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Cyber Baby

I have a grandson. This is a new thing under the sun. Three precious granddaughters have already shown me the ropes so that I know how to braid baby fine hair, sew one dress that eventually all three will wear, and read books and color as we chatter away about princesses and Queen Amidala, and how cute the young Obiwan Kenobi is. I have gazed into the eyes of my granddaughters and marveled that I somehow had a part in their existence. 

I was present for the birth of one of them, because our son happened to live near us at the time. That was a hushed and calm affair necessitated by a scheduled Caesarean. It was hard to believe there had been a birth when my daughter-in-law was wheeled off and came back an hour later, smiling, rather sleepy, with a quiet little bundle in her arms. The other two girls were born in South Carolina – a little far to go when things start in the middle of the night.

Recently, when my daughter back east called to tell us she was in labor four weeks early and nineteen hundred and fifty miles away, I was dismayed. Our vacation to Maine was scheduled for the end of July, in accordance with her due date. My husband and I both needed to work up until that time. We were going to miss everything, I thought. We sighed and prayed, and longed for time travel. 

I’ve written previously about the blessing that social networks can be, despite being a cross between a circus and a pre-teen’s private diary. We are connected in a way that was never possible before. So think for a moment what it meant to us when we went into work and checked Facebook (a legitimate work activity since our church has a page) to see that my sister was posting messages. She was our daughter’s birth coach and she started out with “Labor is progressing smoothly”, with the appropriate measurements spelled out. “Em is doing great,” was soon followed by “Epidural is coming.” We realized, once again, that we have entered the space age and we hovered around the computer monitor, attempting to focus on our jobs, but not getting much done. 

I could imagine Emily with her humor and courage riding each contraction through to its peak, both anticipating and fearing the moment when life changes forever. I had hoped to be there with her, but babies usually come on their own terms. Still, we felt so in touch through this technological marvel that it didn’t hurt quite so much. Through the morning, updates trickled in. She was ready to do the hard work but needed to wait for the epidural to wear off – and “scared; please pray!” Then, “hard labor and her back really hurts”. We puddled up then, and tried to find work to do as we thought of little else but our baby girl, having her baby. An hour later, “You have a grandson!” and there he was, fresh and new and wonderful. 

Sometimes life seems hard and unfair. Being an optimistic person, I try to find the bright side in all that happens. However, when I couldn’t be with my only daughter as she delivered her first child, it was hard to see what was good in that. Miles separated us; others were there for all the firsts; it was going to be weeks until we got back to Maine. I pondered the inequities of this life quite fiercely for a while. 

But then I looked at that picture on Facebook of brand new Owen Russell, less than five minutes old. His eyes were dark and curious, and his strong chest pink and healthy. I could almost imagine the weight of him in my arms from the pictures. I knew exactly what the good was. I was looking at him.

This Old Thing

No one could ever accuse me of being a fashion queen. I’m pretty sure my sisters have considered seeking the help of the TV show What Not To Wear for my wardrobe. But clothes have never been my focus. I tend to keep my favorites for a long time and wear them to death. And moving, which we’ve done a few times,  is a perfect excuse to cull out all those things one never should have bought in the first place. When we packed,  my clothing took up very little space.

There is one article that has moved with me for about thirty years; one thing that I don’t think I can do without, and that symbolizes my family solidarity, my mother’s love, and thousands of opportunities to show that love to my own children. It’s an old thing, but a necessary one.

Back in the early eighties, my mother made aprons for my sisters and myself at Christmas time. They are constructed of a sturdy pink cloth, edged with white bias tape.  She took the time to applique a heart on the pocket, and each of our initials below the heart, so we’d remember who we are.

We are a family of cooks; good cooks, if I do say so. My mother fed our family of nine simple hearty meals, puncuated with homemade bread and rolls, always crowned with dessert of some sort; Pinwheel Cake, Chocolate Chip Blonde Brownies, Peanut Butter Blossoms, Hot Fudge Pudding. I don’t remember learning to cook, but I do remember spending hours in the kitchen with her; washing veggies, peeling potatoes, sifting flour and mixing cakes and cookies. I learned by doing, and carried on that education when I got married and we two youngsters had to actually come up with meals three times a day. I believe I’ve imparted some of that legacy to my daughter, who is an adventurous cook; and in a small way to my sons, who at least know how to scramble eggs or stir up a batch of pancakes.

