Grandchild Blessings

My third grandchild was born today (Monday). His appearance caused much rejoicing, as you can well imagine. I have seen a couple of pictures of him but have not met him yet. We will probably go to St. Charles on Wednesday and stay for a couple of days, just so I can soak up all that new baby scrumptiousness. I can hardly wait to hold him and kiss him and sing to him. Joy abounds.

Into my happiness at the births of my grandchildren always creeps a bit of melancholy. My own mother wasn't able to be near when any of my children were born. She and my father did get to meet my firstborn when she was a week old, and we visited back and forth with them and the rest of my family while my husband was at the University of Virginia's School of Architecture. My mother doted on Jennifer and I loved that we could spend so much time in Portsmouth for those three years.

Once we moved to Chicago, however, visits became few and far between. My mother taught kindergarten during the school year, and wasn't able to travel at the drop of a hat. We talked on the phone weekly, but this didn't include video calls because those didn't exist! I know my mother longed to spend more time with my daughter, but it simply couldn't happen.

We fell into the pattern of a three-week stay in Virginia every summer. Both my mother and my father counted those days as the best of the year. Happiness surrounded us.

My first son arrived in early January, so no visitors wanted to brave winter travel to Chicago. My mother made do with pictures and phone calls until June. We drove from Chicago to Portsmouth, which takes two days. When we pulled into my parents' driveway, my mother quickly gathered Peter up from his car seat and whisked him away to give him a bath! She said she needed to wash all the "travel dust" off first thing. I know she was just inspecting him to make sure he was perfect in every way. He was a little surprised, I think, but he did like a good bath!

We said goodbye after three weeks, and didn't return until the following summer. A long time in a baby's life. By the next summer Peter was walking and delighted in exploring Grandma's house. My parents were so very happy to have both Jennifer and Peter with them. Every day provided wonderful moments. We did so many things in Tidewater during those years.

My second son arrived in May, four years after his brother, and this time my parents found a way to come to Chicago to visit him when he was just one month old. My mother could fuss over him to her heart's content, and my father could rock him and sing to him just as he had done with me. I was so glad that they could see my son when he was still brand new. My parents took my daughter back with them on the sleeper train so that she could have a special summer visit with them. All three of them treasured that.

We took the train to visit my parents for baby Alexander's first Christmas, so my mother had her precious grandchildren with her twice in one year. I cannot tell you how happy I was to spend Christmas with all of us together.

This pattern continued over the years. Usually only a long summer visit, followed by a drought of family get-togethers. My mother didn't like to travel, so even once she retired, we really only made those summer trips.

Why do I feel a little melancholy, then, when I am blessed with another grandchild? Because now I completely understand how much my mother (and father) yearned to be close enough to us to visit frequently and to watch my children grow up gradually, not in annual stages. We all did the best we could, and my children were very, very close to my parents, but when I am able to be with my grandchildren after a short 2-hour drive, I feel sad that I spent those growing-up years so far away from my mother. It's just something I wish hadn't worked out that way.

I cherish every moment I can spend with my grandchildren and never take my opportunities for granted. I wish I lived down the street from them! So when I see my sweet little Nicholas Anthony Bess this week, I am not only loving him myself, but I'm also channeling the deep joy my mother and father would feel if they were still with us. Love never ends.

Bye-Bye Birdies

Birds terrify me. An unfortunate, surprise, physical attack on me by a guinea hen at my grandfather's farm when I was barely three produced this fear, which continues to this day. Ask my family and my close friends. Birds terrify me.

Keeping this in mind, you might ask why I blithely travel to Europe at the drop of a hat, when pigeons seem to live absolutely everywhere. The pigeon problem does give me pause. When one or more of my immediate family accompanies me, they surround me like bodyguards (which actually they are) and prevent any member of the avian kingdom from approaching me. My children have especially keen eyes and are my faithful protectors. Generally, my strategy when alone is simply to ignore any birds on the ground and walk blithely through streets and passages as if I were traversing Disneyland.

