What's in a Name?

“What will he call you?”  friends and family have asked since our grandson was born last week.  Even before his birth I was getting the same question.  It hadn’t occurred to me to have a ready answer.  Nor do I have one yet.   After all, Austin Frederick Aaronson is only a few days old and won’t be calling me anything for a while.  Yet it has started me thinking…

When I visited with my mother for tea several afternoons ago, I mentioned my dilemma of what to call myself now that I’m a grandmother.  She began to talk of Mommy and Poppy, my great grandparents.  They lived two houses from 1242 43rd Street in Des Moines, Iowa where she and her brother and sister grew up.  I have seen photos of Virginia Barnes McCormick for whom my mother was named. And I grew up with the stories of this genuinely kind Victorian lady and descriptions of how beautiful she was – slim, and tall with translucent gray eyes. My mother invoked this grandmother when she taught us to always “do and say the kindest thing in the kindest way”. She called herself Mommy and Grandfather McCormick was Poppy, perhaps out of vanity.  Another name might have been a label for an old lady and that was not whom she thought wanted to be.

A few days after Austin was born, Art came home and told me, “I am dadushka and you are babushka.”  He had just been to teach his Russian group English and said they had had a lively talk about the new addition to our family.  All I could think of were the traditional Russian folktales I used to read aloud to children in my school library and the many colorful illustrations of buxom women in full skirts with old-fashioned scarves tied around their hair.  I don’t think I’m a babushka!  On the other hand, my Mexican student, Angelica, whom I meet every week to teach and converse with in English was happy about my news and called me abuelita.  I like it because it has roots in my Latin America upbringing that is part of who I am.  But it’s a mouthful to say easily!  I often think of our German friends from Vermont who are way ahead of us in number of grandchildren but simply are Oma and Omi.  How easy those German names are for children to say.

When Hayden was growing up my parents were always Grandma and Grandpa and Art’s mother was Grandma Ceil.  It worked.  But I still refer to my mother as Grandma when I talk to Hayden so how can I be Grandma too?  No, Grandma is my mother and always will be.

It amazes me that as I become a grandmother I can Google names for grandmother and get hundreds of suggestions and people who feel as I do “Grandmother is too formal sounding and Grandma sounds too old.”  In an article I found online I learned that “the Boomer generation is loath to admit to aging….they want to be grandparents…just don’t call them that.”  Is that me?  Evidently it is.  There is more discussion on this topic than there ever has been and polls show that fewer children call their grandparents the traditional names than ever before.  My mother even suggested “Just be Kristina!”  But I’m not sure.

So perhaps I simply need to meet my grandson next week, hold him, talk to him, and my becoming a grandmother will seem more real.  In the meantime I will probably try out names to myself and one will just slide into place one of these days.

Then and Now

            “Your life will never be quite the same again,” my mother told me when I was pregnant with Hayden. I took that as one of those things parents say.  It wasn’t until I was a parent that I understood what that truly meant. Now, as I watch Hayden and Jessica preparing for the birth of their first son I want to tell them the same thing but I don’t because they will know it very soon.

            Anticipating the birth of my grandson on February 21st, in Washington D.C. 37 years after giving birth to my son on February 10th in Santiago, Chile, has got me thinking about “then” and “now”. The excitement grows each week in telephone calls and emails from Hayden and Jessica about preparations, décor of the baby’s room, medical tests, doctor appointments, and “ the stuff” accumulated from three baby showers in January. Plans are set for a C-section birth and even though everything is ready, they hope the baby doesn’t come early because “plans” are in place for the 21st.  So far the baby is right on schedule and cooperating.           

