My Mother's Hands

My mother’s hands had short, clipped nails and prominent veins. She wore no rings, save her simple gold wedding band, and no nail polish.  

On Sunday mornings she wore soft white gloves to church. Her hands pointed to words in the hymnal and passed out little bags of chocolate chips, raisins, mini marshmallows, and red hots to her four wiggly kids. With one gloved finger, she tapped out “Intery mintery, cutery corn/Apple seed, apple thorn/Wire, briar, limber lock/Three geese in a flock…” on the fingers of the nearest child. During the sermon, when a single snap of her fingers signaled us to stop giggling and behave ourselves, her gloves muffled the sound but not the warning.

 

The rest of the week her hands rarely stopped moving. They folded laundry, ironed shirts, washed windows, scrubbed floors, polished woodwork, packed lunches, pared potatoes, peeled apples, stirred pudding, and cranked homemade ice cream.

 

They baited fishhooks, skipped stones, collected locust shells, arranged wildflowers, cut cattails, painted rocks and slate and pieces of driftwood. They played the piano and strummed the ukulele. They moved game pieces, worked jigsaw puzzles, colored in coloring books, and sewed teeny-tiny doll clothes. They turned the pages of our favorite books as we learned to read, held our bikes as we learned to ride, and pitched softballs as we learned to bat. 

 

I saw them covered in flour when she rolled out pie crust, hidden in bubbles when she washed the dishes, spattered with paint when she rolled the ceilings or painted walls, woodwork, and floors.

 

I felt them strong as they pushed the back of my swing, felt them gentle as she pulled out a stinger or splinter, felt them cool on my feverish cheeks. 

 

I watched them as she turned the whisper-thin pages of her old Bible, as she graded stacks of workbooks with her red pencil, and as she confidently filled in crossword puzzles in ink. 

 

As the years rolled on, they held the hands of my children, raced Matchbox cars down the ironing board with them, turned the pages of the same books she’d read to me. 

 

These days her hands are finally slowing down a bit. They still color, play the piano, and turn the pages of books and her Bible. They may be showing their age, but she has earned every wrinkle. To me, my mother’s hands have always been beautiful and always will be.

The Summer of the Second Grandchild

Ever since we found out about our second grandchild on Christmas Eve, our eyes have been focused on July (or August!). For months now, every conversation about summer plans has begun with “Well, it depends on Baby K…” We know the baby window is a wide one, but we are now two weeks from the due date, so I’m keeping my bag half-packed these days. My phone, usually silenced at night, has the volume turned up all the time now. And "casual" daily check-ins with my daughter have begun.

As we wait, I’ve been spending a lot of time looking forward to all that lies ahead: Holding sweet Baby K for the first time, watching my daughter and son-in-law as parents, happily taking day shifts and night shifts so Mom and Dad can get some rest… But I’ve also been looking back. It started with digging out my old journals to read the birth stories of each of my own kids. Then when I got to the journal from 1992, the year my daughter was born, I got lost in reading other entries, little snippets of our life back then. Those verbal snapshots gave me glimpses of our family that I’d nearly forgotten about.

 

Time is such a fluid thing. We’ve lived a whole life since I wrote those entries. Yet, sometimes, my days as a young mom seem like yesterday. I feel like if I can just look over my shoulder quickly enough, there we’ll all be—just as we were thirty years ago. I loved those days. But I also love these days. 

 

Our first grandchild, Jack, is nearing his first birthday, and what a happy, breathtaking year it’s been for my son and daughter-in-law (and for us!). Recently, I sent my daughter-in-law this text: “Good job, Mama. Your instincts were spot on.” She replied, “Aw thanks! I try but I don’t know what I’m doing.” I was struck by how true that is—in parenting and in life. We trust our instincts, try our hardest, but so much of the time we feel like we don’t know what we’re doing. 

 

Yesterday, my daughter and I spent the day hemming curtains for Baby K’s nursery. It involved a lot of measuring, marking, pinning, cutting, ironing, and finally sewing. We were as careful as could be, and the curtains look beautiful, but they are not perfect. At one point, early in the process, I said to her, “I wish there was one thing in my life where I could say, “Oh, this. I know exactly what to do.” There are probably some people with more expertise and more confidence who feel this way about things, but most of us just go along, doing the best we can and learning as we go. 

