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Figuring It Out
I’m at the campground, sans reception, sans discussion, conversation, YouTube, “Los Angeles Times”, CNN, here by my lonesome, figuring it out by-my-lonesome, not-so-lonesome self.
67, close to 68, in the sun, in the gale force winds, in the yesterday afternoon’s Vineyard Drive Brecon Wine Club pick up party, Life IZ Good, aura.
No reception.
Do you understand what that means? Actually? I actually have to make an effort, get in my apartment-on-wheels, pack-up/secure camp stuff, get in the van, drive to the Library, log in, wait, and wait and wait, and voila, can send a voice mail, post recent blog entry, connect with My Other Life.
It’s crazy how we take access to the Internet, being pertinent, for granted. We expect snap-at-your-fingertips service. And when we don’t have it, we get all edgy.
But I’m kinda digging it.
I love checking out, not being available, not relevant, disappearing from the world. It’s like floating on a raft, in the sun, in the tropical breezes, cruising and being A-Okay.
What did you do today? someone from the “outside” will ask.
I read.
I thought about taking a nap.
I dreaded going to town, but I did, so I can share life in the not-so-big-city with you.
So you know.
That I’m OK.
I’m more than OK.
Which is so strange. Because I used to be such a social creature and now, I’m a sedentary human-woman completely content being neutral.
Yesterday, there were gale force winds where I’m residing. The pass, Highway 41, experienced wind gusts up to 30 mph. I worried and worried, planned and planned, fearing my tall Sprinter would fall into the valley on my way “home” to the beach valley where I’ll continue to reside for a few more days.
Let me set the stage: The sun is out. The wind is windy. I’m in the shade. I’m typing on my MacBook Pro. I’ve had a quarter of the sparkling wine sitting in my van’s fridge from a week ago, listening to some kind of accordion, mariachi-type music from a group of vintage Airstream campers a couple of sites away.
Did you know people have friends? People my age and younger socialize, have fun, party? They hang out, drink, play some kind of rollicking, celebrating, group-socializing tossing games together. Hippish. Complimentary. Positive. Yummy food wafting gloriousness. Biking. Celebrating, did I say celebrating?
And then there’s me. Breakfast-still-full, despite the loads of groceries I have in Miss Bonnie Doon, my absolutely amazing, favorite child apartment-on-wheels. She loves me no matter what, and vice versa. She’s a bit bug-dirty right now, but stands tall, a vision to be admired as I figure things out.
Sewer Talk.
Let me get real, as in shit real.
Perhaps the main reason I resisted getting a Class B RV, besides the ridiculous cost, was the damn black tank. Yucky. Yucky. Yucky. But after a year dumping my shit into black holes of grossness, what used to gross me out no longer does.
Shit, besides being shit, is also a metaphor.
Case in point:
Yesterday, on my way home in the gale force winds along Highway 41, somewhere along the way, my sewer hose fell off. I heard a rattling, but figured it was a gust of scary wind rattling something outside the van. I confess, I was a wee bit tipsy given the wine club pick-up party. But I was responsiblish. I waited two hours after the tasting, drank lots of water, and was prepared to pull over if I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. There was no swerving, no, I’m not safe feeling. I would NEVER get behind the wheel if I felt for a second it was dangerous To make sure I was sober, I took a breathalyzer-type test I ordered from Amazon proving I was good to go.
I waited-out the wind, driving across the pass about 7:30 p.m. when it looked like the winds had died down, and when I arrived at the campground the sun had set and I was excited about finishing “Schitt’s Creek” so I could return the DVD set to the Library on Saturday. But the rattling. The rattling. When I got to my campsite, I jumped outside and looked at the sewer caps, which were off, dragging, apparently, along the highway. Somewhere along the line, my hose fell off. But not the cap.
The couple I bought my van from had extra hoses, which was fantastic. But the cap that came off, couldn’t be secured. Rather than resorting to duct tape to hold it in place, I decided to decipher what the actual problem was. After about 30 minutes trying various methods to secure the cap in place, I eventually figured it out.
When the cap scraped along the highway, it gouged out the rim. It was subtle, but just enough damage was caused that it re-shaped the cap making it impossible to fit into the original fitting.
My instinct was, “Help someone!”
Instead, I channeled my favorite handiman and uttered in my cloud thought bubble, “What would Ken do?”
After a few minutes I realized I needed some sort of a grinder, which I’d have to buy at the local hardware store. But instead, I channeled my cave woman instincts, found a rough rock, and ground out the rough groove. Voila! The cap now fits!
You should have seen me, being at one with the very same sewer system I once dreaded. On the pavement, looking into the sewage abyss. I was at one with the shit hole.
I can’t tell you my delight: I’m figuring it out. It’s thrilling. And it’s stinky. And I wish it was easier. Yet, the struggle is real and important because it gets me to a place of knowledge and acceptance, exuberance, and peace.
Shit happens. And senior citizen camper woman is figuring it out.
Did I tell you…?
Did I tell you, I’m working on a novel? I started it more than a year ago, but somehow, in my travels and wonky internet connections, lost the first five chapters. Which was a major bummer. So I ignored it, knowing I couldn’t recreate what was lost, then realized that that loss was actually a metaphor, and besides, it probably wasn’t very good anyway, and it was most likely a sign that I needed to start over, which I’ve done, which I’m excited about, even though I’m in over my head.
I’m not a novelist.
I’m a person who has been writing since the third grade, telling stories, listening to stories, placing myself into stories, thinking, being imaginative, being realistic, and now being open to trying a new kind of writing, fiction.
This blog, this kind of letter writing to strangers and friends, is where I get my truth-telling instincts out of my system so I can hang glide and allow my alter ego character to fly. Which is hard, frankly, because Lizzy Johnson has the power to do anything in the world, anything she can dream of or dread, and that letting go is, well, different for this almost 68-year-old—-ouch—-on-the-road cowgirl writer.
When you give yourself the time, space, and permission to imagine, a trait typically delegated to the young, it is a wild experience. You can be anything, ANYTHING, you can imagine, and you don’t just have to be a writer to experience it.