I have all the letters I wrote home each week from Santiago, Chile when I was pregnant with Hayden in 1976 and 1977. (I even have the letters my mother wrote from Santiago when she was expecting me!) Recently I was curious to reread them and remember how things were for us those many years ago.  I began excerpting the parts about preparing for our first baby and compiled them to send to Hayden for his Feb. 10^th birthday

            In those days, Art was a teacher and I was the librarian at the International School, Nido de Aguilas in Santiago.  Living in Chile, we were far from family and it was a difficult time because of restrictions imposed by the Pinochet military government.  My biggest worry was that the baby would come at night after curfew. How would we be able to get to the hospital safely without being arrested?  No one was allowed on the streets of Santiago after midnight and before 6 a.m.  We were told if we kept lights on inside the car and hung a white handkerchief out the window we’d be all right.  That may have been true but I didn’t trust that scenario.  Luckily Hayden was born in the early afternoon.  

              At that time, or perhaps because we were in Chile I don’t remember having the option finding out if the baby would be a boy or a girl beforehand. In many letters I wrote home I suggest baby names asking my parents for an opinion and suggestions.  Hayden and Jessica have chosen to keep the name a secret even though we know it’s a boy.   I am glad... as it heightens the excitement for all of us. 

We had little money and baby things were expensive in Santiago, so we waited until we could buy a used crib and a diaper pail from Americans leaving. Someone gave us a car seat, a rocking chair, and a baby swing. A Chilean colleague knit baby leggings, blankets and little sweaters in blue and yellow that had to be laundered by hand. I had a woman doctor I trusted, and I felt comfortable being pregnant in a Latin American country where children are cherished.  I describe the elegant Sara Moncada Maternity Clinic with private rooms that opened onto individual patios, the lace covered baby cradles in each room, and the three course meals.  This was where many of the upper class Chilean women gave birth and we were going to have nothing but the best for our child. Yet looking back on it, this was not a hospital and I don’t recall worrying about what might happen if something went wrong. Nothing did go wrong.  I remember my doctor coming to my room after the birth, dressed in high heels, dangling earrings and a not very fresh lab coat.  She put her arm around me and with a smile of genuine kindness she told me,  “tiene un hijo hermoso”.  My baby was beautiful and he was nicknamed “el rubio” by the nurses because no one could pronounce Hayden in Spanish and he was the only blonde blue-eyed baby in the clinic.

            Most of what I wrote home about preparations and anticipation of our first baby are the same things Hayden and Jessica are doing.  “I have never felt like something so important was happening to me before,” I read in one of my letters.  I hear this same sentiment expressed each week as they share the latest updates with us. Their excitement and desire to do it all the exact right way is no different than how we felt anticipating Hayden’s birth.

But in our day it seemed much simpler. While recently sharing some of this with my friend Mary, she said, “I sort of remember just going to the hospital and giving birth…I had cloth diapers, baby blankets and a rocking chair…that’s all we needed.”  I know what she means.

  Now we live in a time of so much more information about everything.  We know about all the miracles of modern medicine and perhaps too much about things that can go wrong. We live in a time and a culture of so much material “stuff” with endless options for baby things - so many decisions to make and choices to wrestle with.  I must admit I have great admiration for Jessica in systematically researching what to buy for the baby based on reading and recommendations.  However even though she is determined not to buy everything, she still has so much more baby equipment than we ever did.

 Recently, I learned from my daughter-in-law that young parents in the U.S. are told never to get a used crib because the new ones have so many more safety features.  When she told me this I had mixed feelings.  I love that she and Hayden are going to do all the right things for my grandson to keep him secure and safe.  On the other hand, I could not help but remember my relief years ago when that American used crib became available and we bought it for $80.  Hayden slept in that crib for several years and turned out just fine.

Just Like Old Times

            “It’s just like old times,” Art said to me as we set off this morning on our snowshoes.  Waking up to 8 inches of snow on the ground and the city at a standstill, we found ourselves rummaging through closets upstairs.  Where had we put the snow pants and the long johns?  And when did I last see my Vermont snow boots?  The snowshoes and poles must be in the attic somewhere.  We found them all like encountering old friends again.

            Once dressed and with equipment in hand we stepped outdoors for a run-through of how to get the snowshoes on the right way.  After all, it had been three years since we last used them on our mountain in Vermont – the last winter before we made the unexpected decision to move South.  Yes, we had given away the snow blower, three snow shovels, all the extra pairs of long johns, hats, mittens, gloves, old jackets – twenty years worth of winter clothes saved for the long winters.  When we moved South we packed the L.L. Bean snowshoes and collapsible poles and one set of the ski clothes just in case we might use them again someday.  Today was that day.

