A Pause at Camp Lealea and Tato

Tiny toes with chipped red nail polish rest against my leg. I’ve been waiting for my grandchild to fall asleep, lying with her on the bed that used to be Casey’s.  Eleanor has had a cold, fever, and double ear infection which have kept her from daycare, so she is with Dave and me, her Tato and LeaLea, for the day. 

 

I’d planned to take a little lie-down myself during Eleanor’s nap, but when she drifts off, I stay.  Trying to freeze the moment, I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her fist clutching her flamingo blanket, the frayed bandaid on her knee, and I give thanks that she is healthy. For, two nights ago, I lay beside her in the dark, cooling her too-hot body with damp cloths, and praying that daylight would see her scampering and cheery as usual. She was fitful and hot with periods of such stillness I kept my hand on her back to reassure myself she was breathing.

 

Darkness lasts long when you’re awake and worried. I didn’t have a baby thermometer, the wonderful kind that requires only a quick swipe across a sick child’s brow, so I couldn’t take her temperature. Were the wet cloths enough or should we call a doctor? I so wanted this night to be a respite for Casey and her husband, but I wondered, at what point should we phone them? I wanted to think Eleanor's skin was cooler, but was it?   

 

In the dark, thoughts spiral. How to distinguish that mental leap to a crisis from what is actually happening? What would my mother have done? 

 

Oh, how I missed her that night!  

 

The joy of being a grandparent is beyond expression, and the love and sense of responsibility is intense. My prayers for Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor’s health, safety, and happiness fly heavenward in a daily stream, a flurry that must be exhausting for God. Keeping little ones safe is a job too big for humans alone.

 

Beyond that, I want to be the grandmother my Byeo was to me. Whether I popped the blossoms on Mom’s hostas, scratched Dad’s new bike by mistake, or blew a spelling test, I knew I was Byeo’s “lamb,” bathed in “oceans of love.”  

 

When Eleanor was an infant, Casey invited me to join her as she sang her baby to sleep. I put my arms around the two of them as we swayed in the dark near the crib, Casey singing “Byeo Bye,” the lullaby my grandmother sang to me. I was so touched that Casey had listened to my reminiscences and resuscitated this song that my throat tightened, and I couldn’t get the words out to sing with her. I hoped Byeo was smiling from her heavenly perch. 

 

Casey has asked, “Do you look at Eleanor and see baby Casey?”  And sometimes, yes: in her build, the color and scent of her hair, the rounded cheeks and pouty lips. But while my daughter was theatrical as a child, she has imbued in her little one an animation and expression more apparent in Casey now: in the rise of Eleanor’s eyebrows and knowing grin as she angles for a treat; in her arch retorts and quips; in her stance as she poses, allowing time for a photo. As this 2 ½ year old crosses her arms over her chest and gives us a withering look, or hugs us tight, teeth clenched in “aggressive love,” Casey sighs and admits, “she gets that from me.” 

 

This morning, Eleanor arrived wearing a red Weekapaug tee-shirt that was Casey’s when she was little. Paired with a blue denim skirt, she looked like a mini-camper, and Dave and I tried to fill her day accordingly, mindful of making summer memories that might last even after we’re gone. 

 

First, we walked down to the swamp to pick raspberries. Like me, Eleanor is not a fan of wet grass, and wanted to be carried. She tucked her feet up and squeezed hold when I tried to encourage her to walk, but no. And by the way, she is not a featherweight. 

 

The three of us peered through the tangle of shrub and vine, searching for “mumba-wumbas” – big, ripe raspberries, ready to eat. We cautioned her about prickers and pointed out the pale orange of berries that weren’t quite ready. From then on, she was an able judge; “Nope.  Too orange.”

 

When mosquitoes buzzed round and the heat ramped up, Eleanor announced, “I want to paint!” A capital idea! We retreated to the room that used to be Casey’s, and Eleanor demonstrated her new proficiency in pouring, filling the water cup without spilling a drop. She painted precise, beautiful swaths of magenta and green, then washed her brush, observing with a giggle that the brown of the water “looks like poop!” 

Painting was enthralling for maybe seven minutes, then we headed to the playground.

 

During the fifties, how many afternoons at playgrounds ended in hospital trips after spine-jarring falls when kids jumped off seesaws, scraped knees, and broke bones in tumbles on asphalt? Now playgrounds are carpeted with a spongy layer, and see-saw butt-whumps are cushioned with rubber padding. Playgrounds without pain: a wonderful concept!

