Three things I blame on technology

Little kids no longer learn that telephones go brrrrring. 

Because phones no longer ring, they sing ... or scream or crow or play themes from horror flicks or annoying comedy shows.

Coworkers no longer gather around the water cooler to discuss last night's cliffhanger episode of their favorite television series.

Because everyone records shows, to watch on different dates, at different times. Or they catch it on Hulu or iTunes -- alone -- and can't say anything until they're sure others have seen it. By then the thrill, the urgency, the excitement is gone.

Dogs are no longer taught to fetch the newspaper.

Because the news is all read online. Or not at all.

I really shouldn't complain, though, because:

1. I hate talking on the phone.

2. I no longer work in an office so I never engage in chit chat with coworkers about favorite televsion shows.

3. My dogs don't fetch the paper -- which I actually do still read in print -- because some days, fetching the paper myself is about the only exercise I get because I spend much of my time sitting on my cuss blogging. Yet another thing I blame on technology. (Which is more acceptable than blaming it on lack of willpower and motivation, wouldn't you say?)

Photo credits: Click photos for source.

Today's question:

What do you blame on advances in technology?

A crystal ball widget in my future?

On my browser home page, I have lots of little widgets: some serious, some fun, some newsy, some not really worth anything at all.

One that usually fits the "fun" category is my horoscope, placed near the bottom of the page since I don't often pay it much attention.

This is what it said yesterday:

CANCER by Rick Levine

It's easier for you to talk about what you're capable of doing today than to actually follow through and get concrete results. Accordingly, it may be smarter to spend the day engaging in meetings, phone calls and emails, rather than pushing your agenda forward by executing your plans. Figure out the best way to reach your goals and prepare to make your move.

Good thing I read it after I finished my most recent picture book manuscript and after I sent it off to my agent. If I had read it before, I'm pretty darn sure the manuscript wouldn't have been completed yesterday nor the e-mail sent.

Not that I follow the advice of my horoscope by any means, but I do regularly follow any excuse to procrastinate. And that would have been a good one.

Guess it's proof I should mentally move the horoscope widget from the "fun" category to "not really worth anything at all."

I think a crystal ball widget might be more useful at this point anyway -- to tell me if my recently completed manuscript will be THE one.

Wish me luck!

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons

Today's question:

What's your take on daily horoscopes?

Hungry heart

I mentioned earlier this week Bubby's momentary thrill upon hearing his tummy growl. "Did you hear that, Gramma?" he said to me. "The baby in my tummy went RAAAAR!" Such a sweet sound of confusion coming from my grandson who thought there was a baby in his tummy, not realizing he was just hungry.

Bubby's empty stomach was a source of amusement, not pain. Other than crying as an infant when he was hungry or simply stating "I want something," as he often does now when he wants to snack, I think it was the first time Bubby was aware of his stomach growling.

I distinctly recall the first time I knew what it felt like to be so hungry it hurt. It was the early '70s and my family was packed in the station wagon, driving from Minnesota to Florida. We were on our way to Disneyworld, the one and only time all seven kids and both parents went on a true family vacation. Across several state lines. To a place every kid dreams of going. Just like normal families do.

My dad was -- still is -- a "drive straight through" kind of traveler. So with all seven of us kids making the most of the limited space allotted each, our pale green station wagon with seating for nine ticked off the miles. "Delta Dawn" and "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia" played on the AM radio, and visions of Mickey Mouse, Haunted Mansion and Cinderella's castle danced in our heads as we headed south, paying no heed to the national gas shortage.

Restaurant stops were few and far between, due equally to the desire to knock out miles as well as my parents dreading the logistics of seating nine -- and paying for nine -- in a dining establishment. At one point, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I recall waking from having dozed off in the backseat. My arm on which I'd slept was drenched in drool, my stomach clenched and uncomfortable. When I complained about the sensation and voiced worries that I was going to throw up, my sister snarled that it's nothing, that I was just hungry, to be quiet.

