Things are getting better with commemorating birthdays (with one major exception which I’ll write about soon.) But this post is right on time.
Yes, of course I knew it was your birthday yesterday. You should have received our card and I know you got my text. You are the first person I have not profiled after I decided I would not let any family member’s birthday go unmentioned. But . . . your dad and two brothers arrived here on Saturday, after spending the night with Aunt Liz in Canton. We miss you and Manny and your Mom so much and wish you were here. So much chaos and confusion: food and swimming and all kinds of things to organize. Your family spent this afternoon with Aunt Lucy—a biohazard and a trip to another park and Nate did a wonderful job playing with the little cousins.
I think you need to talk to your brothers about the impact of words. They were telling friends you are in rehab!
During these past few days my obnoxious children have been texting back and forth unflattering pictures of the oldest female sibling. I have divided up the family photos— well, most of them— a never-ending project. There are numerous photos going the rounds which my children, now they are all grown up, wish had never been taken.
I suspect that the Ament household in Virginia has been filled with the sounds of soccer for the past weeks, and that the five male members of the family have (politely) told Gody it is soccer or nothing!
But since today is Gody’s birthday I hope there is a little pause, tho’ even I intend to join some of the Grosse Pointe family tonight for a little soccer which I recorded. I was going to post a photo of Gody and Al at one of Manny’s Randolph Macon soccer matches, but she deserves to be feted on her own.
That’s July third and the day our first child was born. The story is that I refused to have a baby on the Fourth, but I don’t remember it that way. Fast forward to 2018 and Al is fifty one today. We spoke to him earlier and he had spent the afternoon doing one of the things he likes best—watching soccer. Until he was a teenager, his sport was baseball, but when he sprung up on his way to 6’7”, the high school basketball coach grabbed him for what would be a pretty good team. A college basketball scholarship followed. Four years in Africa introduced him to soccer and that became a passion. His four sons followed his interest in soccer, but now the younger two have decided to play basketball.
I’m caught up with forgotten birthdays just in time to observe a birthday which falls today.
We’ll celebrate with a combined Memorial Day/visit from a favorite cousin/birthday party. The photo above is the “everyday” Lucy, who cooks, cleans, gardens and effortlessly visits the grocery store with three kids in a cart. Then there is the artistic Lucy, who tackles creative challenges, writes and graces the stage. We love them both.
I was doing pretty well at the “post about family birth days on the day” resolution, but as with so many things I messed up once which gave me, with my twisted logic, good reason to mess up a second time. If there were a bunch of birthdays in early May I would have continued my sloppy ways, but I have a little time to make amends before I have to write about the Royal Wedding. Or at least about Marmite.
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| The serious side of Frederick |
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| Veronica (l) with big sister Josephine |
I am dividing up my books into five categories:
) to parent: he's a smart, active, loving, FUNNY, wild, faith-filled tornado and EVERYDAY he makes me laugh!" Basketball season is over and we are looking forward to seeing Henry take the mound for his baseball team. Happy Thirteenth Birthday, Henry.
Maybe this will become a favorite photo. I was reading an article the other day on the effect of one raised eyebrow, illustrated by photos of Nicole Kidman, Jack Nicolson and Vivien Leigh. I think Henry could join the club.I already knew this Easter would be different. Not only was it so early, but two of the three daughters who usually share the day with us were leaving town. And the third? Read on.
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. . . is Patrick’s twentieth birthday. He’s our second oldest grandchild and is seen here with our second youngest (for a day or two.)
In my last post I included a photo of Lydia’s paper on polar bears. It was jarring as I looked at it (in a good way, Diddy.) When I was nine I would have hand written the whole thing and possibly given a rough idea of a bear's appearance with a hand-drawn blob. I was over fifty before I typed anything on a computer or figured out how to import a JPEG into my text.
