my sister and her friends did what sisters do: they made meals, walked her dog, held her hand and tried to give her hope. 

Last night, I went out for steamers with the squad-a squad that now includes a woman who worked with Lu for over thirty years.  Stories started flying as they remembered the people, the places and the things that made their sister bond so special. Wingman use to be jealous that some of his friends had a bond like these women have, but I am eternally grateful that my sister found Lu and the squad, that they could be there for her before she passed, and will continue to be there for each other in the years to come.

My sister always said that she and Lu were like Thelma and Louise.  At the end of the movie, Thelma (Lu) says "Let's Keep Going" to which Louise (my sister) replies "Are you sure?" Lu was always the one to keep going, always up for an adventure, always with a smile on her face and will always be treasured by those that knew and loved her the most.

And May You Stay Forever Young

 

A couple of months ago, I called my middle son who had just returned from a tryout for southern D1 football refs.  He tried to keep his voice reserved, and very humble in the opportunity and outcome, and as elated and proud of him as I was, I couldn't help but feel guilty and think "Damn, Wingman, this should be you enjoying this moment with your son-not me."

The following evening, I brought the conversation up with another son, and questioned what he thought his father's reaction might have been.  He replied that Wingman would most definitely have been gloating, if not berating him for playing baseball for 16+ years and not pursuing the same goals to be an umpire. Every year on this anniversary, I wonder what life would be like if Wingman was still alive.

Would Wingman ever have gone back to playing in bands?  Would he have gotten involved with the charity I'm volunteering in or avoided it because of clashes with guys he played with in the past? His bass still stands on the landing in pristine condition after taking a swim in Sandy and then being lovingly restored to like-new by a dear friend. I've often thought of finding someone to play it or it will become one of the items, like the Mickey Mantle baseball, that the boys will fight over when I'm gone for no other reason than it's there.

How many concerts tickets would he have added to his box of memories?  Not only would he have gone to, but afterwards would have deeply mourned the deaths of Jeff Beck and David Bowie, but not as much as when John Lennon died. He'd be salivating seeing guys like Peter Frampton, Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello playing local venues and he'd surely critique Steely Dan without Walter Becker, The Doobie Brothers WITH Michael McDonald and why the hell are they trying to resurrect Beatles music with AI?

How many of the grandkids softball or baseball games and tournaments would he never have missed like we use to travel to for our boys?  All of the rec, grade and high school games, all of the college ones-sitting in frosty April to sweltering August weather.  He would have loved the year that Summer Son live at our home and might have made more than the one game I went to in Hartford to see him play in college. Because he loved seeing kids play the game, would he have coached local kids like a high school friend of his is doing now? Or crazier yet, would he have insisted on flying to South Korea to see our oldest granddaughter, who has absolutely no interest in sports at all, dance in a ballet recital?

How many Yankee games would he have gone to? He and a friend each took a son to the first game at the new Yankee Stadium, and proudly told everyone that his butt was the first to sit in that seat.  I guess the fact that some of his ashes are sitting in Monument Park between Reggie Jackson and Don Mattingly means he hasn't missed a game in years.

When Wingman died, I offered his clothes and personal items to the boys, but no one took anything.  I donated most everything wearable to our Pastor friend, but a lot of his old tee shirts I kept.  In fact, a full storage bin of them that moved at least four times in twelve years, There were of course, many baseball shirts, but also included ones he wore on our first couple of dates, ones from our deli, ones from the earliest band I knew him from, and even ones from concerts he went to before I ever met him.  Combined with those, I had three bins of all sorts of tee shirts from the three boys that the bizarre hoarder in me kept for posterity. So this year, for the twelfth Anniversary of Wingman's passing, I made each son a quilt which combined his and their lives in the tee shirts I saved.  Each quilt will hopefully be a reminder of the things that both he and they loved, made by me with the hope  I have for all of them to remain FOREVER YOUNG. 

It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

 

Ah, July...Julius Caesar picked a good one to name after himself.  It starts with Independence Day, my second favorite holiday with all the fireworks and barbeques that go with it, but what makes it REALLY wonderful is that it combines a full month of summer concerts with the greatest of all TV events: "Christmas in July" on Hallmark. Did I mention that Christmas is my most favorite holiday?

