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The Big 1

The Big 1

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Today our grandson Isaiah celebrates his first birthday with a party, presents and a smash cake —  something we had back in the day but just called “cake.”

He’s a cheerful little fellow who’s on the cusp of walking, who likes to point and say “dutz?” or “dat?” and who’s totally at home with two huge German shepherds and a dog-sized cat. 

I love him to pieces, of course — how could I not? But I find it difficult to write about him and his younger cousin Bernadette. How many ways can you say adorable, huggable and snuggly? How can I retain even a smidgen of objectivity when writing about this pair?

For years I penned articles for parenting magazines. While I conducted research and interviewed experts, I also used my daughters’ bedtime routines, imaginary companions or other age-appropriate behavior as anecdotes. The girls were first and foremost my precious children, of course, but sometimes … they were material. 

This is not the case with the grandkids. They are pure pleasure, not only because we can send them home at the end of the day but also because there’s not one published anecdote about them. Unless you count the occasional blog post, of course!

Two Photos

Two Photos

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I took a long walk this morning after an early airport run. It felt good to hit the pavement after sending off the Seattle contingent. They live so far away, and I miss them. But they are well on their way now, and the rest of us are back in our homes and routines, too. The week we spent together was full of hikes and paddles and loud, raucous family dinners, and I’m enormously grateful for it.

If today I’m a little sad knowing it’s over, that’s part of it, too, like the rise and fall of breath and tides. I tell myself that it could easily not have worked out at all. There were the schedules of eight adults to juggle, to say nothing of baby nap times, feedings and gear. 

I snapped the top photo after everyone else had left the house, amazed that it could end up looking like it had in the website pictures once we’d packed up and moved out. But I’d rather remember it like this:

On the Lake

On the Lake

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There’s at the lake and there’s on the lake. And what a difference between the two. Being at the lake can also mean being in the woods or on a walk or hanging with the family in an A-frame across the road. 

Being on the lake is being immersed in water and wake, paddle and foam.  It’s kayaking up and down Red Run Cove, saying hello to folks in other boats or on the shore, listening to snippets of conversation about the invasive grasses that are mucking up motor boat propellers. 

Once in the middle of the lake, I put my oar across my knees and feel the sun on my face. I think about the trip, which ends today. There was a lot of packing and organizing to get us here. There’ll be a lot of packing and organizing to get us home. It was worth every minute of it.

At the Lake

At the Lake

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A laptop that’s been off for more than two full days. Dinner for eight every night. A new place with new routines. Must be on vacation.

Here at the lake it’s 20 degrees cooler than home — and with two babies and two dogs, quite a bit more lively.

Two of us are working, two just left for a walk, two of us are napping (the under-one crowd) and the rest are figuring out what we’ll do next. 

It’s August … and the world is now this cottage near a lake. 

Space Relations

Space Relations

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Never my strong suit on standardized tests, what we used to call space relations is not one of those fusty academic subjects that never comes in handy later in life.  It’s an aptitude you can use! 

Right now, for instance, it would be nice to know if the two large (and growing) piles of stuff I’ve been collecting for the lake will fit in our two smallish sedans. One of these cars will have a kayak strapped on the top, or at least that’s the plan, so that must be taken into consideration, weight-wise. 

My record in these areas is dismal. I can’t even figure out how big a Tupperware I need for leftovers, often trying one too small before I finally hit it right. The difference in cubic feet between a dollop of green beans and the mountain of food, fans, towels and other essentials growing upstairs and down is, well, stunning. 

The hour of judgment is coming. I have a feeling it will also be the hour of jettisoning. 

‘Let Every Fiber Thrill’

‘Let Every Fiber Thrill’

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With our family lakeside getaway only two days away, I couldn’t have picked a better time to read Madeleine Blais’ book To the New Owners. A valentine to her family’s ramshackle bungalow on Martha’s Vineyard it sums up the chaos of multi-generational gatherings.  

One of my favorite chapters features excerpts from the guest register. There are explanations, exhortations and ruminations — entries that touch on every aspect of that family’s island getaways.

