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Back Home in the Sierras
I stayed up late to watch the Perseid meteor showers flashing across the 3-D drive-in movie screen above my campsite. I leaned back in my stargazing chair, bundled up in my New York Winter of 2025 puffy jacket, wrapped my chilled legs loosely in a fleece blanket, and waited for the show to begin.
Turns out, Nature’s Viewing Guide and mine didn’t align as The Big Show didn’t crescendo until 3 a.m. .
Still, I thought I’d catch a coming attractions preview so I waited past my camping-in-the-cold bedtime to catch a sneak peek.
9 o’clock. Nothing.
10 o’clock. Nothing.
11 p.m.
Was that one? A faint one, to my left?
Over there, near the treeline, I’m sure that was a meteor.
The Eastern Sierra’s temperatures dropped to the upper 30s. It was bitter cold, but I kept telling myself to hang in there: seeing a girthy meteor would bring me good luck.
And then it happened: A glittery, rabbit tail streak right over my head. And then another. And to the East, yet another.
Like my more than three decades camping at Tuolumne Meadows in mid-August, being a witness to the annual meteor showers was yet another reminder that us humans are not in charge; we’re mere guests of our extraordinary home, Planet Earth.
Waking up early or late each morning—the retiree’s prerogative—having something to do, something to think about, something to create, improve, appreciate, someone to help, people to love—-LIFE—-is such a privilege.
Living in the wild of Yosemite’s bold terrain, even if just for six days, is humbling and the reset my soul craved.
Thank you planetary fireworks show.
I have journals upon journals filled with musings about Tuolumne Meadows; the beauty, the peaceful quietude, the ping pong memory dance that resurrects while I’m here. Ghosts and flashbacks—the last trip before Mom died, my two-year-old’s diaper rash eased by a brisk snow water sponging, my grandson with his watercolors painting Lembert Dome, ranger-led campfire songs, and the Tuolumne Meadows Annual Poetry Festival, the reason I’m here.
I haven’t attended the Festival since COVID then there was the campground closure due to a massive renovation project a decade in the making. They did a good job; the once lumpy roads and ancient bathrooms are 100% better and while they’ve eliminated most of my favorite campsites in Loop A to lessen human impact along the fragile riverbank, I appreciate the beyond-my-lifetime vision. The campground opened last year, briefly, as sort of a soft launch at the end of the summer season. Had I known, I would have been here.
I need this place.
But I’m grateful to be here now. Camping in Tuolumne, sitting along the river with my stainless steel thermos, sipping maple syrup-sweetened milky coffee, watching a pair of fawns cross the water with no fear of me and I of them, being immersed in the soundtrack of the gurgling water as it plunges over the polished rocks—the same rocks I’ve sat next to, and on, and tried to paint to no avail —well, it’s hard to explain what it means to me. It’s an assurance, a reminder, a gift, that validates my deep affection for this National Park treasure.
The purity of this place welcomes all to participate in ways that tickle one’s sense of adventure; unfortunately, it’s the opposite of what most of us experience day to day, the take, take, take crush of originality and playfulness.
So many metaphors.
So many lessons.
If I can’t get “it”, what’s really important as I saturate myself in the beauty of the Sierra Nevadas, then I’m a lost cause. Nature is my teacher and at 70 I have decades more to learn. Being in Nature activates my pores, cleans out my waxy ears, loosens my joints and packs my backpack with hope and possibilities.
Camping in this rugged corner of the world mandates that I and other visitors to Yosemite, remain agile, preparated, adaptable and accepting as I was challenged to do yesterday upon my thunderous arrival when the skies opened and a flood watch was issued. Fortunately, the typical crazy Sierra Nevada weather did not last the entire day and by sunset the sun appeared reminding me that change is good given my drive up the 395 where 103 temperatures soared.
Apparently, I’m not alone in this longing as Mary Oliver articulates in “Lingering in Happiness”:
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear—-but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel;
and soon so may small stones, buried for a thousand years,’
will feel themselves being touched.
Thankfully, I have five more days to appreciate God’s glorious cathedral. Like yesterday’s traveling rainstorms that nourished the tender meadows, reminding the gooseberries and tall grasses of Spring, I, too, am in the process of regenerating.
I am the same person
with the same baggage,
prioritizing,
re-evaluating,
what to take and what to leave behind.
To Quote Sir David Attenborough
Life on Paradise Lane is, well, Paradise. Let me explain …
My stellar view: inner elbow curve 3D screensaver-scape of the—as of noon on Friday—calm Pacific Ocean.
It’s like being an extra on a movie set: the foreground is dewy grass lush with occasional worm-devouring black birds and scampering lizards; the background is a misty, perpetually moving green-grey reel of bumps and velvet blanket rolls. Short sleeve and capri pants weather. Pelicans gliding overhead. A pod of dolphins surfing just past the waves. My babysitting puppy-luv writing and reading pal, Indy, at my side, while my brunch-stuffed, summer-chilling grandson yells commands to his VR device mates.
