"Honey, why are you so old?"

Precious Harris cups my face between his little 3 year old hands. His question is so earnest, so empathetic as he tries to smooth out the wrinkles of my face with his sweet fingers. He frequently feels the need to ask me this question concerning my age, perhaps looking for a more appeasing answer.

"Honey, why are you so old?"

His question gives me pause, wondering if its time for a total make-over. I smile and try to find a satisfying answer for my tenderhearted grandson. I tell him I’m old because I’m 61 and he’s 3…not good enough. I tell him because I am his mommy’s mommy…hmmm. I explain that I was born a long, long time ago…Harry gets bored and runs outside to kick some balls. 

 That same afternoon, I took Lucy on our daily walk. By now we are on auto pilot, never needing to think to turn right or left…we just walk. On these walks, I find, that my mind drifts, from one thought to another, to another, maybe this is a sign I am “so old.” On this particular day, Lucy and I walk past a home that is being remodeled, with a large dumpster in the driveway.  Peeking from the top of the dumpster is a discarded dead Christmas tree. 

Okay, here we go…my mind sails back to the Valley Forge Gang. It’s 1962, several days after Christmas and our little gang starts knocking on doors, gathering unwanted, discarded Christmas trees. Our tribe of 8 year old girls drags these Christmas trees down the street, leaving a trail of dried, yellowed pine needles down Valley Forge Drive. Each parent has reluctantly agreed to host the annual Christmas tree fort in their backyard, at least once, and The All Girls Valley Forge Christmas Tree Fort becomes the greatest of our neighborhood.

We have our secret meetings within the circle of those evergreens. We rush home from Briargrove Elementary School, grab snacks, and head to The Fort. There we become Laura Ingalls in “Little Christmas Tree Fort on the Prairie.” The next day, we might be Nancy Drew in “The Missing Clue Found in the Mysterious Christmas Tree.” Sundays, we restlessly wiggle our way through church and Sunday pot roast lunch, eager to run to our fort where today, we are the Swiss Family Robinson. We spend most of January amidst the branches of those pines, always sad when its time to dismantle, and forced to wait until next year. 

Thinking of our Valley Forge Gang, my thoughts drift to the summer months. We spend much of our days outside, running through the “clouds” made by the DDT fogging truck, playing Freeze Tag in the sprinklers, making very extravagant snail-like hopscotch boards, jumping rope, we chant…

Three, six, nine, the goose drank wine, 

The monkey chewed tobacco on the street car line. 

The line broke, the monkey got choked, 

And they all went to heaven in a little row boat, 

Clap-Clap! Clap-Clap!

We have our little handmade bags full of metal jacks and old golf balls and we spread them out on the driveway and play…

No bouncies 

Double bouncies 

Cherries in a basket 

Over the fence 

Pigs in a Blanket 

Around the world

We wait nightly for the ice-cream truck. I wince as I remember Margie, the youngest of our troop, sitting beside me. Each evening, prior to the truck’s arrival, I earnestly tell Margie that there is a village of tiny people that live in the storm sewers beneath the street. I tell her these little people are poor, hungry and in need of clothes. I convince her, nightly, that she needs to drop her ice cream money down the drain so the little people can survive. Margie falls for it every time. Her money goes down the hole in the curb and when the ice cream truck comes into view we all run to meet it and Margie cries because her money is in a drainage ditch. Yep, I was a mean girl, and being punished for teasing Margie never seemed to stop me. Yes, I’m embarrassed, but truthful.

Thinking of Margie reminds me of her little brother, Fred, who was the only boy on our block and the youngest of all the children. Out of our gang of seven girls (minus Margie), none of us had brothers. We were six households of all girls and we were dying to know, first hand, what little boys had that we didn’t. One day, we felt the need to be educated in the male anatomy. I was the only one brave and stupid enough to tell Fred he had to pull down his pants. We circled around 4 year old Fred, waiting with great curiosity. Suddenly, he burst into tears, ducked through the forest of legs that surrounded him and ran straight to his mother. Okay, so I was also a bully, but it didn’t take this bully long before my father called me into the house, and asked me if I was the culprit. Of course, I lied. “No way Jose!” I was promptly spanked, not due to my curiosity, but my dishonesty.

Whoa! On this brief, one hour walk, I have sailed through years of my childhood, only to discover I was a mean girl, bully and a liar. Lots of redeeming qualities, right?

Mean Girl, Bully, & Fibber

Lucy and I are almost home. What a journey my memory has provided me, all due to that one dead Christmas tree sticking out of a dumpster.

How, in such a short span of time, was I able to hopscotch through such a myriad of memories? Arriving home, I realize I have the answer to Harry’s question.

