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. 

Spaghetti Night

When I was a kid, I was a selective eater. I made out fine at breakfast (peanut butter toast) and lunch (peanut butter sandwiches), but suppertime was always a bit of a minefield for me because there were so many main dishes and side dishes I didn't much like. And there were parents who didn't much like that I didn't eat what was on the table. So dinner time was often stressful. Thus, it was a huge relief when we had one of my two favorite dinners: tacos or spaghetti. Taco nights were rare--usually a birthday meal request from me or one of my siblings. But we had spaghetti more often. In addition to it being a food I loved, spaghetti night was also the one time we were allowed to drink pop with dinner. We shared a bottle of cherry, orange, or grape Golden Age soda. This gave spaghetti night an air of celebration. If I came home late from school after play practice and saw that the kitchen windows were steamed up, my heart lifted because I knew my mom's big aluminum spaghetti pot was boiling away inside. 

All these years later, spaghetti night still lifts my spirits. It doesn't matter if we're having it with homemade Bolognese sauce, salad, and garlic bread, or if I'm just putting a little jarred sauce atop buttered noodles; spaghetti always hits the spot with me. It's the meal we have when I'm tired, when I can't think of anything else to make, or when it's been a hard week. Or all of the above, like today. The steamy kitchen and the wafting smell of tomato sauce connect the present with the past. And to me that comforting plate full of noodles and sauce still feels like a little celebration--especially when it comes with a slice of leftover apple pie! I hope that each of you found a soft place to land for a few minutes this Sunday too.  

Keep Your Happiest Face Up

As many of you know, my mom has been residing in an assisted living facility for the past several years. Thus, my sister, brothers and I have not been able to visit her since early March. Although my mom is a bit peeved by the persistence of the coronavirus, she has adjusted to the changes surprisingly well. We've all been writing letters, sending (or dropping off) care packages, and calling more often. During one phone call early on in the pandemic, Mom and I had been talking about the many ways the virus was interrupting our lives and plans. Maybe I was showing more frustration than I meant to because at the end of the conversation, she said, “Well, honey, keep your happiest face up." I laughed and said I'd try. Then I said what I always say at the end of a call: "I love you, Mom," and she said, "I love you too, more than you know." 

Thanks to the patient supervision of the thoughtful workers at her facility, we've also been able to FaceTime with her, something that we'd never done before. One of the interesting aspects of the collision between FaceTime and early dementia is that to my mom, the FaceTime visits seem like actual in-person visits. "Be sure to take your book with you when you leave today, honey," she told me one day, and then she said, "I'm so glad I got up there to see Ben and Becca's new house" (which she’s seen only on a FaceTime tour my son and his wife gave her).

The FaceTime visits, mail, and phone calls have undoubtedly contributed to the way my mom has adapted to this new normal, but I wonder if her resilience is also a product of having lived a long time and seen a lot of hard things. She was born in 1932, right in the middle of the Great Depression. In the turbulent 1960s, she was a young wife and mother.  By the time she retired from teaching in the early 1990s, she had lived through wars, recessions, political and social unrest, and disease outbreaks from tuberculosis and polio to measles and whooping cough. She was just shy of seventy years old on 9/11, and now here she is at 87, weathering a pandemic, the likes of which, none of us has seen before. 

As she has always done my whole life, she is still setting a wise example for me. I see her carrying on, finding joy and peace in doing the things she's always loved that she can still do: reading, coloring, writing letters, caring for the plants on her windowsill, praying for her family and friends, and drinking coffee. She is holding on tight to her faith and keeping her happiest face up. I love you, Mom, more than you know.

Mountains and Valleys

I've been thinking about those of you who have had your children quarantined with you over the past few months. There is a part of me that envies the cozy scene I envision: board games,  family dinners, and lots of time together. And there is another part of me that is relieved not to be in charge of keeping children (of any age) occupied and happy during a pandemic. I think no matter who you are and what your situation is, we can all agree that life during a pandemic is a challenge, and we are all playing the quarantine hands we've been dealt as well as we can.

Since we're still smack dab in the middle of COVID-19, we're also still in the midst of learning the lessons a pandemic has to offer about who we are, who we were, and who we want to become (both as individuals and as a country). However, I expect, when we look back years from now, we'll see that there were a lot of good things hiding underneath the hardship, sorrow, fear, and frustration of this time.

Once, many years ago when our kids were young, we went to the ocean for a week with our extended family. As I remember, it rained every day and many in our group got the stomach flu. But on our last full day, the sun came out and we ventured down to the ocean's edge where we found a family of dolphins jumping and playing--they were almost close enough to touch. Above them was a double rainbow. And that's what has stayed with me: that beautiful ending to a tough week.

So in the spirit of holding onto the good and trying to finish strong, here are some things I've been noticing:

1. I am taking life more slowly. I've been walking a lot and taking time to notice the bright, cheerful flowers everywhere and the green of the trees against the blue of the sky. I've been appreciating our quiet little village and the creek that runs through it. I've been reading more. I've been making things from scratch: sourdough bread, hamburger and hot dog buns, pita pockets, and pizza.

2. I've been appreciating the way people are stepping up: sharing their expertise and talent; offering information, advice and encouragement via social media; making and distributing masks; sharing recipes; dropping off eggs, produce, coffee beans, and garden plants; texting and calling to stay in touch; cheerfully crossing to the other side of the street to avoid getting too close; and hosting socially distanced porch visits and small backyard gatherings.

3. Although it's been a struggle, I've been learning to be more patient, to do without, to wait for things I wish for and want right now. I'm trying to be more grateful for what I have--and in the process, I'm realizing I have a lot.