I’ve been gifted the spectacular assignment of hanging out with my niece’s sweet doodle dog and devoted bearded dragon, Tiger, here at the amazing, relaxing, joyful resort paused along the intoxicating California coast as my niece and her family enjoy the wonders of Europe.
Life can’t get much better.
My man, surfer crooner Jack Johnson, says it best:
“We’ve got everything we need right here, and everything we need is enough.”
I could sit here forever and gaze and gaze and gaze.
While I was hoping to get chapters of writing done, returning to a novel I’ve re-started numerous times since retiring five years ago, looks like I won’t get much accomplished as I’m hanging out with one of my grandsons who’s growing up faster than a SpaceX satellite launch. He reminded me today as he, his dad and I discussed an upcoming camping adventure to the Eastern Sierras that “I he don’t want my summer dictated like I was a little kid”; he wants a say in his destiny; he wants to chill out with friends, play video games, and stay connected—to the internet.
As a former 8th English Language Arts teacher who, over 18 years in the classroom, grew increasingly concerned about the negative impact chronic device reliance has on the adolescent brain, I have a lot to say about the topic. Don’t get me wrong, I love technology, in fact, I just bought a new laptop and iPhone because my old ones were failing. But as an old school schooled adult, I have interests beyond the screen. Young people, at least the pre-teenage boy in my world, not so much.
What I know sitting here, barefooted, zany-haired, excited about tiptoe-ing into the cool water, is that one of my jobs as a grandma is to help The Littles and The Olders realize that there are better, more important things we can than be constantly online. Like learning how to surf, like picking up sticks and rocks and building a Roxenboxen village in the sand, like sharing a conversation over breakfast or playing Bingo or taking the dog for a walk and identifying cool birds.
Bronson and his peers don’t know—-unless we teach them—-that there’s life beyond technology, that it’s OK to be quiet, bored, to read, write, create art, music, that the constant internet noise is filling a void that needs space for originality and invention. Instead, my grandson and others of his generation, stuff, stuff, stuff their brains with junk until there’s no space left for beauty, unique thought—for poetry.
To sit still in Nature and contemplate simplicity expands the soul as Mary Oliver writes in “Breakage”:
I go down to the edge of the sea.
How everything shines in the morning light!
The cusp of the whelk,
the broken cupboard of the clam,
the opened, blue mussels,
moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—
and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,
dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.
It’s like a schoolhouse
of little words,
thousands of words.
First you figure out what each one means by itself,
the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop
full of moonlight.
Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.
Bronson, you don’t know it yet, but soon you and I will be walking along the beach, discovering Paradise Lane, a shoreline wonderland littered with seaweed and conch shells. We’re going to find a log chair, then gaze at the horizon; I’m going to ask you to write what you see, to feel and experience the environment in a way that might feel uncomfortable and strange. But I’m your grandma and this is what I do, this is why I’m here, to tap into the stars hidden by clouds so you can see for yourself what lies beyond.
We are here for a reason. Technology, at its highest form, is merely a vehicle to illuminate and clarify, not stunt our vision and smear what’s important. To quote Sir David Attenborough, “No one will protect what they don’t care about; and no one will care about what they have never experienced.”
Carving a path away from devices is getting more challenging every day I’m with Bronson. The dopamine addiction is real. But armed with colored pencils, watercolor and paper and the lull of the sea, this grandma’s going to try her best to lure him away, if only for an hour or two.
So much, as William Carlos Williams noted, “depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens”.
Wish us luck.
POSTSCRIPT: Two hours later, bathed in art and Nature, focused and intent, my grandson actually said, “Thank you,” for spending quiet art time together.
Chapter 5 The Pilgrimage: A Rose Blooms
The pink English roses Auntie Mary planted 40 years ago bloomed my last day in England. Seems fitting. Because the entire week I’ve been in northwest England those gloved bud cocoons were waiting for just the right moment to be noticed.
* * *
They tell me, “You must have brought the California weather with you” because it’s been lovely, sunny, legitimately hot since arriving at my cousin’s family home. I’m afraid I can’t claim the Bearer-of-Good-Weather title as it was bitter cold most days I was in London; it hailed twice in one day prompting me to buy warmer clothes. But it’s late Spring, I kept saying. Still, I’ll take the compliment as the expression is one of many Britishisms I’ll tuck in my coat pocket.
Luv, luv, luv. Everyone’s a luv. Or a darling or a mate. And the way the Brits genuinely look in your eyes. And how they say “sorry”— a lot.
“Have a lovely day, luv.”
“See you soon, luv.”
“Fancy a cone, mate?” as opposed to “Bro”.
And many, many other expressions of appreciation I should have written down so I can take them back to The States where these days we need a whole lot of love.