I wasn't looking forward to my first visit to Venice, however. If you've either been there or seen photos of the city, you know that Piazza San Marco (the very large square in front of Saint Mark's cathedral in the heart of the city) is notorious for its superabundance of pigeons. The entire square always seems covered by those nasty birds. People even stop and feed the vermin!! I was daunted by the prospect of making my way through this terrifying barrier. One can walk under sheltering colonnades for part of the perimeter of the square, but eventually the protection ends and one must dash for the entrance of the cathedral. Even though my husband would be with me, I quailed (sorry!) at the prospect of navigating the square.

We were staying in a convitto bed and breakfast fronting on the Giudecca canal in late December 1999. This was our first visit and we were reconnoitering for our planned trip in the spring with my husband's students. December weather near the Adriatic can be stormy. During our first night, a major storm swept across western Europe and brought lots of wind and rain. (Some of you may recall the damage done to Versailles during this storm--massive trees uprooted and quite a bit of damage spread out over the extensive gardens.) After we ate our breakfasts, we left the convitto and began our exploration of the city. Our first surprise was the elevated wooden boardwalk path that began at the foot of the entrance steps. We saw that this intersected with another boardwalk that ran parallel to the canal. The storm had brought aqua alta, the high water driven through the lagoon by the storm which now flooded the streets. When this happens, out come the boardwalks, placed by the citizens who know just how to deal with all this flooding. We realized that we could go everywhere we had planned. Not many other folks out that day, either.

As we approached San Marco, my anxiety began to rise.  Thousands of pigeons awaited me. I clutched my husband's arm and braced myself. We emerged from the colonnade into a water-covered piazza. We saw about 10 pigeons. The aqua alta prevented those thundering thousands of pigeons from landing and strutting on the piazza.

No pigeons could attack me!

I'd like to say that I walked right to the center of the piazza and twirled around like Mary Tyler Moore did on her TV show, but of course the boardwalks only went along the edges of the piazza and then in and out of the cathedral. I did have rather an excited celebration under the colonnades, however.

The stormy weather continued for most of our stay. Needless to say, I didn't miss sunshine and dry conditions. We had quite pleasant Italian winter weather for the rest of our trip. The pigeon populations of Florence and Rome were negligible threats. I certainly dodged my greatest fear during those days.

I've returned to Venice since this visit, and the weather was lovely and the pigeons possessed the piazza. My two sons accompanied me and I survived. Nothing, however, will ever replace my sighs of relief on that first visit, when aqua alta banished those birds and let me appreciate Venice fearlessly.

I Confess: Amazon Is My Friend

I freely confess that I use Amazon all the time.

This originates almost entirely from the fact that my medical challenges over the past three years have made shopping alone in actual stores very difficult if not impossible. I shop almost exclusively online now, and that means most frequently Amazon. I also have Amazon Prime, which means that I sometimes can receive my order in a day with free shipping. (That is insane.)

Amazon offers a mind-boggling array of products which you can receive through astonishingly fast delivery. I frequently feel like I have waved a magic wand and suddenly my wishes have come true. We recently needed to buy a large, low, furniture-quality television cabinet. Looking at the many furniture stores in the South Bend area would not work for me. (I am having mobility issues and can barely walk from room to room in my house.) My husband loses interest rapidly when he has to shop in any kind of store. Where could I get this much-needed piece of furniture? Amazon. The merchandise search gave me a staggering number of pieces from which to choose. It took me a bit of time to find something that I thought would work. We checked the dimensions of the cabinet, my husband measured the space where it would be placed, and we ordered it. Delivery time? Two days. Granted, my husband had to wrestle the box inside by himself, but truly it felt like magic to go from an on-line search to the delivered package in two days. Fortunately, because I never assume that these things will arrive in perfect condition, this one did and I'm very pleased.

I did all of my Christmas shopping on-line, primarily from Amazon. I use Amazon wishlists all the time to order for my children and grandchildren, because I just can't physically go shopping. Amazon fits my re-organized life to a T.

