Back in San Antonio

Jeremiah is a grandpa of a man, a proud shuttle driver who is attentive to his riders while mentoring a future driver  in the front passenger seat. Throughout the ride, he tells us a few interesting things about the areas we're driving through, like "They are building three bridges at once right here--not very smart in my opinion" and "Atlanta doesn't allow these 18-wheelers to go into the city, they have to use the Perimeter, so you won't see many big trucks from here on."

Before leaving Athens, while checking to make sure we were all buckled in, he asked for my phone.  He held it up to tell us what he probably tells all his passengers: "See this thing here?  How many of you drive?" (We all said yes)  "Driving and these phones never go together--I've been driving all my life and I don't even want to tell you how many people I've seen hurt or killed cause of texting and driving." 

I was unsteady yesterday, teary the way I always am on transition days.  My feet were hurting so much I felt nauseous. I was wondering how I'd get out of the shuttle and how I'd manage my way-too-big suitcase in the airport.  But this quintessentially grandfatherly black man helped me into the shuttle with a firm grip.  A young man in the back row smiled warmly at me and helped me move my back pack and pocket book out of the way when the late last rider finally showed up.  

Jeremiah teased the last rider, "Since you're late, you get to buy us all lunch."

Midway, he said, "I"m just thinking of what I'm going to order for lunch when Steve treats us all at the airport.  Fried chicken maybe."

When we stopped at the North Terminal, he reached for my hand with that same tight grip.  "Don't worry, Sweetheart, I got you."  

I got you!  When I'm feeling teary anyway, that's enough to almost make me  cry. 

In a world in a hurry, when we no longer meet each other or deliver each other to the gates like we used to in the old days, his slow easy kindness hearkened back to a past we'll likely never see again.  

He reiterated it as I squeezed his hand going from the seat to the pavement, careful not to fall: "I got you covered--like a big ole blanket."

Arriving in and leaving Georgia were bookended by the kindness of strangers.  

The student driver--even he who'd said almost nothing up to that point--said, "I hope to be the driver when you come back to Georgia." 

My San Antonio Uber driver was a kind young man in the US for only two years, "an elementary teacher from Cuba where students respect their teachers so much and have good etiquette and manners." He was here with no family, no friends, hoping to master English and study to be a nurse.

I've met so many nurses and caretakers this week from other countries, parents who are working long hours to provide their children with better lives than they might have had "back home."  What strikes me--but my Uber driver and I don't have enough time or mutual language fluency to go there--is how I always feel a need to apologize to new immigrants for the state of the country they've landed in.  

I want to tell them about better times not so long ago.  I hope he meets good people and makes a safe life for himself until this Trumpian nightmare of ICE and war, recklessness and cruelty, is over, when people of conscience and reason prevail and we can feel proud of our beautiful country again.

Weekend Retreat in Watkinsville, Georgia

On this Sunday night in Watkinsville, Georgia, I am sitting on the porch of an old wooden house called Fanny's House, my home of the week five miles from Carlene's apartment at Presbyterian Village.  Behind the house is what was Fanny's only bathroom, a red outhouse that's settling into the ground.  

The owners (my landlords for the week) live next door in a beautiful house--and Brian is the mayor of Watkinsville.  

After Fanny's death, this house was used mostly for storage, but Brian and his wife have turned it into a short-term rental that's just wonderful!  Now that I've found my home-away-from-home, this is where I'll be staying from now on.  

Fanny, known by all the townspeople, was always rocking on her porch when she wasn't working as help for the family who lived where Brian and his family's house now stands.  

The house was wallpapered in cardboard and newspaper and there were only three pictures on her wall: pictures of Martin Luther King, Jack Kennedy, and Jesus.  

It's a beautifully landscaped house now with all kinds of  Georgia  flowers growing in the yard.  If this house were for sale and I were in the market, I would buy it and move in permanently.  Every detail--from headboard to chandelier (made of old Coke and Dr. Pepper bottles) to the coffee table is made from wood salvaged when the "big house" was demolished.   

It has a large bathroom with a modern shower and an antique bathtub--and bathtubs are hard to find in Air BnB houses. What is now the kitchen was Fanny's bedroom and the current bedroom was her kitchen.

I haven't cooked anything because Carlene and I are spending our days playing..  Yesterday we went to Madison, one of our favorite little Georgia towns and had pizza at Amici's.  

Madison sidewalks are bumpy bricks, and can be a tad difficult to navigate with Carlene's rollator, but we managed quite well.  We went into a few shops, no problem, but the curb across from Amici's was a bit tricky.  We would have made it without help--sure we would!--but our technique might have looked a little iffy to a young couple who approached us and asked if we needed help.