 

When we arrived, Eleanor mounted a colorful zebra that bounced on a sizable spring. Until she was ready for action, she rocked thoughtfully, surveying the unfamiliar kids scrabbling up the slides and spinning on the merry-go-round. Then she was off! As she hung from the monkey bars, Dave and I assumed catcher position, urging her to say, “Ready!” before she dropped. Failing that warning, we managed to catch her every time. 

In a triumphant first, she climbed a swervy ladder to the top of the big kids’ slide and sat, so proud, calling, “Look at me!” to our whoops and applause. Gratefully, just when her aging grandparents hit a wall of fatigue, she’d had enough. “I want to go back to Lealea and Tato’s house.”  On the way, we stopped at Sherwood Farms so Eleanor could hug Claudia, the cashier, and buy some cherries and broccoli. At such times, I feel my own childhood summers. 

 

At home after a snack, it was time for everyone to rest. Eleanor wrapped her flamingo blanket around her arm, said, “Night-night Tato,” and without any fuss, took my hand and headed for the stairs. So here we are on Casey’s old bed, the blinds drawn to shield us from light. The fan whirs, one of my favorite summer sounds, and I pause awhile longer to watch my little one sleep. 

  

 

Passed Along

The tiny sticker on the underside of the silver pitcher reads “15.”  Somewhere, in one of the bins and boxes from my parents’ home that have migrated to our attic, is the list of Mom and Dad’s wedding presents. If I wished, I could search out that list, flip through the pages, run my finger down to #15, and find the gift-giver. 

Mom gave me the pitcher just months before she felt sick.  For a while she’d been trying to whittle down the belongings accumulated over fifty-five years lived in the house.  She’d opened the kitchen cupboard and waved toward four pitchers on the shelf, saying,  “Take one if you want.”  Silver is not the usual in our rustic, 1782 home, but I really liked this graceful remnant from an elegant era. 

When I noticed the “15” on the bottom of the pitcher as it dried upside-down in the dish rack, my nose prickled in imagining the wrapped gift arriving at Mom’s childhood home, 12 Upper Ladue, sometime in the fall of 1951.  

Since Mom passed, I’ve come to know her young self far better through her letters.  My father was stationed in Germany and Mimi wrote to “My Dearest Darling Paul” every day. She was nineteen years old and missed her man fiercely.  She yearned for marriage and a time when they could be together, but everything was uncertain, threatened by the possibility of Paul’s deployment to Korea.  In letters to his father, Paul spoke of his loneliness and fear that “this troubled world” and deployment might prevent a future with Mimi.  

He was only twenty-two. A boy far from home at Christmas… and in reading his letters, my heart ached for that lonely, young guy who became my father.

Their handwriting, so familiar to me, appears fresh on the page. Despite sixty-five years stored in a cardboard box, the blue stationary has held its color.  I know how life turned out for Paul and Mimi: they married, had three (wonderful) daughters, four cherished grandchildren, lifelong friends, travels, careers, and collections.  And with their pitcher in my hand, my eyes fill to think that it all lay before them when first Mimi opened that package and unfolded the white tissue within.  

  

Now that my mother’s life has ended and I have moved into the matriarch phase she just left, I am acutely conscious of the passage of time, and each generation making way for the next.  As Dave and I decorated the house, changed bed sheets, put up the tree, and wrapped gifts, I recalled the aura of past Christmases at my grandparents’ homes: candles flickering, flaming plum pudding, stiff needlepoint chairs, fancy dress, and the expectation that kids keep a low profile.  

When my grandmother died and Mom took over, my grandmother’s candelabra found its place on my parents’ dining room table, and the needlepoint chairs, around it.   The plum pudding was dramatic, but never tasted as good as it promised to be, so my brother-in-law’s silky fudge and rum sauce over ice cream replaced it.  And the children?  Far from low profile, they became the focus. Still, those homes of the past made us feel cherished and safe; Dave and I hold the grandparent title now, and strive to embrace our kids and their families in those same ways… minus the plum pudding and finger-to-lips admonitions to behave.   