I often feel guilty about how easily I turn to Amazon. Just yesterday I received a package containing a 4 oz. tube of arnica. This homeopathic salve will bring some relief for my aching knees. It's available in stores such as Walgreen's and CVS. But my husband wasn't able to go shopping for me just then and I really wanted the arnica AND I could get it in one day from Amazon.

This is how low I have sunk, and something I wouldn't have done three years ago.

I am looking forward longingly to my return to actual shopping in local stores. I always try to patronize independent businesses and find local specialties to buy. I am eager to have the physical health to walk leisurely through shops and let items catch my eye. I am even anticipating going to the grocery store again!

Now I feel better having confessed to my faults and explained how eager I am to return to physically support bricks-and-mortar stores. As soon as I regain my shopping independence, I will be back enjoying that freedom again. So please pardon me if you receive a gift that comes from Amazon and is wrapped in their wrapping paper. One day you'll get your gift hand-picked in person by me and wrapped beautifully by me as well.

It's just that, in the meantime, Amazon is my friend.

What To Do On A Summer Roadtrip

From Memorial Day through the Fourth of July, we see and hear many expressions of our love for the USA. We put up flags on our houses, we sing the national anthem with gusto whenever the opportunity arises, we watch parades enthusiastically. I want to share one of my little family's most memorable patriotic moments, dating back more than 35 years ago.

Each summer we drove from Chicago to Portsmouth so that our children could spend two to three weeks with my parents. Most years my husband had to stay in Chicago for work, but the children and I enjoyed these road trips either way. We listened to lots of Raffi's music, played 'auto bingo' till we dropped, and just hung out in the car for two days. One year remains unforgettable, for a good reason. My sister was driving with us, my daughter was 7, and my son Peter was 3. We were well down the road when Peter announced that he wanted to learn the words to the "Star-Spangled Banner".

We didn't take him seriously at first.

He, however, was quite serious.

So we began to sing. Fortunately, my sister and I knew the words, and Jennifer was pretty solid on them, too. Peter kept an intense focus on the task at hand, and slowly but surely progressed. Mile after mile we sang that song.

I longed to switch to "God Save the Queen" because it's a much shorter anthem!

I subtly tried to switch songs or play a game or two, but Peter was not to be denied very long. I retain quite a vivid image of rolling along the Pennsylvania Turnpike between Pittsburgh and Breezewood and all of us bellowing out the song.

By the time we hit the final stretch of our trip (the mind-numbing stretch of I-95 south of Fredericksburg), Peter was word and melody perfect. Not a mistake remained. Now we were singing quite joyfully, as a matter of fact. He was quite proud of himself and I was quite proud of him, too. I don't remember exactly, but I feel like he might have burst into song as soon as we hopped out of the car at my parents' house! Regardless, there was surprise and delight all around when Peter shared his achievement.

I have never asked Peter if he remembers why he needed to learn the anthem at that particular time. I recently reminisced about what might have been his reason. Blame it on the Cubs. Every time we went to Wrigley, the game of course began with everyone singing the "Star-Spangled Banner". Peter, with his hand or hat over his heart, wanted to sing along but didn't know the words. He most probably was very frustrated with this problem. Peter likes to know things. I think he just seized the opportunity to collect all of us in the car for long stretches of time and forced us to teach him. Makes sense to me!

Now I have to ask him if he's up-to-date with his twins on this achievement.

Favorite Musical Moments

My life has contained much music and many memorable musical moments, disastrous as well as humorous as well as transcendent. Today I want to share with you three of my favorite delightful and amusing moments, involving three very different and cherished musician friends.

One of my dearest friends, whom I met at St. Andrews, is a talented singer and guitarist (at least I hope she still plays the guitar!). Just as I was starting my last year at William and Mary, this friend popped in to visit me for a few days, which was a lovely link between St. Andrews and home. She went to some of my classes, toured round Colonial Williamsburg on her own, and then we spent a wonderful day visiting all the other places in CW that she wanted to see. One of our stops that day was the musical instrument maker's shop, a bit out of the way from the well-trodden tourist path. The craftsmen were constructing and finishing lutes that day. After the lutenist explained what he was making, and after he played a little tune or two, he turned to the folks in the front of the shop and, with a twinkle in his eye, asked if anyone would like to try to play the lute he held in his hand. I tried not to smile as my friend said "I would", without any hesitation. She carefully took the lute from his hands, positioned it in her own, and began to play one of the well-known classical guitar pieces that I had heard her play several times. Effortless and charming and matter-of-fact, she knocked them all over with her abilities. The crowd even applauded her, as did the lutenist! She handed the lute back to him, thanked him for the opportunity, and we turned and walked out. I have cherished that moment all the years since.