“Honey, why are you so old?” 

If I weren't so old, I couldn't tell you all the stories about when I was a little girl. I couldn't tell you what life was like without cell phones, or Nickelodeon, or DVD’s in the backseat of your car. I couldn't tell you how we could play outside until bedtime, with no parent in sight. I couldn't tell you how we ran through the streets of our neighborhood Halloween night, dressed as hobos, with a pillowcase full of candy. 

If I weren’t so old, I couldn’t explain “the good old days” taught me life lessons that I want to pass on to you. Experiences that I can still so vividly remember, and many that I no longer can correct. I would tell you that I wished for the chance to tell Margie, and her brother Fred, how sorry I was for being so terrible. I would do anything to tell my father I still remember the day I lied to him and how 55 years later, I wish I would have told him the truth instead. 

“Why am I so old?” Being old makes me your grandmother, and being your grandmother means I love you enough to try to teach you the importance of being kind, honest and respectful of everyone. 

Given the opportunity, I will slowly, bit by bit, tell my grandchildren not only of Christmas tree forts and ice-cream trucks, but of Margie, Fred, my father and so many other mistakes I have made throughout my lifetime.

Perhaps that’s why old minds wander aimlessly through time. Perhaps by capturing vivid past memories, and bringing them to the forefront of my mind, I can give purpose and meaning to being “so old.” After all, isn’t that what grandparents do best?

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Deuteronomy 6:6-7 “And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise.”

A fish called Johnny Weissmuller…

Call it a weak moment, the day I purchased this little blue fish.

Two years ago, I was in Petsmart, buying dog food, and there, by the cash register, were boundless stacks of plastic bowls containing Beta fish. I remember thinking it would be fun for Harper and Harris to learn, first hand, about caring for a fish.…so, I bought him.

Now, I will say when Brent and Brooke were young, our household was full of animals: 2 dogs, a cat, that delivered 9 kittens, a gerbil and a number of fish. I say a number of fish, due to the fact that their lives were always short lived. Some were found floating at the surface of their bowl, bloated and dead, due to overfeeding. The gerbil somehow managed to get hold of one fish and ate him…not a pretty site, and, on one occasion, I accidentally sucked one poor little guy up in the vacuum cleaner…why our fish always seemed to be on the floor, I don’t know. This being said, in my mind, I thought the life expectancy of this new fish would be equally short lived. Oh, was I wrong. This fish is certain to out live me.

Johnny Weissmuller-the-first, aka Tarzan, was also a gold medal Olympic swimmer, thus, I decided, an appropriate name for my new fish. The kids were delighted with Johnny…for about a week, then it was on to much more exciting things, like plastic dinosaurs and super heroes. I have tried, on more than one occasion, to suggest Brooke foster this fish, but she firmly puts her foot down, and my request is always followed by “Why on earth did you buy that thing in the first place?”

So, Johnny lives on my kitchen counter. I feed him daily, his food, nasty smelling dehydrated ground up bugs. I admit its fun to watch Mr. Weissmuller surface with his little mouth wide open gobbling up his daily meal. Johnny lives in a very small globe-like vase, now bowl, and he seems happy enough swimming small circles in his tiny surroundings. It is necessary to clean his little home several times each week. This entails having a second bowl ready, pouring the first bowl’s water into the kitchen sink through a small fish net until Johnny finally surrenders and plops into the net, thereby dumping him into the clean water bowl. This little procedure is a bit harder than one would think, and more than once Johnny has jumped out of his net and landed in the garbage disposal, where I literally have to fish him out, gag…and still he survives.  

The repeated question I hear is, “He looks so bored, why don’t you put him in a bigger bowl?”

Finally, feeling guilty, I found a larger vase, now bowl, for Johnny.  As days went by, I noticed he no longer was my active little fish making his happy laps around his little bowl. Now, Johnny spent most of his time lying at the bottom of the too large bowl, only surfacing when I shook it to make sure he wasn’t dead. Today, I moved Johnny back to his tiny home, and again, I’m finding he is back to his old happy self.

I think what I am learning from Johnny is that for right now, my bowl is perfect for me. Since Steve passed away, I have been on a quest, an almost frantic mission, to be in the larger bowl. I thought I needed to fill my days with a full calendar. I remodeled a house, moved, planned trip after trip doing my best to jump out of my small little bowl. There have been moments when I flopped myself into a big old garbage disposal, like when I purchased a 1972 Chevy pick-up that lasted 17 days. Recently, much like Dorothy in, “The Wizard of Oz” I realized, “there’s no place like home”. 