When my sisters and I divided the contents of my parents’ home, I did not clamor for the needlepoint chairs or the candelabra, and certainly, none of us wanted Mom’s white plastic kitchen chairs, but I really wanted the dry sink in the den. It was the first piece of furniture Mom and Dad bought together, and I loved its heavy, primitive look. Plus, it is scarred with a twisting groove that teenaged Lea idly carved with an ice pick while talking on the phone with friends.  

Since our marriage in 1975, Dave and I have been doing an every-other-year rotation between the  Sylvestros and Ingersolls for the holidays, and this would have been a year with Mom. When we discussed what the new plan might be, our new grand daughter Lexi was just weeks old and Eleanor was still afloat in Casey’s belly, so it made sense to hold Christmas at our house in Connecticut. My sisters, Rita and Francie, and their families, were willing to make the trip and stay minutes away at the humble, but reasonably comfortable, Hotel Hi-Ho. 

For years, the Hi-Ho, conveniently perched on a slope just above the Merritt Parkway, was rumored to have been a trysting destination, a pay-by-the-hour sort of spot.  While its huge, red, neon sign was easily visible to cars whizzing by, more often than not one, two, or three letters were out of order. So the “HO_EL HI- _O” was a local joke until recent renovations spruced it up.  Tucker, Lisa, Paul, and Lexi would stay with us, while Casey, PJ and Eleanor live nearby.  

In the week before Christmas, Dave and I attacked detailed To-Do lists each day.  As has been tradition since first we were married, Dave rolled out his homemade lasagna noodles, simmered the sauce, and assembled two huge casseroles. I baked “Happy Winter” fudge cakes and made crepes. We shopped for non-perishables on Monday the 18^thand perishables on the 22^nd. Mixed up artichoke dip and blanched crudité on the 23^rd.   Ordered window shades for the guest room and crossed our fingers they’d ship in time... They did not. 

The dishwasher was crammed with the detritus of those preparations.  Mixing bowls, plates, ladles, and spoons.  Measuring cups, spatulas, dishes, and mugs. 

“Hon?  Be sure to run the dishwasher before you come to bed, will you?” I said on the evening of the 22^nd. 

I was brushing my teeth when Dave entered the bathroom, grim of visage, and said, “The dishwasher’s not filling.”

“Not filling?” I said, or whatever garbled response might have emerged through the toothpaste. 

Yes.  The day before our loved ones arrived, the dishwasher broke down. When I spoke to the repairman’s rep the next day, hoping for a mercy visit given the circumstances, she laughed and said, “That’s how it always goes.” 

Ah well.  As my sister Rita said, plenty of bonding at the sink. Plus, she’s a party diva and after my desperate call, she arrived with bags of paper goods.  Would my grandmother have tolerated such a substitution? Maybe not, but Mom would have welcomed it. 

Were they there, Mom and Dad?  Beyond the toasts, tales, memories, and love?  Beyond their touch on the pitcher and wooden dry sink?  Beyond their names carried on in their great-grandchildren, Eleanor and Paul?  

After he died, Dad arranged a bounty of signs to let us know he was still around, while Mom kept her peace when she passed. But I have to think they could not have resisted a Christmas visit to see Jared and Campbell - now men in their twenties - on the floor playing cars with little Paul.  To see Tucker and Casey, holding each other’s babies. To see three elfin great-grandchildren in matching pajamas, and little Eleanor, already an activist, pumping her fist in the air.  To see Bill and Rita prancing in Santa and reindeer outfits.  To see my sisters, giggling all the way, smuggling in two of Mom’s sheet-shrouded white plastic kitchen chairs. 

Yeah, I have to think they showed up.  

Waiting...

Oh, waiting is cruel. Whether it be for good or ill, for grades, test results, or a child’s Christmas morning extravaganza, waiting is agonizing.  And waiting for the birth of a baby?  Every month, phase, appointment, and scan holds it’s own particular excitement or worry.

Three years ago, Dave and I snow-shoed a slushy trail beyond the lake at Mohonk Mountain House while yearning for word from Boston’s Beth Israel Hospital where Tucker’s wife, Lisa, was in labor.  Later that afternoon, we skated in circles to tinny Yuletide tunes at the Mohonk rink while yearning for word.  The next day, we stood, yearning for word, holding our plates in the dining hall breakfast buffet as a portly chef flipped our omelets. Kind people we’d met on the trail, at the rink, and at dinner the night before asked, “Any word on the baby?” 