I can’t remember learning to write, although I am grateful to whoever taught me that I was not forced to use my right hand. Like my mother I am naturally left-handed. She grew up in an era when being left handed was a mortal sin and I never noticed if she had been forced to make her right hand dominant in other tasks. I know I grew up with my left hand dominant for some tasks (knitting, sewing, throwing a ball) and using my right hand for other action (digging, hitting a rounders ball etc.) Once we could write in block letters, we waited for the next stage of growing up—learning cursives. I still have a few books with my name laboriously written on the fly leaf.
But then, after the 11+ and my entrance into Enfield County School, we had to give up cursives and learn “school writing.” We were destined for a life of essay after essay, tests with nary a “multiple choice” question in sight and (no-one dreamed of computers at the time) years of wielding a pen or pencil. School writing was basically cursive, but with all the time-consuming loops and flourishes smoothed out or removed. It was not unattractive and it was certainly faster to use. I developed an unsightly, ink-stained “bunion” on the side of the middle finger of my left hand. The ink disappeared in the first decade of my post-graduate life, the bunion took a little longer to go. At the same time my handwriting reverted in part to my earlier style of cursive, incorporated a Greek epsilon or two and became an unpleasant, messy hybrid.
Fast forward to the age of computers. I continued for many years to write letters by hand until it struck me that there were advantages to typing a letter. Mis-spellings were easier to correct, forgotten paragraphs could be inserted, unfortunate phrases or comments could disappear with no tell-tale remnants of Wite-Out. The warmth of my letter could perhaps compensate for the rigid medium. There are still a few letters which must be hand written, and I dread letters of condolence, not because I have no sentiments or sympathy to express, but because I often have to start again as my hand, and the brain that controls it, run amok across the page and nouns appear where I had intended to write verbs and so on. Even totally unintended words tend to make an appearance.
My grandchildren are products of their time. When we write birthday cards, with our sentiments lovingly expressed in our current version of cursives, we are often present as they open the cards and attempt to share our words with their family. Good grief, one would think we were writing in Linear B and they needed Michael Ventris to come along and put them out of their misery.
I have always loved my granddaughter’s name. Sounds like something out of Jane Austen. Within her family she has always been known as “Diddy.” Not sure what that sounds like.
The winter Olympics came to an end yesterday. I spent most evenings of the two week event watching the highlights on NBC. I could also have watched most of it live during the day on both an American channel and the Canadian channel (CBC) which comes to us across the Detroit River. I did spend time once watching CBC during the summer Olympics and they are nothing if not patriotic. I remember watching the Canadian team skeet shooting all day and I was afraid that during the winter event I would be forced to watch curling—though lo and behold curling certainly came into its own this winter. It was hard not to giggle as I caught sight of the American men’s curling team and remembered an article I had read early about some of the shenanigans in the Olympic village, attributed to “perfect bodies in skin tight lycra.” These guys looked like they trained on beer. However, they won the Gold Medal, and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?
Personally, I don’t think it is and I was disappointed that the US sports writers and TV commentators did a great disservice to their country's representatives. Even before the games began we were regaled with little vignettes of a handful of skaters and skiers who the press though would win gold. We were introduced to old home movies of their beginnings in competition and a long sob story about injuries and rehab, while we were tacitly assured that these games would be the crown of their achievements. (And note, it was mainly the marquee sports that got selected.) Once the competition got underway, a newspaper which I usually enjoy reading published a long article entitled, in a rather large font, “U.S. Is Falling Down in Medals Race.”
Rachel Bachman who wrote the article picked the team to pieces, mentioning athletes by name, though I will just use initials, “HB, the world record holder in the 1,500 meters, finished eighth in the race here and failed to medal in the 1,000. . . Gold-medal favorite aerials skier AC didn’t make the final . . . MS, the most dominant slalom skier in the world, vomited before that race and finished fourth . . . and on and on. She then hammered home her crushing comments by quoting a “music promoter in Watertown, Conn”, who said medal count matters because “It’s important to show United Sates exceptionalism.” Thanks for your input Mr. music promoter. No wonder the Norwegians who seemed to relax, enjoy everything and sport fancy mustaches had such a successful games.