I was married in the church where I grew up, and we were fortunate to have several friends there who were consummate professional musicians. One was the organist, whose day job was serving as principal at Princess Anne High School in Virginia Beach, whom I had studied with and who would wrap our ceremony in beautiful music. The other was our director of music, who led all the choirs and who happened to have been my piano teacher for many years. She also had the most glorious mezzo-soprano voice I ever knew. Between Nell and Fae, I had exactly what I hoped for in terms of wedding music. My husband's best man was not from Tidewater, and he later told my husband that he more or less braced himself to endure the lackluster music he expected from a Southern Baptist church in southeastern Virginia. First he was knocked for a loop at the quality of the pre-wedding organ music that Nell played. He just felt, however, that as soon as Fae stood and began to sing, some good old gospel solos would be forthcoming, in a down-home twang. (He didn't know me as well as he would in years to come!) I don't quite remember which solo Fae sang first, but her grand, professionally trained, beautiful voice swept our dear best man away and he talked about this for years. I didn't know all this until we were back in Cambridge after our honeymoon, but it remains one of my favorite stories.

My last story comes from St. Benedict Parish on the North Side of Chicago, where I participated in the music program for many years. Several talented men and women joined that group and our standard of soloist was quite high. (I was not numbered amongst them--I'm a really good choir singer, not a soloist!) My dear friend Les directed the music program. One Easter Sunday, Les had convinced our mutual friend Christine to sing Mozart's "Alleluia" as a special solo during the presentation of gifts. (She sang with the Chicago Symphony Chorus, to give you an idea of her talent.) She didn't want to sit mixed in with the choir because she had not actually rehearsed with us. Instead, she told Les she would just sit in the congregation nearby and rise and come to the lectern and sing. Only a few of us knew she would be doing this. At the appointed time, she quietly stood up, stepped out of the pew, and walked up to stand beside the organ. Les began the opening bars of music and then Christine let her truly magical soprano voice sing the alleluias. The congregation was spellbound. When the music finished, Christine quietly and unobtrusively returned to her seat.  She told me afterwards that she was SO tempted to turn to the person next to her in the pew and inquire "what are you going to sing?" We have laughed at that scenario for years and years, but having her simply 'stand and deliver' that wonderful Easter alleluia transformed our worship.

I have to slip in one more memory from my earliest years at church. Our organist and choir director was Norma Edmonds. She could open up that pipe organ and make glorious music. But what I remember best was hearing her play Bach's "Toccata and Fugue" in D Minor on our church's grand organ. I was hooked from that moment onward.

Teaching at a New School and Running Props for an Opera

i began my teaching position at Mother Theodore Guerin High School in August 1993. That would seem to be a pretty big deal in itself. In September, however, I also became props manager for Opera San Benedetto in Chicago, which involved an intense and demanding schedule on its own. My dear friend Alice asked me if I had thought carefully about how I was going to do this. Not really. Teaching sophomore girls church history by day and scurrying around backstage at St. Benedict's seemed possible.

But it was crazy.

I would get my children and me up and fed and distributed to schools, and then race out to Guerin for my first class. Lots of class prep was done in my VW as I drove out to Cumberland and Belmont. (Don't tell.) The happy part was that I loved church history and was delighted to talk about it all day long.

As soon as I could leave, I zipped home from school, collecting Alexander en route and getting home before the older two children. We all relaxed as much as possible and I stirred up supper quick like a bunny. Once the opera rehearsals started, I got everyone settled to homework and then headed to St. Benedict's. Some of you have worked in theatre and know the demands of providing the necessary props at the necessary times in the necessary places behind stage. Always tricky. We were presenting "Pagliacci" and we had a superb cast. I adored the music but I was exhausted by the end of each rehearsal. Of course, I had to set the props for the next rehearsal or performance, but that was my job.