I’m not good at math or foreign languages, dates or memorizing lyrics to favorite songs. I am, instead, a watercolor impressionist, remembering the swirl of magenta rhododendrons showering down on my cousin or that raging cold Spring day we hunkered down in her apartment and binged on “Married at First Sight Australia” or that beautiful Walls vanilla ice cream with a Cadbury Flake. Don’t ask me the day it happened or the route we took to get there because I’m not good with data.
What I will remember about my 70th year birthday celebration is the love, for my cousin, for this country, and her people. I’ll never forget talking to everyday folk and learning that …
- Brits are mad at the government for allowing illegal immigrants into the country. They’re mad that unvetted refugees are being “put up” in apartments, getting free mobile phones, medical and social services. (I don’t know if any of their complaints are true or not, but this is a largely accepted impression.)
- Every person I’ve spoken to—from cab driver to store clerk—despises Donald Trump. Brits blame the U.S.’ leader for inflicting economic pain on them. Diesel fuel, when converted to dollars and gallons is about $9.49. It costs Sue, my cousin’s dear friend, a hundred pounds to fill up her tiny Barbie pink Ford Focus which she bought a few years back. That’s a tenth of what she paid for her car.
- As an American, no one can tell you are—unless you speak. If you choose to talk, they want to know, politely at first, your reaction to the president and his actions. Depending on your answer, there may or may not be a sigh of relief, followed by outrage and fear that their country is vulnerable and headed in the same wrong direction.
- Oh, and how the Brits love their football, chanting, singing, illegally drinking on the train on their way to a weekend game. If you’ve ever seen the fans on “Ted Lasso”, exactly like that.
- And as gracious and lovely-voiced as they are, the Brits sure do enjoy their F-bombs. Massively.
- They tend to dress up, make an effort when going out for dinner or a walk in the Village or the park. Maybe it’s the black or fondness for navy blue, but they look smarter, more polished than us Yanks.
- The pub. They partake. Regularly. And it’s fun. Conversational. And depending on where you go, not fist-fight confrontational. They’re neighbors. Typically rooting for the same team.
- Many Brits depend on public transportation. When you grow up in Southern California like I did, riding on a train is like being at Disneyland, it’s a novelty. But for my cousin and others, when workers threaten to strike or a line is randomly stopped, it triggers stress, rage, confusion, and assortment of bloody hell F-bombs. But as they’ve done throughout time, they Keep Calm and Carry On.
- The supermarkets I’ve shopped at—Tesco, Marks and Spencer, Morrisons, Sainsbury, Waitrose and Aldi—all reflect the British palette, reminding me of my parents’ culinary influence: steak and kidney pie, pork pies, blood pudding, sausage rolls, watercress, marrow and other veggies grown in the UK. And don’t let me get started on British chocolate, vastly superior to America’s fake, waxy candy. No comparison. Next time I visit I’ll be sure to bring an empty suitcase to stock up.
Next time.
And there will be one. Bur it won’t be another decade from now like it was the last time. Because I know that this place is another one of my places of the heart. It’s not just the lush landscape or my family’s lore, it’s the beautiful people I’ve met, that I’m related to, who have generously embraced me as their own; it’s slowing down and listening to their joys and sorrows; it’s not having an agenda, but staying open, pivoting, tossing out the To-Do list.
That’s my travel style. No daily check list itinerary. I just want to absorb, take it all in.
* * *
It’s 6:45 a.m., and I’m Christmas-morning-awake having finally adjusted to the British time zone. The south-facing room is already blazing, signaling a toasty start to my last full day in England. Everyone loves the weather, but in the same breathe gripes about how “close” it is making it hard for some to breathe. The humidly level is real, but nothing compared to New York where I’m headed.
My itty bitty carry-on suitcase is jammed with uniform black, white, tan and navy blue clothes and shoes, an olive Bismark T-shirt, toiletries, odds and ends, British candy, a new book about vanlife, my aging laptop, and a couple of trinkets for the grandkids.
I bought two souvenirs for myself: An orange scarf I picked up from a wares stand at Walton Park, and a modest make-up bag with a sardine and two daffodils brightly printed on both sides. The vanlife book, once read, will be donated to the Cambria Library.
I don’t need things anymore. I have so much, given away so much, really, enough is enough. Instead, I’ve become a collector of people. I’ll never forget their generous smiles and willingness to share a chat with a stranger about the weather, a favorite rose, a football team, the high prices at the grocery store, holiday plans, politics, health—pretty much the same stuff we talk about back in The States.
Travel light, love big, is my mantra.
I leave Great Britain a fatter—all the cream deserts, fish and chips and pub-ing—a richer woman. Broken bits have been stitched together; I am content, at peace, ready to step on the plane in a few hours and gather those grandchildren, big children, nieces, nephews in my arms and kiss them and hug them like I never have before; for I have cried at the grave of those I have loved and know love never goes away and there can never be too much.
“All will be well and we will be well in all manner of things.”