My oldest sister has blessed hundreds, or maybe thousands, by serving as head cook at youth camps. She specializes in decorated cakes, but is good at everything. My next older sister loves to bake cupcakes and take them to the local food bank to give away. She studies cookbooks and introduces us to new delights. My youngest sister is an exciting cook because she’s fearless about sampling more exotic fare, such as Peanut Butter and Bacon Cookies. Imagine! My brothers share an interest in cooking, but they’ve had to manage without the pink aprons. And we’ve all lived in different states and regions of the country, which has helped open up a world of distinctive tastes.

Now, Oklahoma figures into this mix. My church gave me an Oklahoma cookbook and I began browsing through it. I saw one particular recipe and said to my husband, “Chocolate gravy?” His eyes grew very big and a look of anticipation lit up his face. I haven’t attempted that yet, but between enchiladas, tabouli and biscuits and gravy, a whole new dimension has been added to our menus.

Moving, whether it’s across town, or across the world, entails upheaval. We forget for a time all the familiar things, like who we are. Finding my way around a new kitchen doesn’t usually take me too long. So when we moved to Oklahoma, the kitchen boxes were unpacked first, my trusty Kitchenaid was set up, and the cupboards all organized. But making it feel like home was harder.

Then I looked at my old pink apron;  stained, worn and a little worse for the wear. It reminded me of my family and all we’ve shared around the table. It helped me remember that whether we’re together or the long miles separate us, we bear a common love and a persistent obsession that binds us together. I looked at this old thing, saw my initials on it, and I remembered…this is who I am. I unfolded it, put it on and began some of my most important work.

Those We Leave Behind

We've moved a lot. My daughter numbers it in the millions, but that was when she was tallying up all the factors that have aged me. I only look as if I've moved millions of times.  Still, I've found the most difficult thing by far about moving is not packing and unpacking, or closing and opening accounts, or even meeting new friends and learning my way around a new place. It’s the ones we leave behind.

The first move I remember was when I was a sophomore in high school. I was too young to recall any moves previous to that, so I was leaving my friends and classmates I’d been with since I started school. I moved from a tiny Maine town where I knew every student and every teacher and every neighbor, to a slightly larger town where I was anonymous and lost. I thought something was broken in me, I was so homesick.

When I married a preacher I thought I knew the kind of life that would entail. My father, a preacher’s kid, gently informed me of the challenges of ministry life. Still, I chose that man and that life. We've spent thirty-five years together thus far, moving around the country and overseas. I've become quite adept at sorting out, packing up and switching gears. But it’s increasingly difficult to move away and yet maintain the relationships that form through the years. So I've consistently looked for tools to help.

It used to be that people wrote letters when they were apart. One book I keep going back to is Letters of a Woman Homesteader by Elinore Pruitt Stewart. She was a young woman who lost her husband, went to Denver to support herself, and then moved in 1909 to Wyoming to work for a cattle man there. She ended up homesteading her own piece of land.  The fascinating story of her life is chronicled to a friend back in Denver. Her friendship with this woman remained firm because of such detailed correspondence.  My mother has letters I’ve written from Illinois, Nova Scotia, Maine, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Zealand, New Hampshire and now, from Oklahoma.  I think if she put them altogether it would fill a book; definitely not a fascinating best seller, but those letters have kept us connected through the long years of separation. Nevertheless, I’m thankful I don’t have to rely on that slower form of communication.

When we decided to move ten thousand miles away to the southern hemisphere, it was understood that we wouldn't be back for four years. That was a daunting challenge, but a new cutting edge tool was just starting to emerge and we were able to send e-mails through a server called CompuServe.  We had fifteen contacts and we felt like we WERE the future! When our oldest son moved back to the States before we did, it was like being part of a sci-fi movie to chat with him online, in real time, without the crippling cost of long distance phone calls.