When I got back home, it was good night conversations and uncluttered time with my children. Once they were abed, I had to prepare for the next day's classes and perhaps even grade papers. My alarm clock rang all too early the next day.

I should point out that my dear husband had begun a new job, too, as a professor of architecture at Andrews University in Berrien Springs, Michigan. He drove there and back again twice a week, so he had his own challenges with too much to do in too little time. What a start to the school year we all had.

How did I manage that first six weeks? More or less trying to do everything for everyone. Looking back, I really don't know how I didn't just have a melt down. But I had so much fun! Meeting all my young students and sharing the excitement of church history with them (well, it was exciting to me) was a demanding adventure filled with some wonderful people. I loved Guerin. Learning the ins and outs of operatic productions delighted and exhausted me. I have never looked at any kind of theatrical production the same way since.

You may be wondering how I got swept up in an opera company. Fair question! Many of the members of the adult choir at St. Benedict's parish in Chicago were professional musicians and actors. Many of the folks who had grown up in the parish remembered putting on amateur theatricals when they were teens and young adults. Our music director (my dear friend Les) thought we had a good chance to do quality performances of classical opera. Why not? We began with "Die Fliedermaus", then moved on to "Pagliacci", "La Boheme", "La Traviata", and "The Elixir of Love". We also tossed in "The 1940's Radio Hour" at Christmas.

I helped out in all the performances, and even was in the chorus for "Elixir". I managed to fulfill my teaching commitment with no disasters, and eagerly signed a new contract. The opera company didn't last much longer than that first season and I didn't continue to help out.

So I survived it all and look back on that year with amazement and affection. I had such a good time!

But summer vacation arrived none too soon.

Heavy Wash or Normal Wash?

Whenever I see anyone pulled off to the side of the road with car troubles, I feel great sympathy for them. My sister and brother and I experienced our share of automotive adventures as we grew up. Fortunately, our father contributed a wealth of knowledge concerning how to keep a car operating under tricky circumstances. He showed us how to solve car problems creatively, and this has certainly helped me out over the years.

One of these adventures always makes me laugh when I think about it, and so I'll share it with you.

In the mid-1970s, my father owned a white VW van. This was the successor to his VW Microbus, and he drove it everywhere. As it happened, one day the ignition switch quit working. Daddy couldn't get a replacement VW switch right away, and he needed to use the bus, so he jury-rigged a substitute switch. He always had parts to various machines stored in his garage. This time he dipped into his appliance parts box and retrieved part of the control system for a washing machine. Since he could fix anything, he hooked this up to the VW and solved the ignition problem.

We just had to make sure the switch was in the "heavy wash" position.

My brother and sister were driving the VW home from the Peninsula one evening in 1975. They reached Jefferson Avenue in Newport News and all was going well. Then the bus died, and they couldn't restart it. Somehow they managed to get it off the road and into a large parking lot. My brother opened the engine compartment in the rear of the bus and then scooted under the bus to check things out. My sister sat up front in the driver's seat and followed instructions. They were concentrating on the task at hand when they noticed a police car pulling up beside them. This wasn't surprising at that time, really. A VW bus, two teenagers (one a boy with long curly hair), in an empty parking lot, doing something to the car. The officer inquired whether they needed help and my brother explained that the car wouldn't start. He said they were working on the situation. The officer stood and watched. My brother called out for my sister to try and start the car. It didn't work. Then he called: "Is it on heavy wash or normal wash?" She switched it, and the car started. Hurray!

The officer, whose eyebrows I imagine had shot up off his forehead, looked at them and said, "They're not going to believe this at the station!"

With everything closed up and ready to roll again, my sister and brother headed on back to Portsmouth. Daddy installed a proper VW ignition switch soon after, but I was a bit sorry to see 'heavy wash/normal wash' go. It still makes me laugh all these years later.