Narrative

Counting Words and Milestones

/ Gerry Wilson / 14 Comments
500 Words Challenge logo
500 Words Challenge logo

The second day of the New Year, and here I am, churning out words, mainly because I joined Jeff Goins’ 500 Words a Day Challenge for the month of January. What was I thinking? I’m already a day behind!

I’m late for a couple of reasons:

1. I didn’t know about and sign on for this challenge until last night.

2. I took my fourteen-year-old grandson out to lunch, and we did some post-Christmas shopping (he had a gift card to use), and then I dropped him off for his hitting lesson (he’s a baseball player). I had a great time. I think he did, too.

This child (dare I still call him that?) isn’t a stereotypical adolescent.

We talked. A lot.

We talked about cars. And driving, the next big milestone for him, I suppose. On the way to lunch, we passed a very old Ford Explorer parked on the side of the road not far from his house, and I kidded him, said we could probably buy that for a song and save it for when he drives.

We talked football, both college and pro. I learned that he feels bad for Eli Manning because Eli’s having a bad year.

We talked about dogs: about how great his is, and how he thinks I need one, and what kind to get.

We talked about the city where I live (he lives out in the country, sort of) and what it needs in terms of development. Very sophisticated conversation.

And then we talked family. He asked questions about what his dad was like at fourteen. “Was my dad this tall? Was he thin? What did he like to do?” I learned that he likes our big, chaotic family gatherings on holidays. He enjoys his cousins and would like to know them better. We talked about how, as they all get older, they’ll grow into a different kind of relationship. They’ll be more than cousins; they’ll be friends.

What he doesn’t realize is how quickly that time will come. He’ll be driving before we know it. Having lunch with his grandmother probably won’t be cool then. But he promised me a date in a couple of years—when he’ll be the one to pick me up and take me out to lunch.

All in all, it was a fine afternoon, a great way to start the new year. Time spent that I won’t soon forget. I hope he won’t, either.

Milestones

Grandsons in action
Grandsons / Gerry Wilson

They grow up, you see, these children and grandchildren. My sons aren’t children anymore, except in my head and heart. I hear their small voices still, calling out in the night. I hear their laughter. I hear their noisy, rowdy selves thundering down the stairs and running through the house and slamming out the back door. I hear their dueling stereos playing across the hall from each other. Now they tower over me. They wrap me in their arms with big bear hugs and kiss my cheek or the top of my head. It seems to me  they hold on a little longer this year than last, maybe because they’re old enough now to know that time goes all too fast.

The same is true of grandchildren. Mine range in age from four months to seventeen years (four teenagers)! They’re all beautiful/handsome, smart, loving, and kind. My husband and I have devoted two door facings to keeping up with their growth. This grandson had me check his height again today. There’s a bit of competition going on with his cousin who’s two years older. This one wants to outstrip the other in the height department, and he just might do it. Give him a couple of years. Give him a blink of time.

Growing up is the natural course of things; it’s what children are supposed to do; it’s what we want for them. Yet it goes too fast.

So this little piece that has now grown well beyond the 500-word target for today is a tribute to “my kids,” grown and otherwise, who make me proud. It’s also a nod to good times and to making good memories.

Because memories are important. Memories last.

My challenge to you: Recall a meaningful conversation or a rare, shared moment. What made it memorable?

Here’s to You, 2014, but No Party, Please

/ Gerry Wilson / 19 Comments

party pooper

That’s a warning. Yes, I’m about to be a party pooper. Don’t let me spoil your New Year’s Eve fun, but New Year’s Eve parties depress me. There’s something sad about the crowds, the drinking, the silly  hats, the noisemakers, all that artificial gaiety. The turning of the year, it seems to me, is a solemn occasion; it marks the passage of time we’ll never get back.

New Year’s Eve parties are, I think, escapism at its finest. All that riotous fun on New Year’s Eve is a hedge against what’s wrong with the world and with our own lives. We party to forget.

bad New Year’s, bad, bad

Welcome to 2014 photo courtesy of chanpipat, www.freedigitalphotos.net
Welcome to 2014
Courtesy of chanpipat
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

My aversion to New Year’s Eve celebrations goes back a long way. Here’s a memory:

*Then-husband is in his surgery residency and on call New Year’s Eve. We get a sitter anyway and go out with two or three other couples. We’re sitting in a bar when husband’s pager goes off. He has to go to the hospital. “I won’t be long. I’ll come back here.”

“Take me home,” I say.

“No need for you to leave just because I have to,” he says. “Stay, have a good time.”

“But I don’t want to—”

He’s already turning, going. “I’ll be back in a little while. I promise.”