            As we put on all our stuff ready to hit the trail that goes right by our townhouse and down to the lake I couldn’t help but noticethe crew of Mexican workers that had shown up at our townhouse development shoveling the walks  and the driveway.  “Buenos dias,” I called out cheerily to one of the men.  He looked up startled and curious at seeing us with these strange contraptions attached to our boots. A Biltmore Lake snowplow had already been down Black Horse Run and it was barely nine o’clock.  This was great as we were going off snowshoeing without having to shovel three decks and twenty-five outdoor steps and long walk way and dig out two cars in the driveway as we used to do after every snow fall in Vermont.

            The trail across the street from our house goes 2.5 miles around the perimeter of Biltmore Lake.  This morning the big tall pine trees were laden with heavy snow and the surface of the lake had a thin layer of ice giving it a cloudy look like a window that has fogged up.  I looked for the geese and ducks that had been out there just yesterday on our morning walk without snow.  They had all disappeared or perhaps found a spot to hibernate during the storm.  The trail is flat for most of the way but on the other side of the lake where there are no houses it gets hilly in spots.  Except for one man on cross country skis and an older couple who were trying out a sled we saw no one.  Halfway around the lake we encountered a man cutting up tall pine tree that had fallen from his house across the trail in the night.   We stopped to chat and then hiked around the fallen tree to continue on our way. 

            It took us almost twice as long to snowshoe around the lake as it does to walk it.  It was slow going in the deep new fallen snow and we were out of practice. No rush… as we were out to enjoy winter on our familiar trail. No doubt by early next week this will seem like a dream as the snow quickly melts.  It may be another few years till we get a day like today and that is just fine. After all, that’s why we moved South.

Yet, I was reminded of a truism I learned from our many long winters in Vermont. It is far more rewarding to embrace winter rather than fight it.  We certainly did that today and it was like old times.

           

           

A familiar roadmap...

Mother reaches for me as I help her get to her feet. I feel the cool strong grip of her tapered skeletal fingers curl around mine. She holds on tightly, but when her hands tremble slightly it reminds me that she is very old.   She nestles her hand in mine as if grateful that I am here. Her hands have grown thin with bulging large purple veins etched in distinct patterns visible through transparent skin. They remind me of the gnarled roots of ancient trees growing in intricate designs above ground.

Mother’s hands are bony and not soft.  She proudly tells me that all her life they have been put to use.  She remembers growing up with a mother who could not loosen the lid on a jar, and a Victorian grandmother who wore gloves and had ladylike pillow smooth hands.  Unlike her fashion conscious older sister, Mother never used colored nail polish although her clipped oval shaped fingernails and half moon cuticles were neatly groomed.

I felt her love for me when she stroked my forehead as a child sick in bed with fever. Her hands held my favorite books as she read aloud to me. She deftly maneuvered scissors cutting out intricate paper dolls and her nimble fingers learned to stroke the white keys and memorize the bass buttons of the accordion as we played duets together. Her fingers expertly braided my hair and coaxed and fed shiny fabric through the old Singer sewing machine when she made me a fairy cape to wear one Carnival in Buenos Aires.  At Christmas she would whip up a batch of taffy or boiled syrup and I’d watch her dexterous buttered fingers pull and fashion candy and popcorn balls.

As a child I loved to trace the lines on my palm and hers as she talked about how they might predict longevity and what I might expect from my life. Mother’s palm is deeply indented with a strong line centered in the middle of the right palm attesting to her 94 years and a life of good fortune.

There are no rings on mother’s hands any longer.  When she was young she wore an engagement and wedding ring until she accidently lost them down the drain in the bathroom in Saigon where she and Dad lived in the 1972.  Dad bought her a new wedding ring in Hong Kong on her first trip around the world and she says that was worth losing her rings for.  Now the Hong Kong ring is put away like a stored memory because her finger is too thin to keep it on.