Turns out, they are in the senior living business and a friends with the CEO at Presbyterian Village. 

This is my favorite part of meeting people with her: She loves to insert into the conversation that she's a hundred!  And I knowingly smile thinking, "Here we go again."

"No-o-o-o!" they all say.  "No way!  You look like you might be 80 tops!"--or something to that effect.  

Of course, Carlene knows the CEO and probably everybody else working at Presbyterian Village--not aligning perhaps with the couple's expectations of a centenarian. "You're sharp as a tack!" Crystal said to her.

To which Carlene retorted: "Not the kind you could sit on!

Here she is with Jackie, one of the staff members in the dining room, who told me, "We just love your mama!" 

Of course they do.  She knows the name of every one of them--as well as the residents on her floor and the many she's befriended who live in independent living houses.  She knows about their families and life experiences.  She asks them questions and remembers what they tell her.

This is kind of rare if you think about it.  How often do you meet people who love to tell you about themselves but never ask a single question about you?  Being genuinely interested in other people is one of Carlene's top super powers!

As we were leaving for a ride-around this afternoon, we stopped to chat with the women at the front desk as Carlene always does.  One of them, a security guard, was putting the finishing touches on a strawberry lap quilt she's making for her 22-year-old daughter.

"Are you saving it for her birthday?" Carlene asked.

"Oh no, I'm giving it to her tomorrow.  I can't wait.  I want her every time she sees it and touches it to feel how much I love her."

I get it.  I have a mama like that!

In Georgia

Flew into Atlanta, got a shuttle to Athens, then an Uber to Presbyterian Village where Carlene and I had a late dinner in the dining room, then drove her Malibu to my Air BnB.  It was hard to find in the dark, but it's a neat old refurbished house in Watkinsville with a comfortable bed.

We keep hearing Trump's people referring to immigrants as "illegal aliens."  At the Atlanta airport  I met two remarkable immigrants who have more soul in their little fingers than those who disparage them could even imagine.

A man from India took me all the way to the shuttle and waited with me until it arrived.  "If you were my grandma, I wouldn't leave you here all by yourself," he said.

As we waited he told me about a couple in their nineties who needed to go to Montgomery, but arrived too late to get a shuttle--so he drove them there and helped them find a hotel. He told me this in all humility--and seemed surprised that I thought it such a big deal.  "Isn't that what people do for their elders?" he asked.

Then I struck up a conversation with a woman who works in Delaware as a caregiver.  She was waiting for a shuttle to take her to Chattanooga to visit her "adoptive mama"--one of her charges she's come to love like a mother.  

She told me about the woman back home she's currently caring for--a heavy woman in her 80s who can't do anything by herself due to a car accident.  She explained how she used a Hoyer lift to move her from toilet to bed and back again.  

"I love her so much," she said.  "It's such an honor to care for her." 

I told her I was visiting my mom who's a hundred.  "What a blessing!" she said.  "Did she get a letter from the President?"  

I figured if she did, she'd toss it--given who the President is, but didn't say that.  I did say, "I'm sure she would have if Obama had still been in the White House,"--to which she said, "I know that's right!" 

"Your mama has seen a lot in her long life," she said.  "I wonder what she thinks of the mess we're in right now."

About that time, I heard them call out "Athens!" 

She lifted my heavy suitcase into the shuttle and gave me a big hug.  "I love you," she said.

These two beautiful humans are among the countless people who come from other places to make a better life and to help Americans in need.  Aliens, they are not.  Illegal, they are not.  

My friend Nellie (we go back to junior year of high school) has just finished a run of starring as Annie Nations in Melbourne Civic Theater's production of Foxfire.   Tonight she's feeling sad as the sets are being demolished, but according to reviews the play was a big hit!

If you're from the South, you may remember the Foxfire books from Rabun County many years ago, profiles of all things and all people from Appalachia.  Nellie says she actually remembers "hog killing" (one of the books' subjects) and that her father owned and devoured every book.

I'm sure he'd be proud that Nellie brought Annie Nations to life! 

I got this text from her last night: 

Last night a wizened Merlin, bent over his chariot of a walker insisted on my hand and then gently bowed even further to kiss it. I was so humbled as his piercing gaze paid me honor and I bowed to him. It was perfection.  

Hats off (not the brown one Annie wore, but some other one) to my dear friend Nellie Brannan for taking on (and apparently wildly succeeding) in bringing this Appalachian woman back to life! 

I loved her statement in the program which included this line: "I love the South...I want to wallow in it and I want to scrape it all off." 

Pretty sure Luci is Trans....

Trans gender, she pees like a boy.