I am finding I am happiest swimming in my little bowl. I am learning, for the first time in my life, to live on my own. I’m finding how to make use of my spare time, to be one instead of a pair. I’m learning to make decisions, big and small, dumb and wise. I am finding that I’m capable in ways I never knew possible, and I’m discovering that it’s okay to fail, as long as I learn from my mistakes.

I recognize that my life is fullest when I am surrounded by family and friends. I feel most content when I can sit quietly and be still in the presence of God allowing his gentle voice to speak softly to my thoughts.

Like Johnny Weissmuller-the-second, I’ve grown weary of listlessly lying on the bottom of that too big bowl. I am discovering the joy that comes in the comfort of my own home and in the people that are willing to swim with me.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

“You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart always will be elsewhere. That is the price you pay for the richness of loving and knowing people.” ― Miriam Adeney

Psalm 16:11 “You make known to me the path of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.”

Black cashmere sweaters...

Finally, the weather has turned chilly in San Antonio. It doesn’t take much of a drop in temperatures for me to pull my warm woolens out of storage for our few cold SA days.

A few days ago, I reached for a storage box of black cashmere sweaters. Rummaging through my plethora of BCS, aka black cashmere sweaters, I had to chuckle at the ridiculous number I had acquired over the years. 

Perhaps an explanation is needed. From the very beginning, my November birthday and Christmas were too all consuming for Steve. He abhorred shopping and the fact that he had to do major present buying in back-to-back months almost sent him over the edge.

It didn’t take me long to discover that Steve had found his go-to for this present buying dilemma…the perfect classic, timeless gift…a black cashmere sweater. Normally, I would receive the said sweater on either my birthday or Christmas, however there were a few years that, either having forgotten that he had given me the sweater a month earlier, or the fact that he was completely stumped, and had nothing else to buy, I would receive two BCS in one season. There were several years I was given the exact same sweater on Christmas morning that I had received a month before for my birthday. Oh, this wasn’t done intentionally by any means, Steve had simply given me so many similar BCS over the years that they just began to run together. On those years of duplicate gift giving, I learned to give him a big hug, tell him how much I loved the BCS and then quietly exchange it later in the week. I don’t think Steve was ever aware of his faux pas.

As I rifled through by large storage box of BCS, I smiled. Each sweater was slightly different: turtle necks, crew necks, v-necks, boat necks, a cable knit, a longer tunic type, all different, but, each was solid black and made of cashmere. Aside from the few exact replicas, I never took one of these gifts back to the store, nor have I ever purged my stash and handed one of my beloved sweaters down. Instead, I allowed my collection to grow loving that my precious husband had taken painstaking hours to hand select the loveliest BCS he could find. Today, I’m so pleased that I have kept all these sweet treasures.

At the bottom of this box was a carefully folded tissue wrapped sweater…my favorite of all. Pulling the sweater from the box, the tissue fell away and as the sweater unfolded, I held it immediately to my face. Oh, how I hoped to breathe in the scent of Steve. I hoped the fresh smell of Steve’s soap mingled with his favorite cologne were still embedded in the fibers of this sweater, but too much time had past, as had that all too familiar scent of Steve. In my hands was Steve’s favorite BCS, one he always looked so handsome wearing. I can still see the crisp blue collar and cuffs peaking out from under this sweater. I can remember Steve draping his arm around me, and this sweater keeping me warm on cold evenings. I clung to Steve’s sweater a bit too long that day, much like a small child holding a favorite blanket, finally I folded it back in its tissue and placed it a top my collection.

Cooler temperatures were in the air this morning and it was one of those rare days when I realized I didn’t have to leave the house all day. I showered, threw on my favorite jeans and a pair of socks and reached again for Steve’s BCS. 

Harris, my three year old grandson, likes only to wear clothes that he feels “comfy inside of.” Truthfully, he would rather be naked, but when necessary he looks for clothes that are the most comfortable. I knew exactly what Harry meant today when I took Steve’s sweater and pulled it over my head. It fell away from the frame of my body, the sleeves dangled long past my hands, but oh, it was comfy inside, just right for a day like today. Smiling, I headed for a seat beside the fireplace and began to write these words.

Odd that I have no clue, even now, what my intention is in writing this piece. I rarely know where my writing will take me, but today seemed a good time to visit the sweet familiar, a time to reflect on my cherished memories of Steve.

When Steve died, I was fearful that my memories of him would be about those last few months we spent together. I was fearful I would always picture Steve as tired, weak, failing, frail, so foreign from the reality of him being strong, agile, capable, funny, caring, wise and so very adorable.

I find in these years since Steve’s passing that rarely do I think of him as he was in those last months of his life. Thankfully, today my memories of Steve are filled with the sweetest remembrances as I smile when I see him so completely delighted with himself because he had found me the perfect gift…a black cashmere sweater.