4. While it feels odd to have your kids taking care of you instead of the other way around, I am thankful and touched by the ways our kids (our sons and daughter and our son- and daughters-in-law) have watched out for us over the past few months. They text, snap, and call more often (and talk longer). They Zoom and play online games with us on Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings and afternoons. They do our grocery shopping in between Instacart deliveries and pick ups (and don't say anything about the fact that we're still using Instacart instead of masking up and doing our own shopping). They pick up take-out food. They offer help and advice with technology issues and tree removal. They show interest (feign interest?) in my sourdough bread making adventures. They suggest TV shows and podcasts (along with instructions on how and where to find them). They worry when I'm not sleeping and offer solutions. They listen to our fears. They help us sift through information and give us perspective. They model resilience and courage. They cheer us up. They cheer us on.

There's a beautiful passage in the book Esperanza Rising by Pam Munoz Ryan: "[Abuelita] handed Esperanza the bundle of crocheting. 'Look at the zigzag of the blanket. Mountains and valleys. Right now you are in the bottom of the valley and your problems loom big around you. But soon, you will be at the top of a mountain again.'" When I teach this book, my students and I talk about how spending time in the valleys changes Esperanza and makes her a stronger, wiser, more compassionate person; we discuss how that is true for all of us. Although none of us enjoy the hard times in our lives, it's in the valleys that we do our growing.

We are all in the deep valley of COVID-19 right now, and the next mountain top is barely visible. Since we're stuck here for a while, I want to use the time as well as I can, so that when we're on the mountain top again, I am a little stronger, a little wiser, a lot more compassionate.

Jean Galliher Wendell

My husband's mom died yesterday. She was 97. She'd lived a long and full life. But no matter how old we get or how old our parents get, we're just never prepared to lose them. When I first married Steve, I didn't fully realize at first what a gem I had gotten as a mother-in-law. But for the past forty years, I've learned so much from watching this kind, gracious, generous, classy woman. Steadily and surely, she has shown me what a well-lived life looks like. For most of those forty years, we lived in the same town--and for a short while, even in the same house. My recipe box is filled with her recipes; our house is filled with her furniture, her Christmas ornaments, and her dishes; but most of all, our hearts are overflowing with precious memories. We miss you, Mom; we always will. Thank you for everything.

Benjamin: Son of My Right Hand

I've been thinking a lot about Ben lately. Today is the middle school musical: he'll spend twelve hours with the cast and crew of Elf Jr. Monday is his birthday: he'll turn 32. And six weeks from today is his wedding day: he'll marry his sweet Becca. As most of you know, Ben is our oldest child; he's the one who has been with us the longest, the one whose name means "son of my right hand."

They say there are a lot of advantages to being the firstborn in a family, but I think there are a lot of hard things about it too. First of all, firstborns have inexperienced parents who are still trying to figure things out. When siblings come along, the firstborn becomes the leader, the trail blazer, the first one to do almost everything. Because of this, firstborns have to have broad shoulders. They become a kind of link between the outside world and home life, a link between the parents and the younger siblings. Younger siblings look to them for help, for advice, for tips on how to navigate life; they expect them to know what to do and how to do it. And it's not just the younger siblings that lean hard on the firstborn, parents do too. Ben has done a spectacular job of fulfilling this role for the past thirty years. He's lived up to his name by being our "right-hand man" in more ways than I can count.

When Ben was young, he used our wooden coffee table as his desk. His desk chair was one of those chubby yellow Little Tikes chairs. On his desk he had a box filled with pens and markers, a red box for his completed paperwork, and a huge stack of paper. He made books, charts, and schedules--lots and lots of schedules. He used so much paper, we started buying it by the ream, well before we had any kind of home computer and printer. As he grew older, his paperwork often expanded beyond his coffee-table desk to the couch, the end table, and the floor. One night when he was about ten years old, he was heading off to bed, and I asked him to clean up his papers before he went upstairs. "I've already cleaned up after you once tonight," I reminded him. He called back over his shoulder, "I have a full life!"

It was true then and it's true now. Ben has always had a full life. And one of the things I noticed early on about Ben was that his full life spilled over and filled up my life in unexpected ways. He had big plans, big sleepovers, big birthday parties, and a big high school graduation party; he brought big groups of friends home from college for the weekend and invited big groups of friends to dinner. As a result, he helped me live a bigger, fuller life too.

After college, Ben came back to Fredonia to live and work. He teaches school and directs big musicals. His life is fuller than ever. And on December 29, 2018, it will fill up even more--in the best possible way.

So I've been pondering what this new chapter in his life might mean in my life. Will his marriage mean the end of watching West Wing and Blue Bloods together, the end of playing Yahtzee, the end of sitting around the dinner table at the end of a school day, the end of his full life bubbling over into mine? 

But then last Saturday, Ben, Becca, and I had tickets to see my husband Steve in Newsies at the Jamestown Community College campus. We went early with Steve instead of taking two cars, so Ben, Becca, and I had an hour to fill before the show. We found some seats in a downstairs hallway of the academic building that houses the theater. Before long the three of us were playing Heads Up and talking and laughing. And in the midst of it, I realized that even though my last child is getting married and my nest is finally well and truly empty, my life is filling up. The dining room chandelier that I wrote about in my very first blog entry isn't dimming after all; it is blazing with the added light of a new son-in-law and two new daughters-in-law. 

So Benjamin, son of my right hand, carry on. Live big and enjoy your full life. (Just remember to clean up your papers every once in a while!)