I’d never had to worry my way through a delivery, and as the disquieting number of our “nothing yet” responses mounted, anticipation had turned to concern.  Lisa’s labor was long and perilous… but gratefully, ended with the hoped-for results.  Lisa would recover and heal, and baby Paul has grown into a captivating little boy. He is smart, curious, and funny, but I admired Lisa’s courage in facing another delivery when we learned she was pregnant again.

Mom was still lucid when Tucker whispered that news to her in late February, a secret kept from the rest of us for months longer.  At Mom’s memorial service in March, Casey privately told her brother about her own pregnancy, again, a secret from the rest of us for a while, just to be sure. Casey says she made Mom promise, during those final days in Muirfield, to be a guardian for whatever little ones she might spawn, and Mom said, “I’ll watch over all of you…” So, in addition to the image I hold in my heart of a Heavenly Couch reunion, hoping that my belief and reality intersect there, I am counting on Mom to fulfill her promise.

Due to her previous birth experience, Lisa scheduled a C-section in October, and Lexi was born without the hand-wringing anguish of Round One.  Three years ago, it was weeks before Lisa felt strong and well. “I feel I missed out on Paul’s infancy,” she says.  When Dave and I went to visit two weeks after Lexi’s birth, Lisa insisted on making dinner. To our offers of help and our wish that she relax, she said, “I enjoy this.” She is thrilled and surprised to feel like herself, and have her beautiful baby girl.

Casey planned on a natural birth.  She was in good shape, took hypno-birthing classes, did a lot of reading, and hoped that genetics would play a role: both of my deliveries were smooth.  Sure, my contractions had been painful, but I could imagine worse… and those early weeks when a new infant was in my arms? I picture them now as fatiguing, but surrounded by a blissful, golden halo.  “Mom, I think you’ve forgotten a lot,” Tucker tells me often.  “This is really hard.” 

Possibly. In general, I’ve forgotten a lot.

As a Pilates instructor, Casey is in tune with her body, and as her mother, I am in tune with her. As her pregnancy progressed, her ribs felt bruised and painful.  I don’t remember feeling anything like that when I was pregnant.  Should I worry?  When her baby kicked, it hurt.  I don’t remember anything like that.  Should I worry?  During the last month, Casey’s fingers went numb.  Whoa.  Weird. I definitely don’t remember anything like that.  Should I worry? 

Truth is, I’ve worried a lot. When I was young and my stomach was ballooning, I felt only joy at the baby rolls and kicks within me. Armed with Lamaze training and copious reading, I was raring to go and ready for the birth battle. I wasn’t worried at all.  But it’s been a different thing entirely having our two precious girls facing that miraculous, but arduous, journey to produce life.

My daughter’s due date came and went. With her stomach huge and ungainly, sitting, lying down, and walking were difficult, leaving few positional options.  Throughout her pregnancy, in hearing of others’ scheduled inductions, she’d been resolute in stating, “No one’s taking this biscuit until it’s fully baked!”  But as nights passed, sleepless and uncomfortable, she conceded that a scheduled birth had some appeal.  

For several days, she experienced abdominal tightenings and cramps… were they contractions?  At 1:00 AM, in the early hours of Thanksgiving Day, she was pretty sure they were.  As they became regular and increased in intensity, she was certain. 

Then, after six hours, they stalled.  Argh.

Our nephew, Trevor, and his wife, Lisa, had offered to host Thanksgiving this year since Dave and I had no idea what that day would hold.  When Casey’s husband, PJ, texted us with news of Casey’s progress, and then, the lack thereof, we wondered what we should do: make merry with the Connecticut Sylvestro clan while our daughter faced the biggest physical challenge of her life, or stay home to worry and stew?  

  

It was tempting to text PJ every ten minutes.  What restraint we showed in sticking to an every-two-hours communication!  Without distraction, we doubted we could hold to that, so we picked up Dave’s mother and headed to Trevor and Lisa’s. 

It was a lovely afternoon of delicious traditional foods… and full family focus on getting that baby out. Dave decided to make a video to cheer Casey on, and Steve, his brother, composed lyrics to the tune of Happy Birthday.  We sang with loving gusto, "Have your baby right now.  Have your baby right now. Don't wait til tomorrow... Have your baby right now!"