For me there were two events which had me on the edge of my seat. My views on the sport quotient of the halfpipe events is fodder for another post (which I won’t write.) I was, however, watching the halfpipe skiing competition. Each rider has three attempts to earn the highest score, which makes sense as most of the riders crash on at least one run. David Wise, the defending gold medalist, had problems with his ski bindings on his first two attempts which meant he had only one chance to make a phenomenal score if he wanted to earn a second gold. He calmly slid into the pipe and did a series of breathtaking tricks. I don’t understand the technical terms, but this was poetry in motion. The result—a score of 97.20 and a second gold. Grace under pressure. The second event was one I only saw by chance as it was coming to a conclusion. It was a cross country ski relay race: each country had two skiers who took it in turn to compete a circuit, up hills, around the stadium, then out into the country side again. One of the skiers, Jessie Diggins, had appeared in the pre-Olympic vignettes, coming from a tiny town in Minnesota, where the inhabitants were shown getting up at 3:00 a.m. to congregate in a small cafe to watch the race. I just caught her last two circuits and the one by her fellow American skier sandwiched in between. She was struggling up a hill, a Finn and a Swede behind her. They jockeyed for the lead, fought to pass on the inside or the outside. At one point the Swede looked like she had run out of gas, but she came to life and the three women battled neck and neck as they entered the stadium and raced to the finish line. The girl from a small Minnesota town won by inches. I bet the town rejoiced.
That’s all until the next Olympic games. I have been ordered by the doctors to exercise. It won’t be cross country skiing.
Today is Ron’s birthday. Three of the prior birthdays this month were celebrated by teenagers. Ron is a littler older, but no numbers will be mentioned.
Those birthdays keep coming. Today is Liesl’s sixteenth birthday. She is our sixth oldest grandchild: we had five grandsons before Andrew and Marcie gave us a reason to think pink.
February is a big month for birthdays in our family. Today it was Charlie’s turn. He is our third oldest grandchild, Kate and Ron’s second son, and today he turned eighteen.
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| Charlie and Joe |
I was all set to commemorate last Friday with a blog post. I wanted to mark the date, February 9, as being the worst snow day of the winter (so far.) Fortunately bad weather was forecast and by Thursday night schools and colleges were closed, snowblowers were primed and shovels were at the ready. When we woke on Friday morning it was bad, maybe not quite the 8” that were forecast, but the snow kept coming down steadily. I got some chores done and my plan was to sit down after lunch and write a snow-related post. I had a rough idea of the structure of the piece: the title would be “White Stuff”, and I would start by remarking on the landscape, maybe even posting a few photos if I could get a few without icicles forming on my head. I wanted to recollect what snow had meant to me as a child growing up in the south of England, and end by noting I had filled the larder the day before, I was warm and comfortable, had a pile of books to read, the Olympics to watch later and absolutely no intention or need to leave the house.
Within an hour I had left the house, in an ambulance no less and with no time to grab a coat or shoes. I had been finishing my lunch, and started to realize I was having trouble reading the newspaper I was finishing up while I ate. Then I couldn’t use the fork that I had in my right hand to eat some leftover ginger bread. I knew I needed to lie down, but I couldn’t get up and though Ernie was sitting with me I was having trouble telling him what was happening. It had happened once before so he figured out my problem. I know I kept saying “No, no” as he said he was calling EMS. We live about three blocks from the Police, Fire and Ambulance station and within minutes the decision was made to transport me to hospital. I threw up quite spectacularly before they could get me on the gurney and cover me with blankets. My wonderful neighbor Dave saw the ambulance and rushed over to shovel the newly fallen snow from the front steps. In minutes I was in the Emergency Room, where most of the personnel were wearing masks to protect them from flu germs. I was whisked off to have a brain MRI and an EKG and the rest of the afternoon passed by in a flurry of doctors, blood draws test and questions.