Time has a way of blurring, no softening, the harsh edges of death. God has a way of allowing me to find what is true and honorable and lasting. I am thankful I saved all my beautiful black cashmere sweaters and that they will always serve as a reminder of a man I was privileged to spend the best part of my life with.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

Philippians 4:8 “Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—think on these things”

When you least expect it...

A few weeks ago, on a dreary, cold, rainy Sunday afternoon, I had time on my hands and decided to see a movie. I think I have gone to a movie alone a sum total of three times in my entire life, but this day seemed a good time to put another notch in my lone, movie watching belt.

Steve and I loved movies. We were fortunate to enjoy the same types of films and looked forward to our movie dates. Our neighborhood theatre wasn’t far from our house, so we were frequent flyers of this theatre scene.

I’m not sure how or when it happened, but we became friends with Jay, the ticket taker. Jay is one of those rare people who never meets a stranger and never forgets anything you tell him. Since Steve and I were regulars, we were soon on a first name basis with Jay. As we would walk into the theatre, you could hear our names bellowed across the lobby. We were always greeted with a smile and a barrage of questions about our family, and where we’d been. Jay often made our movie experience more enjoyable than the movie.

As our friendship developed, we also learned about Jay. He loved his birthday and would tell us about his plans months leading up to the date. It was Steve who decided to take him a birthday gift and made a special trip to the theatre to deliver it. The joy and delight on Jay’s face was priceless and the blessing, was in the giving.

Jay told us that eating a Chris Madrid’s hamburger was his favorite thing. One afternoon we made plans to take him to lunch. I think it took him three hours to finish his hamburger, as he wanted to relish every moment of our outing.

I haven’t mentioned that Jay is a person with severe disabilities. Jay was born with cerebral palsy. Over the years, even with extensive surgeries, Jay has gone from a cane, to a walker, to a wheel chair. He has difficulty speaking, swallowing and eating. I’m uncertain of his mental capabilities, however, seeing Jay’s memory at work, well, is evidence he is quite bright.

One evening as Steve and I were leaving the theatre, Jay was outside waiting for a STAR Shuttle to take him home. We visited with him, only to find out he had a two hour wait before his pick-up time. Steve, being Steve, loaded him up in our fairly small sedan and took him to his apartment. Jay insisted we come in and see where he lived. It was a small independent living complex set up for people with disabilities. Of course, Jay introduced us to all his neighbors, proud to have friends visiting. His neat and tidy apartment was well equipped to meet all of his needs.

I think it was about five years ago that Jay told us he was having extensive surgery on his back and legs and asked us if we would visit him in the hospital. Steve was going through chemo at the time and had to be careful with his compromised immune system. Hospitals were off limits, so I went alone. When I saw this brave young man’s scarred back and legs, due to years of surgeries, I became inspired by his optimistic view of life, of his warm and cheerful smiles and of his love of the people he encountered on a daily basis. My respect for Jay, after that hospital visit, grew enormously. He asked me that day why Steve hadn’t come with me. I wasn’t able to be truthful with him, instead I told him Steve had a little cold and was afraid he might be contagious.

Jay was never aware of Steve’s battle with cancer and since Steve’s death, I haven’t gone back to that theatre. 

It has been about three years since I have seen Jay, and as I drove into the parking lot that rainy, cold Sunday, I wondered if he was still taking tickets.

Walking into the lobby, before my eyes could even scan the area, I heard the familiar bellow of my name, “Jaannnettt.” I was greeted with his huge smile, his questions about where I’d been, and…”Where’s Steve?” His eyes searched the moviegoers behind me. I knelt down to eye level with this dear friend and told him of our loss. His eyes filled with tears, his voice broke and his response was, “Oh, I never knew…I wish I had known.” My heart tore once again and our loss was tangible.

I gave him a big hug. I told him Steve was in a much better place now and I knew this was sad news to hear. I walked into that darkened movie theatre and sat numb, paralyzed. I thought back over all the years Steve and I had walked into that theatre together. I thought of our first encounters with Jay. I remembered how Steve looked so forward to hearing Jay yell out our names, and how Steve would laugh at every encounter, always asking Jay what movie he had seen lately.

“When someone you love dies, you never quite get over it. You just slowly learn how to go on without them. But always keeping them tucked safely in your heart.”

I haven’t written in the past several months. Some of you have been so kind to ask why I stopped writing. I have no real answer other than the words were simply not there. A friend posted the above quote from an unknown author on Face Book today and suddenly I knew there was at least one more story in me. I think I owe it to Jay and always, to Steve.

For what it’s worth,

Janet

James 1:14 “Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”