Throughout dinner, we texted PJ periodically… hesitantly, guiltily… knowing he was busy supporting our girl.  By late afternoon, Colleen, the doula or birth coach, had arrived and was helping Casey (and PJ) stay calm.  Where was a doula to keep me calm?  I definitely could’ve used one.  Finally, at 9:30, PJ texted that they were on their way to the hospital.  Thank God!  That gave us license to go too, and at least we could be near our girl in her efforts.  The baby would be here soon!

Not so fast…

PJ’s mother, Janine, who loves our kids as much as we do, was just the right company as the three of us settled in for what would be a very long night. Initially, we shared our wait with an expectant father and his two remarkably well-behaved sons, a toddler and a child of about five. A big-screen TV ran a series of Christmas movies and religious shows, but the sound was on mute and we couldn’t drum up enough interest to figure out how to turn up the volume or change the channel. 

Every few hours, I allowed myself a walk down the hall to Labor and Delivery to check on my daughter. She was amazing in her bravery and concentration on the work to be done.  Dressed in a white johnny bedecked with blue diamonds, and connected to an assortment of wires and monitors, she breathed slowly through contractions.  PJ sat by her side holding her hand, and the doula stood at her head, stroking her hair. 

It was hard to feel so out of place as I remained by the door, my unhelpful hands clasped humbly before me, as Colleen, a woman I’d barely met, stroked my daughter’s hair while murmuring encouragement and tips. I wanted to stroke Casey’s hair and murmur encouragement… but I didn’t know the tips, or the exercises, or what those lines on the monitors meant, and the doula did.  

What I did know was that the smiley face on the white board was still on the circle that indicated 4 centimeters dilation. Despite 30 hours of labor, that smiley face had not moved. How I longed for an eraser to rid the board of that simpering sign of stalled progress. How could Casey bear to look at it?

After each visit, I trudged back to our post with my discouraging report.  Dave and Janine would look up hopefully at my entrance, and then shake their heads at my words. Dave would return to his crossword puzzle, Janine to scrolling on her phone.  Wisely, I’d brought Robert McCammon’s “Boy’s Life,” a riveting story of a boy’s encounter with mystery, bigotry, and the supernatural. I hoped an escape with twelve year-old Cory might help pass the hours of waiting. 

The young father and his sons received word of a birth around 3:00 AM and left us.  They were soon replaced by two grandmothers, a daughter and grand-daughter who settled in to wait for their loved one to produce. As the hours passed, their numbers grew as more siblings and cousins came to check on progress.  In the muted light of early morning, we all wished each other luck, shared cheese and crackers, and were comforted in waiting together.  

Poor Casey!  Several times, PJ emerged to tell us she was fine, but still no change in that 4 cm dilation. 

The sun rose, and our friend Joanie arrived with pumpkin bread, chocolate covered espresso beans, pomegranate beverages, and cozy socks and fleeces.  Sustenance and warmth!  Cheese and crackers go only so far.  Missy and Paul Sr., PJ’s dad and his girlfriend, joined us, along with a few more cousins of the other family-in-waiting.  They were feeling the strain of the passing hours and were aghast to hear how long Casey had been in labor. 

When I snuck down for another glimpse of my girl, that infernal smiley face still grinned from the 4 cm circle.  The doctor, the doula, and Casey had agreed it was time to nudge things forward with an epidural and Pitocin drip.  Casey was exhausted and resigned, “I’m okay with it, Mom.  Don’t worry.” 

I was worried, but not about the epidural. I just wanted the baby out, and my girl to be okay.  And finally, the 4 cm smiley face was erased, and a large pink heart filled the 8 cm circle. Thank God.  

The family of grandmothers and cousins had received their happy news and took turns visiting their loved one and her baby.  Joanie gave us hugs, sent Casey her best wishes, and headed home. Another expectant dad with his siblings and, again, two remarkably well-behaved small boys, claimed the remaining seats in the room. What wizardry had been used in raising the children that waited with us? And when was our new child going to make her appearance?  

Around 5:30 PM, I returned to Labor and Delivery in time to see a bustle of activity around my daughter. A blue cap placed on her head. A doctor explaining medications and risks.  A nurse untangling another IV line and preparing to insert it. PJ standing stock still with his back to me, holding Casey’s hand, unable to look away from his wife. Casey, weepy, her lip trembling, saying to me, “They’re going to do a C-section. Colleen will fill you in. I’m okay; I just can’t talk about it right now.”  And she turned away to inhale, exhale, inhale, and exhale. 