Eventually I was admitted and stayed from Friday afternoon to late Sunday afternoon. I was assigned to a one bed room and the hospital is blessed with wonderful, friendly staff who made my stay as worry free as possible. The final verdict was that I had suffered a TIA in my left frontal lobe and that I could go home, take additional blood thinners and cholesterol lowering medications, make follow-up appointments with my neurologist and a cardiologist—and watch what I eat and make sure I indulge in exercise.
Had it not been for my original intention to write a piece about the snow I would merely have commemorated February 9, 2018 in a blog post entitled “The Lost Weekend". In the interest of brevity I combine my two themes with a photo of snow from my hospital room.
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| From 322B. |
That was my mother’s constant complaint/observation/criticism of me. It depended on how much she needed help and of course it wasn’t until I had children of my own and a house to run that I understood her problem with me.
And it was totally justified. I had books by my bed, always brought a book to the meal table and crammed every spare moment with reading. I was, however, a little miffed when Christmas came around and I got books from my grandparents and other relatives, rather than sweaters or games, but I came to love all those books and to read and re-read them all. To this day Jane Eyre and Little Women are my comfort books and A Tale of Two Cities is my ultimate thriller. It says a lot that I brought so many of my books with me across the Atlantic and I having been giving them away to my grandchildren in the hope they too will cherish them.
I do not remember my parents reading to me. I hope they did; we certainly tried to pass our love of reading on to our children. It was the age of Where the Wild Things Are and Dr. Seuss (neither of us was especially fond of the latter, although we thought we were supposed to be.) Our children all have memories of the books we shared with them and have become extensive readers. But their children are grown up in a vastly different age. Parents are facing the siren song of the world of technology.
I've read the articles about the bad effects of allowing children to spend too much time on-line and I have heard my grandchildren telling me that their computer time is rationed. There are a couple of TV commercials which show draconian mothers cutting off signal so the family can eat together (though in one case, when they do they seem to be standing around a table grabbing slices of pizza.) There are stories of the dangers of children not inter-acting with each other or engaging in physical activity interspersed with the accounts of how the writer spent his childhood happily playing with a stick and a ball of string. I tended to agree.
Then last week I read an article by Christopher Mims in The Wall Street Journal, which began, "Imagine someone traveling through time to the days before the internet, regaling audiences with fantastical tales of a future in which children can access devices containing the sum of all human knowledge and which gain new powers daily to instruct, create and bring people together.
Now imagine this time traveler describing the reaction of most parents to the devices—not celebration, but fear, guilt and anxiety over how much time children spend with them.”
You can see where this is going. An exhortation backed up by a recommendation by the American Association of Pediatrics to distinguish between different types of screen use—say FaceTime with Grandma versus a show on You Tube. (Grandma’s not going to win that one!) There were lots of statistics and articles by learned psychologists, all leading to the claim that the intelligent use of different types of technology can be beneficial. Now another guilt trip for parents deciding how to pit Grandma against Dora the Explorer, though I feel any parents worth their salt can, and have been, instinctively making good choices.
For me, the source of the sum of all human knowledge was a battered copy of an ancient Pears Encyclopedia which I read from cover to cover. Several times. I learned foreign words and phrases, the flags of all the countries. My Pears would never gain "new powers daily" to update their names from the Belgian Congo or Rhodesia. Let’s not even mention Sri Lanka.
So the more things change, the more they stay the same. If I were growing up today my mum would be saying, “You’ve always got your nose stuck in a computer."
Each year one or two of our grandchildren reaches one milestone year or another. Today Blake became a teenager. It was five years ago yesterday that she came ready made into the family, and she is a real joy.
Here she set off on the long walk up the aisle and I think her smile said it all. She played her role in the wedding graciously and gave a self-assured speech at the reception. Laughter erupted from the guests as she described how she loved accompanying Lucy to second hand shops in the neighborhood and the thrift they displayed in buying their clothes in them.
In the last five years she has shown her interest in acting and singing, playing volleyball and doing well in school. Her hair has been long. Her hair has been short, but the smile is always there.
When Josephine and Veronica were in town last week the girl posse of Evelyn, Caroline, Lydia, Eleanor and Blake entertained them royally.
Happy Birthday, Blake.