In the middle grade novel The Watsons Go to Birmingham by Christopher Paul Curtis, there’s a part I love where the main character, ten-year-old Kenny says, “Dad? I don’t think I’ll ever know what to do when I’m grown-up. It seems like you and Momma know a lot of things that I can never learn. It seems real scary. I don’t think I could ever be as good a parent as you guys.” His dad replies, “You’ll learn from the mistakes your mother and I make, just like we learned from the mistakes our parents made. I don’t have a single doubt that you and Byron and Joey will be much better parents than your mother and I ever were…”

 

I think this is true: each generation learns from the mistakes of the previous one. That doesn’t stop us from making our own mistakes along the way, but from what I’ve seen of this current generation of young adults and young parents, the future is in good hands. Thirty years from now when our kids’ kids are having kids, I hope and believe the world will be a cleaner, greener, safer, kinder place. 

But for now, for us, the countdown is on. See you soon, Baby K. We can't wait to meet you!

Happy 90th Birthday, Dad!

 If my dad had lived another twenty years, he would be turning ninety today. Although I’ve thought of him practically every day since the day he died, it still surprises me that he’s been gone so long and has missed so much. I wish he could see his grown-up grandchildren and meet his great grandchildren. I wish he could see how far technology has come in the last twenty years. But probably most of all, I wish the phone would ring and I’d hear his voice on the other end saying, “Hi, Babe. I don’t really want anything. Just thought I’d check in.” 

Back when those phone calls came regularly, I was a busy, frazzled, working mom. Sometimes I’d sometimes think, If you don’t really want anything, why are you calling? Now that I’m retired and have grown-up kids of my own, I know exactly why he was calling: to hear my voice, to make sure all was well, to stay connected… 

 

The same thing happened in childhood. If one of us kids happened to run into Dad in town when we were on our way to the pool or to a friend’s, he’d be as pleased as anything to see us. “Hey, Windy Mindy,” he’d say to me, “Want to go to Isaly’s for a vanilla Coke?” Sometimes I went, other times, I was too busy with my friends and my plans. TOO BUSY. If only I’d known then what I know now: It wasn’t about the vanilla Coke (though, those soda fountain vanilla Cokes were delicious), it was about a dad who, even then, could hear the pounding feet of the years slipping by, a dad who’d do anything to spend a few minutes with one of his kids.  

 

Like everyone, my dad had his share of troubles. He struggled to find the right job and career. He suffered from anxiety, depression, poor health for almost all of his adult life. Sometimes, those things got in the way of being a dad. Although I have memories of some of those hard times, what I remember more are all the days and all the ways he was a great dad—despite the battles he was fighting.

 

In honor of Dad's 90th birthday, here are just nine of my favorite memories from childhood: 

• The packages of M & M’s he left under our pillows on nights he got home late.
• The time he made my school lunch and instead of a sandwich, he put a potholder between two pieces of bread with a dollar tucked underneath along a note saying I had permission to eat lunch in town.
• His practice of giving us Friday night dimes (later quarters) to spend on anything we wanted.
• The nights he’d come through the door and call out, “Who wants a party?” then pull out little packages of Hostess cakes.
• The odd times he played kickball, four-square, or Spud with us when Mom was working.
• His roll calls: “Is everybody happy? Gail? Timmer? Windy Mindy? Salbo? Willie Bill?”
• The sound of his voice as he led the music at church, sang duets with my mom, or belted out “Five Golden Rings on Christmas car trips.
• The way he thought a milkshake could fix just about anything—from a sore throat to hurt feelings. 
• His ability to make each of us four kids feel like we were his favorite.

Although I would love to have had another twenty years with my dad, he gave me so much to hold onto in his absence. The very best memory I have, the one I carry with me everywhere I go every day of my life is the way Dad was always in my corner, the way he cheered me on and cheered me up, the way he believed in me and helped me believe in myself. In short, the way he loved me. What more could a daughter ask for?

Happy 90th Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

Happy Ben's Birthday (to Me)

I'm not quite sure how this happened, but tomorrow, our firstborn child, Ben, will turn 35. It sounds like a cliche, but I don't know where the time has gone. It doesn't seem possible that 35 years have passed since I held that baby in my arms.

If you had asked me on this day in 1986 to imagine what my life would be like in 2021, I would have gotten a lot of things wrong. 