You could be a chef, a dancer, painter, gardener, tourist, mechanic, seamstress, tarot card-reading gypsy—whatever your heart longs to dabble in, and not have to worry about turning it into a career. You can play around with it, have fun, and when it’s no longer fun, drop it for the time being or forever.
Why didn’t I know this, do this, when I was working? I poured so much of my time and life into my career, home, family, marriage, that I forgot to serve myself.
I suppose it’s what one does during certain phases of life and now that I’m in this phase, which, as I told my buddy, Julie, a couple of days ago, is the very best time of my life; I’m more reflective, more open, more relaxed, a better version of myself.
I wish this for you, daughters and son, family and friends. I wish you the lightness of being.
The sun is finally showing her face here as I sit in a quiet corner of one of my favorite haunts in Cambria, the sweet public library on Main Street. The padded silence is comforting. Surrounded by books—-my latest read is a collection of short stories by Alice Munro—-is both daunting and reassuring. Master writers, and then there’s me. But that’s that courage thing I was talking about. Jumping. Frolicking. Playing in the foamy waves. Getting cold and wet and salty and sandy is good for the soul.
It’s uplifting.
Uplifting.
Which is the point. To step up, take action, experiment, and like I said, have fun in the process.
Writing a novel in my late 60s is a kick. It makes me laugh, and sometimes, cry. It stirs up emotions and a direction I sometimes don’t want to take. But I do. I’m sticking with it because I can’t wait to see how it turns out. I don’t need it to be a best-seller or even be published, although it’d be nice to share it with others at some point. The great thing about writing a novel at my age is that no one but me is counting on me to finish it.
A cowboy on a horse just road by. Guess it’s my signal to get back to novelizing. I want to know where he’s headed.
You know, it’s greener, lusher, more vibrant, than I have ever seen the hillsides in all my travels to the Central Coast. It is also quiet, at least midweek. Only us few retirees and homeschoolers hangout at the campground—-and a group of solo women campers who befriended me. Last night, we sat around the campfire and swapped stories about adventures lived and travels to come. Kindred spirits with a spark in their eyes that suggests the road ahead is promising.
It was pretty cool. I have new friends who are part of a women’s vanlife group, one of many groups formed by women my age. Their stories are like mine; women who decided it was finally time to prioritize their dreams. We’re part of a movement. In the shadows. Quiet, vital, creative, and highly intelligent women who did what we were “supposed” to do, followed the rules of our generation—raised children, had a career, husband, family, organized a household, made an impact on society in a variety of ways—and now as grandmas, have decided we need extended “me time” to regenerate and re-define ourselves.
The old journalist in me says there’s a story here.
And maybe there is.
Eclipse
What links all these magnificent environments I’ve been blessed to visit? The common thread?
Birds. Their song, while vocally unique to their breed, are joyous, unsolicited and a call to all to stop what we’re doing and listen. If you do, for more than a second or two, you’re bound to hear hope and love and peace.
It’s 7:20 a.m. and I’ve been up with the birds since dawn. (A week ago in Kauai, I was up with the crowing roosters.) After brewing a cup of coffee I picked up from a funky Albuquerque coffee shop, I’m now sitting outside wearing a light coat, stocking feet, gazing at the lake, listening to a surround-sound chorus of acrobatic singers, counting my blessings—once again—and remembering, “Oh, yeh, today is the total eclipse” when my flying friends will stop singing.
When the sun vanishes in a couple of hours, it will become eerily silent. At least it did in New Mexico at the alpaca farm where I witnessed last Fall’s partial eclipse. The temperature dropped and it was silent until the sun reappeared. I’m not sure how it’s going to play out here on the West Coast—the outer edge of the eclipse—but I’m pretty sure the animals will be spooked by Nature’s phenomenon.
Collapse. Expand.
Inhale. Breathe out.
It’s cloudy. It’s sunny. It’s cold. It’s hot. Families are happy one minute, then torn apart the next. There’s chaos. There’s peace.
Splinters. Fractures. Earthquakes. A dove’s gentle coo, coo, coo.
Nothing makes sense. It all makes sense.
We’re tough. We’re fragile.
Welcome to The River’s current. You can fight it, as I’ve done my entire life, but what a waste. You’re going to end up where you’re going to end up so you might as well enjoy the journey.
This isn’t poetry. It’s Life.
I have no wisdom. I’m paddling the canoe just like everyone else, surrounded by jubilant birds, an umbrella sun, and an Irish green, patchwork coat of Spring.
What I know in this moment before the moment is eclipsed by the news story of the week, is that nothing lasts forever, not the season, not this glorious morning, not the frog-in-my-throat allergy scratch, not the concerning 11 p.m. phone call I got the other night from a family member, not the near silence of a Monday morning, and not this glorious sun which will disappear and remind us that we’re not in charge. We make choices, we can change, pivot, discover a new direction, but if we don’t “get” what we’re supposed to “get” while the sun is shining, who knows if we’ll ever get another chance?
Postscript: With the Sun just 20% eclipsed here in Central Coast California, our birds continued to sing, but their voices were noticeably hushed like the cool breeze which ribboned its way through the campground.
My friend, Allison Q. , shared this book recommendation, “This is Flesh” by Cole Arthur Riley. From the first paragraphs, I’m hooked:
“I have a favorite sound.
To be precise, it’s not a single sound but a multitude.
Have you ever stood in the presence of a tree and listened to the wind pass through its leaves? The roots and body stand defiant and unmoved. But listen. The branches stretch out their tongues and whisper shhhh.”
Guess I’ve found a reoccurring theme for this Spring Sojourn: Hush, and the answers will appear.
Family Vacation
I am the most blessed woman on Planet Earth. I embrace that, send praises to God and my unbelievably generous family.
Eternally grateful. I’m beyond, beyond, beyond aware that if it wasn’t for my niece and her husband, I wouldn’t be here. No way, no how. Not this happy-for-a- thrice week-shower camper chick.
