8 signs fall is nearly here

COMING THIS FALL!1. I had to throw on a sweater over my jammies while watching TV last night.

2. The USAFA Thunderbird jets have been loudly cavorting overhead, practicing for their shows of support during Air Force Falcon football games.

3. Visions of pumpkin bread have started dancing in my head.

4. Windows throughout the house are no longer left open at night.

5. Piles of catalogs arrive in the mail each day as retailers rally for holiday dollars.

6. Fall crafts are on clearance at Hobby Lobby as, typical of craft stores, current season decor is so last month.

7. I've given up watering annuals in the yard—flowers that never grew well, many that never even flowered at all, thanks to the blistering, record-setting heat of this past summer.

8. Best of all: Megan is lonesome for home...and has planned a trip here with Bubby and Baby Mac in a few weeks because fall is her favorite time of year in Colorado.

Mine, too!

Today's question:

What signals have you experienced of fall's impending arrival?

All she wants to do is dance

I've always wanted to be a dancer. Not the kind of dancer who joins dance troupes or groups or makes any money at it, just the kind of dancer who has no qualms about getting out on the dance floor and dancing. Without reservation. Like the Single Ladies. Or the Wrinkled Ladies. Or maybe even something like this:

Or not. Only because I'd need to dance a whole lot more than I do now to make that happen. And wear high heels for the woman's part, which I don't. Or be a man for the man's part, which I'm not.

I had my chance to dance at BlogHer '11. Dancing along the lines of those single ladies. With lots of other ladies. I didn't take advantage of that chance, though, because although I dance regularly when no one's watching, I surely won't do it in public. At least not until I've had far too many drinks to care what anyone's thinking. I wasn't willing to get to the Happy Dance state on the BlogHer party dance floors when my goal for the gig was to represent my blog, my brand, my fellow Boomer grandparent bloggers, not to shake my grandma groove thang.

In private, I dance a lot. I dance by myself. I dance with the dogs. I host dance parties with Bubby each and every time we're together.

I have even, believe it or not, taken dance lessons. In preparation for Megan and Preston's wedding five years ago, Jim and I attended a few ballroom dance classes. We learned, well, were at least shown the steps to the waltz, fox trot, rumba, and more. And we enjoyed it, even ended up doing okay on the dance floor during our daughter's reception. But once the wedding bells stopped ringing, dance steps were nada, zip, zilch. Even at weddings we've attended since, even in the privacy of our own home.

And that makes me sad. Because I want to be a dancer. I want to glide across the dance floor in my partner's arms. I want to merengue and cha-cha. I want to try club dancing before I'm so old the slightest snap or pop would surely pop me right into traction. I'd even be happy to join a line dance that goes beyond the Chicken Dance. (I have had my share of Chicken Dances.)

I want to try all those. In public. With abandon.

Without having to down six 7&7s in advance in order to get up the nerve.

The last time I visited Bubby, we had our usual dance party. Baby Mac was napping, Roxy the dog was moved out of the way, and the Toddler Tunes were cranked. Bubby and I moved. We grooved. We shook our homemade macaroni music-maker shakers to the beat. (Macaroni music-maker shakers are another story, for another day.) I put Bubby on my shoulders and we danced like never before, through the family room, the kitchen, the living room and more.

Until it was Bubby's turn to choose the next moves.

Bubby's choice for further dance party play was the "I'm going to hide and you call out for your lost dance partner" move. Which we did. Bubby hid behind the ottoman, I cried out how sad and lonely I was, all alone on the dance floor.

"Where or where could my dance partner be?" I called out. Soon Bubby magically appeared. He peaked from behind the ottoman, then ran to stand before me, ready to get down with Gramma. I took his hand, and together we beeped and bopped to the current Toddler Tunes selection.

Next time I'm in public, wanting to dance but too afraid to step out onto the floor, I'm going to try the technique that worked so well in Bubby's game. I'm going to call out to be joined on the dance floor by my long-lost partner.

Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe the dance partner who joins me will be the one who's held me back from boogie-ing before.

In other words, maybe the one to join me will be me.

Today's question:

Where is your favorite place to bust a move?

12 current cravings

Twelve things I crave in my life, right here, right now:

• A peaceful, easy feeling.

• A novel I can't tear myself away from...and can't fall asleep to.

• Sweater weather.

• One acceptance to outweigh the countless rejections. (Regarding publication of my writings, not dangerous liaisons.)

• A fresh, completely absorbing movie with a surprising—and satisfying—ending.

• A pastrami and Swiss on dark rye. With lots of mustard and a cold-pack pickle on the side.

• New music that doesn't make me cringe and turn it off.

• New music much like the old music but not the old music because it's not new.

• Another perfect mango. Or two. Or ten.

• A long, comfortable, meaningful hug.