So I was quiet. And waited. And marveled that this, my aching gut, was what all those hungry kids in Africa must feel and why they'd be happy to have the food my siblings and I often picked at instead of eating.

Eventually a restaurant appeared on the horizon and all was soon right with the world in general and my growling stomach in particular.

I was blessed to not know true hunger, to not feel such pangs and worse on a regular basis. I was fortunate that the discomfort of not having enough food was so rare that I can recall one specific incident, not a childhood marked by it. I was lucky that the lack of food was due to traveling -- going to Disneyworld, for heaven's sake -- not poverty.

The same goes for Bubby. He's fortunate that the only reason the baby in his tummy "raaaared" was because he had refused to eat what he'd been given for lunch. A lunch that included many options from which to choose, many morsels to fill his tiny tummy. He had made a conscious choice to not partake.

Not all children are as lucky as Bubby is. Or I was. Not all children giggle at the noises from their tummies; many cry as their tummies gurgle and groan.

Thoughts of those gurgles and groans make my heart hurt.

Today's question:

With the holidays -- and requests for holiday donations -- bearing down upon us, what charities do you typically help out this time of year?

More than words

For the past few months, due to divvying up first my mother-in-law's household goods then her personal items, I find myself again and again considering the items my daughters will find once I'm gone or, as is the case with Jim's mom, incapacitated and no longer able to live outside of a nursing home. I've thought about the books they'll take for their own bookshelves, the knick-knacks they'll split between them, the family photos they'll add to their own albums and share with their own children to come.

It wasn't until reading the comment from Grams on my post about going through the very last of my mother-in-law's items that I considered things the girls might find that I don't want them to find. "It made us know how much we didn't know about our parents," Grams said about what she and her siblings found in their parents' belongings. Her comment made me think about my own tucked away possessions, items that will reveal to my daughters thoughts, feelings, traits I wasn't willing to share while living, ones I definitely don't want them to know once I'm gone.

I'm not talking about illegal activities, funky fetishes or stacks of money with which Jim and I played McScrooge. Pretty much everything I have is out in the open, available for inspection any time anyone wants to delve deeper into who I am, who I was. Pretty much everything, that is, except my journals.

I've always thought the published journals of famous people, long after they're dead and gone, paint an inaccurate picture of the person, put them up for analysis, speculation and scrutiny based on limited information. If they're anything like me, those famous folk wrote in their journals when their hearts were heavy, when they were at their most vulnerable, most sad, most confused, most sick and tired of spinning the wheels of a daily grind that wasn't the life they originally imagined. But those worries, fears, complaints scribbled in private are not truly representative of the person as a whole.

And that's what I worry my girls would find in the many journals I've kept, journals written from the time I was a teen up through about four years ago. I rarely -- if ever -- write in a journal anymore, but all the angst, fears and probably a good share of self-pity of the past sits locked away in a trunk in the closet. The words written long ago are only a portion of who I was, who I am ... at my darkest.

I'm not sure why I've held on to those journals. It seemed better than the alternative, though, better than throwing away all the years of pouring out my heart onto paper. I've lost the key to the trunk in which they're stored, and that's been okay with me. I have no need, no reason, no desire to relive all those old thoughts, so knowing they're in a trunk which I can't open has seemed reasonable, safe.

But upon my death, I'm pretty sure the girls won't let a lock without a key keep them from finding out what's inside the funky blue trunk in the study. So I'm considering what to do with that trunk. Do I pitch the thing in the garbage, locked and unopened? Do I pry it open and scan the journals to see if my concerns are unwarranted? Or do I leave well enough alone, leave it locked, leave it in the closet, leave it until I'm dead and gone and the girls can do with it what they will?

Like I said, I'm considering it. I don't really know what to do. Or when to do it. I'm at a crossroads, feeling a little anxious about the whole thing.