It’s 7 a.m. and the first rainbow of the day just appeared, arching from the rolling sea, and vanishing into heaven. My not-so-morning amigos are back in Room 1105 trying to ignore the crowing roosters which happen to be my, “Wake up, wake up, it’s a new day!” little kid-exuberant alarm clock. I don’t want to miss a second of this gorgeous resort and family vacation, so I sit here with this delicious $9 Kona latte, gazing at One Hotel’s sweeping balcony view of Hanalei Bay. Hopeful surfers, among them likely my niece’s husband, wait for just the right wave which will inevitably arrive.
I’m not used to this. One Hotel is noted as one of the world’s best and I can see why. The view from all the strategically placed rooms is private and expansive at the same time. (One could stand naked in front of the window and no one would be the wiser.) The hotel’s motif is beach vibe reclaimed wood and beachcombed stone, reflecting the palette found in the natural environment. There’s a lush chef’s rooftop garden, which I’m looking at right now, and activities, like tequila tasting, meditation and yoga classes, spaced throughout the day. The dining is farm to table, organic and eyeball-rolling back delish. The first night we had a homemade pasta dish with shrimp and fresh peas that might very well be the best dinner I ever had!
Rich and famous people stay here, but you’d never know it from the relaxed, back-to-the-soil, protect-Planet Earth ambiance. While I clearly don’t fit in here with my Target attire and self-pedicured toes, I don’t think anyone really cares who we are or how we got here. I guess there’s an unspoken key-to-the-kingdom acceptance; if you can afford to be here, you’re you’re one of us.
Last Spring, my niece and her husband treated us to stay with them at Sandy Lane Hotel in Barbados, a destination Queen Elizabeth and her family stayed at. My sister, cousin, and I—The Three Amigos—each got our own, truly royal room. Believe you me, when it was time to leave, we tucked the pink embroidered SLH white slippers and as many tea bags, loofa sponges, and signature scented moist towelettes we could pack into our non-Gucci carry-ons. It was another amazing adventure, seeing how the other half lives, while keenly aware of our spectator status.
Seems wherever I go, whether here in Kauai staying at one of the world’s most coveted hotels or back on the road staying at state campgrounds or wine-tasting in Paso Robles, I gravitate toward the staff, the workers, those who roll up their sleeves, turn back the sheets in late afternoon, fill up the ice bucket and humbly provide service to schmucks like me.
People live like this!! I keep thinking.
Being served.
Paying big bucks for holidays.
Having enough funds to zero-out points-generating credit cards when they return to the mainland.
Crazy! Right? But The Lucky live like this—all the time; you can see it in their relaxed, weekly facial-ized faces and their bouncy, flowy, gauzy, ylang ylang-scented gait; the strut of financial freedom. Cool, respectful and the opposite of flaunting. With two exceptions: we witnessed a Russian lady yelling at the restaurant hostess when she was told she had to wait, along with the rest of us, for 20 minutes because they were short-staffed and the 30-something L.A. woman who snapped pictures of empty serving platters and threatened to complain to management. Yuck. Upon witnessing their bad behavior, my amigos and I apologized to the victimized staff and reinforced our appreciation for their hospitality and grace.
Tomorrow my amigos and I will bid One Hotel adieu and move about a six-minute walk away to our treetop condo where we’ll spend the remainder of our vacation.
But for now, we’ll continue to enjoy sipping margaritas by the pool and stroll down to our private beach at the edge of Hanalei Bay. Yeh, a girl could get used to this.
Aloha from paradise.
Lucky Enough
The sun warms my shoulders as the ocean re-charges my gaze as the gregarious Snow White singing birds kerchief my ears as teeming black tea stimulates my soft-focus high school yearbook portrait ala 1970s brain.
Adjust the lens and it becomes clear, sharp, bursting with vibrant colors and wind-wafting scents.
I am a guest.
If you could be here instead of there, you’d see what I mean. My worn turquoise camp chair. My smiley face ceramic whale cup. The bed of mustard yellow flowers patched between dewy Irish green grass. The roaring ocean that sounds like traffic as it crushes the shoreline with a force only God is capable of. The Aaron Copland harmony of Nature and silence.
I am a guest.
Sunrise. And it’s warm enough to sit outside in a robe. Think. Not think. Write. Not write. Dive into reading Kristin Hannah’s “The Women” or set it down for another time. Look and look and look, take it all in. Or take a nap. Wipe the canvas clean. No plans. Plans. I could sit in this exact spot all day and be content, at peace, wanting for nothing more than to share this feeling, this place, this sense of tranquility, this belonging, with others. Or just keep it to myself.
Yesterday, my friend Julie and I were having lunch, getting real, laughing, crying, as we always do, when I confessed, I’ve been struggling. I’m here, I’m there. Am I on the right track? Did I make a mistake? Have I screwed up my daughter who feels like she has no place to land when she visits California since I sold the family home two years ago this July? Should I buy a new place? Rent? Keep traveling?
Good friends rarely tell you what to do. They listen, nod their head, ask questions that may lead you toward the answer you seek.
A point worth noting: Julie and I L-O-V-E the Lord, having opened our heart to God when we were in elementary school; many of our conversations are grounded by faith, not the preachy, Bible-thumping, let me convert you, faith, but a faith that originates from a place where you know, what you know, what you know, little kid giddy sincerity. We’ve both experienced God in ways that are real and profound.
Dear Julie, listening to my incessant ping pong ball flurry of where-should-I-be thought-bubble wanderings, patiently lets me ramble on and on and on. She never says, “Let’s pray,” nor does she proclaim Scripture. Again, she just listens in her beautiful Buddha way, trusting that her buddy will eventually figure things out.
“I am a guest,” I told her, saying out loud a line I wrote in my most recent blog.
As you get older, this notion becomes an encroaching, theme song reality. It’s sad and it’s glorious. It’s beautiful because of my increasing awareness that I’ve been gifted this precious moment to absorb, reflect upon, and feel grateful. It’s sad because it’s taken me so long to fully embrace, “This isn’t a dress rehearsal,” truism.