Trans species, she grooms herself like a cat. 

And according to the consensus of all the people who pet her, she's a mix of Corgi, Dachshund, Sheltie, Collie, and Chihuahua.  Like all of us, she's not just one thing--and I love it that way.

If I could, I would breed her so she'd show me what she's like as a mama--and so I'd have a puppy like her.

She's also transformed me from a non-walker to walker.  Walk is her favorite word.  When I announce one of her two walks a day, she runs to her toy basket, grabs a toy to thank me, and zooms around the house in glee.

When I catch her, I put on the leash and off we go.

Her least favorite phrase is Be Right Back--which means I'm leaving her forlorn and alone.

When I started packing my suitcase for my upcoming trip, she gets inside the suitcase. She doesn't know that this time she's not going, but will hear I'll Be Back when I leave her with Cecelia for six days. 

Yesterday I voted at the library.  While there I found a wonderful book, The Year of the Puppy: How Dogs Become Themselves by Alexandra Horowitz.  I started it this morning at the laundromat and can't put it down. 

Like the writer, also a scientist, I've always been curious about Luci's life before she was mine.  This book is a fascinating account of one puppy's life from birth through her first year as a dog.  

An Original Finds His People

Marcus was a happy entertaining curious original kid.  Sometimes original kids made in a mold of their own don't fit into the high school culture all that well.  He wasn't a star athlete, but he played lacrosse and soccer and loved every sport.  As editor of the high school newspaper, he began to find his own place--a curious observer, a love of life and people.

When he went to VCU, he was determined to find his people--and he did!  He walked into the radio station and the newspaper office and asked for jobs--and got them.  He has the voice and the knowledge of all things sports, so he makes a great interviewer and sportscaster.  

Last week, he and his brother Jackson (who works in Richmond while Marcus is working on his degree) went out to lunch with a long table filled with Marcus' friends and girlfriend.  Jackson surveyed the table and asked Marcus, "Did you ever think you'd have a life like this, a million friends and dating a basketball star?" 

"Sure, I always knew I'd have an amazing life!" Marcus said.  

Here are a few recent shots of Marcus having an amazing life:

Moving into his new apartment He

When he was a little boy, he said he was going to "live with his momma" his whole life, but now his horizons are limitless!  This kid is going places with p-zazz! Even if he weren't my grandson, I'd want to know this super-cool man. 

Grand stars

I've been watching my girl on horseback since she was a baby!

Today our 14-year-old cowboy is barrel racing at the SA Stock Show and Rodeo.   I'm spending the day watching the live stream since I wasn't able to go.  

This one wasn't a win--but she is the star to her whole family watching together and cheering her on via group text.  Tomorrow is another day!

My other nominee for star in my family today is Marcus Leary.

He's always been storyteller, sports fan, and family commentator, and he loves wearing  hats. 

When he went to VCU, he got himself a job as sportscaster for VCU, and we've all been listening to his podcasts interviewing players.  (One of his interviewees, Lucia from Spain, is how his girlfriend.) 

Today we got his first non-sports cast from VCU studio:

https://youtu.be/TutAjPdRSOw

It's  fun to get to watch my formerly-little people grow up and find their passions and love what they're doing! 

Losing it?

I love it when I read something that makes me feel better!

I've been noticing a peculiar thing in my same-age friends and myself--though it manifests differently in each of us: less interest in some things we used to do, less interest in talking and socializing for the sake of socializing, less interest in repetitive conversations and chatter.

The writer of this excellent article explains why far better than I could have done--in part because I think I'd "bought in" to something I keep hearing people say: "we're too old" or "we're just not with it like we used to be." 

No way!  this writer so eloquently explains. 

 https://geediting.com/gen-psychology-says-the-reason-older-people-stop-caring-isnt-apathy-its-actually-the-highest-form-of-self-awareness/

This one, by the same author, describes why we might feel like inclined to "chat" or to have conversations we've had before with the same person or to offer our commentary and opinion about every subject: 

https://geediting.com/d-bt-psychology-says-the-reason-some-people-get-quieter-as-they-age-isnt-withdrawal-its-the-result-of-finally-understanding-which-words-actually-matter/

My Furry Valentine....

 

My furry valentine, my furry valentine, you make me smile......when:

You go everywhere with me, with very few exceptions.  Last night we met Carolyn at PF Chang's, and you sat quietly beside our booth the entire time.  People around us, like always, commented on what a calm and well-behaved girl you are.  Our waitress, like many Corgi owners we've met, thought you were a genuine Corgi!  Sure enough, she showed us a picture of her Welsh Pembroke Corgi who could have been your sister. 