• A short, slightly less comfortable hug—as sqeeeeezes around the neck sometimes are—from my three-year-old grandson. Always meaningful. Always cherished.

• Being leaned into so heavily by my mere-months-old grandson that I might (and have) mistake the relaxed body weight as that of a sleeping baby...only to realize he's not sleeping and it's actually just his perfectly comfortable, perfectly meaningful method of hugging Gramma.

Today's question:

What are you craving in your life, right here, right now?

Time is on our side

Cousins

Nearly 20 years ago, I tried to steal my sister's son. Well, steal isn't quite the word. More accurately, I tried to save my sister's son, my nephew.

Nearly 20 years ago, my youngest sister was young, divorced, and had two sons—the youngest lived with her; the oldest, with his dad in the Pacific Northwest. Her life was, to put it mildly, a mess. She was in a drug-fueled relationship with an abusive maniac who thought nothing of beating the hell out of her, of shooting a gun right next to her head as he held her against a wall and threatened to kill her if she considered leaving him.

Which she didn't consider because, as such stories go, she loved him.

She loved her son, too, though, and knew the situation was a dangerous one for the little boy to be in, to witness. So she often asked me to babysit him. Which I did. Often. Little J stayed many a night at my house, ate many a meal with my family, was a welcome part of my family.

One particularly bad time, my sister asked me to have J stay at my house for the night, as Wacko Boyfriend was wackier than ever. She also asked that if she didn't call me at regular intervals through the night, that I come check on her. She wouldn't not go home for fear her boyfriend would come after her, so I had no choice but to agree.

My sister called once, then twice, as she was supposed to. Then no more calls. As my fear and panic became unbearable, I asked Jim to stay with the kids while I went to see if my sister was still alive.

When I arrived, the door of her apartment was slightly ajar. I knocked, I called out, I begged for my sister to answer. Which she didn't. I was scared to go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. I was scared to not go inside, just in case her boyfriend was there with a gun to her head. Or worse.

I couldn't bring myself to go in alone, though. So I knocked on the door of a neighboring apartment. An enormous black man who looked much like the linebackers I'd seen on TV answered. Inside were a few of his friends, also similarly large and scary-looking to this silly white girl begging for help in rescuing her sister. After a few fearful glances at one another, the big burly guys agreed to accompany me to my sister's apartment.

It was the scariest experience of my life. I was scared for my sister. Scared of the strangers I asked for help. Scared we'd all be ambushed by a freaking maniac if we went into the apartment.

We knocked. We slowly entered. We tentatively searched the apartment. We found no one.

Then, out the patio door, I saw my sister take off running and jump into a car with her boyfriend. I quickly thanked the linebackers, raced to my car, and took chase after my sister, believing she was being taken against her will.

When I finally caught up with them, my drugged-up sister pointed at me through the window and laughed as the car sped away. The joke was on me. A horrible, heartbreaking horror of a joke.

I returned home devastated, worried about what was happening to my sister. Most of all I was worried about what might eventually happen to my nephew. So when my sister called the next day, acting as if nothing had happened, as if she could just drop by and pick up her son, I told her I wasn't letting him go with her, that I was keeping him until she straightened her life out.

Surprisingly, there was no resistance from her.

Then, as Jim, my daughters, and I—along with my nephew—got ready for church, my sister pulled up in front of my house. With a cop. A cop who told me I had to give J to his mother. My sister wouldn't look at me, just stood by her car. The cop told me he understood how insane this was, but that legally I had to hand over my nephew. That his mother, as crazy as her situation—as she—apparently was, the boy was hers and I had no right to keep him. He knew it was wrong, the cop said, but it was the law.

I surrendered J to his mother. To my sister. Who had seemingly lost her mind.

Not long after that heartbreaking weekend, J's dad came to town to take custody of J. I honestly don't recall exactly how it all transpired, who had contacted him—such holes in my memory being the reason I could never write a memoir—but he came to save his son. Something I couldn't do. He had J's brother with him, kindly brought both boys to our house to tell us goodbye. Then he took them away.

We never saw either of the boys again.

Until yesterday.

My sister had thankfully pulled her life together several years after losing her boys. She got rid of the maniac boyfriend—after having three children with him. Three incredible children, all pretty much adults now, who are better off because their mom ran and hid and healed. Better off because, harsh as this sounds, their father died in a car accident before they knew the horrors of him.

My sister's contact with her two boys in the Pacific Northwest was sporadic and strained over the years, the pain and lies and misunderstandings too hard to overcome. Not long ago, though, they did overcome them. My sister finally visited, hugged, talked earnestly and honestly, offered apologies and explanations.

That was this past spring. This past weekend, the two boys came to visit their mom and half siblings. A party was held yesterday so as much extended family as could make it would also reconnect with the two boys. Two boys we hadn't seen in nearly twenty years. Two boys who had grown into bright, delightful, funny, interesting, and admirable young men.