I definitely would not have predicted we'd still be living in the same small town in Western New York--we thought for sure we were just passing through--but 35 years later, here we are. I might have guessed I'd be retired, but I could never have known then how much I would love my work or that I'd get to stay in the English department for another 34 years. I would have hoped baby #1 would have siblings, but I could not have come close to imagining the wonder of three becoming five, as we added another son and daughter. Or the joy of watching our kids marry, turning our five into eight. Or the way little number nine would capture our hearts.

I think my 26-year-old self would have guessed my 61-year-old self would feel more settled and more sure of herself than I do. She would have thought I'd have more answers than questions by now, that the ground would feel more stable beneath my feet than it does. She would have guessed that as a grandmother, I'd feel older and wiser than I do. But, at the same time, she could not have known how rich and full life would turn out to be--how much better it's been than anything she could have imagined. 

I think of that girl from time to time. I try to remember who she was and what she hoped for. I am thinking about her today when she was less than 24 hours away from the beginning of one of the greatest adventures of her life: being a mom.

The days my kids were born are three of the happiest, best days of my life. Over the past 35 years, I've baked a lot of birthday cakes and bought a lot of gifts for those three kids. As we celebrated each child, year after year, a little part of me felt as though it was my celebration, too. So even though my kids are all grown up and aren't usually home on their birthdays anymore, I still kick my heels up a little bit and throw some confetti around on November 19th, June 30th, and April 10th. 

This year, my firstborn will spend his birthday, as he so often does, in the high school auditorium. Tomorrow night he will oversee the opening night performance of the first middle school musical since the fall of 2019--just a few months before COVID-19 changed all of our lives. If all goes well, and there are no last-minute quarantines, Ben will have the happiest of birthdays. His heart will be full, and so will mine. If you see him, wish him a happy 35th birthday--and while you're at it, throw a little confetti my way, too!

Hello Jack!

Photo by Adam Goodnough

I have this old habit--something I've done since elementary school--of trying to imagine or envision what the next stage of my life will be like. It's almost like I'm rehearsing the future, trying to prepare myself for what is coming my way. Those who know me best know that I am big on "being prepared." I don't like to be caught unaware. I don't usually like surprises. I like to plan ahead. I want to be ready. Of course, my preparation often falls short because life is full of surprises, whether you like them or not. But that doesn't stop me from trying: I over-plan, overpack, and overthink my way through life.  

Yet try as I might, I could not quite imagine or envision what having a grandchild would be like. As part of my preparation, I've been keeping a close eye on other grandparents for years--doing research. I was trying hard to get an emotional glimpse of what it would be like when my turn came. I saw how besotted they were with their grandchildren, how much they talked about them, how much they liked to spend time with them. I thought I understood. 

Then Baby Jack arrived, and I discovered I was completely unprepared for the tidal wave of emotion that swept over me the first time I saw him and held him. I realized my research had only taken me so far: I had understood with my head, but not with my heart. I was surprised in the best possible way. And the emotional waves just keep coming--with each visit and every photo and video. The feeling is nothing like getting knocked down by a wave in the ocean though; it's more like falling into a cloud or the softest feather bed or a clean, clear pool of calm water. Time stops for a minute, and you want to stay inside that minute forever.

And then there is the second surprise: watching your kids become parents. My son and daughter-in-law have fallen head-over-heels in love with their boy and have stepped so naturally into being parents, you'd think they'd been preparing for these roles their whole lives. My heart feels like it will burst when I watch them together. 

So I'd say young Jack has already taught his old grandmother a few things: 1) You can't be prepared for everything (but it's okay to try), 2) Surprises can be very good, and 3) The adventure is just beginning. 

Photo by Adam Goodnough

The Summer of the First Grandchild

As many of you know, we are expecting our first grandchild this summer. As many of you also know, this is a big event in the life of a family. Despite the many other things happening this summer (a new house for our daughter and son-in-law, my husband's first post-pandemic role in a musical, a trip to Maine for my other son and daughter-in-law, a vacation with friends, even a book out on submission), all of our eyes are fixed on the due date, which recently shifted from August 11th to July 21st! All we know so far is that the baby is a boy and that maybe he is as anxious to meet us as we are to meet him!