Julian of Northwich
Goodbye dear Britain. Until we meet again.
Chapter 4 The Pilgrimage: A Gravesite Chat
A letter to my brother,
You were here with me today, sitting at the foot of our family’s grave, our British kin dating back to the mid-1800s, maybe longer.
I probably don’t need to say it because you were here with me, but remember the day, how it was golden, blue and Irish green and how the church bells rang and rang, unleashing a lifetime of tears we’ve been holding onto?
And not having a tissue to wipe away the years and Cousin Cassandra getting bit by a horsefly or possibly a nettle, then hunting around the cemetery for a broad leaf to soothe the sting.
And me, with my journal, trying my best to soak it all in, what it meant, what it means, to be so close, so far away, from our British roots. All these years. Never meeting our grandparents, Mary and James, but somehow knowing them from staring at their sepia toned images. Who were they, in what ways are we alike? We share the same DNA, but our stories are so different, especially after Mom and Dad left the UK to pursue a “better life”. Which it was and we are grateful.
A robin lands on a nearby gravestone, a sign a spirit is near, our cousin tells us.
Is it you, Auntie? Grandma? Grandfather? Great grandpa Thomas? One of our uncles or baby cousin who died? Your bones have long ago turned into dust, but your essence, dear ones, is ever present.
Uncle Jim? is that you little robin, our steady, guiding presence, chirping love with those twinkling eyes. You were the one, with your trowel and spade, who tied the gravestone of your parents. With that limp of yours, you’d dutifully hobbled down the cobblestone lane from your house on Church Lane, past The Rams Head where you’d stop for a pint and a chat, past the Parr Arms where Mom and Dad first met, to Grappenhall’s St. Wifred’s Parish Church, built more than 900 years ago. Faithfully, devotedly, every week of your life you’d polish the stone that honored your lineage.
Simple people. Simple times.
Quiet and steady. They had few material possessions. But they had so much. And here we are, dear brother, complex and needy, seeking answers to questions they never thought to ask.
The left and right perimeter have been frayed for so long. But sitting here in the damp grass, drenched in a chorus of church bells, magpies, robins and wrens, I can feel the merging, can you? Sewn together like the scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz”. Patchy. Burlap. Exposed.
To be accepted. To be loved. To feel connected. From the tip of my toes to my crown chakra. Aligned.
Brother, how I wish you were here. The sound bath of our connected souls. It would heal you, cobble back together the knickered lad you left behind with the man you are today, freeing you so that when it’s time, you can float away and be with them without a care in the world.
I am here for you. For them. For me, for the entire extended family. The three-prong connection at the end of an electrical wire linking our world with theirs.
In a week I will be with you, celebrating your eldest granddaughter’s graduation from high school. Another passage, another triumph. It’s hard to believe, it’s hard to imagine that that tiny seed formed before recorded time is about to take flight And we, dear brother, have had the good fortune to watch our baby bird soar.
Life is such a privilege, isn’t it? To walk along the smooth cobblestones the way Dad and the rest of the clan did. To hear the banter inside the pub. To walk the bridge over the Bridgewater Canal and picture Dad and his three older brothers fishing and jumping in the green water, terrifying their younger sisters by pushing them in the sludge. Scrumping. Harvesting Cheshire potatoes from the Victory Garden, bartering for eggs from his lordship, Mr. Parr’s estate. Ghosts that bring such solace, such comfort, knowing they’re part of our story too.
Under the spell of Grappenhall Village rain falls from the sun, drenching me in love. To be here, in our family’s village—our village—stirs every bone, every vessel, every cell, validating, grounding me in peace and freedom that this land represents.
Enjoy every moment of your life, dear one, for it doesn’t last long, the bells whisper.
“When you’re dead, you’re dead a long time,” Dad chuckles. “Don’t get old too fast.” Ice-skate. Cycle. Follow the sun. See that jet in the sky? Be it. Leave a trail, be free. Be at peace. And know, he says, his massive smile directed at me, “that I am with you—always.”
Brother, know that I am also with you, as you are with me.
God rest. God’s speed. As we both journey on.
Chapter 3 The Pilgrimage: When you know better….
In the silence of her house, left exactly as it was when her father died three years ago, lives the clashing reality of love and loss;
… her father’s purple plaid scarf and red-lined black jacket tossed across a chair, just as he left it;
… the yellowed, lyric-less sheet music, frayed at the edges from decades of playing “O’ Holy Night” on his prized Steinway piano, a ghostly reminder of his devotion.
That’s what love and grief can do, trap you from moving on, like flypaper to a fly.
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.
No words are big enough, grueling enough, to encapsulate the weight of grief. Maybe colors—black, grey, onyx purple, lava red; or sounds—mating racoons, birthing mothers, the beating chest of a male gorilla—gets closer to describing the emotional pain.