Maybe I need to go journal about it. Commit words to paper in hopes of coming to some sort of resolution, some sort of answer. Just as I did in journals in the past.

First, though, I need to find a hiding place for the new journal. One that doesn't require a key. Better yet, one that will self-destruct after a short period of time so I don't have yet another journal causing me such consternation.

Photo credit: Stock.xchng

Today's question:

Do you write in a journal or diary? If so, what do you do with them once filled?

Sibling revelry

Going through my mother-in-law's old photos of her and her siblings has me considering my own siblings and the few photos I have of us.

I'm pretty sure the center photo below, now 11 years old, is the last one there will ever be of all seven of us together. Funny thing I just realized: It might be the only photo there ever was of all of us together.

"Our siblings. They resemble us just enough to make all their differences confusing, and no matter what we choose to make of this, we are cast in relation to them our whole lives long."

~Susan Scarf Merrell

Today's question:

When were you and all your siblings last together?

Somewhere in time

Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Guest post: Becoming Grand Aunt

Today I'm hosting my very first guest post on Grandma's Briefs. My new bloggy buddy Ridgely and I have teamed up to try out guest posting as part of a "tribe building" activity on SITS. Ridgely usually waxes humorous about midlife; I, as you know, write primarily about grandma-related topics. Today we take turns trying out each other's niches. Read Ridgely's sweet story below, then head over to her place to see my take on midlife in my guest post on her site.

Dear readers, I'm honored to present to you Ridgely:

Becoming Grand Aunt by Ridgely of Savor the Ride

The phone rings. Recognizing the number, I see it's D, my best friend as well as a fellow middle-aged crony. I grab a Diet Coke, looking forward to a phone call packed full of giggles and squeals of hysteria.

I say hello and the screaming begins. D is ecstatic about something. I’m sure of this. Why? That, I have not established yet.

Possibilities flash through my mind. She got a raise? No, she doesn’t work. She got engaged?  No, she just celebrated her 30th wedding anniversary. One of the twins is getting married? No, S got married last summer, and L is in med school.

I can't think of anything else, unless she has the winning Powerball lottery ticket.

She pauses to breathe. I tell her to slow down, quit yelling and explain what is going on. I cannot understand one word she is saying. Pulling back on her throttle of words, she declares, “I‘m going to be a grandmother.”

Grandmother, I exclaim to myself.  She’s only fifty-one. I ask, “Don’t you have to be 65, sport gray hair and wear hushpuppies to be a grandmother?”

She laughs, and then quickly tells me she is on her way to my house. She has a full day of baby shopping laid out for us. We’re going to begin at Koo Koo Bear Baby & Kids’ Store, work our way through BabiesRUs, Baby Gap and end up at Gymboree.

I get off the phone, dazed. Shopping for the baby? Don’t we have nine months? What do I know, I am only the … D’s children have called me Aunt R since they were born.

What do I wear to go shopping for baby stuff? I settle on my pink corduroy pants with a tailored pink shirt with ruffles. I mean, she is going to have a girl, right? I would be clueless around a little boy. I have no brothers or no boy cousins.

Hearing her screaming my name, I grab my pink Vera bag and run to meet her in my kitchen. She runs up, hugs me repeatedly crying, “I’m going to be a grandmother!”

Suddenly, the information sinks in, D is going to be a grandmother; S is pregnant. I helped potty train S. I have been Aunt R since she was born.  I realize I’m going to be a Grand Aunt. I burst into tears of joy.

Here we are in my kitchen: two best friends sobbing over the greatest news a mother can receive; she is going to be a grandmother.

My excitement grows. Visions of birthday parties, cookies for Santa, dance recitals and skinned knees fill my thoughts. I understand clearly how grandmothers love their grandchildren unconditionally before they are even born.

Grand Aunts do, too.

We better get going.

We don’t have much time before the baby gets here.

Photo credits: baby, crib

Today's question:

What new title has most recently been bestowed upon you? Grandma? Grand aunt? Mom? A new job title?