Point of View

Lola is here visiting. I showed her a black and white photo of me on the hood of her dad's 1948 Oldsmobile. I'm wearing shorts and a shirt, no shoes, and I'm buffing the car, finishing the wash job we did. Wayne's sister Kate is on the very top of the car. She's towel-drying the windshield.

This is the car Wayne's friend Phil drove without oil in it on that over-the-speed-limit and inspite-of-Wayne's-cautioning wild drive down from Lone Pine after their Mt. Whitney climb. Why a guy wouldn't stop and add oil I don't know. That drive burned up the engine. Hmph.

Did Wayne persuade us to do this work for him? I don't remember, but I doubt it. I loved him, and Kate loved him, so we were willing workers, most likely. Proud of the car and happy for him to have it, even though it was nearly ten years old when he got it. Dark green, very dark green.

After the Oldsmobile was gone, he got a black 1951 Chrysler, bigger, heavier car, a four-door sedan.

So I explained much of this to Lola as we stood in front of the photo today. Her response, as she pointed to me in the picture, "Oh, so that's where we get our legs."

A Reminder, as if I needed a reminder . . .

Here's just one thing Wayne taught me.

When you're rinsing out a bottle, let's say, like a milk bottle or one of those two-litre pop bottles or a water bottle, and you want to get the liquid out fast and avoid the slow glug, glug, glug--is all this clear?--swirl the bottle around a time or two and the water will zip right out in a nice airless spiral.

So, of course, I think of him every time I do that.

Norton Pladsen

Nort had said to his wife, Carol, "I don't know when we'll get them all together again." So he figured out a way to do just that. He died. All of his family came together.

"It's what a death will do," I told her.

That gathering provided her some comfort yesterday. Carol, their three children, and their seven grandchildren.

I snapped their picture in front of the lake Nort loved so well. She'll have the picture as some comfort, too. Not enough, probably, but some.

Harold Is His Middle Name

When I told my dad his name, Andrew Harold, he said, "Don't you mean Harold Andrew?" I said, "No."

It's Andrew's birthday today. What I said about him last year still goes. You can go here if you want to read it.
http://widowschronicle.blogspot.com/2009/03/andrew-harold-schiess.html

But, of course, this year changes him. He's a year older, duh, and gives him someone else who carries his name. That would be three now: his own son Jacob Andrew, Lola's son Patrick Andrew, and the newest, Ann's son Edmund Andrew. Can't be too bad a name.

But that's not really about him, is it.

This year has changed him. I see some of those changes. One is his discipline to shed those pounds. Good for him and good for his health. One is his stepping up so Michelle could go to school. He is the evening Mr Mom, cook, listening ear, and still he functions as dad. One change I probably didn't expect but do see is his genuine affection for their dogs. There are others, no doubt, but I don't know them.

He's still a good family man, still wise with money, still a good story teller.

In early March 1971, as I remember it, my mother came to be there for the birth of this fourth child of mine, and Andrew's birth was the last one my mother came for. She just couldn't manage the trips, I guess.

As usual, she came too early and had to leave almost immediately after the birth. My fault, really, I always wanted her there early and thought I'd give birth early. Wishful thinking, obviously, and obviously wrong.

By the way, Andrew was a big guy. He weighed 9 lbs 10 oz and made his mother work hard to get him here. Well worth the work. He was such a good-looking, healthy baby.

Andrew was only a few hours old when my mother held him--they made an exception to their rules and brought him into my hospital room for no other reason than my asking them to, but don't get me started on that--and was told by nurse what-was-her-name that now infamous thing about boys and what they grow into besides their noses. We all blushed, except for the nurse. And who asked her?

Andrew, our third son, always handsome, always a good runner, a good athlete, strong of mind and body, usually adventurous, always tender of heart--and that's a good quality. A boy his dad and mom were proud of. A boy they always loved, even if he is the middle child.

Happy birthday to you, my son Andrew.

The Widow Chuckles

Speaking of composers, this is what I heard today about Richard Wagner. You know, ego-maniacal German composer best known for his long operas, like The Ring Cycle, Lohengrin, Tanhauser, etc.

One critic said, "Wagner's music has glorious moments and terrible quarter hours."

Mark Twain said, "I've heard that Wagner's music is much better than it sounds."

As I Recall

. . . our laundry room at 722 was visited occasionally by mice. True. But that's not what this is about.

My washer was olive green, sort of, and the dryer white. The 1970s and 80s featured fashionable colors for appliances. Yellow I couldn't abide, but I kind of liked the olive green, so I bought it, but I'm glad that era has gone its way.