Almost a week ago, when I stepped out of the cab with a carry-on case jammed with three weeks worth of clothing, I recalled the manicured lawn, flowering bushes and trees, the koi pond, and that memory’s contrast to how it is now; foot-tall weeds, overgrown vegetation and inside, squirrel piles of family photos; manifestations of grief.
She’s trying to make sense of it all, I thought.
My cousin’s family home is a 1970s museum, preserved from the days I stayed with her and her parents, the summer I turned 14. Still present, the eclectically placed illustrations of beloved cats, towers of music and history books, Auntie Mary’s blue and white China, the wild, patterned carpet, and family trinkets collected over time.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
When her parents died—Auntie Mary 24 years ago and Uncle Tom in 2023—my cousin became a daughter-widow, the last teller of family tales. Her parents, as I remember and she embraces, were incredibly loving and protective, sheltering her from a most savage world. As crazy as it sounds, I’m convinced they never intended to die; for how would their only child survive without their unconditional love?
Somehow. Over time. She has. One step, then two.
Friends help. Of which she’s assembled a cadre of colorful characters. Family too, to a lesser degree. But mostly my delicate, sensitive cousin has wrestled grief by herself—-with the support of her three beloved cats, Shakira, Bonnie and Romeow, who’ve given her a purpose and reason to open the drapes.
Often, she gets stuck, in her head, in her jam-packed London house, in the time capsule of her childhood home; it’s better to collect new things than sort out what’s old.
When I first met my cousin in 1970, I knew she was clearly different from my friends back in California; an empath (before anyone knew of the term) a tender-hearted soul who wouldn’t dream of hurting an ant, which, to this day, she insists on saving, scooting them out the door with a funnel and piece of cardboard, then wishing them well, “Off you go.”
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Extreme. Unusual. But that’s my eccentric, compassionate, misunderstood, mistreated, creative, loving, intelligent, romantic and beautiful inside and out, cousin whom I’ve grown to appreciate, and dearly cherish, over the last several weeks I’ve been here.
I traveled to England for my 70th birthday month, with the excuse that I’d help my cousin sort out her life as she transitions from her flat in London to her family home in Stockton Heath. Instead, it’s she who has helped me.
Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices!
The room is silent as my cousin sleeps upstairs in her parents’ bed, feeling safe, feeling loved feeling less alone.
O night divine, O night when Christ was born!
I can’t help but wonder where I ‘ve been all these years, why I abandoned my cousin and my connection to this country? Why didn’t I sense, why I didn’t respond, why did it take me so long to follow my gut and do something more than Facebook-message condolences and heart emojis? She is, after all, family.
Back in April when I was babysitting my friends’ pups, the idea of being in England for my BIG birthday was a random thought. I booked a flight hastily, uncharacteristically. Now I know why. Being in the land of my parents’ birth has tied together loose ends, renewing a treasured relationship, and inspiring a sense of adventure and travel.
Being 70 is a gift, a second chance to do-over, do-better, be more intuitive, responsive, and stop postponing. Had I not reached this milestone, I probably wouldn’t have had an “excuse” to be here, which is sad, stupid and regretful. But when you know better, you do better.
Chapter 4 The Pilgrimage: A gravesite chat.
The Pilgrimage Chapter Two: Settling In
It seems it takes a while, two weeks in a place with an address and predictable bus and train lines, before I feel cozy, settled in. This was, and is, my goal when traveling; I want to be in a place long enough to understand it and my relationship to and with the environment. But this particular grey-skied ancient island of legacy is different: it’s the place of my parents’, brother, aunties, uncles and cousins’ birth.
I was here a decade ago with my youngest daughter who, thank God, did all the navigating. It was a swift, mostly sight-seeing trip which made me long to come back and settle in, become a neighbor, a friend, record the sights and sounds so that I’d always remember that while I’m a California-American, my DNA and soul’s history resides here.
It took me ten years to return. Ten years! I aged from 60 to 70, my grandsons became teens, I retired from teaching, sold my house, welcomed four whipper snapper grandchildren into my heart, became a vanlifer, traveled four times along the Pacific Northwest, immersed myself in California’s Central Coast, lost my beloved dog, took my first cruise, visited Hawaii, the Caribbean with my niece and her family, flew to New York about 30 times, fell in love with Canada, saw The Wizard of Oz at The Sphere in Las Vegas with my buddies, Julie and Ken, and camped and camped and camped and camped, never wanting the adventure to stop.
A decade is a long time, but it vanished in a snap. Like this trip. At the start, it felt like I had forever—three weeks–but today I’m on the last leg of the journey.
Today, my cousin and I leave the greater London area for the northwest of England where I hope to help Cassandra re-envision her parents’ home in Stockton Heath. It’s hard to move on, to claim the turf your parents left behind, but that’s what parents want for their children; to embrace life to the fullest, reject worry and fear, to live boldly, joyfully, and know that our love for our children is eternal.