Interesting things happen when you're anticipating the birth of your first grandchild. You look back at his father's baby book and relive the tumultuous days leading up to his birth, as well as the precious newborn days that followed. You linger over all the social media posts about newborns and babies. Your social media feed pops up ads for all kinds of baby gear and clothes (many of which you order or pin for future gifts). You look at yourself in the mirror and think about how different you look and feel than the way you saw your own grandmothers. But, most of all, you have this nearly overpowering feeling that wells up inside you every time you think of that little life. And you know that from now on, your world is going to revolve around him and all the other grandchildren who come after him. 

I ran into my daughter's third grade teacher at the grocery store last week. We stopped to chat a few minutes, and when she asked how my kids were, I told her about the upcoming arrival of our first grandchild. Tears filled her eyes as she told me her first grandchild had just graduated from high school and his grad party was that day. She kind of laughed and said, "I don't know why I'm so emotional about it, but I am." Then she touched my arm and said, "Enjoy it. It goes so fast." I instantly remembered being in that very same grocery store nearly three decades ago with my three young children and having more than one older women tell me that very same thing. I took it to heart then, and I'm taking it to heart now. 

I recently listened to the audiobook of My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry by Fredrik Backman. There is a passage in the book that stopped me in my tracks:

"Having a grandmother is like having an army. This is a grandchild's ultimate privilege: knowing that someone is on your side, always, whatever the details. Even when  you are wrong. Especially then, in fact. A grandmother is both a sword and a shield."

That is my promise to our first grandson and each grandchild who comes after him: I will always be on your side. No matter what. You can count on me. 

I'm making a promise to myself, too: I will savor every moment of being a grandmother because life has already taught me how fast it all goes. 

Last First Day of School

Today is my last first day of school. This is the latest the spring semester has ever begun while I've been teaching at Fredonia, and I've been glad to have the extra time to prepare--both academically and emotionally. When I first started teaching at Fredonia in 1988, I taught two sections of ENGL 100 at night as a part-time adjunct. This semester I am again teaching two classes at night as a (retired) part-time adjunct (though this semester I am teaching online instead of on campus). I find myself anticipating this last semester with equal measures of sorrow and relief. 

My decision to retire has not come quickly or easily. Walking away from a job I've loved has been tough. I spent many evenings over the summer sorting through and boxing up the books on my office shelves. I've taken down the pictures on the walls and cleaned out most of the drawers in my desk. I still have the file cabinet to tackle, and I think that will be the hardest job of all since I have files going all the way back to grad school tucked away in there. I can only do a little at a time. I read somewhere once that it's not the sorting and cleaning that takes the time, it's the memories that slow you down, and that has been very true for me. 

I know there are things I will forever miss about my job: the daytime hustle and bustle of Fenton Hall; the casual hallway and doorway conversations with my colleagues; the still of the Fenton Hall in the evening when most people have gone home; my cheerful, cluttered office; and of course, my earnest, hardworking students.

My transition from full-time to no-time has been deliberately slow. When I left my classroom last spring in the middle of March, I didn't know it would be for the last time, and somehow that made things easier. In the fall I taught a full load, but my classes and department meetings were virtual; this too added a layer of detachment from life as I've known it in Fenton Hall for more than 30 years. Now that I'm in the final stages of it all, the next chapter of my life has started to reveal itself bit by bit. 

I've always been an early riser, and that hasn't changed. I like being up while the world is still dark and quiet. I seem to do a lot of my best thinking and writing in those early hours. It's nice not to have to stop writing, working, and dreaming to shower, pack a lunch, and rush off to campus. 

I am finding that I like the slower pace of the rest of the day too. I have time to take long walks and knit and bake bread. I can read books that aren't on my syllabi. I can spend time watching multiple series on different platforms--I'm currently in the midst of The Crown, Cranford, Ted Lasso, Virgin River, and Last Tango in Halifax. 

It's not that I never had time to do any of the above before, but I always felt rushed, frazzled, or slightly guilty about wasting time. Of course, there are also many,  many household chores that have been waiting patiently (albeit dustily and messily) for my time and attention--though to be honest, I haven't expended a whole lot of energy in that direction yet. 

Slowly but surely, my well-worn identity as a college lecturer will be eclipsed by these other roles: writer, knitter, baker, reader, watcher, cleaner, organizer . . . and in an exciting plot twist: grandmother! We found out on Christmas morning that our first grandchild is on the way. He or she will arrive in August--just before a new semester starts without me. I can't imagine a better next chapter than that.