Many nights, like tonight, I stay up the entire night. If my puttering interrupts your sleep, you go next door and perch between the pillows on Elena's bed.  When I go back to bed later, I hear the sound of your little paws clicking on the floor, back to bed with me.  Then you tell me--we have our own language--to please let you under the covers, your favorite place to sleep, as close as you can get.  

This week we met two Golden Retrievers.  Duke, we later found out from Allie their owner, was the grandfather of the other.  Duke is a beautiful brown dog with a kind face who licked Luci through the gate.  Then little Pollo, solid white, did the same.  Every day since, you've pulled in the direction of their fenced yard, wagging your tail, hoping to once again kiss and be kissed. 

On Thursday, I went for a massage at Cecelia's house.  You love Cecelia and her son who's visiting.  You wait on a folded blanket on the floor when I'm getting a massage--and then, soon as it's over, you jump from the floor onto the table, front down, butt up, saying okay, it's time to go now.  

Afterwards, we were the only two at Fish City Grill's happy hour.  I ordered calamari and a crab cake with salad.  Since no one else was on the patio, I gave you a few calamari--which you ate, but without enthusiasm.  Odd little things they were.  When you were done with them, you scraped up enough gravel and dirt to bury them inconspicuously under my chair.  

You rarely make a sound.  You bark vigorously at the mailman and Amazon delivery man.  How dare they put foreign objects through the mail slot into your house!   Except for the occasional door bark you are the quietest little dog I've ever met.  You don't even whimper to go outside or ask for treats--as most of my former canine valentines used to do.  You simply stare at me until I decipher your requests.  

Yesterday I had left the front door open to unpack groceries--and it was when I was putting a few things in the casita kitchen that the mailman arrived.  Instead of barking, since the door was open, you went outside to greet him without a single bark--and when I discovered you were out, I saw him kneeling on the ground petting you and you lapping it up. 

In the middle of the night when you want to go outside, you do s wild and crazy  run/jump combo and head straight to the corner of the yard from whence other creatures are apt to emerge.  We've seen foxes, skunks, possums.  You might be cautious in the daylight, but in the dark, you're a wild girl, out to show them all how big and strong and fearless you are. 

So on Valentine's Day, I'm remembering former furry loves--Tony and Ivan and Sasha and Black and Cookie and Pollo and many more--and I'm savoring every single minute being the object of your over-the-top love!  

Mystical, Magical, Musical

Of all my teachers in public school, Mrs. Murrow, a gray-haired grandmotherly teacher, was my hands-down favorite.  In the attractiveness department, she was the least memorable, but I remember her for her teaching enthusiasm, her blackboard drawings, and her whole-hearted embrace of a classroom of seven year olds.  She checked all the boxes for excellence in teaching, but she made us feel seen.  She knew us.  

I recently found anmimeographed hand-printed letter she'd written to our parents in which she mentioned every single one of us by name and noted something special about us.

She called me a day-dreamer, but not to worry about that--it just meant that one day I'd be a "writer."

Mrs. Murrow was the only teacher I recall having a sense of humor. When I bit my new ring and it got stuck on my finger,  she just smiled and took me to the girls' bathroom and soaped it up--and it came right off!

Was she married?  Did she have children, grandchildren?  I have no idea.  She didn't talk about herself, only about the subjects she was determined to instill in our minds. 

In the seventh grade, Mrs. Dykes entertained us with stories, but I can't actually remember what she taught us.  She'd walk up and down the rows of us, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, telling about her life and her opinions.  She's the teacher who exposed us to the "one drop" theory of genetics.  She also told us that if we picked at a pimple, we could get a brain tumor. 

But one thing she said that mystified me at the time stayed with me more than any sentence spoken by a teacher in my pre-college years: "I love words!" 

She didn't elaborate, or if she did, I don't remember what she said.  But I puzzled over that strange sentence.  How could a person have affection for words?

Now that I've spent a lifetime loving words, I get it.  From the enlarged font of first grade readers to the  poetry and prose that makes me feel awake and alive, I've always loved words.

Never good at crossword puzzles, I'm obsessive and quite good at the New York Times' Spelling Bee, a game in which you make as many words as you can with a hive of seven letters.  

I love the alliteration of mystical, magical, musical, maniacal, memory. 

The tipping point between acquaintanceship and friendship is discovering, through words, a shared sensibility. 

I love words that poke into predictable discourse with humor or a gem of a phrase. 

I save handwritten cards and letters virtually forever.  In handwriting, we get next-best thing to hearing the voice of that person on that particular day he or she wrote them. 

I love words that convey intimacy, vulnerability, kindness, intelligence, and rock-solid honesty.