Wingman didn't like Christmas, but he did love music and I've spent the last dozen years enjoying both by myself.  Last week, after seeing three bands in four days  I realized that musicians, just like Hallmark actors, are quite interchangeable in their roles.

Take that female lead actress who has been everything Christmas from an aspiring gingerbread house maker, to a fashion designer who makes costumes for her daughter's school, to a seamstress who falls in love with a prince. She is no different from the girl group singer harmonizing 60's music on Wednesday, being lead singer in a Motown band on Thursday and backing up a NJ Hall of Famer on Saturday.

Or the guy who has been a fireman with an abandoned Christmas baby, a corporate recovery agent for a candy cane company and the photographer whose wife forgets who he is when she falls off a ladder decorating their tree. Wingman played bass in a band that formed right after I met him with a guitarist who went on to play with that same female group singer I just mentioned, as well as in a pickup group with The Boss and with Bon Jovi's house band.

Hallmark put out 42 Christmas movies in 2023, and the best of their entire lineup is replayed this month.  "The Christmas Card" from 2006 set them on the holiday map and remains one of my favorites to this day.  Like the man I heard for the first time last Thursday singing spot-on James Taylor, the two lead actors aren't in the "star" rotation which makes them, I don't know, maybe more believable. Meanwhile, the supporting actor playing the dad in the movie I recognized from other films as a newspaperman and Santa Claus. Instead of totally immersing myself in Sweet Baby James, I found myself distracted trying to remember where I last heard the guitarist (with the Motown band) and the saxophonist (playing with another Boss/JBJ guitarist).

One of my six New Year's resolutions in 2024 was to see 52 live music performances in 52 weeks. This is week 29, and I've already seen 35 including a bunch of bar bands, a broadway musical, a college choral group, the NJ Symphony and the US Army band, as well as three major rock and roll concerts. I've seen a few of my favorites more than once, and they play a song for me that Wingman was trying to learn before he died. In but four short months I will at last be retired (more to come on that later) and back to volunteering with the holiday charity I love so much.  Just like the Hallmark movies that will be on 24/7 from the beginning of November, I'll be singing Christmas carols at each event with different "star" musicians, most who I recognize but don't really know (you know-this event is with the drummer, who played with that bass guy last month who had the girl lead singer who does Carol King). And our supporting team will be just as valuable-we'll be in the background handing out meals and hugs, providing warm clothing to those in need, dancing with clients, and making each event a memorable time.

And while I can't sing to save my life,  at many of them I'll put on  a costume as Rudolph, Frosty, Cookie Monster or Elmo, hug a child and be a star in their eyes.

Fashion, Turn To The Left, Fashion, Turn To The Right

Christie Brinkley.  Cindy Crawford.  Claudia Schiffer.  Gisele Bundchen.  Names associated with top models that girls like me aspired to be...if only I was 5'9' tall, weighed less than 113 pounds and had large eyes, chiseled cheekbones and jawlines. Those women made the tough job of modeling look effortless whether it be for a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit or Vogue Couture cover. 

When I was in high school, I got a call from the manager of a department store in town, saying that I was chosen by a teacher to model in an upcoming fashion show.  It was to be a selection of sportswear and prom gowns...was I interested?  I envisioned wearing a Twiggy mini dress and replied an eager YES.  Days later, a notice came over the school intercom: "Would all girls who were called about a fashion show, please report to the office?" Upon arrival, not only were there a couple of dozen girls from all grades, but waiting for us was the principal-a nun with a hawk-like nose and blue-eyed stare that scared the bejesus out of you.  With her was a police officer who, in actuality, couldn't hide his amusement and the very upset real store manager. It seems that there was no fashion show, and all of us had given away vital information to the guy on the phone.

We told him our bra size and whether or not we owned a black one. In the eyes of that nun, the Rosenbergs passing atomic secrets to the Russians was less serious. Whoever the "manager" was (and my guess is one or more guys in school) became the first phone-scam criminal on record. The Chinese and Russians took lessons from that prank to get social security numbers and bank accounts from unsuspecting people decades later.