Colleen was packing up her things in the corner.  “The baby’s not responding,” she said.  “But it’s going to be fine.  I’ll be down to explain everything to you in a minute.”

“The baby’s not responding?” Omigod. 

Dave had left the hospital to feed and walk Casey and PJ’s dog, so it was Janine who saw my stricken expression and rushed to hug me.  “They’re doing a C-section.  The baby’s not responding, but they assured me it would be okay,” I stammered.  Paul Sr. and Missy didn’t speak. Janine and I held each other and sobbed.  It would be okay.  Casey would be okay.  Her little girl would be okay.  Of course they would. Thank God for C-sections.  But, I knew Casey was scared and distressed. And what about the “not responding” part?  

“Mom, you promised…” I prayed to my mother and father, to God and my grandparents… to anyone who might be listening and could intercede.  Who knows how the Other Side operates?  

Colleen entered the room, pulled up her rolling bag, and parked on the seat next to me. “The baby’s heart rate and blood pressure are fine, but she’s not moving or reacting to stimulation.”

 “Then how do you know she’s all right?” I asked, my eyes searching Colleen’s for truth. 

“They’d be running around like crazy if it were an emergency and they’re not.  It was measured and methodical in there.  It’s going to be fine.  Casey’s 9 cm dilated, and the doctor said she might be able to get the job done naturally, but mom and baby have had enough.  They’re both exhausted.” 

Dave returned with wine and lemon shrimp risotto, and I filled him in on the C-section. He took a deep breath and said he was relieved. "Actually, I've been hoping they'd make that decision. It's been too long."   

Elias, an expectant father whose wife was 7 cm dilated, took a break from the labor room and joined us for a glass of wine.  The other families had left hours ago.   How long do Caesareans usually take?

Finally… finally!  PJ strode into our midst.  “She’s here!  Casey’s in repair, but doing fine.  You can see her soon.  The baby’s beautiful.”  He held out his phone and swiped through pictures of an adorable chubby baby with PJ’s cheeks and Casey’s mouth… and a full head of dark hair.  

Welcome Eleanor Jean West!

To see the video composed Thanksgiving Day to cheer Casey on, click below and follow the link:

Sylvestro Thanksgiving Song for Casey

Adventures Everywhere

As I rocked my grandson in my arms in the darkened room before settling him into his crib for the night, I whispered, “You had so many adventures today!”  Paul snuggled against my chest, waiting...  My son and his wife started this routine when Paul was an infant; after putting on his pajamas and reading a few cozy stories, they turn down the lights, and in soft voices, review his day.

“You saw the men fixing the sidewalk this morning, remember…?”

Dave had been taking a shower, and Paul and I had gone outside to retrieve the sponge Red Sox baseball bat Paul tossed over the balcony.  The bat was in the neighbors’ yard, under a small fir tree.  “Do you see the bat?  Can you get it?”

I opened the gate to the fence, he fetched the bat, and raised it proudly for me to see. 

Suddenly, the pounding of a jackhammer shattered the morning quiet.  “Wow!  What’s that?  Let’s go check it out!”  I said.

“Check it out!” replied Paul as we walked toward a sound from which most people would flee.

Paul is 22 months old and fast on his feet, so I have terrifying mental images of him smacking his head on the sidewalk or darting into the road.  So, “Take my finger, sweetie,” I said.  “Good boy.  Thank you,” and we headed toward the noise. 

While one might think curiosity about that thundering sound would override all else, there was much to inspect within the block and a half we covered.  

Paul stopped, pointed, and squatted on his haunches.  “Those are ants!”  I said.

“Ants!” said Paul, his voice gentle and intrigued.

“See how busy they are? They’re helping their friends take food to their home.  See the hole?  That’s their home.”

“That’s their home,” he said… or something close.

With his eyes, Paul followed the scurrying ants while shamelessly I indoctrinated him with the value of even the smallest lives, the importance of helping, the satisfaction of good work. 

Nearby, drifts of dried maple seeds had collected in the dirt at the base of a small sapling.  Yesterday, Dave demonstrated the fun of these “helicopters,” so Paul scooped up two handfuls and tossed them in the air. “Watah-fall!” he cried as they spun and tumbled. 