He doesn’t, of course. Come back. I spend the rest of the night, including the striking of twelve, lonely in the midst of couples. They kiss at midnight. Somebody takes me home.

another party gone bad

Same era, different party: Just before midnight, everybody’s paired off and dancing. I’m dancing with then-husband’s best friend who has had too much to drink. It’s a minute till midnight, and I’m thinking surely husband will come, he’ll cut in, he’ll rescue me, he’ll be the one holding me when we count down to the New Year. But that doesn’t happen. Drunk friend pulls me closer and the counting begins: 10, 9, 8, 7,  . . . When the clock strikes twelve, he kisses me. I push him away, and in the midst of shouts of “Happy New Year!” and noisemakers and couples holding on to each other, singing, dancing to “Auld Lang Syne,” I go looking for then-husband. I spot him across the room, dancing with someone else.

moving on

Does 2014 seem outlandish to you? Another year turning. Days into weeks, months into years. Decades. Half a century gone in a blink, it seems.

I get that the coming of the new year offers the opportunity to put our mistakes behind us and move on. To resolve (yes, there’s the dreaded word) to write more or spend less or work harder or simply be a better person. But I can’t escape the image of time falling away into darkness, irretrievably lost except in memory.

dark post on a party night

Champagne flutes with strawberries Courtesy of m. bartosch www.freedigitalphotos.net
Champagne flutes with strawberries
Courtesy of m. bartosch
http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

Well, this is all very dark, isn’t it? Please forgive, and let’s leave the darkness behind and summon a note of optimism before the clock strikes twelve:

The turning of the year is a time for remembering, maybe even mourning, what’s past. But it’s also the time to let go of regrets and what-ifs. The new year is just that—new time, unspoiled as yet, waiting to unfold second by second, minute by minute, day by day, stretching ahead of us, bright with promise.

So tonight, if it makes you happy, party till you drop! But please don’t invite me. Give me a quiet dinner at home, a good bottle of wine, and a glass of champagne at midnight, or maybe before. It’ll be midnight somewhere, so now-husband and I will have that glass of bubbly whenever we please.

[Raises glass] Wishing you all a happy, peaceful, and productive New Year!

What’s the greatest promise the New Year offers you? How will you use your gift of time differently?

*Then-husband as opposed to Now-husband, who has been known to drive around on New Year’s Eve, looking for parties we weren’t invited to.

Beating the Bah Humbugs

/ Gerry Wilson / 7 Comments

It’s December 21, eighty degrees in Jackson, Mississippi. I’m finally getting into the Christmas spirit, even though the weather forecast is scary, almost nothing is wrapped, and I came very close to dropping the lovely chocolate pound cake I made this morning. It’s a bit lopsided but okay and will go into the freezer to wait for family to come the day after Christmas.

I’ve made old-fashioned cornbread dressing and stashed it in the freezer, too. For holidays I make my mother’s and grandmother’s recipes with few variations. The traditions are important to my sons, and I’m glad. It’s a way of remembering and honoring those we love who aren’t around any longer.

I’ve cut cedar, holly, and magnolia (even a stalk of a yucca plant) and plopped it into baskets to dress things up a bit, inside and out. My mother and dad did that–nothing artificial for them. In fact, many years ago, my dad used to cut magnolia and holly out of their yard, mist it with water, and pack it in big plastic bags and ship it–yes–ship it to me because I didn’t have any, and everybody should have live greenery for Christmas, right?

Remembering that makes me both happy and sad. Holidays are like that. Holidays can be the toughest or the best of times, and sometimes a little of both. Even in the best times, for me there’s always nostalgia, a little melancholy. So many Christmases gone. So many people gone, too.

But I have memories. And traditions.

A few days ago, I had a bad case of the bah humbugs. I faced last-minute shopping and cleaning and cooking and decorating I didn’t think I had the heart to do. But the traditions kept nagging at me like whispering voices. What about Christmas dinner? And a centerpiece for the table? Live greens, of course. And music. There must be music! I hummed Christmas songs while I ran errands and got the last-minute shopping done. I listened to Christmas music while I cooked.

I ran across that chocolate pound cake recipe last week when I was going through an old file. My grandmother had torn it out of a Progressive Farmer magazine dated August 1958. The folded page has deteriorated and her handwritten notes are barely legible. I remembered her making that cake and how good it was, but I can’t recall ever making it myself. So I decided to try it. A revived, revised tradition. I could almost hear my grandmother talking me through making the cake this morning. I imagined her shaking her head at my sloppy ways; I’m not the cook she was.

There’s still a lot to do, but it’s beginning to look and feel like Christmas, after all. And I’m grateful. Treasure it, the voices sing. Remember. Make new memories for the ones I love.

From our house to yours–Merry Christmas!

Tell me about one of your holiday traditions–one that’s been passed down through generations, or one that you and your family have created for yourselves.