Wingman's college roommate and his first wife started a photography business as a side hustle. To help them out, three women and I did a photo shoot, modeling our own sportswear and bridesmaid dresses in lieu of prom gowns.  When the official photos were finished, the guy pulled me aside and asked if I would consider doing some "tasteful" nude shots that they could include in their portfolio. In my mind flashed not only Vanessa Williams giving up her Miss America crown over nude pictures, but the steely stare that nun gave me a decade before over just revealing my bra size.  I politely declined so no one needs to troll the internet to see if any nude photos of me exist today.

Flash ahead almost 40 years and the idea of modeling was the farthest thing from my mind until the company I work for sent out a notice that they were looking for associates for the upcoming holiday catalog. I looked at the photos from the previous year's catalog and the only "senior" in the shots was half-hidden behind a gay couple. What the hell-I sent in my photo and resume. 

A month or so later, our store was informed that they wanted two young women AND ME in the catalog.  We were sent "the look" we would be modeling, with a time and place.  Although the jeans and striped tees screamed anything but holiday, we excitedly drove the three hours to the studio. I brought along cookies baked in the shape of the company logo with the tagline stamped onto them.  It worked to get me the job in construction so I figured it couldn't hurt.

Being photographed that day right before us was the perfect family: the blonde mom and her four blonde haired, blue eyed kids looked like they stepped out of Ralph Lauren. Meanwhile, a makeup artist was breaking out in a sweat trying to minimize my under-eye bags and wrinkles.  The two other much younger women from my store spent probably half the time TOGETHER in hair and make-up than I did.

After spending nearly two hours with the perfect family, the photographer spent about 10 minutes with each of us separately and another 10 photographing us together.  Not only did we not get to keep our clothes, but they didn't even give us lunch!  

They ate my cookies though. When the catalog arrived, the youngest of us scored the front cover, and both the second woman and myself were on page two.  But there, on page eight was the quarter page photo I still shake my head over.  Because, while every other associate has a wide toothy grin or seductive smile, I have on a Santa hat and a "Resting Bitch Face". And not only was it in the catalog-it flashed on TV screens in stores all over America.  A college kid who worked in the store this past summer sent me a shot from Boston. Another friend forwarded one from Texas.  Kristen Stewart's RBF has nothing on me.

Days before Christmas, a box sent FedEx arrived from the company's photo department.  Shaking it, I envisioned a nice frame with one of the shots enlarged as a thank you.  Instead, they sent ten copies of the catalog I had already taken from the store's ample supply before they disposed of them for the resort catalog.

And without needing to look in a mirror, I knew that my RBF had turned to ABF…ACTIVE Bitch Face. Not only was I already obsolete in press but in days ahead had to face the onslaught of shoppers returning all of the clothes worn by those smiling faced Generation X/Y/Z’s. 

By the way, if you haven’t returned those Christmas gifts you don’t want yet, YOU’RE LATE. Don’t humor me with your excuses, I’ve heard them all. Just like Miranda.

I Wanna Run Through The Halls Of My High School, I Wanna Scream At The Top Of My Lungs

Janice Ian nailed it when she wrote about the angst that I, and probably a lot of my female classmates suffered in her song "At Seventeen." Those of us who watched from the cheap seats at school dances while the cool kids laughed breezily and danced dreamily with each other. I didn't have eighty already established friendships from going to the same grammar school as they did. I didn't go to a beach club, much less go to the right one. I carried a hobo bag and wore faux suede shoes from a discount shoe store-so unlike the expensive leather Bass Weejuns and Aigner wicker basket purses that it seemed everyone else had. If the Island of Misfit Toys had people, I was the train with square wheels.

When I met Wingman, it was different.  At his high school, he was a cool kid; the cliche jock who dated the cheerleader. The bass player in a band.  When we started going out, I eagerly became part of his group. Every five years I would go to my reunions alone, see my old friends, but never mix with anyone outside my circle. I would also go with Wingman to his reunions, talk to a multitude of his friends and acquaintances, and marvel at our circles' differences.

After we had kids, I joined a beach club (yes, one of the right ones) and actually made friends with one of the cool women I graduated with.  She had two beautiful young daughters and I had...well, a normal day in my life was when son #2 threw up on her blanket while son #1 got fruit snacks stuck up his nose.  My misfit sons joined me on the island.