And all that stuff we acquire and fret about, it’s just stuff, It’s the memories that matter.
Like our walk along the Thames River, in the rain, in the cold, misty-eyed at seeing the Houses of Parliament skyline, chuffed at dropping by The Globe Theater gift shop after enjoying the bounty of Borough Market on a Sunday afternoon. Front row seats to The Mousetrap, which has had a continuous 74-year London run, after indulging in a pre-show dinner at the flamboyant Sarasiro.
Then there was my birthday dinner filled with laughter and conversation as we enjoyed afternoon tea at the cat café in High Court and later a fish and chips supper at a historic pub, The Flask. Trips to Marks and Spencers and Waitrose, consuming bottles of European wines, Red Leicester, Cheshire and Lancashir cheeses as we cheered and jeered EuroVision finalists and Married at First Sight Australia hits and misses. Staying up late. Sleeping in. Rain, hail and teases of sun. Spectacular and normal. Which is what I had hoped would happen; settling in as remind myself why I love the people of my people.
Distance is a killer. Relationships are shoved to the back shelf, left in the dust and cobwebs, forgotten until one finds an excuse to finally clean out the pantry. For me, it was turning the big decade with a daunting zero, an opening that nudged me to jump. Gleefully, what I’m discovering is that on the other side of the portal is love, love that shows up in all kinds of ways; in rowdy Ted Lasso-esque, blue-scarfed football fans chanting on their way to Wembley Stadium or in the sweet recorded “See it. Say it. Sort it,” or in phrases like “Fancy an ice cream?” printed across a Walls frozen treats truck.
I’ve missed out; my people, my family, this place.
But I’m here now, that’s what’s important, with nine days to go before I wrap up my bucket list journey. The next leg will, no doubt, be emotional as I visit Grappenhall, the family gravesite, meet-up with relatives, and enjoy a pint at Dad’s pub, The Rams Head. While it’s taken me far too long to get here, I’m grateful I finally listened to my heart. I’m grateful to my cousin, now a best friend and a sister, the both of us celebrating an appreciation for our shared lineage. The journey of discovery continues.
The Pilgrimage: Chapter One
Welcome to Jolly Old England. A little over two weeks ago I decided to come here, to my parents’ beginnings, the place I could have been born but wasn’t because my father lusted for post-war adventure and an opportunity to improve his life and my mother’s and brother’s standard of living.
Boy oh boy did he. All three of us kids—now old people ourselves—graduated from college, held professional careers, owned homes, raised kids, lived honorable lives and now have the good fortune to have been able to live long enough to look back, reflect, and be abundantly grateful for the world our parents bequeathed us.
Which brings me to Great Britain, the nation of my DNA (so says my 23 and Me Ancestry findings which determined I’m 99.3% British). I am here in Mom and Dad’s homeland to discover, feel, and put the what-does-it-all-mean? puzzle pieces together during the earthquake-aligning month of my 70th year on Planet Earth.
To be alive this long is a privilege my mother, aunties, and other female members of my family never experienced. In a sense, I am also here for them, maybe even my adult children, grandchildren, and nieces, so that I can better understand the whole and broken pieces, how they fit together, and what can still be salvaged that will enhance the next chapter called Old Age.
The Who Am I question continues to intrigue me as I open and close doors, become limber and arthritis stiff, and seek answers I don’t even know I need to know. My hunch is that I will unlock a fragmentation, a jarring of what might have been, unleashing a cheeky, jubilant state of freedom that will fuel the road ahead.
Something has been stuck. I can’t put my finger on it, but way back when I got off track, my little girlness vanished and I became serious and responsible. I lost my way. MY way. My giggles, my impulsivity, my dancing in the street for no particular reason other than joy, for some reason dissipated in the mist of the day-to-day. But now I’m in the mood to reclaim it.
Being here is proof.
How did this spontaneous-for-me trip come to be, you might wonder? Being in Britain, being back on my family’s home turf, was a back-of-my-mind bucket list dream. I’ve been postponing the journey for more than a decade, making excuses, “One day, I’ll go back,” I promised myself. When a property I was looking to invest in fell through, I decided it was a sign: Do it! What’s holding you back?
Fear.
Money.
Traveling internationally by myself.
Getting lost.
Making a mistake.
But there’s something about Damn, I am officially Joe Biden old that pushed me out of my comfort zone.
So with a pressing sense of time-is-ticking urgency, I texted my London-based cousin to see if she was busy during May and as fate would have it, her calendar was wide open; she welcomed me to stay with her and her three beloved felines. Amazing! Cassandra further revealed that the timing was perfect as she was months away from relocating from her London cottage to her deceased parents’ home near Warrington. Not only that, she said, she wanted a mate to be a London tourist with before moving north.