“I’ve never played so many games of gin rummy in my life.” 

“I can think of no other place I’d rather go  out and not catch any fish!”

And, because this is a literary family, numerous riffs on the famous line from Moby Dick, including, “Call me, Ishmael” and “You never call me, Ishmael.” 

One of my favorite entries is this quotation from Flaubert, which captures the spirit with which one should embark upon a trip that (in my case) consists of eight adults, two babies and two large German Shepherds:

“Spend! Be profligate! All great souls, that is to say, all good ones, expend all their energies regardless of the cost. You must suffer and enjoy, laugh, cry, love and work, in other words you must let every fiber of your being thrill with life. That’s the meaning of being human, I think …”

(Above: Guest books from Thule, our beloved lakeside cottage in Indiana, which left the family about five years ago.)

Tales to Tell

Tales to Tell

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For the last few months I’ve been slowly moving books into the spare bedroom I now call my office. It was my office once, long ago, when I was a full-time freelance writer and two of our daughters still bunked together in the room across the hall.  

But since then it has been Claire’s room, from the time she was a grade-schooler with hermit crabs and hamsters (including one who miraculously gave birth two days after we brought “him” home from the pet store) to a teenager with walls covered by photos of the band Green Day.  

The door to this room has been slammed shut so many times that it barely closes. But it does close, and that is important. 

For now, I sit here in hard-earned quiet, thinking about the journey it took to reclaim this room — not just the painting and decluttering but the long journey from moving out to finally moving back in. 

This room has tales to tell. 

Outside-After-Dinner

Outside-After-Dinner

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The sound of children laughing two doors down, birds rustling and roosting in the azaleas, the clatter of plates being cleared. It’s 7:30 p.m. and as bright as day. It’s outside-after-dinner. 

To a child, this is a place of its own, magical and wild, long shadows looming where there were none at noon. It’s a place where rules are bent, bedtimes extended. 

When I was a kid I’d be excused early with cookies to go, then run to meet playmates from next door and across the street. We played SPUD and Red Rover till the streetlights came on.

For my own kids, there were long evenings catching fireflies or climbing hay bales to ride the zip line from the big oak on the Riley’s side of the yard (which is still standing) to the big oak on the Voegler’s side (which is not).

Now we sit on the deck slapping at mosquitoes, putting off going inside. There are grownup tasks awaiting us — bills to pay, emails to send.  But it’s hard to abandon the soft light and the feeling we’re getting away with something. It’s hard to leave outside-after-dinner. 

Growing Family

Growing Family

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At my house, the longest day passed in a blur of baby giggles, burgers and corn on the cob. Not the most elegant Father’s Day repast, but one suited to young families.

These days are golden, and when the last toy is collected and stuffed into the diaper bag, and the cars disappear down the street, I’m left marveling, as I always do, at how our family has grown.

It will always be miraculous to me, which is, I suppose, how it should be.

(The elephant ear family is growing, too.) 
Lifespan

Lifespan

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Get ready to meet your great-great grandchildren, says David Sinclair in his mind-boggling new book Lifespan. Sinclair, a Harvard geneticist, makes a simple but earth-shattering claim: Aging is a disease, and soon science will be able to cure it. Sinclair is not just talking about extending life, but about prolonging health, as well.

It would be easy to laugh this off if Sinclair was a no-nothing diet and exercise guru, but he’s a serious scientist whose theory on aging is as brilliant as it is well-informed. 

Epigenetic changes drive aging, Sinclair says, and they can be reversed by certain supplements and by stressing the body in such a way as to trigger the survival response — intermittent fasting, low-protein diets, intensive exercise and exposure to hot and cold temperatures. 

I had long heard that one of the few ways known to prolong life was to consume fewer calories. This book helps me understand why. And though I’m not exactly eating one-third less than I usually do, I am skipping an occasional meal — and would love to get my hands on some of those supplements. The cost, after all, is relatively low — and the payback, enormous. 

(A two-foot tall, 90-year-old spruce tree from the Japanese Garden in Portland.)