Over the years, Wingman spent less and less time with his former friends and refused to go to reunions. I conversely, got more involved with mine.  My forte was researching people's addresses, sending emails and making lists. And there I discovered that the people who organized the reunions may have been cool back then, but now they were cool and professional. They got stuff done and the rest of us enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

A year ago, I went with the BFF to her 50th reunion.  It was a summer weekend filled with varied outside events that took into consideration that Covid was still heavy on people's minds. And everything was fabulous.  At the meeting for ours, we chose similar ideas and even booked two places they used without the Covid fears of the previous year. But locating other venues this year was tough and there were no hotels in the area with reasonable room rates due to the backlog of weddings not held since 2019. Trying to locate the 332 graduates minus 35 who passed was another daunting task.  Social media, local newspapers and church bulletins didn't amount to much. A committee of ten volunteers to each locate 30 people resulted in only four of us doing the legwork.

Like previous reunions, I loved finding and connecting with people I hadn't spoken to since graduating, or in many cases, people I had NEVER spoken to. Like the smartest guy in Calculus with the foulest mouth who ended up being one of the most successful. When visiting friends in North Carolina, I located three classmates living in the next town. The one I never knew turned out to have been instrumental in building the new sports complex at the school. It was equally disturbing to talk to people that refused to come because they hated high school. Wait-you hate it??? Didn't we, the uncool, elect you, the cool to Student Council? Didn't we, the un-athletic not make teams because you did? Didn't you laugh and dance while we watched?

Last week, we held our reunion. A golf course, an oceanfront restaurant, a church, the high school, a country club and a boardwalk bar were our venues.  People were there who are seen around town regularly and some who haven't been "home" in fifty years. Everyone got along famously, with gasps of recognition, claps on the back and plenty of hugging. As one woman commented "its so nice to reconnect with such wonderful people because we were all so kind in school."  

She was so right about that. Those of us who sat on the sidelines back then, didn't know it or feel like we were cool, but we were, because we were always kind to each other. We held our peers' heads when they got sick and died, when marriages broke up, when parents, siblings and spouses passed. When Wingman died, it was my classmates coming to pay their respects that touched me. The peer who paid for my dinner in his restaurant after Sandy flooded my home. The one who gave my son insulin at her clinic when my insurance to cover him ran out. The many who generously donated money to this reunion so that others without the means could attend.

I came away from the weekend with great conversations, plenty of photos and a renewed respect for my peers. And I giggle because I also came away with a slew of new phone contacts-a lot of of them men I never spoke to in high school, because, you guessed it-they were cool and I was not.  If I should get run over by a bus, my kids will not question any of the women's names like Kathy, Mary, Janet or Bunny, but they will ask themselves and each other who Bill and Jay and Jack and Dave and Dennis and Brendan and Kevin and Lee and Marks 1, 2 and 3, among others, are in my phone. They needent wonder.

I changed their Company name to "Cool Kids" so they'll know.

Bought me dinner when my house flooded

Football team reunited 50 years later.
Don't anyone mention their 0-7-2 record.

This photo got traction because I looked decent &
was with a guy I never spoke to in HS.

My spirit animal widow-friend and our music man.

We didn't run through the halls but got a tour
of the HS and student center.

Sat next to him alphabetically for two years.  
Hadn't seen or spoken in 50.

Another never-knew cool guy.  
Wants us all to take river cruises in the future.

He admitted he had no idea who I was in HS.
Laughed about it for days.

Guys who have and have never attended a reunion.

A guy who never misses one.

Every cool kid who could make it.  Twelve got sick or had other issues and were last minute cancels.  We wish they could all have been there.

Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly

Well Wingman, I almost drew a blank when it came to choosing the song that would memorialize the 10th anniversary of you being gone. I waffled between “Rock N Roll Heaven” “Forever Young” and of course, “In My Life”. None of them conveyed the suffering that both you and our family went through with your illness and death. I finally decided on The Beatles’ “Blackbird”. Yes, I know that it was written about a black woman during the Civil Rights Movement. But bear with me.