My daughter and her family live back in Maine, as do my parents, siblings, in-laws, co-workers and previous church friends. This has been a difficult move, to leave all of them behind. I don’t know how I could bear it if it weren't for Skype, e-mail and Facebook…oh, and that old device called a telephone.  I’m thankful for these technologies that help keep those ties strong and sure over the miles and months that separate us. As much as I admire those in earlier centuries who could wait months for some word or news of their loved ones, I’m so grateful that I have numerous resources for keeping in touch. We commit our loved ones to God’s care every day, and then we go on Facebook just to make sure they’re okay!

When we were transplanted overseas, I made an unspoken decision to keep my feelings to myself.  I wasn't going to love the people we met and worked with, so I tried to hold myself aloof.  My reasons: I knew it would hurt again if we had to leave.  But, surprise! They wooed me and won my heart and I fell hard for them.  I learned then that loving is worth the risk of pain. I've decided to risk my heart, wherever we go, because I’d rather know and love and miss the ones I leave behind, than consider my life without them.  

Lost

A few years ago, my daughter and I took a trip to Texas. We relied heavily on a GPS to get us there and it steered us quite handily through Scranton, PA, Nashville, TN and on across the Mississippi River. However, when we entered the state of Texas, our GPS – let’s call her English Emily – started to become a little confused. Texas has roads that started out as farm-to-market roads, or FM routes. English Emily completely misunderstood and started telling us to follow “Federated States of Micronesia” routes to get to our destination. We had a good laugh, and wondered how English Emily could get it so wrong.

Right now, however, I can sympathize with English Emily. My internal compass is broken. When I look at a map and see where I am, it all makes sense. But when I try on my own to figure out how I’m situated, it’s a muddle. And I never really had this problem, even when we lived in the Southern Hemisphere. In Maine, I knew right where I was. I could tell by looking at the lake which way the wind was blowing, and didn’t need to look at the sun to calculate which way was north.

Part of the issue is a difference in communicating directions. In Maine, you go right or left, up or down and even though foreigners (from Massachusetts and such) get confused, we know that down means whichever direction you took. If you say you went down to Bangor, it was understood that you went west to get there. In fact, you go down to get most anywhere in Maine. But I’m learning that Oklahomans are much more precise.

I was at a basketball game, at half time. I heard some people in front of us talking about how to get someplace. The gentleman told his friend, you go right on such and such route. His wife shook her head and said matter-of-factly, “South.” And it was all cleared up. The points of the compass seem to be taught in kindergarten or even installed at birth, like a genetic GPS. People at our church talk about sitting on the south or north side of the sanctuary. Some acquaintances were talking about their lovely neighbor to the north. A friend asked which side of Route 48 we live on, and I had to stop and think, okay, is it right or left?  Rather than appear stupid, I told her the name of the street, and she immediately said, “Oh, east.” How did she know that?

We drove to see family in Texas at Thanksgiving, and we went the complete opposite direction than I thought we would. “Oh,” I exclaimed. “This is south?” My husband showed great forbearance and didn’t sigh. My son tried to help. “Just look at the sun to figure out where you are.” For me there’s a whole equation that has to be figured, like algebra – which is inscrutable – before I know where I am. I start with the basics - the sun rises in the east, the sun is on my left, it’s still before noon,  that means we’re going south. However, if there’s a cloud cover I’m lost. 

I really don’t why I feel so off balance. Moving is very stressful, and although I don’t feel particularly stressed I guess it’s taking me awhile to get my bearings. Gradually my place here in the mid-west is coming clear and my compass is swinging true. I doubt I’ll ever develop that innate “knowing” that Oklahomans have. But, especially now at the end of the year, when folks naturally stop, look back, look forward and set goals, I have a plan. In the Bible, the Apostle Paul advised, “Press on toward the goal…” and I’m going to press on. If you ask me in what direction that is, I can unequivocally answer…ahead.