I am a guest.
Being a guest doesn’t mean you are rootless, it means that everything looks, sounds, feels, and tastes provocative, refreshing, sour, extra sweet, strange, and familiar. It’s new, it’s old; sometimes you want to be alone and a few hours later you want to be with people. As a guest, hugs become extra meaningful.
Now that I’m a professional tourist, I’m acutely aware of legacy and think deeply about what I wish to leave behind, while at the same time craving new adventures and seeking a new path.
For 67 years I settled, responded, acquiesced to Life’s circumstances. While I always had a clear vision of the life I wanted, Life Happened. I can honestly say that I made the best choice at the worst time and made the worst decisions at—as viewed from today’s vantage point—the best times.
I was young and now I’m old. Not as old as those grey-haired souls I stood next to in my high school newspaper’s 50 Year Reunion black and white photo. No, I’m not that old because my 50-year reunion isn’t until June and my friend Julie’s two-years-away-from 50th wedding anniversary celebratory cruise is still in the planning stages. But according to the wrinkles around my eyes and sagging jowls, I’m getting there—old, that is—fast.
The aging process is interesting—really. It can ignite heightened awareness, i.e., there’s no time to waste, no time to fret about paths taken, only those ahead, as in today, this moment, because anything could happen, and it does, so it matters, everything matters, because the clock is ticking.
Thus, the metanoia, I am a guest.
After a good night’s sleep in my cozy apartment-on-wheels, Bonnie Doon, waking up to the sunrise, sitting here with this sweeping ocean view, in the midst of this movie about the twists and turns of a 67-year-old woman who gave up everything only to discover she had everything, here’s what occurred to me: by divesting, I invested in a life that brings clarity even as it continues to churn and sometimes stall.
While the world is bonkers, I elect to feel settled, while not settling, if that makes any sense. I doubt my 17-year-old self would understand, much less listen to this advice; the canvas was far too vast and promising to foresee the twists and turns I’d later face.
My entire life I wondered, wanted, waited, cajoled, forced, made happen, and now I don’t have to.
But then, I never did.
Really, not really
Home, not really. South Bay, not really. Schedule, not really. Ambition, not really. Stress, not really. Anger, frustration, blame, regrets, not really.
I’m here, sitting on a camp chair overlooking the blustery sea in my sister and cousin’s unfinished Palos Verdes Estates home, a place I might very well hang my hat when not traveling, but for now, keeping it light and loose and ready for the next adventure.
The calendar’s already almost booked. I have a few gap weeks here and there to catch up, take a breath, re-group, re-kindle, plant my feet, do the laundry, hug my dear ones, get a tan, read a book, do my taxes—write. I’m going to be a busy lady through July and am presently securing plans for August and the great open road come Fall.
At the end of the month I’m flying back to NYC to surprise Millie on her 4th birthday, then when I get back we’re going to Kauai for a week. In April, I’m headed to the Central Coast for a couple of weeks, then I’ll be back to take my Star Wars-mad grandson to Disneyland’s May the 4th Be With You celebration. Later in the month I’ll fly to Orlando to spend time with my brother and sister-in-law and hang out at Disney World for a bunch of days. June is filled with camping with the grandsons, our yearly week in Mammoth, then back to New York and we’ll jump on a plane and head to Oklahoma for a five-day Fourth of July family reunion. All my grandchildren, myself, and daughter will fly to NY for 2.5 weeks and return to L.A. at the end of July in time to celebrate my son’s birthday.
I’ll most likely hang out in the South Bay until the boys go to school, then I’ll likely start my Big Fall trip toward the end of August. I’m thinking Canada, British Columbia, then veering East to see the Fall colors. None of that is set in stone, but it sounds like a real adventure. I had such an amazing solo journey last year traveling along the Pacific Coast and the Southwest, I might even replicate that.
In November, I’ll fly back to New York and cheer on my daughter as she runs the NYC Marathon, then possibly stay to celebrate my two grandsons’ birthdays.
Crazy. A whole year loosely planned, with plenty of space for adjustments.
I’m kind of that girl: a planner; I like my clothes organized, my van clean and in order, and my year blocked out.
Since I retired three years ago come June and sold my home of almost 30 years two years ago, my life has been somewhat scattered. I’ve lived a little here and there. I’m a guest wherever I go. It’s good. It’s what I signed up for. But only now am I getting the hang of it.
Last week, my big news was the big edit: I halfed my storage unit and shaved about $200 a month in fees. I moved what remains of my household belongs, memories, books, kids toys, two pieces of furniture—a grandfather’s clock from my parents and the hope chest my mom gifted me—by myself, with exception of the furniture two Luggers helped me with. It was an overwhelming task, both physically and emotionally. But now that it’s done, it feels like I can stand up straighter. It lighted a burden.
Junk. I intend to go back to the new unit and take out a box a week and determine if I need to keep it or chuck it. I have a huge box filled with my writing spanning back to when I was in the third grade. I have another box containing my art journals. I still have two boxes of high school memories, and another huge box filled with newspaper and magazine stories I wrote when I was a journalist. I almost tossed them on the most recent move, but then I saw the old clips from when I interviewed Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys and I couldn’t part with the yellowed words quite yet.
I haven’t looked at most of the boxed stuff in the unit for decades, yet it is hard to dump. When I told my tax accountant about my dilemma, he said it’s vanity. My ego. I denied it. But then I realized he was right. My past life is a way I validate that I was once of value. These days, what am I? An older woman with wrinkles, a double chin, and a chubby mid-section. I was once kinda cute, filled with promise and a bright future and I have the high school yearbook to prove it. “Grandma,” my precocious grandson said when he saw a black and white photo, “what happened?”
Excellent question.
When you get older, who are you? Your past? Your present? Your future?
Do your ideas matter?
Do you matter?
The contents of the boxes remind me that I once had societal value.
Now, it’s hard to know.