The first songbird my third grade teacher taught us to identify in nature class was the red-winged blackbird.  She claimed that the appearance of the bird would give us the confidence to do things in front of crowds and at events.  I assumed she meant just at school until I met you. You were the blackbird.  With your fireglo Rickenbacker bass you were my first guitar hero. True, you couldn't read music and sang slightly off-key (and never learned the correct lyrics to "Two Tickets to Paradise") but you always had the confidence to play, and sing in bars and with Mr. Mustard, almost win Beatlefest.  It killed your creativity when that band broke up and the band members went on to play with other groups that you weren't invited to join.  All you had left was playing that bass to records and CD's by yourself.

Blackbirds move in groups and protect each other. Male birds protect nesting females and fledglings from predators.  Like a blackbird, early on you were always your best within your circle of friends and family. You were destined to be the caregiver of your handicapped brother had you lived and been healthy. You tried so hard so remain the center of each son's life and it broke your spirit when they rebelled against you and insisted on their own independence. And you retreated further when I rebelled against you as well. You couldn't protect me, the boys, your parents, your job. I was angry and embarrassed with you, with me, with us. Intervention, rehab and therapy didn't work. Getting your work wives involved so you could keep your job didn’t work. The seams of our marriage strained to the breaking point.

There were 23 days from the time you were found convulsing in the bedroom to the night you died. The surgeon lied to me when he said you had a 30% chance of making it off of the operating table that night-he later admitted that he was pretty sure you had zero chance, but live you did.  So when I learned the blackbird's spiritual meaning is that we get to choose how and when we want to go, it became abundantly clear. You wanted to live on for 23 days. The same number your favorite Yankee Don Mattingly wore.

On the night you died, you had an aide that helped you stand up and walk your first two steps to a chair. (She later admitted that a blood clot probably loosened and moved to your heart that night which killed you).  You ate mashed potatoes mixed with chocolate pudding which you thought was gravy. You didn't know my name, but told the aide that I was "the bitch" which I wholeheartedly accept. Returning to the hospital later that night, I saw you laying there, sunken eyes open, surrounded by ugly medical waste used to try and revive you.  I didn't cry at all-only your mom did when she saw you. I'm sorry that I never found those tears in the days following.  People may hate me for saying this, but I'm not sure that in the past ten years, I ever did. It isn’t easy to admit even now.

Today, the red-winged blackbird still evokes memories of you. Blackbirds are diurnal which means they eat day and night and they're indiscriminate eaters-not uncommon in our house where you could be found eating whatever was leftover right out of the fridge at 3 am. While watching the John Lennon 75th Birthday Concert, the company promoting his CD’s and CD/DVD’s was named Blackbird Presents.  Is it fate or irony that while traveling I found a company called Blackbird that makes your poison of choice: vodka? That Jameson Whiskey touts a signature drink called The Blackbird?

The sea otter may be your spirit animal but the more I spot blackbirds, the more I think that their influence on me relates directly to you. They have taught me since you died to be more flexible and forgiving. They have shown me that I have to avoid toxic people and places and that I have to, and always will, defend my flock. And their beautiful song reminds me that music has and always will lighten my spirits.

Tonight, what was your flock and is now mine will dine together,  We’ll walk to the river and send off some floating candles, wistful that there won't be any sea otters to receive them. And we’ll play “Blackbird” because as the song says, you were always waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of a dark black night

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of a dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

God Bless The Child That's Got His Own

When son #2 asked me what I had going on at the end of June, I was fairly certain that he had no interest in my active, post-pandemic social life.  My instincts were correct-he and his bride planned a trip for their 10th anniversary and needed "someone" to stay with their kids. Someone able to coordinate the daily schedules of the three; two of which were in softball/baseball tournaments in different parts of the state on the same day, music lessons, camp, fussy eating habits and whatever else came up. I enthusiastically said "yes" and added my own list of things to accomplish, like crafting every day, house cleaning and ultimately matching every pair of socks in their house. Dwight Eisenhower as supreme commander during WWll could have taken lessons in my battle plans.

I arrived with seven bags of crafts, and after sending their parents off to the airport, we worked on creating a volcano until they discovered the gummy candy making kit in one of the bags.  Soon, these three plus three friends (including one whose religious background prohibited him from eating gelatin) were busy making rainbows, unicorns, clouds and even sculls in a mold I found in the pantry. I sent the neighbor kids home well-sugared up. Score a walk in the grandparent park on day 1. 

