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Eighty Years

Eighty Years

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Shortly after publishing yesterday’s post, I realized that yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Eighty years … 

I looked back to see what I’d written on the 70th anniversary, and there was something I’d forgotten about: a special showing of the movie “12 O’Clock High” at a Lexington, Kentucky, cinema, which Dad had organized and hosted. 

I remember that now, how excited he was about it, how he had a little display area out in the vestibule of the movie house, with uniforms and medals and other memorabilia loaned by members of the Kentucky chapter of the 8th Air Force Historical Society.

Now, the World War II veterans are almost all gone. One of the more famous, Bob Dole, just passed away at the age of 98. My dad was not one of the more famous, except to me and the rest of us who loved him. But Dad was World War II to me, and since he’s been gone, I read as little about it as possible. 

(Photo: Genealogy Trails History Group)

The Message

The Message

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Say what you will about the cluttered house (and I’ve said plenty), but every so often it can surprise and delight you. 

The other night, while looking for something in the closet, I jostled a tube of silver wrapping paper, which dislodged a spool of curling ribbon, which brought down an old envelope filled with photos and a note from my father-in-law, who’s been gone for almost 29 years. 

What a gift this was, to hear again from this man who, even in the midst of his own illness was writing to share holiday photos and wisdom. The note was filled with appreciation for his home, his family, for the snow that had recently blanketed the woods around his house. 

The delivery system may have been a bit unorthodox, but the message was simple: love life while you have it. 

(A different snowfall, a different woods.)

Scott Hotel

Scott Hotel

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Only time for a short walk yesterday, but I had a destination in mind: the Scott Hotel, once owned by my grandfather and great uncle. Mom and her family lived at the hotel intermittently through the years, sharing quarters with the horsemen and the tobacco farmers in to sell their crops. 

The hotel was right across from the Southern Railway Depot, a natural place to stay for a night or two if you were in Lexington on business.

It was a less likely place to house three young daughters and a son. But these were different times, harder in some ways, easier in others.

The hotel is abandoned now, has been for years. It stands in mute testimony to those long-ago lives. 

Doing the Reading

Doing the Reading

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Finding the balance point for this new phase of life is not going to be an exact science, I can already tell. I crave big blocks of time but am also terrified by them. I tremble at not having enough to do, then compensate by piling on too much.

For instance, I continue to try and do all the reading for class, even though it can be an insane amount. Last night, for instance, I realized that there’s an entire book we’re supposed to read for today.

In my mind are the words of my children. “Mom, you don’t have to do all the reading.” Wise words from people who, as I recall, were taught that they should do all the reading. 

But as with so much of life, relationships shift, patterns change, wisdom develops. 

And tonight, I will go to class at least slightly … unprepared. 

Made by Walking

Made by Walking

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We make the road by walking. That was the sentence beamed on the wall of the Methodist church in Arlington where Bernadette was baptized on Saturday. Bernadette like an old-fashioned baby in her long white baptismal gown and cap. Bernadette who reaches out her arms to be held, who crawls like a house afire and pulls herself up to stand. She is a delight, though she can still cry with the best of them.

While she has perfected the piercing wail, her cousin Isaiah has mastered the wild bird shriek, his way of letting folks know he’s not getting his way. And he used this to perfection during the baptism, even as his parents fed him Cheerios, age-old food of parents in distress, and did everything else they could to occupy him during the service.

It seems like not that long ago we were the parents on the front lines, we were the ones grabbing those little pencils and envelopes in the pews, handing kids keys and trinkets they would never be allowed to touch otherwise. We were the ones carrying a screaming baby out of the sanctuary. We were the ones making the road by walking.

During the sermon, the pastor talked about how those who come before us make the way … just as we make the way for those who come after us. A lovely image not only for the Path of Life, capital P, capital L, but for every little lower-case section of it.

En Peu de Francais

En Peu de Francais

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With a new French-speaking grandson, I find myself dredging up phrases from ancient history — a high school class in French I. Today’s is “il fait du vent” … it’s windy.

But how much more trippingly does “Il fait du vent” fall off the tongue? Pretty trippingly, I’d say. 

Apparently, I could also phrase it as “Il y a du vent,” but I’ll stick with what I learned years ago. Which is way too little to converse with a bright 11-year-old.  