Looking back. Looking forward. Looking deep inside, is a truth, a reality, all of us must eventually come to terms with; we’re not that big a deal; we’re temporary.
We don’t have to make a mark, earn a ton of money, or have a YouTube channel with a kazillion followers. Not really. Super famous people, people who’ve led incredible, impactful lives, get old and become redundant. Life moves forward, people move on, and there you are, left in the dust to ponder the point of it all.
Which is delicious and wonderful and such an important, pulse-taking milestone. I can look back and say, “You did it. Good on you, Janet.”
The Great Next is about clearing the deck, preparing, letting go of, and being grateful that my blood pressure is normal, I’m medicine-free and, following my annual doctor’s check up yesterday, I played pickle ball with my grandsons and LOVED IT. Yeh, the old gal still has it, as long as she has the youngins to run after the waffle balls she missed.
Life IZ Good, indeed. The skies are clear and tomorrow promises to be a stunning Southern California Winter’s day.
Home, not really, but to quote Babe’s farmer dad, it’ll do, pig, it’ll do.
A Whole New World
Waking up to snow when you’re a native Southern Californian, not in your own bed, but in the bed you’ve modified to make your own, feels as if I’m gazing out the window of Apollo 13: the glistening, marshmallow puffs of new fallen snow on a street that’s normally bustling with rush hour traffic, but today looks like an illustration from Millie’s favorite story, “Frozen”, is straight out of a fairy tale.
Today, we’re hanging out, cuddling under grandma’s fluffy, dryer-warmed, lavender-scented white blanket, reading books, watching movies, and enjoying each other’s company before I venture back to L.A. where, I hear, it’s been especially gorgeous of late.
This is my first full-time East Coast winter. According to meteorologists, this year’s snowfall ties with last’s for being the mildest winter on record. Since mid-November, it’s only snowed four days in the Forest Hills area. It’s strange how quickly I’ve adapted to the cold; now a sunny 40-degree day feels like summer. My sister jokes that when I get back I’ll have to wear tank tops.
Doom and gloom forecasters warned New Yorkers that the first leg of this week’s Mega Storm 2024 was sure to be a doozy. They even cancelled NYC schools fearing deadly road conditions. But looking out the window, the cement sill inhabited by a pair of heat-seeking doves, it appears the weather guys got it wrong—-again.
But then there’s a lot of that going on these days, being wrong, that is.
Fear-mongering, dogma-inciting, flame-fanning, not considering the “other” side, is scary, as in 1930-40s Nazi Germany scary. Can it get any worse? History’s pretty clear about that. The consequences of polarization makes me want to bury my head under the covers.
Mostly, I do my best to avoid the news, but still, it’s hard not to freak out about all that’s wrong.
My brain, my heart, need space to find the good when everything seems so bad.
This trip, what I’ve been keenly aware of is NYC’s inclusivity. You see positive messages on the subways, in museums, in murals painted beneath defunct train tracts: You belong. Here, you can be anything you want; you’re accepted, but more than that, included. You have a place at the table. In NYC, there are places where you can dine, shop, worship, peruse TV, radio stations, and newspapers, that represent your culture and values. Here, you’re never far from your original home—-wherever in the world that may be. Even Alexander Hamilton in the musical “Hamilton” extolled New York City’s virtues when he sang, “In New York you can be a new man.” You can feel at home while making your new home.
It’s true. I doubt any other city, or nation in the entire world for that matter, could boast such a claim. That’s something to celebrate.
Saying that, I know that inclusivity is a threat to some Americans who would prefer a return to “See Dick Run” 1950s suburbia. But if only, for a second, they’d be willing to immerse themselves in the colors, textures, shapes and sounds of America’s patchwork quilt; I think they might discover being “different” isn’t to be feared, it’s what makes America Great.
Case in point: my daughter’s husband and in-laws immigrated from Hong Kong and speak Cantonese; as a result, my grandchildren are bilingual at ages 2 and 3. What an advantage! And while The Littles prefer the standard American kid diet of chicken nuggets and French fries, they’re exposed to bowls of interesting greens, savory sauces, and special sweets from Asia. But more than anything, they’re dearly cherished by grandparents who dote on them while their parents are at work. My grandchildren, and society, are richer in countless ways because they’re here.
Yet some, without knowing their backstory, would judge them, hate them, because of their race.
I’m not perfect. I’ve had moments of misunderstanding due to cultural or language barriers. But recognizing my own prejudices, I’ve become keenly aware that L-O-V-E has its own language that everyone can understand: It’s visible in Jason’s parents’ eyes; the love they feel for our grandchildren is as big as the Moon. Am I slightly jealous? Yes, because I’m an occasional visitor with less time to bond and they’re here full time. But I can set that aside knowing that when I leave, Our Littles will be adored by their fun, humble, and patient immigrant grandparents.
Welcoming immigrants—-who find their way here legally—-is something we should be proud of. I know I am. My life, and the lives of my grandchildren, are better off because America opened her doors to the Kwok Family. And my family, who immigrated to the U.S. after WWII, too.
It’s getting close to dinner time. I can hear hunger ramping up in the family room. Closing the blinds and turning on the twinkle lights that so delights The Littles, I’m awestruck to see the sun still out and the snow that weighted down the balcony has already melted. I check my phone and see that the temperature is 42 degrees. Wow. Just like summer! The ominous end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Mega Storm of 2024 is a slushy, beautiful mess. Just like America.
I can’t change the course of America, but I can tell a story or two. And so can you. Of the good. Of the worthy. Of the trying-our-best. Of the open hearts and smiles and good people willing to turn off brain-wash TV and social media, and follow Jesus’ command: Love thy neighbor as thyself.
Yes, from all reports it looks like things are going to Hell, but America has too many of us good folks to let that happen. In fact, loving “the other” is such an integral part of the American fabric, Emma Lazarus’ 1883 poem was etched in bronze at the base of the Statue of Liberty:
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Ordinary Greatness
Hope and sparkling crystals and all things magical and misty-eyed are Queen Melancholy’s cousin. Like George of the Jungle, I swing between the two, between longing for Kauai’s turquoise waters and Cambria’s soul-fortifying coast to the anticipation of missing the icy-slick-sidewalk-skating rink of Winter in New York with The Littles and Co.
