Eight

   This week I learned an important lesson: never make plans when an 8-year-old is concerned. Since granddaughter Anna and I both have a June birthday, I had the idea that we'd celebrate with a sleep-over then drive up the coast for a lunch of fried seafood and ice cream.  That sounded like an excellent way to celebrate a joint birthday, right?
   I picked Anna up at the appointed hour, thinking we’d swing into the local ‘50’s diner on the way home for a burger and a milkshake. Anna nixed that suggestion, however, letting me know she wanted vegetables. Vegetables? I’d been eating greens, cucumbers and carrots all week in preparation for this birthday splurge, but Anna insisted she really needed vegetables and within a few minutes we were sitting in the Chinese restaurant, her plate mounded with garlic green beans and sautéed broccoli. I sat next to her, feeling slightly dazed.
   Once we arrived home, Anna promptly rolled her luggage into the guestroom and popped on her nightie while I retrieved the supplies for our traditional manicure.  With one hand painted “peony” and the other painted, “pink pearl”, Anna picked out a movie and hinted around about popcorn and ice cream, explaining the reason she wanted vegetables for dinner was so she’d have room to eat more later. With her favorite tattered afghan draped across her shoulders, she curled in the Canadian rocker munching away. The moment the movie was over, she uncurled, yawned, and announced, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” 
   Early the next morning I heard the patter of bare feet across the hardwood floors. “Grammie”, she teased, “I’ve been waiting for you to play Memory with me.” I stumbled into the living room to find playing cards in rows on the carpet. I made tea and tried to focus, but of course, because of my sleepy state and the fact that Anna had laid out the cards and had been “practicing”, I didn’t win.
   As we ate our breakfast at the kitchen counter, I asked her if she’d like to drive up the coast, but she had her own ideas. She suggested we build a fairy house under the balsam fir in the front yard then have ramen noodles for lunch on the porch. She had it all figured out.  Although I had been looking forward to a day in Boothbay Harbor, I realized Anna had the better plan and it would certainly be more cost-effective than what I’d had in mind.
   For the next couple hours, we happily foraged for materials to build the fairies a proper home, complete with cattail-fuzz beds, rose petal duvets, rock walkways, and a pinecone and moss living-room set.

I had promised Anna a ring for her birthday so when we were ready to cool off in some air-conditioning, the two of us headed downtown where we purchased not one, but eight lovely rings at the five-and-dime. We also found a summer blouse which she put on the second we got home.

As Anna slurped down her noodles and watermelon, we watched the birds frolicking in the yard and marsh. As a matter of fact, most of the sultry afternoon was spent in this manner, with Anna utilizing the binoculars as she marveled over the bright orange shoulders on the resident red-wing black birds, exclaimed over the petite cuteness of the hummingbirds, and delighted in the family of fat brown wrens poking their heads out of their little house. Occasionally, she walked around front, looking for evidence of fairies.

 

Anna and I ended our time together by joining her mother at the strawberry patch. As I kneeled on the ground filling my baskets with the warm ripe berries, I listened to her tell Mommy about our day; about the fairies and the birds and the noodles.
It seems like only yesterday her mother was that age, but it was thirty years ago. I recall what it was like to be 8 years old myself, fifty years ago...to wear dime-store rings on my fingers. To run everywhere bare foot.  To believe in fairies. To have no plans.  To be simply, emphatically eight.

 

Lit Up

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Serendipity Photography

It's hard to believe that a whole week has gone by since my darling daughter, Rachel married her handsome sweetheart, Jubal in a dear old church in Portland, Maine. As mother-of-the bride, I had the distinct honor of helping with the ringing of the big bell in the steeple, announcing to the whole world that the last of my four children, had indeed, tied the knot. 

 

Now that the two lovebirds have flown off for an extended honeymoon to the Emerald Isle, the rest of us are left behind to pack away the array of gifts, dry the bridal bouquet, and devour the remainder of the decadent chocolate-raspberry wedding cake. Flurries of e-mails and texts are sent back and forth across The Pond as we relive The Big Day, marveling in how we managed to get two large far-flung families all under one roof, and how the fickle spring weather impressed us with its cooperation.

 

As I look back on last Saturday, what I remember most is how we were all bursting with giddy joy and the way the glitter of the bride and groom sparkled over us as we celebrated this long-awaited wedding day.

 

Bearing witness to a couple in love always inspires me to love better, do better, be better. In the endless sea of smiles, kisses, hugs, and laughter, I sensed a silvery thread that united us all.  It's no small thing to stand together honoring and supporting these two people who we love, this sacred commitment that they share, and this intertwined journey they have agreed to begin together. 

 

So it goes. Just when I think my heart is holding all the love, joy, and dazzle I can possibly handle, it expands even more to house yet another sweet son-in-law and his amazing, beautiful, crazy assortment of relatives and friends. Today, I feel so much richer than I did a week ago. Like the happy couple, I am lit up from within, radiant with the knowledge that love always finds a way. We just need to stand aside and allow it to happen, to be ready, and to have faith that love will have its way with us in its own good time.

 

In all the years I have left to me, I will not forget watching these two dear ones fall in love, and that on the day they were united how they glowed golden, causing the sun, moon and every star to always be jealous of how they shine.

 

 



An Island Thanksgiving

It's hard to believe almost a week has passed since we celebrated Thanksgiving at my daughter's house on Peaks Island. For the second year in a row I was a "Lady of Leisure", spending very little time working in a hot kitchen, opting instead for raking leaves with the grandchildren and pulling them up and down the hilly road in the little red wagon.  There were chickens to chase and pathways to explore while my daughters and their sweeties did the majority of the preparations.  I appeared on the scene in time to make gravy and whip the potatoes into submission with plenty of cream and butter thrown in for good measure.    It was the cooks' first turkey ever and they did a magnificent job. The stuffing was the best I've ever tasted and the cranberry sauce was especially  appreciated by the littlest pilgrim of the bunch.

After the feast we went for a walk in the moonlight and spent several moments enraptured with the spectacular bonfire someone had built on the beach to welcome weary holiday travelers. The exercise and brisk fall air whetted our appetites for the array of desserts waiting for us back at the homestead.
There was much clamoring from the children (as well as the grown-ups) while daughter Rachel whipped a bowl of cream to go with the savory spice cake, warm apple pie and the unbelievably drop-dead gorgeous/melt-in-your-mouth Pumpkin Mascarpone Pie. Oh my, oh my, OH MY.  Next Thanksgiving, I just want THAT for dinner. With a little stuffing and a smattering of dark meat on the side.

Other than sampling all 3 desserts, my favorite part of the day was walking the 4 blocks from the ferry terminal to the car with my little granddaughter's hand in mine. We trudged along. Tired. Full. Happy. Thankful.

And that my friends, is how we should feel at the end of Thanksgiving, or any day, for that matter.