My granddaughter had a softball tournament that night, and it was pre-arranged that a coach would take her.  That left the two boys easily entertained with my phone and iPad playing Paw Patrol and other games while I started " project #1", organizing their hall closet full of hats, scarves and gloves and emptying way too many book bags full of stuff.  Suffice to say that I wish I owned stock in Crayola and Pokemon.

Saturday brought a coordinated effort with the other grandmother.  My grandson and I headed 1-1/2 hours NORTH to his baseball tournament while she headed an hour SOUTH with the other two to the softball tournament. And let me say that baseball tournaments for seven years olds are in one word: STUPID. His main concern was having sunflower seeds to spit. They split two games which put them in the losers bracket and eight hours later we headed home, stopping at a big box hardware store for spray paint, flowers and a small tree.  I had other projects in store...

But first, dinner and promised trip to the ice cream parlor where the youngest threw up in the parking lot on the way into the store, and again when we got home.  The grandma walk in the park was sullied with splashes of vomit on her Sperrys.

From that point on, the days were filled with way too many things to go into individually.  Every day, I'd ask them what was the best and worst part of their day. Best parts changed, depending on the kid.  Worst was always the same: they missed their parents. A lot. 

Babysitting without parental interference is the equivalent of a petrie dish under a microscope.  Each one had his/her own uniqueness.  My 9 year old granddaughter is an avid reader, aspiring Kids Cooking Championship contestant and mimics many of her mama's mannerisms. My observations predict that she will be a normal teenage slob in a few years when it comes to cleaning her bedroom. My 7 year old grandson is the typical middle child, not able to be boss or baby so he's the people pleaser. He's the ultimate sports nut-never without some kind of ball in his hand, a miser when it comes to money (reminded me multiple times that I owed him $10 for helping clean his mama's van), a wicked drummer and the family artist with a bedroom gallery currently featuring sharks. The 4 year old "baby" was always the first to pop out of bed and give me a hug to start my day. He's allergic to nuts, fur and I can't count how much else.  Like his dad was as a child, he can throw up, immediately smile and a few minutes later, repeat the process without ever complaining.  He loved to help me clean, adores Marshall on Paw Patrol and stubbornly attempts everything his siblings do.

I really got to see the best of them in their pack. When we crafted, they did it together. When we watched TV, they picked shows they all liked, like Sing 2 and countless episodes of Paw Patrol. While I started laundry, the two oldest read Paw Patrol books (anyone seeing a pattern here?) to the youngest and helped each other get ready for whatever we were off to do, be it filling water bottles, getting snacks or buckling car seats. One day, I was frustrated after a bedroom door accidentally got locked and we had no key. I started taking the knob off to jimmy the lock when I heard a crash. A jar of 22,000 (yes, the zeros are correct) iron-on beads went flying all over the living room floor, sending the youngest wailing because he reached for something he shouldn't have.  Just as I was ready to start yelling, the other two sprung into action: my granddaughter consoled him while the middle one grabbed a broom and said that they would help pick them up.  I watched in amazement as the three of them worked together to pick up every stinking bead and the youngest kept thanking them profusely for helping him.  In thinking back, I'm pretty confident that if it had been my own three sons, it would have been every man for himself. 

On Friday, I dropped the two oldest off at their last day at camp and couldn't help but get a little misty-eyed as they ran off.  Could I be missing them already? A while later, the other grandmother arrived to get the youngest and headed off to pick up his siblings to spend the last two days at her house before mom and dad got back. I looked around in satisfaction-their house was clean, garage straightened, flowers planted, rocking chairs painted, pies baked and most of the laundry done...but I just ran out of time to match those darn socks. I loaded up the car with all the crafts. 

And I had to giggle as I plugged in the Waze app to get me home. Days before, we programmed Ryder from Paw Patrol to be the Waze voice and replaced my car on the screen with Marshall's fire truck. Saying "no job's too big and no pup's too small", he reminded me that I had just finished the biggest, most important job of my grandparenting career. (To be continued I'm sure!)

Washing Mom's Van (cost me $10 each kid)

State Champion!

Blueberry Picking

Pool Time

Crayon Art

They get along so well together

Crazy hair day