“Wheeeeee!” I whooped, as I tossed high another handful.

“Wheeee!”  Paul joined in, as seeds rained down around us.

Oh, being with our boy reminds me of the joys and wonder of this world.  The fascinating industry of ants.  The exhilaration of maple seeds swirling as they fall.  The allure of a jackhammer ratcheting against concrete.  Hm.  Yes.  That too.

Finger in small fist, we resumed our walk toward the deafening report.  “Big truck!”  Paul said with glee.

He was right!  A dump truck and a backhoe were waiting to haul away broken chunks of sidewalk.   “Look!  See that man?  He has a pickaxe.  Can you say ‘pickaxe’?  (Of course, he could!)  He’s breaking off pieces and putting them into the shovel.  Look at that big shovel on the backhoe!” 

“Shovel on the backhoe!” repeated Paul, or something close.

We sat on the stairs of a house across the street from the action and watched as I rattled off explanations and questions.  “What color is the dump truck?  That man’s shirt?  The backhoe?” 

I’d mistakenly told Paul that vehicle was a steam shovel, but not wishing to misinform my grandson, I asked one of the men and he corrected me; the good men of public works were tickled to have such curious, enthusiastic spectators. Periodically they waved or gestured toward what they were doing.  In parting, I yelled over the clamor of the engine to tell them they might have a young apprentice.  They called back, “Nah!  This work’s too hard.  Tell him to stay in school!”

Later that day, after lunch and Paul’s nap, Dave, Paul’s “Tato,” joined us for a trip to the grocery store.  As if the Universe had not been generous enough in providing this morning’s backhoe and dump truck, hook and ladder engine #9 was parked in the back of the lot.  “Look Paul!  What do you see?”  We whooped.

Pointing with a chubby, index finger, Paul hooted, “Big fire truck!”  Not just close this time, but clear as day.

Two firefighters manned the truck, both named Mike.    “Fist bump?” Mike #1 asked Paul.  Oh yeah.  Tiny fist met meaty fists as Mikes #1 and #2 greeted our boy.  “Want to sit in the truck?”  said Mike #1 as he jumped down from his post. 

“Whoa!  Look at you,” Dave and I crowed as Paul perched on the seat… too close to the edge I thought.  So I hovered, hands raised in case he lurched forward, while the two Mikes smiled their encouragement.

But there was shopping yet to be done, so Dave and I gushed our thanks, and we all waved bye-bye.  So many dear, burly men in Paul’s wake today, grinning at our little one and waving bye-bye!

For young parents, grocery shopping is one list among many, exhausting if it follows a day at work, an annoyance on the weekend when it takes up free time.  For us, Paul’s Tato and his LeaLea, it was anything Paul wanted it to be, as long as we wound up with the makings for dinner.  

Usually, I don’t take time to notice, much less marvel at the shapes and colors tucked in the shelves of Stop and Shop. But with Paul, I saw the beauty in mounds of shiny apples, ponderous pumpkins, and dimpled oranges.  We pointed, and Paul named them, as shoppers around us smiled and said, “Smart boy!”

We’d decided on tilapia for dinner, and wheeled over to the seafood counter, totally forgetting the surprise that waited there.  OMG! Lobsters! Could this day get any better?

Dave lifted Paul out of the cart so he could study closely those crusty creatures, their waving antennae, and spidery legs.  Paul noted the big ones and watched as some little ones took their naps.  I threw in a comment about playing nicely with friends as a bully of a lobster clambered over those napping babies.

Having never done this as parents – we were too busy!  We had things to do! – we set Paul free and followed him as he dashed down the aisles, weaving around displays and indulgent, smiling shoppers, stopping dead periodically when something caught his eye.  In the pet department, an elderly woman quizzed Paul on animal names, then looked at me and said, “Treasure these times!  It goes so fast…”

As if I don’t know!  We last saw Paul a month ago, and already he is taller and slimmer.  Already he has dropped some endearing words and gestures as his pronunciation improves and he mimics more accurately.  Already, he is more of a person, surer of what he wants… and what he doesn’t.  As I did with Tucker and Casey, I try to freeze our time with this little boy, much as I know it can’t be done.

In the darkened nursery that night, with Paul snoozy in his striped pajamas, snuggled close to my chest, I whispered, “and you sat in a fire truck.  Do you remember the two Mikes?  And you went to the grocery store, and watched the lobsters play with their friends.”