That washer I bought new, and it lasted at least 15 years, by the way. Well used with seven children. I left it in the house when we sold it--tired of the color, wanting new for our new house. The one I have now has come through the 19 years so far in this house, and I am counting. I hope it keeps on a'going.

But here is what I wanted to write about.

Imagine the laundry with seven children. It began to overwhelm me, so I had a smart idea. On the lid of the green washer I taped a schedule. Each of my children--those old enough to do their own laundry--had a day assigned in which to do just that. I would help them, of course, if they needed help. I am the mom, after all.

That schedule was ordered, wise, well thought out, and pretty much ignored. Mostly they waited until Saturday, well, mostly till Sunday, and then there was usually quite a scramble to see who could get the load in first. The needed pants or white shirt or blouse for church. Poor Lola, as the only girl on the schedule, she may have been muscled out if she waited till Sunday.

And then the plea (read yelling, demanding) for whoever had clothes in the washer to get them out, now, and into the dryer.

That's how I remember it.

Some Good Help, That's What I Got

Three young people from the Towne Square Singles Branch came to my house today, actually, to my yards. They trimmed all my trees of those errant sticking up straight starts we used to call suckers--isn't that right?--and they raked up all the pine needles and leaves still clinging to fences and yard corners. Then they cleaned up and left.

It's a job I couldn't do by myself, so you can guess how glad I am to have it done. Very.

They were Trina, from Shelley, ID; Stephanie, from Reno, NV; and G Or Gee or Ji (I didn't ask him to spell it), from New Zealand. I said, "So you're a Maori." Wrong. He's Samoan, born and raised in New Zealand.

All college graduates, all employed, all happy to give up their Saturday morning to come and help me, a stranger to them.

It's nice.

Lola

Seems unlikely to me that a new mother would look at her beautiful little round-cheeked baby girl and think, “One day she’ll be my 42-year-old daughter.” I know I had no such thoughts that March night, 11:56 p.m. to be exact.

The immediate facts:

• She made it here on March 2, her grandmother Lola’s birthday, with four minutes to spare, which is good, because otherwise she might not have been named Lola.
• Weighing in at 8 lbs 14 oz kept her under nine pounds, which has no significance, I guess.
• She was a beauty from the beginning—just ask her dad, well, you know, if you could—a fact still clearly evident when you see her, and when you know her, you see beauty through and through. It’s of her essence.

Lola taught me about girls, their sweetness, their delicateness, their hopes, their promise. Girls are smart--they can do anything; girls need special care; girls are beautiful; girls are wonderful. My girls anyway.

As I sit here, I am watching the movie of Lola’s life run through my mind.

1. Her curly brown hair and dark eyes.
   
2. The early walking—eight months old. That was all her idea, you know. Her first steps took her across the living room at 401 W Hazel from her dad’s arms to mine. Such a smart little thing.
3. Lola in the backyard swing. Same house.
4. Playing with her two big brothers. That was a good trio, you know.
5. Lola growing tall, too.
6. Her love of music and song—we would sit in the rocking chair every night at bedtime, and I would sing those favorites of hers, a lullaby or three, old songs I knew from my mother and father, songs I made up just for Lola.
7. The favored status she held in the family (just ask her older brothers).
8. Her gift for playing the piano that showed early in her life. She must have brought it with her. Her grandma Lola would come to visit occasionally and would sit with our little Lola at the piano. Her first lessons. And Lola’s amazing willingness to practice. Whoever heard of such a thing? Her accomplishment as pianist and as accompanist par excellence.
9. Her love of play—she was pretty darn good at softball—and her discovery of running.
10. Her mothering of her baby sister.
    
11. Her brothers called her Loaf. I was never quite sure why.
12. Lola the drummer.
13. Lola the singer.
14. Lola the nanny, the NY subway expert.
15. Lola the teacher. Of women, of little kids, of boys and girls who needed someone just like her.
16. Lola the unassuming, the modest, the quiet.

Today it’s Lola the wife, mom, manager, person who can get by on very little, loyal helper and support for her husband and advocate for her boys, wise person, good person, capable person. Still Lola the musician, still the teacher and leader. It’s a longer list than this and than I know about.

Yes, I know. Countless others have written and spoken of the quick passage of time, how if we’re not careful we can miss something, how the years that stretched out long ahead of us seem like moments when we look back on them. So I add my witness and ask, “How is it possible?”

I don’t know how, of course, but it is possible. In fact, it’s fact, because here it is, the day I did not think about that night. My baby girl, my first daughter, my very own Lola, is 42 years old.

I am proud of you, Lola, and love you forever and ever.

Happy Birthday.