I've not yet found the words to describe it. I won't even try.

I will, though, give thanks. Because although time—regardless of what anyone says—does not heal all wounds, it does lead to some level of forgiveness, some degree of grace, some appreciation for the time that is left.

I give thanks that forgiveness was offered. I give thanks for such grace. And, especially, I give thanks for the time that is left.

Today's question:

Who would you like to reconnect with in your extended (or immediate, even) family?

Grandma's secret crush

The term "man crush" is often used to describe when a male becomes enamored with another male. For genuinely platonic reasons. Out of admiration and a desire to get to know the other as a friend, a buddy, a bro.

Well, please keep this a secret, but I have a sort of man crush of my own. Only it's more of a grandma crush. And it's not just one; it's two.

Funny thing is, both objects of my admiration are named Connie.

The first Connie I'm grandma-crushing on is Connie Schultz. Do you know her? Have you read her? She's a grandma, a syndicated columnist, and a Pulitzer Prize winner for commentary in 2005. More recently, she's become a "Views" essayist for PARADE, the little magazine that comes with the Sunday newspaper—which is how I came to know her. And love her.

Connie Schultz writes on my level. She doesn't use grandiose words and continually write on grandiose ideas, profundities so live and large that reading her on a daily basis might make my head and heart explode. No, she writes just large enough to make my mind ponder, my heart pitter patter in beat with the things that matter most to me. Small things that loom large—and make large my life.

Connie Schultz says all the things I think and feel, only she says them much better than I ever would, or could, or do. For example, look at THIS she wrote about the names grandparents choose for themselves. And THIS ONE on forever photographing the moments and people that make up her family. And, of course, there's my whole worrywart thing, which she covers with aplomb RIGHT HERE.

Did I mention I love the woman?

Years ago I would have wanted to be Connie Schultz. Now I'm older and wiser and too darn tired to be someone I'm not, so I simply want to be Connie's friend. Have coffee with her. Talk about our grandkids. Swap recipes. And admire her way with words...which I'll continue to do, friends or not.

My second grandma crush isn't actually on a grandmother. She doesn't even play one on TV. She does, though, play the most incredibly believable, reasonable, and realistically flawed mother on TV. Which is ironic because in reality, she's not actually a mother either.

I'm talking about Connie Britton. The Connie who plays all-around-most-awesome-mom-wife-regular-woman Tami Taylor on Friday Night Lights.

I'm a late comer to the series, am just now into the second season via Netflix streaming. How did I not get into this before? How did Connie Britton escape my radar? The woman she plays loves hard and loyal. She fights for her family. She fights with her family. She does and is all the things I wish I had been with my daughters when they were young. And my husband, long ago and now. (Seriously...have you seen the incredible albeit fictional marriage she and Eric Taylor, played by Kyle Chandler, have going on?)

Connie Britton as Tami Taylor handles motherhood, marriage, work—life!—with grace and grit not often seen on the screen...or in real life. Yes, I realize she's playing a character, but you can't tell me there's not a smidgen of the real Connie in that character.

My admiration for Connie Britton goes beyond the character she plays, though. What I find most real and admirable is that although she's not a classic beauty, she's one of the most beautiful and real women on television and in movies. She has wrinkles, she looks and acts her age, she doesn't try to mold herself to fit our society's misconstrued definition of beauty. Her character may not be real, but she is real.

Which is why I love her.

And why I have a crush on her.

Just as I do Connie Schultz.

Two Connies. Two grandma crushes revealed.

Please keep it a secret.

Graphic: stock.xchng/sugarangel

Today's question:

Who have you been crushing on lately—whether male, female, fictional, real, grandma or not?

The Saturday Post: Dear Photograph edition

Not long ago we discussed profundity for our New Word Wednesday word.

The website Dear Photograph is pure profundity.

In pictures.

"Take a picture of a picture from the past in the present."

Visit it.

Enjoy it.

Maybe even contribute to it.

Photo: Screen shot of Dear Photograph website

Today's question:

If you could go back and take one picture of someplace from the past, where would it be?

Everyday inspiration

I'm not a world-traveler who finds inspiration in ancient ruins, artful masterpieces, or in architectural—or natural—wonders.

I'm also not one of the fortunate few privileged to find inspiration in luculent discourse with the likes of Maya Angelou or other great orators of our time. (Although I have heard in person the likes of Kurt Vonnegut. And David Sedaris. More than once.)

No, I don't get my inspiration from such high-brow—and high-cost—pleasures. Yet.

Instead, I find inspiration—the impetus to be bigger, better, and more than I am—in everyday things. Things such as these:

Words. Exacting words, strung together to make profound sentences. