Sound the Call to Dear Old Interlochen

There are few places in the world that bring tears to my eyes just by walking on their hallowed ground. One of these is Gloucester, Massachusetts, where 300+ years of my ancestors walked and fished and built homes for their fellowmen. Another is Arlington National Cemetery, where we commemorate so many Americans who gave their lives for this country. The one I'm experiencing this week is Interlochen Center for the Arts in Interlochen, Michigan.

As I walk around this hallowed campus, I listen to music emanating from every building. The music fills my soul. [I acknowledge that other art forms are similarly nurtured here, but my life is music–that is my focus when I'm here.]

My younger son came here for the first time in 1989, having just turned 14. He had challenges at home after his father's and my divorce eight years earlier. He was tied at the heart to me, but we were constrained to ten weeks together each summer plus a few holidays. His father's way of life wasn't what he would choose, and his greatest advocate lived 1,400 miles away. I sacrificed a significant portion of one of my summers with him to give him the Interlochen experience.

Having spent a year or two as a percussionist in his junior high school band, he sent in his audition tape and applied for Intermediate Band. At that time in his life, when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would reply–with a swagger–I'm gonna be a drummer in a rock band.

Shortly after his application was processed, he received a telephone call asking if he would consider being in the Intermediate Concert Orchestra and Intermediate Symphony Orchestra rather than the band (two ensembles instead of one). He graciously agreed.

He had been exposed to classical music at home before reaching Interlochen, but there was no love affair. Once he began daily rehearsals of classical music and began studying the scores, the love affair was fast and deep.

And now, 25 years later, after my son spent three years at Interlochen as a camper, several years as camp staff, and three years of high school at Interlochen Arts Academy, I am back at this magical place. I walk. I listen. I watch. I sit by the lake and feel the breezes and ponder the emotions roiling within me.

My son is now a computer professional. He studies search engine optimization with the same fervor he used to study Tchaikovsky. But he has not lost one gram of his love for Tchaikovsky, or Prokofiev, or Brahms, or any of their composer brothers.

And he has not lost his love for Interlochen.

Nor have I lost my love and gratitude for all that Interlochen gave him and, through him, me.

And so we pile ourselves, along with his two pre-teen children, in his car and trek to northern Michigan. We walk around, watch, and listen. And I cross my fingers that a bit of Interlochen love will rub off on my grandchildren.

Here's hoping I'll be back here next year, observing their classes and performances.

Note: Since this post was written in 2014, his two children have spent three summers at Interlochen Arts Camp; my son married his Academy sweetheart; and now they spend their summers together in Interlochen, where he works remotely at his web application development job and she works as a choreographer. And I've spent two summers as a collaborative pianist, one year in musical theatre, one year in dance. Life is good.

Door to Door

Nine years ago I left a relationship and started all over again, again. My beloved heart-of-my-heart grandchildren were two years old and three months old. When choosing my venue for starting all over again, again, I found a house that was one mile away from their house. We said, "Someday the kids will ride their bikes to Grandma's house."

Last week it happened. They are now a-few-days-short-of-11 and two-months-past-9. Yes, their mother drove alongside them for the inaugural ride, but they did it!

And may there be many more bike rides to and from Grandma's!

Generations of Comfort

In 1981, I became a noncustodial mother. That label is hard to say, hard to bear. When you state that fact, people look at you and you sense they're thinking, "What egregious thing did you do to lose your kids?" My egregious act was to divorce a husband who said one thing and did something else, and who worked very hard during the divorce process and afterwards to hurt me (in return, I suppose, for how I had hurt him during the marriage).

Eighteen months post-divorce, I moved from the Dallas/Fort Worth area to Washington, DC, to marry a fellow IBMer whom I had met through work. I went from seeing my sons every other weekend and all summer to only seeing them in the summers and on alternate holidays. You take what you can get.

To set the scene for today's post: At a baby shower given by our church while I was pregnant with Tyler (son #2), I received a beautiful bunting (like a sack you slip the baby into, if you're unfamiliar with the term) that unzipped to make a blanket. The blanket was white flannel on the inside and a silky white printed with yellow ducks on the outside. Tyler had stomach problems and a lot of discomfort as an infant, and that blanket became a source of great comfort to him. After we moved to Ft. Worth, when he was about 4, the blanket came in contact with an oil-fueled space heater and one end of the silky fabric melted. I took the blanket apart and remade it into a pillow, which he then loved for several years to come until it totally wore out and disintegrated.

On one of his visits to Washington shortly after my relocation, Tyler asked me if I could make him another blanket like the one he no longer had. A mother doesn't refuse or ignore such a request!! Before his next visit, I went to the local fabric store and got flannel for the front, nylon tricot for the back, and quilt batting for the inside. I made a blanket the size of a twin bed top, and he used it on every Washington stay. When he turned 14 and I finally regained custody and he went away to arts high school, the blanket was tucked away with extra linens where it stayed for many years and marriages to come.

Fast forward to 2001. Beautiful grandson Boston was born. We were all living in Tucson. I was not working and spent lots and lots of quality time with Boston. We bonded early and strong. During one of my Scottsdale Nordstrom shopping trips before he was born, I got him a Barefoot Dreams Receiving Blanket. These blankets, which are now very hard to find, was flannel on one side and silky on the other. Oh, did he fall in love with this blanket! I also got him the travel size and his parents dared not get into the car without packing the travel blanket.

Note: I'm reading this and editing on Jun 29, 2026. The website has changed at the blanky store, so I fixed the link. They no longer sell those particular blankets, but here are some others that would make the perfect gift for a wee one in your life. You're welcome.

Two years later, my life situation changed and I bought a house a mile away from Boston and his parents and, now, baby sister Ridley. During that move, I uncovered Tyler's 30-year-old race car blanket. We had lots of sleepovers, and I would cover Boston with his daddy's old blanket.

Then the parents had an epiphany about their lifestyle, and prepared to move back to Youngstown. Sleepovers became more frequent as the babies and I steeled ourselves for the separation. About three weeks before they were to leave, Boston—now five years old—asked, "Grandma, can I take Daddy's blanket with me to Ohio?" Of course, I said yes. I'm not very good at denying these darlings anything.

Then he told me he wanted me to make a label to put on the blanket. When I asked him, what he wanted it to say, he dictated:

Boston's Sleepover with Grandma
This was Daddy's blanket when he was a little boy.

If you look at the photo above, you'll see that's exactly what I did.

Fast forward again. It's 2012. He's been in his new home and life in Youngstown for five years. He [still] sleeps with this blanket (and several others!) every night. But this is the one that always goes next to his body. He loves the silky fabric, just like his daddy did—so much so that he's worn a hole in it and the fabric has ripped.

Once again, Grandma comes to the rescue. Last night when I babysat, the blanket transferred hands, with its owner's hopes that it would return quickly. While waiting for the parents to get home from a movie, I cybersearched and cybershopped to order white nylon tricot yardage. While I wait for the fabric to arrive, I'll remove the torn backing, carefully remove and preserve the label, then replace the backing and the label.

And again be a hero to my offspring and off-offspring. Aren't I lucky?!

I'll finish with a little family lore. Tyler's blanket was referred to as his blanket. To Jaci, a blanket was a woobie - which is, I guess, a midwestern term. When Boston started talking, he translated "woobie" into ah-boo, which we wrote as "obu". He also translated "mama" into "rara", and—even today—she is known as Rara. And handsome, smart, and talented 10yo Boston will ask, at bedtime, "Rara, where's my obu?"

Makes you wonder what his kids will call their blankies, huh?

Growth Spurts

Little Miss Long-Legs Ridley is growing about an inch a week. Yesterday I took the babes to the playground. When she was climbing up a metal structure she'd climbed on many times before (as a much shorter child), she whacked her skull on a metal bar and came crying to me.

She's eight years old, trapped in the body of a 15-year-old. It's a steep price to pay for what a long, cool drink of water she's going to be in her teens!

Fragments of Prose

Words fly through my mind. Things I read and hear remind me of things I want to express through writing. Sometimes these expressions make it to ink or pixels, and sometimes they just float off into the ether.

Yesterday afternoon I was giving my office a long-overdue straightening. I found a pad on which I had written the beginning of thoughts formed while spending time with my granddaughter.

She's seven, with eight just over three weeks ahead. She looks ten or eleven. It's very hard to watch her and realize the sometimes-childish thoughts that pop out of her head really are appropriate. They're appropriate to an eight-year-old.

With each month that passes in her life, she becomes more sure of herself, more mature. And then some little something will nudge her brain back to its real age and she'll pop out something that makes me scratch my head.

A year ago she was a very—to my mind—insecure little girl. She needed praise and reassurance, in a way that seemed very out of place given her knowledge, skills and abilities. It was in light of one of these pleas for reassurance that words came into my mind.

I See Me In You

Your "do you like it" that accompanies every drawing tugs at my heartstrings. I see little me, aching to be loved, to be cherished.

I can't understand how you cannot know, implicitly and explicitly, how loved and cherished and talented and skilled and humorous and beautiful you are.

…

She is lucky to have been born to parents who know how to help her grow into herself. She's lucky to live in an environment where she has learned how to behave around and with adults as well as children. She is a joy to know and a joy to behold.

And I'm lucky to have a treasured place in her life.

Out of the Mouths . . .

Yesterday I took the g'babes to school—just helpin' out. On the way, Ridley told me she's getting an iPod Touch. Boston started telling me about the conversation Ridley had with her mother about allocation of a check she had received for Christmas. Ridley interrupted Boston and said, "No, that's not the money." He retorted, "I was just telling Grandma the whole conversation." She said, "Oh," and paused for a beat before saying, "Carry on."

Where do these kids get their vocabulary? They crack me up on a regular basis!

It's In His Genes!

Saturday afternoon the Stambaugh Chorus, which I accompany, gave their first performance of this season at Barnes & Noble. The program included an hour's-worth of music, including two movements of the Poulenc "Gloria", three choruses from Handel's "Messiah", and the long-and-involved "Many Moods of Christmas". There was a lot of ink on those pages!

At each rehearsal, I had problems with page turns. The Poulenc, especially, would benefit from the pianist having three hands, not just two. I was very concerned about being able to play for the performance without a page turner.

As I tried to figure out what I was going to do to solve this problem, I remembered an audition I played for Tyler two years ago when Boston stepped up and adroitly turned pages for me. I thought I might secure his services again, especially with the enticement of iTunes gift cards exchanging hands.

I want to tell you, this kid is unbelievable! For one hour, he stayed completely focused on what I was doing. In addition, he was able to watch the conductor and adjust the volume knob on the keyboard when my hands were too busy to reach for it, or when I failed to see the signal from the conductor.

He has been playing piano for several years, can read music, has two grandparents and a father who are musicians, and proved himself on Saturday to be a natural, gifted, intuitive musician.

He was the darling of the chorus, and appeared to love every minute of his engagement. He applauded after the songs, sang the Christmas carols during the audience participation numbers, and laughed at the appropriate moments.

The kid is a natural, and he made his grandma very, very proud.

His reward? A Star Wars book with Legos inside. Just right for a nine-year-old page turner.

The Ways of the Mind

This morning I'm thinking about all the decisions our brains process in the course of a day—or even a minute.

This week I've been on grandma duty for a 9-year-old boy and a 7-year-old girl—my little darlings. But the schedule that they are on to get their Recommended Daily Allowance of art, education and culture would choke a bus driver: Monday is Boston's band practice; he's learning trumpet. Tuesday is piano at SMARTS. Wednesday is modern dance. Thursday is Suzuki piano (the Jazzman keeps calling it Kawasaki piano, Boston keeps correcting him, and I keep laughing) followed by ballet for the Ridley. Friday, nothing. Great sigh of relief emanating from the grandma/driver/organizer.

I didn't even cover the morning schedule their mother has so carefully orchestrated. Up at 6:30 or earlier, downstairs and eat breakfast, practice piano or get dressed, alternating as there is one piano for two pianists. Out the door at 8:00 a.m. Race down the interstate and get in the drop-off line at its three-cars-at-a-time pace.

Hurry up. Wait. Hurry up. Wait. Stay alert.

Sigh.

(And I haven't even addressed trying to fit my work in amidst all the driving and organizing. I was awake at 5:00, laptop in bed, working on a client's Web content.)

So think about the number of decisions. The incident this morning that really got me going on this track occurred as I was getting out of the car, back at my house after spending the night at the babes' house.

I was carrying my big bag filled with four knitting projects (it's holiday-gifts-for-teachers time, y'know?), a plastic grocery bag carrying the new project that I work on while waiting in the drop-off/pick-up line; my leather tote bag with laptop and adapters; my purse; and my trash from my Friday morning you're-a-good-grandma treat at S'bux. To get to that point, however, I had to mentally sort through everything on the front seat. Does this piece of paper go in? No, You've got to take it to the doctor's office this morning after the window guy comes to install the kitchen windowsill. Does this bag of music go in? No, you've got to take it to a copy shop to make reduced-size copies so you get get ready for next Saturday's Stambaugh Chorus performance. And so on.

My keys were in my hand. I got to the door and realized I was wearing my sunglasses and had left my reading glasses in the car. Do I turn around and go back to get the glasses? No, this is too much stuff to carry. Do I set it down on the back porch and go to get the glasses? No, get it into the house and set it down once.

I maneuvered the door and the security system and placed bags on the kitchen counter and the floor, then went back to the car. Once I was back in the house, I started gathering bags again to go up the back stairs to my office. Then I realized I had left the half-empty S'bux mocha cup in the car. Go back [again] and get it out of the car or leave it to sip on, cold, later? Go back. Out. In. Out. In. Once in and ready to go up, decide whether to lock the back door or leave it unlocked so the window guy can just come in when he gets here.

See what I mean? And that was just in the course of five minutes or less!

Then you get to your desk. You've got multiple projects ahead. Do you work on the bookkeeping, which is ongoing, or finish the work you started at 5:00 a.m., or do a quick post to a client's Facebook page, or start something new that's done today.

Weighing. Balancing. Choosing.

Thoughts in closing?

1. I wish all that brainwork burned more calories.


2. I think I'll take the kids to a playground after school and just let them be kids!

P.S. The Jazzman and I have been talking about it all week. We think life was much simpler in the 50s and 60s!

P.P.S. And if I haven't said so explicitly, the Jazzman moved in last Saturday. And I have hardly seen him all week. There's something quite unfair to him about all this, but he's been understanding and wonderfully helpful about it, taking care of the kids two evenings while I attend obligatory rehearsals.

The Flagging Grandma Checks In

This is report number one from a stressed, exhausted, and frazzled grandma, for whom any of the candles mentioned in the graphic would be a perfect gift. Oh, and a few hours of unscheduled time. That would be a great gift, too.

My son and daughter-in-law left early Saturday morning to fly to New Orleans for her annual photography conference, sponsored by Pictage, the online photo lab that Jaci uses. I tell you what—I wish I had had the knowledge and brilliance to invent something like Pictage. What beautiful work they do, and their presentation is—simply—fabulous!

Anyway, T&J planned this trip before the dates for Ballet Western Reserve's production of "Snow White" was set in stone. Yep, the productions would be the same day T&J were flying south. My Saturday was filled with leotards and tights and costumes and sitting/waiting. And dodging a bunch of laughing, hopping, screaming baby ballerinas.

I attended the afternoon performance. The children did a fine job, but—truthfully?—I prefer trite, overperformed "Nutcracker" to "Snow White". But that's just me. I heard lots of accolades all around me. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it.

Sunday morning we went back to my house, where I worked for an hour, then took the babes with me out to Jas's to help him finish clearing out his apartment. Back at home I fed the babes pizza for lunch, then emptied my car and helped empty Jas's. Then I put the kids in the car and we went to Youngstown Model Railroad Association's open house. Wow, what a setup. If you like trains, at all, you need to go next Saturday or Sunday between 12:00 - 6:00 to see these two layouts. There's an O gauge layout at street level, then an even more elaborate layout in HO gauge downstairs. This was an absolute treat.

Back home, I practiced for a while and tried to interest Boston in turning pages for me. He helped a little, but was much more interested in playing with my metronome. Oh well.

Back to their house, feeding dogs, dealing with homework, watching America's Funniest Videos with Ridley while Boston finished his homework. Grandma was asleep by 9:30.

Woke up at 4:00 this morning, thanks to the time change. Kept trying to fall back asleep until my alarm went off at 6:00, when I snoozed it for another 20 minutes. Got up and dressed and found the babes in the living room eating their breakfast. Poured a bowl of dry cereal and made a cup of tea and went to sit with them.

Then as I was walking back to the kitchen, my besocked feet detected something wet on the floor. I leaned over to run a finger through it to smell for dog urine. As I leaned over, I spilled my tea—and realized that what I had stepped in was previously spilled tea! Stood up to continue into the kitchen and spilled more tea. Walked through the breakfast room and somehow I dropped my empty glass cereal bowl onto the tile floor, shattering it in 937 pieces, which covered the breakfast room and flew east and west into the kitchen and dining room. Took my cup to the sink, then went in search of a broom and dustpan, which were not.to.be.found! I selected a Swiffer Sweeper which I found in the mud room closet. I slowly and carefully pulled all the glass into a little pile, then looked for a dustpan-equivalent. All I could find was a sheet of printer paper, which allowed me with much effort to get the biggest pieces up and into the trashcan. Finally I had all the biggest pieces of glass up—after stabbing my finger with a shard of glass—and went to get the vacuum cleaner to suck up the rest of the glass. The only electrical outlet I could find was too far away from the breakfast room for me to reach the entire room. (I guess I should be glad, in the 83-year-old home, that I didn't have to use a vacuum powered by natural gas! Or a crank!) I finally remembered where the dining room outlet was (a dark outlet on a dark baseboard where old eyes can't see it.) and finished the task.

Okay, morning catastrophe concluded. Now wash dishes and pack lunches, all the while supervising piano practicing from afar. Inspect the children's outfits, take Ridley back upstairs to find a longer shirt so her little midriff isn't on display all day long. Grab my things, put the dogs in the backyard, set the alarm, and hit the road.

Took the kids to school, where the big kid who helped them out of the car—some snotty-nosed power-hungry redhead—laughed at the hat Boston was wearing and said, "You know you can't wear hats in school." He had already thought he'd leave it in his cubby, but the only thing good about this redheaded kid's mouth is I convinced Boston to leave his hat in the car. Geez! Kids should NEVERNEVERNEVER be put into positions of perceived power. It only turns them into ogres!

Last year when Jaci and Ty went to this conference, I took the week off of work. In retrospect, that was a very smart move, even though I got into trouble for it when I got back to work. But that's a whole 'nother horror story!

So here's the deal: if you don't hear from me the rest of the week, you'll know why. Just picture a grandma driving and driving and driving—to piano lessons and dance classes—and preparing meals and supervising homework and practicing and all the things that moms take for granted.

Jas and I were talking about it yesterday: Life was sooooo much simpler in the 50s and 60s!!!!!

P.S. The chronic hives? Vasculitis. Increase the 180mg of Allegra to twice a day. Get a prescription for prednisone. Get bloodwork.

F. That's all I have to say. F. You can fill in the missing letters!

On Growing Up

Last night was dinner-with-Grandma night. The babes and I were sitting in Cafe Cimmento waiting for our dinners to arrive. Boston volunteered, "I felt very responsible the other day." I looked at him with a question in my eyes. He continued, "Daddy gave me $5 and told me to go into the store and get a gallon of 2% milk. He said he thought [the label] was blue and I found the milk with the blue label." He reiterated, "I felt responsible."

Nine going on 25. Just like his daddy!

Letting Your Mind Wander

Last night CityMusic Cleveland, under the baton of James Gaffigan, presented an all-Beethoven concert at the stately and beautiful Stambaugh Auditorium. A free concert!

(Many thanks to PNC, Internet Data Management, Dana School of Music, Monday Musical and Stambaugh Auditorium for making this free concert possible.)

As I sat there listening to this beautiful music, my mind began to wander. I attend concerts, as I read books and watch movies, to enjoy and escape, not to critique. And invariably my mind wanders.

This is the thing—the only thing—that I miss about my 60-mile daily commute. I had so much time to think with all that driving. Think and listen to books and catch up with friends.

I find that, without so much time to think, my blog posts are scarcer and thinner of content. So it was fun to sit there and just watch my mind go where it wanted.

The summer I spent studying with Nadia Boulanger in Fontainebleau, France, I attended more concerts in a shorter span of time than at any other time in my life. I can't tell you the number of dresses I designed and rooms I decorated in my mind that summer. It was a wonderfully creative time.

Isn't the mind a wonderful thing? I've had a favorite saying for years—I heard it back when my sons were watching Sesame Street every day: "walking backwards through the cobwebs of my mind." I just love that saying. The mental image of trying to dig back to facts I once knew but now have faded is so apt, and a bit uncomfortable as I age!

This morning I have a new favorite saying, from the mouth of a very bright young lady and totally girly girl: Last night I sat on the floor, knitting, next to the bathtub as Ridley was taking her bath. She was telling me about her favorite book she reads at school. When she asked if I knew the book and I said no, she said, "Let me read it to you from my mind."

Doesn't that just make you want to leap for joy?!

Here's to having time to listen and hear and think and create. And read from your mind.

What's your best thinking time?

A Quarter-Angel

I had grandma duty over the weekend, while my grandchildren's parents headed to a remote Pennsylvania cabin to celebrate their 12th anniversary with six of their nearest and dearest friends.

It turned out to be a weekend filled with laundry and kid activities. Lots of laundry. And lots of kid activities. Birthday parties. Ballet rehearsals. Play dates.

When I was stripping my bed on Sunday morning to return the Grandma Suite to its normal pristine condition, I found a quarter on the mattress pad. I wondered if it was a test to see if I cleaned up after myself. My second thought was that it was a sign. Let's see, what could it be a sign of? A sign that I'm a good grandma? A sign that I will soon get out of my financial funk? I shoved it deep into my jeans pocket and smiled, willing to accept either sign.

The parents arrived home around 10:15 on Sunday night, and a very tired aging grandma went home, where she found that her sweetheart had done all the laundry and the grocery shopping. Talk about Good Guy Points! His bank account is overflowing!!

This morning I woke up after a much-needed good night's sleep in my own bed. I swung my feet to the floor, sat up, and looked down. A quarter! There was a quarter on the floor!

I'm starting to think there are "Angels Watchin' Over Me", as the old song says, leaving quarters to let me know I'm on the right track to financial solvency.

Or that I can't hold my money!

Musical Tastes

Miss Ridley got her own room a couple of weeks ago, and within days the walls hosted two Justin Bieber posters and one Beatles poster. She's seven years old!

I think I started listening to the radio when I was nine. That would have been in 1959, and I remember, still, many of the songs. I had a radio in my bathroom (yes, I had my own bathroom), and I would spend hours in there singing along to the music. (No, I don't know why the radio wasn't in my bedroom. Some facts defy memory.)

My mother would drive me to school, four miles away, about a 15-minute drive. In the afternoons I would tune the car radio to the station I wanted (WLOF?) and she would turn it off. She severely disliked my preferred music. As I think back, I don't remember her ever turning the radio on to listen to music. She would occasionally sit down to play the piano, but I was too naive to know it was impolite to call from the other room, "That's a C#, not a C." Pretty soon she quit playing the piano when I was around. (Sorry, Mom.)

(Daddy, on the other hand, had music going constantly. Ballads from the 40s or good hot New Orleans jazz. He was the one who introduced me to Ferrante & Teicher and Gilbert & Sullivan operettas and Broadway show tunes. Some of my favorite memories of him were his sitting, after a day spent standing in the operating room, in the recliner in his all-red den. The stereo played a favorite jazz record, a baseball game was in progress on the muted TV in front of him, and he was working the daily crossword puzzle out of the Orlando Sentinel. (My introduction to crossword puzzles came as I sat at his feet and tried to answer the clues he gave me.) And you wonder why I'm the ultimate multi-tasker?)

(In another side-note, as crazy as Ridley is about JB, Boston is equally disdainful of him. If we're in the car and a JB song even comes on in a commercial, Boston commands me to change the station. I don't know what fuels his hatred, but it is strong!)

I preferred music when there weren't music videos to accompany them. I just love the music and the accompaniment and want to form my own mental images. Why does everything have to be so produced? I actually saw JB perform once on a TV show, and the only word that came to mind was "contrived."

My feelings—and Boston's—aside, I heard something on "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" last weekend that blew me away. Did you know that, at any time, 3% of Twitter's servers are filled with tweets regarding Justin Bieber? 3%! According to a Twitter employee, they have "racks of servers" dedicated to him. Can you say "phenomenon?" That's a whole lot of tweetin' goin' on!

My opinion of JB? I just want to grab his head and muss up that perfect hair. No sixteen-year-old boy should have hair that perfect!

Snakes and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

My little sweetie pie is nine today! I remember his birth as if it was yesterday. His mother graciously and generously invited me to join them in the delivery room, so I was able to see him make his way out and hear him cry. For the first two years of his life, I didn't work and was able to spend lots and lots of time with him. We bonded strong and sure, and he is the light in my life.

He loves: a stuffed dog named Benjamin; taking pictures with Grandma's iPhone; examining bugs and climbing trees and swimming; building with Legos and playing games on the Wii. He plays the piano and sings on pitch; he is curious about everything that exists; he plays Scrabble with his grandma and torments his sister; he loses himself in books of all kinds; he creates art on Grandma's sewing machine. He is a treasure to all who know him.

Happy Birthday, Bapa. Your grandma adores you.

It's a Tough Job . . .

… but somebody's gotta do it.

When I picked up the babes for a sleepover last night, I noticed Ridley was wearing the soft, pretty tiered patchwork pink-and-white skirt that I bought for her birthday. With it she was wearing a very busy soft gathered printed tunic in pink, blue, lavender, aqua, … on white. I looked at it and asked her where the pink t-shirt was that went with the skirt. She looked at her skirt and top and said, "They both have pink in them." Well, I gotta salute her for that. But this child needs some training in what goes together.

She goes for themes. Yesterday was a "pink" theme. When I took her to dinner on Tuesday, she had a "bow" theme going. She had a turquoise and black bow in her hair, the hot pink t-shirt (that goes with yesterday's skirt) with a bow at the neck, black and white soccer shorts ("They were the only shorts that were clean."), and brown and cream shoes. With a bow on the toe. Honestly, this girl dresses like she's a color test at the optometrist's office.

While we were walking around Lowe's and Jo-Ann's last night, we talked about how to put outfits together. It's okay to have a busy print (last night's tunic) so long as you don't pair it with another busy print (last night's skirt). People's eyes don't know where to go. It's overwhelming. That's why you wouldn't wear stripes and plaids together—it's just too much in one place. She protested a couple of times and then finally said, "Ok, I get it."

This morning she opened her suitcase to get dressed for the day. On top was a black hoodie with cream stripes. Then she pulled out her shorts—pink and brown plaid madras patchwork shorts. She said, "I'm going to change my shirt when I get home."

Whew—she's open to guidance!

Vacation Report

The Jazzman and I were honored that Esteemed Parents of Beautiful Grandchildren allowed us to host the Babes at the vacation cottage on Lake Erie for the first part of the week. Tyler drove up last night and took them home early this morning.

We've had a ball, swimming, playing, making new friends, and—best of all for Ridley—making faces at the camera with Grandma.

A big salute of appreciation to Tyler and Jaci for trusting us with their precious offspring.

More later. I'm at the Madison Public Library (Quick - Name that musical!) in the air conditioning working this afternoon. It's too damned hot outside to do anything but swim!

From the Mouths (and Tummies) of Babes

I spent quite a bit of time with the babes over the weekend, including piano recital time, dinner time, and Barnes & Noble time (our personal favorite!). Much discussion took place surrounding the plans for Ridley's Sunday birthday party.

On Thursday evening I asked what she planned to serve at the party. She said she didn't really know, that she would have to go to the grocery store with Rara (their name for their mom) and see what they could decide. (I knew, of course, that Rara already had matters well in hand and a firm menu, but seven-year-olds don't yet understand planning.) She continued, "I know it will be some food for kids, but I will also have some food that adults will enjoy."

She paused and thought for a moment.

"Cucumbers," she blurted out. "Adults like cucumbers. I don't really like cucumbers, but I know adults do. I'll have to make a cucumber salad. Rara will help me."

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At another time during the weekend she told me that she and [her little male friend] were planning to have a lemonade stand during the summer. She asked if I knew how to make lemonade. (If you stick "lemonade tycoon" into the search bar at the top of this blog, you'll quickly understand what a superfluous question that is.)

I asked how she thought you could make lemonade. "Well," she started, "you squeeze the lemon." I nodded. "Do you add water?", she asked. I told her you needed water and sugar, and the best way was to make "simple syrup" because then the sugar would dissolve. She acknowledged that without sugar the lemonade would be too sour. I made a puckery face. Then I told her we could look it up in a cookbook. She quickly responded, "We could look it up on the Internet." Trying to keep her grounded in our old ways, I told her I really liked "Joy of Cooking" and had a copy on the dining table. "Oh," she replied, "we have that cookbook, too."

Yea! Maybe I can encourage these children to keep one foot in the ways of their elders while they're forging ahead with technology!

There Is No Catching Up

I'm feeling like a slacker for not posting on a regular basis any more. I used to be able to sneak in a quick post at the office, and just hope that no one with any power over my employment would notice. But now I work for my son, and I constantly feel I'm not doing enough. Of course, most mothers think they're not good-enough mothers, so I guess my attitude at my new job is simply a follow-on to my attitude as a mother.

A couple of notables events: my cousin, Cindy, visited Mother at the nursing home last Saturday, cell phone at the ready, so I was able to speak to Mother for a few minutes. By all accounts, she's anxious to get back to her beautiful apartment at Fletcher Park Inn. The more she hangs on to that desire, the harder she'll work in physical therapy. At least that's our hope. My oldest brother is supposed to go to NC this coming weekend, and we're hopeful he can move Mother back to her apartment.

Little Miss Ridley turned 7 on the 29th of May, and her talented mother threw a fab Beatles Rock Band birthday party for her on Sunday. I don't believe I've ever seen a 7-year-old with as much self-confidence as Ridley possesses. She was in her element, surrounded by friends and the star of the day. And what a hoot to hear all these elementary school children singing 50-year-old songs perfectly. I never knew all the words to the Beatles' songs, choosing rather to sing what I thought the words were. ("Lucy in disguise with diamonds.") The babes will take their first solo plane ride on Thursday, off to visit the Colorado set of grandparents. Their daddy and their uncle had taken many solo plane rides by the time they were 7 and 9, so Boston and Ridley are just following in well-worn footsteps.

I have good days and bad days at the new job. The bad days are when I can't figure out a piece of software or a quick way to make things work correctly—when I feel stupid; when I feel my 60-year-old brain just doesn't work like it did ten or twenty years ago. The good days are when I learn something new—when I master a technique or figure out a cool way to do something. I love those days, and I cling to the hope that they will become more frequent and the bad days will wither away.

The Jazzman and I snatched a little piece of time yesterday to visit the Y and the J to check out their gym plans. He is being enormously supportive of my doctor's directive to get my ass in gear. We're leaning toward the J, which is more reasonably priced, has better parking, and is just two blocks away from my house. We've taken morning walks twice this week on the neighborhood sidewalks. The first day I tripped on an uneven square of sidewalk and dropped my knee to the concrete with a thwack! Clearly I need level surfaces on which to walk.

And I'll close with the note the newly-60 PianoLady sent me. She was quoting one of her son's best friends. He had just returned home from his first year of college, after a year of institutional food. He shook his newfound protruding belly and said, "Don't tell me to get in shape. Round is a shape!"

You're now as caught up on my life as you're going to get!

Weekend Activities

We are a family filled with a passion for the arts, both performing and visual, and with myriad artistic interests. We play musical instruments, sing, write, take pictures, and make things with our hands—all sorts of things in all kinds of mediums. We are artists. We create.

These passions have extended to the third generation. Ridley can hardly sit still without having a drawing pad and colored pencil in her hand. In her house and mine, she knows right where to go to find all her art supplies. And Boston is very interested in my fabric and buttons and thread.

I had the babes overnight on Friday, which became sewing and dyeing time. Boston has been wanting me to make him a snake that is hollow inside so he can feed it things. Friday night we ran to Jo-Ann's after supper at Panera and picked out some fleece and some silky lining. Once home, he decided the shape of the snake's head, and we cut and sewed. He had told me the snake would have a zippered mouth and a red tongue that rolled up into the mouth when you wanted to zip the zipper.

Two or three times on Friday night, I threaded my Bernina 1630 and each time said, "Over this, around that, up the right, down the left . . ." On Saturday morning while I was fixing breakfast, he decided he wanted a different color thread, so sat down and successfully threaded the machine. By himself. At eight-and-a-half years of age. With no help from me.

Anyone who sews will tell you that threading the machine is difficult. You must make sure you pass the thread through each of the eight or so nooks and crannies or the machine just won't sew. Well, he got all the nooks, crannies, and the tiny little eye in the needle. I was astonished!

Ridley spent time looking at all my bottles of fiber reactive dye, and chose "antique gold" (although she kept calling it an-tee-cue) and "lilac". Then we dug a silk scarf out of my stash and gave it a base bath of gold, then folded and clamped and finished our mini-shibori experiment with lilac. She said, "It's going to be cold today. I think I'll wear it to my soccer game to stay warm." I had to explain that a silk scarf is something you wear for dress-up, not for warmth.

I love that my grandkids think that I, with a needle and thread, can do everything there is to do. And I especially love that they want to learn to do everything I do.

I said to Ridley, "Do you know how you are like Grandma? Because we both have lots of interests and not enough time." She smiled.

Six Months' Planning Window

It's April. That means in six months PianoLady (my college piano duet partner) and I will meet on Broadway for our annual NYC weekend. We chatted at length last night about potential shows to see this year. Oh, and aging. She turns 60 twenty days before I do. She has two children in college and one still in high school. I have grandchildren who are almost 9 and 7 and think they're teenagers (not that there's anything wrong with that)!

As I reminisced about previous years' trips and the shows we've seen, I wanted to listen to some wonderful music again, so loaded "The Light in the Piazza" soundtrack onto my iPhone. Oh, how luscious this music is. Adam Guettel—yet another incredibly talented Interlochen alum—did a brilliant job on this score.

And, for the first time since first hearing this lovely music in 2005, I have someone in my life. A someone about whom I can say, "You are good. You are good to me."

If you want to spend 99 cents on something quite wonderful, download "Say It Somehow" and listen. Or download any of the songs from "The Light in the Piazza." It's, simply, fabulous.

[Clara]
Why don't you trace it on my hand
Or make a song
Do anything

Say it somehow
I will understand
I know you

You are good

[Fabrizio]
The song inside you
This I know
It's like a melody
Like there you go just now

Say it somehow
Somehow you can show me

[Both]
Say it somehow
Anyway you can
You know me
You are good
Oh, you are good
You are good to me

I know this sound
Of touch me
I think I hear
The sound of love
Your arms around me

Ah

Shout and dance
With wings

[Clara]
Or say it silently

[Fabrizio]
Tell me things

I keep the musical score on my piano. Two weeks ago, Ridley was playing the piano and looked up at the book. She picked it up and read aloud, "The Light in the Pizza." I laughed 'til tears were streaming down my cheeks.

PianoLady and I are thinking maybe this is the year for the "West Side Story" revival.

What's your suggestion?
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P.S. PianoLady did some preliminary searching, and determined that the West Side Story run appears to be ending in September, before our October trip. More searching ahead.