Nana Olympics

 

My personal trainers

After 30 years of raising children, I became a grandmother. I was finally qualified to be on the Nana Olympics team. The seven years since have been a humbling voyage of discovery, as almost everything I did as a mom is, it turns out, the OPPOSITE of what grandmas tend to do. 

Instead of relying on my “mom” instincts, I began channeling my own Nana, who carried my IQ test results around in her purse and allowed us unlimited Yodels and soda.  I’ve made great strides, assisted of course by my young trainers Aiden and Peter, and now I feel I can compete with the best grannies on the squad. Here are a few of the events in which I excel:

THE EGO BOOST: (theirs, not mine) Everyone needs some encouragement, right? I was told as a young mother NOT to over-inflate little egos, to instead say things like: “That’s an interesting drawing. You like art.” Now, of course, I am an expert in unrestrained gushing: “That is the MOST amazing picture anyone has ever drawn. You are the best artist in the whole world!!” The Ego Boost is great for enlarging the heads of those gifted darlings. Extra points given for creative praise: “Your hands are so washed! They absolutely sparkle! I’m so glad you used the expensive French milled soap too!” 

THE DISCIPLINE DODGE: Spilled chocolate milk on the new chair? Once a tragedy and a timeout for my offspring, if my grandchild does it it’s NO BIG DEAL. Come here, sweetheart! Don’t cry! Nana knows it was an accident. It was Nana’s fault for not buying a chocolate colored chair. The stain will possibly come out. Here’s some more chocolate milk. Try to be a tiny bit more careful, but it’s OK if you aren’t! The best part of the Discipline Dodge is the chocolatey smile I get as a reward, which makes up for the scowly looks on Daddy and Mommy’s faces. Cheer up, Daddy and Mommy!

PHOTO FINISH: How many pictures of my grandkids do I have at the ready? Unlike the few snapshots grandparents used to tote in a wallet, the number of photos I can share with friends and even random strangers is limited only by the amount of space on my iPhone. Here’s the cutest picture of the boys! I took it 45 seconds ago. No, wait! Here’s a more recent one that’s even cuter! Oh, is that a picture of your granddaughter on her bike? Very sweet. Here are 20 pictures of my Peter on HIS bike. He’s only four and almost finished with training wheels. I’ve heard that’s a little advanced?

I try not to interfere with Sheridan and Ya-Jhu, who really are wonderful parents. I realize that their attempts at instilling order and good behavior are totally normal. When they become grandparents someday, I’m confident they’ll throw all that out the window just like I did. Am I spoiling the kids rotten? Spoiling them fantastic is more like it!

My mom, with one of the five most incredible children who ever lived (according to her)

Columnist in Search of a Column

For nine years, I wrote a column for the Chestnut Hill Local, a small Philadelphia newspaper. The old-school editor, Len Lear, was a gem, and I loved sharing my “slice of life” pieces with readers. “Everyday Matters” did not (even remotely) fund my kids’ college educations or my retirement, but it made me feel like a real, working writer. The paper was read far beyond its circulation area, thanks to the Internet, and I sometimes marveled at its reach. One column I wrote about my very favorite restaurant from VERY long ago, and the delightful, eccentric chef/owners, drew a lovely response, months later, from the restauranteurs' grown, far-away children. I learned that their parents had died, but it was so nice to re-connect with their family through my newspaper writing.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The paper changed direction, and my work, along with that of several other columnists, was no longer included. Instead, the Local publisher decided to focus entirely on things like neighborhood news and high school sports—a decision I obviously question, but there it is.  It’s been more than a year since my swan song, and I am yearning for another column, somewhere. My blog is carried by newspapers in suburban Philly and coastal Delaware; however, I’ve yet to be asked to become a staffer. I do a good deal of other freelance writing for newspapers and magazines, but there’s something magical about having your own dedicated place and space.

I just joined the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, and attended their virtual conference over the weekend. It was wonderful, both in terms of the presentations, and the members, a group that includes columnists for many large-circulation papers. The executive director of NSNC is Suzette Standring. Suzette, whose home base is suburban Boston, has had a widely-read syndicated religion column for years, and has also written many humor columns (religion! humor! my dream niches!) We began corresponding, and she is incredibly friendly and encouraging. In a world where there is so much cut-throat competition, it is refreshing to encounter such kindness and support. 

Will I ever land another column? I certainly hope some news publication, somewhere, will be interested in my take on life. I know the industry is changing rapidly, and that loud rustling sound you hear is more and more newspapers “folding” (get it?). But there are still options for column writers, especially online, so my fingers remain crossed--a real challenge when typing. 

Meanwhile, I will keep reading my favorite columnists, including Nick Kristof, Jennifer Rubin, Steve Lopez, Alexandra Petri and Dave Barry, and enjoying the unique perspective each of these talented folks brings to the news, and their general life observations too. 

I don’t think of myself as a particularly gutsy gal, but then I recall this quote from the late great columnist Erma Bombeck: “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else.” 