It’s all working out. The flight from New York to Heathrow was great; I got a whole row to myself; my back didn’t hurt thanks to a back zapper device I Amazoned before the flight. Triumph No. 1. Victory 2: I figured out—by myself—how to get from the airport to the hotel where I had a restful first night’s sleep. These accomplishments might not seem like a big deal to the well-traveled, but to me such solo successes are confidence-builders prompting the possibility of future international travels.
Later today, Cassandra and I will go touristing in London, but honestly that’s not why I’m here; I’m here to reconnect, to feel, to sing, to be proud of my family, my life and all the zigs and zags that brought me to this moment. I’m here as a seeker, absorber, giddy to discover what turning 70 in the land of my heritage uncovers.
Stay tuned.
State of Being
Aloha.
Our last day in Paradise and like most people who visit the lush island of Kauai, we don’t want to leave.
It’s been rainy, a bit chilly, windy and seasonably weather-rich in Princeville, our home for a week as we celebrate my kind, brilliant and insightful nephew’s 11th birthday, which happens to be today, April Fool’s Day. In a blink of an eye, he’s 11. In another breath, he’ll be graduating from college. It’s all going by so fast.
So ….. I get up before dawn and go to sleep long past exhaustion to squeeze in as much life as I can. I drink a second, and sometimes third cup of Kona coffee, savoring the symphony of zebra doves, red-chested cardinals, mynas and all the birds of this jungle orchestra that beckons me from sleep. Intoxicating. Like Aladdin’s magic lamp, dawn’s misty curtain lures me from slumber as my nephews and cousin snore, each of us doing our own thing, restoring our souls in our own way, in this place of green.
It’s no wonder I dream of living here. I can never get enough. But then I wonder if it’s because I’m with family, hanging out, getting to know and love each other better, that’s really what I crave.
The geography. A neon 3-D postcard. Virtual Reality, as the young people call it. I’m staring at the saturated mountains, defined by light, hidden by threads of wet cotton, illuminated at the edge of the Na Pali Coast by a chunky rainbow. I’m on a movie set, jarred into reality by the leaf blower tidying the golf course. I have a little more than 24 hours to memorize this view before returning to the mainland and jumping into my next adventure—more birthday-ing with my nephew at his home perched along the California coast, a slumber party family gathering promising fun and fellowship. Much to look forward to as I give-in to the need to wrap myself in a cozy blanket and shelter from the tradewind.
Minutes later, the blessed tropical sun reappears and, according to Apple Weather, shows up with its friend—the clouds—for the next hour. Something about the sun that feels uplifting and restorative. March in Kauai is temperamental and wonderful for those of us who don’t appreciate extreme humidity and heat. Reviving. Stimulating to the pores.
The red jungle fowl proclaims, “I’m here, I’m here!” How can you not smile? I’m here. I’m HERE!
A brief Tiki Room rainstorm surprises from the East, car=washing the landscape. The birds grow quiet. Why don’t they sing in the rain? I wonder. Are they napping? Eating breakfast? Tending to their young? Just as quickly, the sun re-appears reminding me that it’s all—the wanted and unwanted—a grand metaphor:
Nothing lasts forever. Not your problems. Not your stage of life. Not a Hawaiian vacation. Not childhood or old age. It’s all fleeting. Compost. The sounds, the mystery, the orchestra, waves, wind, the rainstorms, never to be experienced exactly this way again. Enjoy. It all.
My coffee is cold, yet still tastes Kona delicious. I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and am once again cozy and warm.
The mountains are lime green, as my nephew pointed out the other day, velvet to the touch.
So close. So far.
I hike up the muddy trail, gazing at the turquoise sea, then slide down Big Thunder waterfall before it vanishes to tomorrow.
My dear nephew. Growing up so fast. Happy Birthday, Sweet Dylan. May you always be the person you are today, kind, brilliant and full of Aloha wonder.
Delay No More
Flight delayed, an hour before departure, which seems metaphoric, symbolic, of the last six weeks, six months, six years, six decades of my life thus far: I’ve been in motion, stalled, a blur of quickly snapped iPhone images that document people, events, moments, but never saturates into the meaning, the purpose, of anything. It all goes by so quickly like the subway ride from Queens to 57th Street, stand up, sit down, rumble, rumble, the woman with the knitted pink pig hat gets off, replaced by the unshaven young guy with a snowboard. No one looks at each other. No one talks. Most are hunched over a phone, ear-plugged, transfixed by idle distractions.
I was here in the NYC winter-that-never-ended, witnessed the birth of my dear sixth grandchild, tried to help, tried to reassure baby’s brothers and sister that they are still the center of the universe in their grandma’s eyes, eyes that are increasingly narrowing with etchings of age.
That’s it, that’s the muffled soundtrack playing in the background: The aging process and what it does to a person, not just physically, but spiritually to us seven-decades-approaching Class of 1974ers; we have officially breached the dugout of youth and are now sizing up health statistics, following doctor’s orders, taking statins and blood pressure medicine because we’ve entered the “serious shit” phase of life. Suddenly us almost 70-year-olds become aware of quality of life parallels with our deceased parents and realize that our stop watch is, despite mild hearing loss, ticking louder.