Mother’s hands are wrinkled and withered with age like dried leaves that have fallen to the ground. Sometimes they feel cold as a radiator that has been suddenly turned off. Delicate bones protrude sharply from her slender fingers but her strong grasp is like a familiar roadmap of her life and mine.

A new novel, demitasse spoons, and the perfect haircut...

While nursing a cold the past few days, I perused my Kindle to see what I hadn’t read yet and “ The Angel of Esperanca”, came up on my carousel.  I had seen a news item in the most recent college alumni magazine about a classmate, Judith McConnell Steele, who just published this -  her first novel.  I knew her as Judy McConnell and remember her because of her hair.  She had a short, layered, thick brown hair that fell into place stylishly around her narrow face. I wanted hair just like hers. 

The first sentence of her book drew me to the mystical tale set in the rural town of Esperanca in northeast Brazil. It is a sad story of love and loss but with lush descriptions of setting in which she takes you right to this foreign place and awakens your senses as you read.  Now and then when I would put the book down, I found myself thinking of Judy, the fellow English major from Denver with the cute haircut. I kept trying to reconcile the author of this exotic novel with the carefree girl I remember in college. As juniors we traveled on a semester abroad to England and may have even shared a flat together with a few other girls near Marble Arch in London.  I have pictures of us standing in Trafalgar Square surrounded by pigeons.  Judy is wearing a white knit hat just covering her perky hairdo.  It’s only been 48 years since I’ve thought of this so it’s hard to remember for sure.

When I finished the book I sat on my sofa a bit stunned.  My first impulse was to tell Judy that I had just read her book and was impressed with what an accomplished writer she is.   Having no idea how to reach her I magically “googled” her name. Her Facebook page popped up. Feeling a bit like an adoring fan, I found myself divulging way too much in the box that said “A Note to the Author”. ” I’m not sure you remember me but I was your Cornell College classmate who grew up in South America and lived in Brazil during high school. We were English majors and lived in Rood House our senior year. I like to write too, especially nonfiction essays and memoir.” I hit “submit” and before exiting wondered if she would read it and if it all sounded silly. Then I took a long time to look at the photo on her Facebook page. Yes, she still has beautiful thick short hair only it’s a different color now that she’s in her 60’s.  She reminds me a bit of Diane Keaton with stylish horn rimmed glasses and auburn hair.  I decided that she looks like she belongs on the cover of a published novel.

           Within minutes of walking away from my laptop I had a reply…as if she was waiting to hear from me all these years later.  Of course, she remembered me she wrote, “ I wanted to tell you that I still have a beautiful little set of demitasse spoons that you gave me for a wedding present – they have little coffee beans on the top and I use them all the time! “ She continued,” I wasn’t the one who decided my first marriage was ending, but I got to have anything I wanted.  So, out with the wedding pictures, and in with the cherished demitasse spoons! (And a wonderful second marriage now going on 38 years.)”

Demitasse spoons?  Only my mother had those years ago for dinner parties in South America where drinking a cafecito or cafezinho (in Brazil) was the custom after a meal.  Now those spoons were put away unused and unpolished in a drawer somewhere in my house..  I had no recollection of Judy’s first wedding nor of having given her demitasse spoons.  But the coffee beans were a clue that I must have bought them in Bogota, Colombia where my parents were living while I was in college.  Perhaps I didn’t go to the wedding and I simply gave a gift.  I don’t even remember husband #1 who was obviously a classmate of ours. After mulling this over for a day I still come up a blank and I don’t quite have the courage to ask more questions. Part of me thinks I should remember this...but I don't

                  I am still thinking of our surprise encounter on the web and how it is possible to find people in our past and connect the long forgotten dots in our lives. Going back for yet another look at Judy's

Facebook page I couldn’t help but notice a post by Michelle who wrote, “For years I've wanted to have Judy's hair. Still do! Lovely…”

               I wanted to answer the post “Me, too!”  But I didn’t.