So thank you, dear reader, for letting me show you one of my dreams. 

Oh! To be an ink-stained wretch again!

Leaving the Station

Grocery shopping in Barcelona with Evan, 2016--Shop N Bag felt just as exotic

Last Thursday, I went to the grocery store for the first time since March, 2020. I’ve been so fortunate to have Ya-Jhu doing all the food shopping. She’s done a wonderful job, and it’s been a relief to be spared that particular risk. But I’ve missed selecting my own produce and chatting with Frank at the fish counter and Diane, my favorite checker. Mostly, I’ve missed the normalcy of hopping in the car and dashing off for a gallon of milk. 

Two weeks post-vaccination, it was time to take on this family task once again. I was thrilled to push the cart down the aisles, to pull a loaf of bread off the shelf. It was all wondrous, and felt like a preview of more wonders to come (hugging my kids, returning to indoor worship at church, a restaurant meal). 

So why did I have to stop on the side of the road on the way home because I was sobbing too much to drive?

I’ve thought about the jumble of emotions that swept over me that morning. Intense regret for a year lost. But also this: I was afraid to venture out, and I am still afraid. I’ve gotten so used to thinking of the outside world as a disease-ridden and ominous place. Safety has been my primary focus, along with worry for the many who haven’t had the luxury of working from home. What in the beginning had seemed bizarre (airing out the mail for days before touching) quickly became expected routine. 

As a result, part of me misses isolation, misses hunkering down with just my household. Making small talk in the checkout line with Diane felt very strange, when so many conversations have been planned Zoom events. I’m sure I’ll acclimate, but I am amazed at my nostalgia for what has been a horrific time.

My friend and gifted writer Te-Ping Chen has written a lovely book of short stories, Land of Big Numbers. In it, she shares snapshots of life in modern China. A favorite story is “Gubeikou Spirit.” It’s a fanciful tale of many commuters stuck in a station after a mechanical failure delays the next train. The strict rule is that no one can exit the same station they had entered, so they are trapped for months. At first extremely agitated, the people become used to the food and entertainment delivered to them, all their needs met. After a while, they don’t mind the loss of their freedom. When at last a train arrives and the door opens, only a few people climb aboard. 

Oreland has felt a bit like Gubeikou Station this past year to me. Now, when at last the “trains” are beginning to run again, I hesitate. Am I really protected? Isn’t it safer to just stay at home? 

But in my heart I know it’s time to return to the outside world, scary as it still may be. And so I dry my tears and pull back onto the road. 

Miracles take a while to get used to

Ever After

Hasn’t time has been a slippery thing to measure these past 13 months? At some point 2020 ended, then we lurched into 2021, and suddenly we were in the second year of observing various holidays COVID-style—meaning: as best we could, missing much of the human contact with friends and family that is most of the point of these occasions anyway. 

Today marks Julie and Gil’s six month wedding anniversary. Their entire marriage has been spent in the shadow of isolation and restriction. I have yet to kiss the bride OR the groom, and the big celebration and reception are still months in the future. But on October 7^th, they decided to exchange their vows with one another anyway, a profound statement of love and commitment, during a major worldwide crisis. 

I remember sitting in our dining room that day, watching the Zoom video of the brief nuptials taking place in Brooklyn. Nothing about it resembled my wedding day, or indeed the wedding of anyone I’ve ever known. The couple was in their apartment, the jovial officiant was in his, and the sole witness (Rose) was in hers. The service itself was “blink and you’d miss it” quick—largely because Jules and Gil wanted to wait for the bells and whistles until we could all be together for a future Major Ceremony. So in this condensed version they said “I do,” and not much else. But it was enough to make it official. I found myself in tears, but not tears of regret that I couldn’t physically be present—rather, tears of happiness as I watched my now-wedded daughter and my brand new son-in-law join hands and lives. The officiant remarked that it was probably not the wedding of their dreams, but he echoed my feeling of hope, that life and love and promises endure, even in the most unsettled of times. 

We saw Julie and hubby several weeks later in our backyard, on a warm autumn afternoon. Chef Patrick handled grill duties, and we had a lovely meal. We cheered for the newly-minted Mr. and Mrs. Gavish, as well as Rose’s impending birthday. We knew it would be a while before our next reunion--and indeed it would be another two months, and we haven’t been together since. We will gather next for Steve’s birthday April 26th.

There was a moment at that October gathering, luckily captured in a photo, that I will treasure always. There are Julie and Gil, smiling broadly. Julie is wearing her bridal veil--along with a pair of shorts and a casual top. What might have seemed incongruous, was instead an adorable combination that summed up my Julie--sporty and no-fuss, yet sweetly romantic too. She’ll wear that veil again when the Big Do finally happens, I’m sure, but I can’t imagine her looking lovelier—or happier--than she did that day.

Some things the pandemic could not ruin for us. The unexpected joy of my daughter’s unconventional wedding is one of those things.