What does it mean? Why does it matter? I encouraged my eighth grade English Language Arts students to ask these questions as we analyzed impactful literature and non-fiction texts; who knew that one day I’d apply these archeological questions to my own life? And so soon?
Writing helps me figure stuff out, which I haven’t done for far too long. Painting has the same impact as the watercolors wander across the page, discovering new versions of its translucent hues.
Always, I’m composing, reflecting, wondering—even without the vehicle of my journal or a laptop.
Do I matter?
Did I matter?
Will I matter?
Does any of it matter?
Of late, I’m not entirely sure. Of anything. I keep questioning: What’s next? Where should I be?
I want to be in so many places, but here I sit at the airport, delayed.
When my mom was my age, she wasn’t. She died a horrible death from emphysema. She suffered health wise for so many years. She was such a giver, rarely making time for herself. I wish, I wish, I wish, we had had more time in our later years to hang out and get to know each other; love, just love, with no expectations or responsibilities. The same thing is happening a generation later; my adult children have such full lives; there’s little time left in the day for simple Mom and Me conversations. I get it, just as my mom got it, but now that I’m approaching that decade that means you’re really old, you realize the preciousness of time. We ain’t got all that much of it left.
My friend Julie and I tear up at the thought. So does my cousin, who has already crested the big 7-0. The reality is hitting.
My friend from church, Lucy, died this week. It sounds like she knew death was imminent and prepared by leaving her friends and family a note on her Facebook page: “Though I am no longer here in person, please know how much joy you brought to my life. There will be no formal memorial service; instead, I ask that you honor my memory by being good to yourselves. If you feel like giving, the best “charity” you can support is your own well-being and your own family. Take the trip, have the dinner and hug your loved ones a little tighter today for me.”
Did she know, I mean how could she, that I was hesitant to book a bucket list trip to Down Under because of the long flight and the cost? Fear was paralyzing me.
Even in death, Lucy was teaching me. The last time we were together was three years ago at our mutual friend, Joanie’s house, enjoying a beautiful lunch in the garden. Essentially, she advised us to, “Get on with it. Stop delaying your life.”
A message from heaven, and maybe a message to you as well as I sit in my delayed state of being, typing, thinking, once again parachuting into the next chapter: Adventure.
I declared to my daughter before I left that I’ve decided to go to Australia and New Zealand in May, my birthday month. Then every year for the next decade I’m going to do something out-of-the-country/comfort-zone brave.
Delay no more.
Hot Cocoa Blessings
Exhausted. Euphoric. Somewhat crippled. Grateful. At peace.
These are my emotions as I wait to board the plane at JFK, bound for the Southland and in a few days the Central Coast of California. I’ve been here for a little more than two weeks, camping in the living room with the Kwoks’ lively little ones, a large pup, a moody cat, the Cantonese-speaking in-laws, celebrating fourth and second birthdays, Thanksgiving and everyday irresistible moments like the appearance of Elf on the Shelf, dubbed Apple, cookie-making, nightly pregnant-daughter foot rubbing, singing K-Pop Demon Hunters songs and fully embracing all of the tear-producing moments of grandmahood.
I’ve been taking photos in my mind hoping the images will snuggle under a comforter next to the fire and scald my tongue like the first sip of hot cocoa, so I never forget the wonder in the eyes of my grandbabies. Their voices. Their zeal. Their unfiltered expression of everything. Their belief.
At this age, five and under, kiddos believe in goodness and grace and magic and, being in their company makes me believe as well.
I am a grandmother.
The almost oldest woman in the family.
I’m here. I’ve arrived. I’m the old person who doesn’t feel old but has the driver’s license to prove it.
It is rather shocking this growing old business because it just kind of creeps up on you like what happens when preschoolers turn into teenagers. One day they’re little, the next moment Grandma’s in town and they’d rather be with their friends. It makes me sentimental; everything changes so fast, kids grow up in a week. But, as Bruce Hornsby sings, that’s just the way it is.
In the meantime I do my best to draw out the silliness in my too-cool-for-school Big Kid grandsons by ripping out my cringy harmonica when I pick them up from middle school or wearing a surfer girl blond wig, all to remind them not to take life too seriously. That’s my Mary Poppins Grandma Personna: Playful. Huggable. Up to mischief. Mapping out adventures. Having sweet conversations in-between Star Wars and chef-ing.
I love being a grandparent. It really is the reward people tell you about, the icing on the cake of life.
Watching the Littles and the Big Kids transform into even more delightful beings both familiar and new, is that wink from God that all stages are precious, including my own.
So here’s to a safe flight and the next time. Thank you, New York City, and my East Coast family, for reminding me to toughen up and stop complaining about the cold and the rain and the threat of snow. It’s a Wonderful Life.
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