Once again, I’m struck by the paucity of foreign language study in the U.S. — or at least my language study!

(I met these children on a trip to Benin in 2015.) 

Bernadette’s Present

Bernadette’s Present

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Yesterday there was another first birthday, this one for our precious granddaughter, Bernadette. There were presents and cake and a special meal, a trip to the park with her mom and a visit with her grandparents and aunts and cousin. 

But the big present was still to come. She was going to meet it (him!) right after she and her mom left us at 8 p.m. That would be her new brother, age 11, arriving with his dad on a plane from Benin, West Africa via Istanbul. 

A year and two days ago, Suzanne and Appolinaire were a family of two. Now … they’re a family of four. We’re all rejoicing for them.

Biking the Trail

Biking the Trail

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I spent the weekend hearing tales from Tom and his brothers, intrepid cyclists just returned from a 350-mile bike adventure down the Great Allegheny Passage and C&O Canal Towpath trails. 

These rails-to-trails paths allow walkers and bikers to make their way from Pittsburg to Washington, D.C. almost completely off-road. They provide a glimpse of the way life used to be, when people journeyed on foot or not at all. 

Tom and the guys hung panniers stuffed with tents and sleeping bags on their bikes, then cycled through forests, along rivers and across iron truss bridges. They told went swimming in the Potomac and heard train whistles in the night.

They passed through Pennsylvania towns like Boston, Connellsville and Ohiopyle (gateway to Falling Water), and Maryland burgs like Cumberland, Paw Paw and Hancock — meeting the same folks along the way.

It was challenging, exhausting, unforgettable. All I can say is … sign me up!

(Photo: Tom Capehart)

Twenty Years

Twenty Years

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When I visited Lexington last month, Phillip drove me through the University of Kentucky campus. He  wanted to show me that the twin towers were gone. Not those twin towers, though Phillip saw those come down, too. He was working in New York at the time, his office less than two miles north on Hudson. But it was the absence of the Kirwan-Blanding Towers he wanted to show me, two 23-floor dormitories that housed students for almost 50 years and that came down carefully, a floor at a time.

Not so with those other towers, of course, which pancaked to the ground 20 years ago today, taking the lives of almost 2,700 with them. As is so often the case, we hadn’t known what we had until we lost it. We also hadn’t known that terrorists with fake IDs were learning how to fly planes — but not to land them. There was ignorance within our innocence. Perhaps there must always be.

In the days and weeks that followed 9/11, I cooked up a storm. I made bacon-and-egg breakfasts, chopped vegetables for stews and soups. I drug out the crockpot and pressed it into service. I was making food for the bereaved and serving it to my family. It felt like a way to heal.

But that was long ago. Our problems have metastasized. The terrorism is still present but now we also have a pandemic, climate change disasters, and an ignominious end to the war we started to avenge the 9/11 attacks. So many challenges … and so little consensus on how to deal with them.

Ten years ago, I wrote that our children grew up in a different world. Now my children have children. What kind of world will they inherit?

A Different Thursday

A Different Thursday

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For most of the summer, we’ve been watching our grandson, Isaiah, every Thursday. The little tyke and his mom head over here early in the morning, and Isaiah’s daddy picks him up in the afternoon. But starting this week, Isaiah has begun going to a family daycare provider, so it was quiet around here yesterday.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a babysitter-type person. Watching Isaiah (or granddaughter Bernadette) full-time are not jobs I’ve lobbied to have. Much as I adore my grandbabies, I know my strengths and weaknesses — and a daycare provider I’m not.

But I love to be around the babies, and watching them grow and change is a greater joy than I could have imagined. All of which is to say.that yesterday I missed the feel of a little head on my shoulder and of little arms around my neck, the softness of baby skin and the dearness of hands so plump that the wrist line looks like a bracelet.

I missed the devilish smile when Isaiah bangs the cabinet doors or opens up the crisper drawer, finds an apple and bites into it. Watching babies: so much of it is funny, so much of it is tedious, so much of it is tactile. So much of it is all of these at once. 

Before there were grandchildren I thought I remembered what it was like to have a baby in the house, But it turns out, I had forgotten. 

(Isaiah and friend plot their escape.)