Life in Big Apple Baby Central isn’t glamorous. In fact, it’s ultra-routine, and goes something like this:
A Day in the Life
- 6:50 a.m. wakeup (I’m still not synced with EST)
- Brew Yorkshire Gold tea for me, Nespresso for my daughter
- Curate the 2-and 3-year-old’s breakfast, something like organic Greek yogurt with honey, egg whites, apple, and buttered toast
- Cuddle newborn (who in a week will be classified as an official baby)
- Walk Big Little to preschool
- Play trucks with Middle Little, more cuddles with Newborn Little
- Assemble and consume breakfast for us adults
- Play some more, unload and load the dishwasher, do laundry, play mermaid make-believe, and on non-weathery days, go for a walk around Forest Hills or to the neighborhood park to slide and swing and interact with dwellers outside our dwelling
Naptime is 12:30 so we rush back, snack, read, sing, then Middle Little snoozes for a couple of hours.
At 1ish, Big Mom and daughter watch TV, usually something mindless like “Millionaire Makeover” now that we finished “Breaking Bad” Round Two, then cobble together a mostly healthy lunch, and relax while one or both of us holds Infant Little.
At 2:30, TV goes off, Big Little gets picked up from school while Big Mom holds Infant Little. About 3ish, Middle Little wakes up—sometimes whiny, sometimes dashingly joyous—-and we watch 20 minutes of Disney+, eat snacks and play mermaids or paint or Playdough or truck or Dance Party or walk to the library or read or play with building blocks and trains.
So it goes, before dinner and post dinner; play, read, bath time, more reading, songs, and sleep by 7:30 for Middle Little and 8 p.m. for Big Little. Us adults stay up, try to clean, read, watch mindless TV, play checkers, before crashing into various states of slumber in between Infant Little’s sleep cycle, which is choppy, but good, considering he’s only 2-months old.
The Littles have about 6 per hour x 12 waking hours highs and lows throughout the day which us adults monitor, intervene and let figure out because that’s how we learn. Let’s just say we do our fair share of reverse psychology problem-solving, hugging, and wiping away tears. Thankfully, the giggles, tickles and grins outweigh the scowls and outcries, “He’s not listening!” I do my best to memorize my wee grandchildren’s comical and endearing conversations.
“Millie,” says Hudson, concerned that his sister is hurt. “Here’s Horsey,” he says, offering her her favorite toy.
“Hudson is crying, Grandma. Go get him,” insists his protective mere 1.5 year-older sister.
The next minute they ‘re snatching and yelling and tattle-tailing and learning how to be less Bam-Bam from “The Flintstones” and more “let’s find a compromise” middle school counselor. Good luck with that. By far, the worst thing I remember about parenting were the fights. Drove me absolute bonkers. I’m pretty sure my generation of parents invented the Time Out. For 1950s/60s kids like me there was no such thing as negotiation between adult and child; we were spanked or got the belt. Fear and the threat of a sore butt subdued, but never squelched, my cheekiness.
Anyway, here in Babyland, twice a month we do a Costco run, and several days a week we walk to Trader Joe’s. Doctor’s appointments and special trips, like going to “Disney on Ice” or seeing Josh Groban in “Sweeney Todd”, break up the routine and remind us that we’re in New York, New York. It’s a hell of a town! This week—I can’t wait—-my daughter and I are taking a cooking class in Manhattan. The How to Make Croissants class was a Christmas gift from my daughter. Time together doing adult things is such a treat, as is learning something new and attempting to bake something decadent. We’ll tote along The Official Baby because he’s the easiest-going of the lot of us. As long as his basic needs are met—food, warmth, sleep, clean diapers, and love—he’s a champ. Really, I think he’s the best baby I’ve ever encountered. Just saying. And the cutest.
Now I know there’s a point to me sharing all this (I blame sleep deprivation). So here goes a feeble attempt to untangle my thoughts:
The other day I checked out “A Year in Poetry” from the Rego Park Library. I crave poetry and have missed the tomes I keep in my van and trapped in the storage unit back in Redondo Beach. I figured that if I started reading a poem a day it would activate dormant brain cells and revive my “being present” pretense while jamming with the kiddos.
Today’s poem by David Ignatow, a poet known for his writing about the common man, seemed completely unrelated to my life until I read it a third time. It’s titled “On the Death of Winston Churchill”:
Now should great men die
in turn one by one
to keep the mind solemn
and ordained,
the living attend in dark clothes
and with tender weariness
and crowds at television sets
and newsstands wait
as each man’s death sustains a peace.
The great gone, the people
one by one
offer to die.
At first, I thought this poem was an ode to Winston Churchill, concluding that Ignatow’s musings had nothing to do with me; The Greats leave behind something great. Me, I’m barely funeral-worthy.
Then the more I pondered the poet’s unadorned words and line breaks, the more I thought about the “people” left behind, how grand they were to offer to give up their own lives. But that’s what we do, don’t we, for the people we love? We set aside self for those who need us.
Then I thought, wouldn’t it be cool, instead of honoring the deceased with testimonials, instead, celebrate those who loved, valued, and supported The Great One; kind of a reverse funeral. Those on the crest of getting old-old—-or well before—could throw a party and tell everyone—family, friends, colleagues, and those who have supported and inspired you—how much they mean to you. Then, when it’s time to check out, you’d do so with no regrets.
“The great gone, the people
one by one
offer to die.”
What I’ve come to realize during this, my longest stint yet in New York, is that amidst the ordinary, the day-to-day, one might even say the mundane, is where true Greatness resides. It may not be sound-bite or statue-worthy, but to me greatness consists of those tiny, sparkly moments—-the cuddles, the bedtime songs, the resolution of a misunderstanding—reminding those of us attuned to wonder just how blessed we are. Truly, to have the opportunity to live this life, to piece together the puzzle, to let go of the ball of angora yarn I’ve clutched my entire life, is a gift. To live long enough to see where the messy, twisting, magical, traveling yarn ends up is just like the bedtime story my daddy used to tell me, and now I recite to my Littles.
“Once upon a time, in a rose-covered cottage tucked alongside a stream in a dewy forest, lived a beautiful princess/prince whose name was …” As the story progresses, there’s the supporting cast, dramatic cliffs and valleys, and in the end, the protagonist lives happily ever after. This, along with a now-mandatory back rub, makes for the sweetest dreams, I’m told.
I might very well die a cubby, wanna-be, inconsequential, human woman, but to my Littles, I’m Winston Churchill, and they’re my peeps which makes life far from ordinary.
Breaking Bad and other News of the Day
You’ve caught me in a Hope Diamond moment: I’m alone. In the apartment. Windows and blinds wide open—high winds and 30-degree temps be damned. I’m in short sleeves. Showered. Hair brushed. Pink lipstick applied. Perfume generously spritzed. Funny how simple acts can make you feel like, well, yourself.
The kiddos and mom took their first minivan journey–sans support staff—to dine with doctor daddy at the hospital. Walking out the door this morning—-a major under-an-hour-victory—-they looked photo-worthy-adorable in their little cardigans, Mickey Mouse jean jacket and sparkly unicorn purse.
I had mixed feelings about them venturing out alone. For two months I’ve been here, distracting, cajoling, feeding, wiping, singing, anticipating, helping in whatever way I could, but today I experienced my daughter taking charge of her new life as the mom of three under three.
What’s that old expression about cutting the apron strings? Time to let the little chick fly. Even if it means she might fall on her butt. Which, by the way, she didn’t. The kids were great, no problem, she reported.
See, when you’ve been a mom as long as I’ve been, the impulse/instinct to clean your child’s wound and apply a Band-Aid never goes away.
You want to help.
You want to solve.
You want to be the Magical One who can fix anything.
But the day comes when you realize you can’t fix the big problems, and even if you could, it’s not healthy, it’s distracting—for them, for you—and it’s time to move on.
Which is that mixed feeling thing I mentioned. I’m going to miss trying to be their everything. Then again, I miss the new life I was just getting used to. Freedom. Travel. Unknowns. Whereas this New York City life, living with The Littles, every day, every hour, is predictable: The mood swings. The clean-ups. The food battles. The sleep battles. The giggles. The unconditional love grandchildren have for their grandparents, and vice versa.
Almost every day my granddaughter tells me, “I don’t want you to go back to Cal-i-forn-ia (she pronounces it like Arnold Schwarzenegger).” To which I assure her that I’m not going home yet, despite the Mary Poppins-red luggage looming from atop a storage cabinet, “But one day I will.”
“But I don’t want you to go. I want you to live here, with me and Mama.”
Mama is the endearing name she calls her other grandmother, the one who’s returning from Hong Kong in a few days. She and her husband have been living in the apartment with my daughter and son-in-law, taking care of The Littles while the parents’ work. I’m temporarily staying in their room while they bunk with Hong Kong friends they met at church. Grandpa or YeYe, as he’s called, has been coming over while his wife’s been gone about five days a week to help out in whatever capacity he can. When my daughter goes back to work, both grandparents will resume their full-time caregiver roles.
I’m in an awkward position. When Mama returns, do I leave? Give her and my daughter two months to adjust to the baby and new schedule before she returns to work? Stay until my granddaughter’s birthday at the end of March? Will I upset Mama because I’m in her room? Will leaving early upset my daughter? If I stay, am I overstaying my welcome?
Us moms worry way too much. .
What I know is that up until this point we figured out the Three Under Three Shuffle and today my daughter ventured off alone. She’s living the life she created and wanted. And I’m sitting in the living room finally having a chance to write, feel calm, not prioritizing the dishes or the laundry. That can wait.
Because no matter what, writing, breathing on the page, having a second cup of Yorkshire tea, and a shortbread cookie, is me transitioning, reclaiming my life, just as my daughter is in the process of reclaiming hers.
She has it, obviously, tougher than me. Thank God she’s a good New York-strong juggler. I don’t know how she does it. But then there’s my 46 years of daily worrying about three kids and now five grandchildren, not to mention fretting about my sister, cousin, ex-husband, nieces, nephews, brother, friends, the environment, the fractured Nation, my former students, teacher colleagues and the children of the world.
You see why I pray?
In the meantime, to escape the question marks, my daughter and I have re-discovered “Breaking Bad” and are binge-watching the series while The Littles nap. We tidy up, make a late lunch, and are lured into Walt’s whacked out world. We can’t believe how much we missed the first time we watched the series. The acting, it’s so good. And the writing, brilliant character development. And why didn’t we hate Walt more the first time around? And love Jesse Pinkman? And since I recently visited New Mexico for a couple of weeks, and my daughter’s “Breaking Bad” Albuquerque Tour when she and her husband drove to New York, we can better appreciate the scenery.
The second time, like spaghetti or stew, tastes better. Maybe that’s why grandmas love being grandmas so much. We get to step back, take a pause like I’m doing right now, pay attention, drink-in the love, be indulgent and supportive, be that soft lap where babies can cry and, from this Mt. Whitney perspective, appreciate the complex art of raising children.
I don’t have all the answers. Although I have strong opinions about the importance of organic foods, nutrition and education. About the best I can offer is a bit of experience, good intentions, and that red carpet bag of love I travel with wherever I go. Oh, and the pixie dust.
“Close your eyes, little ones,” I whisper before singing a lullaby or two.
“Diddle-a-dink-a-dink-a-doo, diddle-a-dink-a-doo, I love you…”
“Think of a thought,” I tell them as I tuck them into bed, “any wonderful little thought.”
I rub their backs and soon enough, after the second chorus of a song I made up and have been singing to wee ones for more than four decades, their little muscles go limp. Safe. At peace. Free to fly to Neverland or wherever else their imagination might take them.
I don’t say it out loud to them but think, “Know I was here, briefly, to guide you, send you on your way. Know you are loved and cherished, just like your mom, even if I’m not always here to tell you so.”
Two weeks ago …
It’s 1 a.m. and the apartment is quiet. The parents are taking their shifts, The Littles are in Dreamland and I’m two glasses into a new bottle of Rangeland Cabernet and the final season of “The Crown”. It’s raining outside and will do so throughout the night. I’m alone with my thoughts, far away from “home”, my California, family, friends, my other life.
For more than a month I have been a full-time grandma and mother to my daughter who is figuring out her new life with three Littles Under Three.
I described our life this way to my older daughter who is somewhat envious of her little sister: It’s like being in a blender filled with pineapple, ice cubes and Matchbox toys. Smooth, grating, flamboyant, super loving, delicious and exhausting.
It’s easy to romanticize Motherhood. Even Grandparenthood. Perhaps it’s sacrilegious to say it is anything other than Holy. It is Holy. And Sacred. And fulfilling. And whipped cream frosting-ed with joy. And really truly amazing. But it is also never-ending, and a little boring, and former-life-missing and ingratiating and thankless and rewarding and photo-snapping and loud and never silent, mostly messy, and often creative, legacy-building—work.
For example: The babies wake up before you’re ready. Some days they’re happy. Some days they need Mommy. Some days they want breakfast. Some days they want sausage or a smoothie or toast or Cheerios or organic tangerines or nothing at all. For now, I’m in charge of The Morning as my worn-out daughter does her best to catch up sleep from a sleepless night nourishing The Wee One. Granddaughter needs to get to school by 8:15, so I roll out of bed, assemble something predictable and magical for breakfast—which she mostly rejects. Her fashion tastes are also discerning— the girl knows what she wants, and anything less can instigate a teen-age tantrum. So you learn to tread lightly and choose your battles, “Yes, it’s fine to wear the leopard print cardigan with a red plaid dress and Halloween leggings.”
“Brush your teeth.”
I don’t want to.
“Put on your socks.”
I don’t like those.
Not the boots? The light-up purple tennis shoes?
No, they hurt.
Not the black coat, the jean jacket with a sequined unicorn on the back? Where is your backpack? Where is your water bottle?”
It feels like I put in a day’s work before 8. Eventually, she gets to school, which happens to be downstairs from the apartment, then I swing into Duty 2: helping with our two-year-old, his Cantonese-speaking grandpa, and weary mom and three-week old baby brother. We play—as long as we can—-to give Mommy time to rest.
Our only break of the day is naptime, around 12:30, when we tidy up, make food, read, return phone, pay bills and chill—out before picking up the Granddaughter at 2:30. When she gets home, we play some more, wash dishes, fold clothes, go to the grocery store, make dinner, clean up, read books, take baths, and on lucky days, us grown-ups get to take a shower.
At 9, I retreat to the bedroom I’m borrowing while I’m in town, that precious space normally inhabited by the in-laws, but has been set aside for me while I’m here for a few months.
It’s 1:30 a.m. and I’m typing, abandoned the idea of sleeping a second night, because I’ve been here a month and am processing the blessings, the life, the traumatic shopping trip to Costco this afternoon with my two-and-three-year-old grandchildren on a Sunday when there were 20 carts waiting to buy eggs and a traffic jam the likes of which I never want to experience again.
Here in the Forest Hills area of New York, one must drive about 30 minutes away to shop at the Long Island Costco, so there’s that, and the flash flood warnings for the second weekend in a row.
My granddaughter vomits when we arrive at The Co. My toilet-training grandson’s pants are wet, and it’s pouring outside as we traipse across the bumper-to-bumper parking lot.
I am mot worn out, but I’m getting there.
I miss Mexico. I’ve only been there twice, once to Tijuana with my parents when I was in middle school, and Juarez when I was a reporter. I miss the unknown, the gentle celebration, the simplicity, the margaritas. So yesterday when both parents were home, I decided to postpone my way back to the apartment after a sun-drenched family pre-nap outing to the French bakery and gleefully skipped over to the local taqueria to treat myself to a margarita and avocado tostada.
It was lovely.
I considered ordering a second drink, but realized I’d likely stumble back, which isn’t a particularly flattering look for a grandma. Upon reflection, I probably should have indulged. A phone call with one of my kids about money woes completely erased all evidence of intoxication.
I wish I was a runner. I wish I was a climber. I wish I was a gymnast able to balance on a balance beam.
Being of service, being in the moment, being needed, and wanted, that’s a good feeling. But I realize, particularly after last Fall’s two-month sojourn in my camper van, that my longing to come up for air, get out of my pj’s and escape, keeps me sane.
In these days of Photoshopped lives, the reality of parenthood—and even sainted grandparenthood—-isn’t always dusted with powdered sugar. It is, of course, a blessing and I’m so very grateful to have the time to spend with my grands and daughter during this special time of their lives. But sometimes, us grandmas need time not to be grandmas or parents or any of the other roles us caring folks take on. Sometimes, a walk, a nap, an escape to the movies, a few minutes to write or read, paint, draw, listen to music or dance, is all one needs to re-boot the soul.
Postscript:
January 1, 2024.
There’s a lot going on, for everyone. The end of a year, that might have been filled with wonder or immense challenges, and the start of a new one. All the resolutions. The diet. Dry January. Saving vs. spending. Getting rid of junk. Being more present. My resolution is to try to not burn the candle at both ends, as my mother used to tell me. Being too much. Trying too hard. Caring for others more than myself. It’s a hard habit to break. But I’m going to do my best to turn this lifelong trend around. I’ll keep you posted.
In the meantime, do what you need to do to make you feel fulfilled, joyful and at peace. Find a way to incorporate the healthy, positive things that fortify and refresh your life. Every day. It’s a tall order, I totally get it. But we only get one go around. Today is the last today we’ll ever have. No more putting yourself on the back burner.
Happy New Year, dear friends. May this be the best one yet!
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