  

 

   

Home Is...

It was the first time our children, Tucker and Casey, had seen the house Dave and I were close to buying.  At ages ten and seven, our kids had lived their lives on a school campus, eating most meals in a cafeteria with other kids and their families, having the run of a gym, playground, and athletic fields, even tubing downstream when the creek became a rushing river during Hurricane Gloria.  Life was good. 

Still, this house was pretty cool.  

We’d toured the interior, and the kids had scoped out the rooms that would be theirs.  We’d stood, all four of us, in the vast fireplace that had been the heart of this home in the eighteenth century.  And then, we’d headed outside to explore the woods-encircled yard.

Dave and I studied the roof, which we knew we’d have to replace.  An unwelcome expense, but then we’d be set for the next twenty-five years.  A lifetime!  The kids raced around, checking out the barn, playhouse, old well, and the shed built around a gnarled apple tree.  

When Tuck spotted a low-hanging dogwood branch, he leapt up and grabbed it to swing.  With a startling snap, the branch split.  Tuck landed on his feet, rattled but unhurt, as Dave and I looked at each other wide-eyed.  We hadn’t bought the place yet and already we were breaking things.

Dave found a strong, straight cedar limb near the edge of the woods.  We propped the sagging branch back into position and sheepishly headed to the car. 

Twenty-seven years later, that cracked branch is still sprouting a few limp leaves come spring.  Twenty-seven years later, and we’ve re-shingled the roof again.  Twenty-seven years later, Tucker is 37, and Casey, 34: both are married, and Tucker has a son.  Both recently purchased their own homes.  It’s not like I wonder where the time has gone: so many stories, milestones, and memories have filled those twenty-seven years… Still...  Yeah.  Where has the time gone?  

The other night, the phone rang around 10:00, late for a phone call.  Luckily, I didn’t glance at the clock or I would have panicked.  An accident?  A death?   No, thank god.  It was Casey, running another load of bins and boxes from her apartment to the new house.   “Mom.  I just had a thought.  You were only a few years older than me when you bought the house in Easton.  And you already had two kids!  That is crazy pants!”

It is crazy pants.  Casey and Tucker are such grown-ups, more than I am it seems sometimes.  But it is amazing to think of all the years, all the living, all the change that has brought me from Casey’s age to 64, that has brought my kids from those scampering little ones to the wonderful adults they have become.

After bringing over four carloads of boxes on Casey and PJ’s second night in their new house, we sat on the rug on the floor (no furniture yet) in the newly painted “NYPD Blue” living room sipping celebratory Proseccos.  It was easy to conjure myself at their age, standing in our foyer when we were moving in 1990, gazing at bare walls... and our future.  My thirty-eight year old self felt an empathetic tug of nostalgia for the former owner as I pictured him standing where I was, giving a sweeping look into the empty rooms before closing the door behind him for the last time.  He had lived in the house with his wife and daughter for forty-five years.

Every so often, I broach the idea of selling our house to move into something smaller, something within walking distance to town and biking distance to a beach.  I’m trying to be practical.  A number of friends have told me, “you want to move out by the time you’re 70, when you still have the energy.”  70!  And yet, incredibly, that’s not so far off. 

I love the idea of a walking, biking life, but I wish I could take this house with me. With its porches, huge fireplace, and decrepit, finally dying, dogwood, it is home.  I don’t want to abandon it. What if someone who doesn’t appreciate its history buys it?  Someone who sees it as old, rather than venerable?  Someone who thinks it would be fine to rip up the wide-plank floors and wrench out the massive beams?  Omigod.  I can't stand to think of it.  This house is more than a building; it’s an embracing friend, and we have been its charges as well as its stewards.  Over its 235 years, it has been infused with spirit: ours, those who have gone before us, its own.  Fact is, it actually is home to some spirits, but that’s another story.

 For now, moving is off the table. Last time I mentioned the idea to Dave, he shook his head and said, “Have to tell you, Lea, I can’t see myself leaving this house anytime soon.  I’m only leaving this place in a box.”  Oh.  That’s pretty clear.  Good.  I can settle in, love my house, and for now, not worry about being practical.  This house is perfect for visits from grandchildren, the perfect place for grandchildren to remember…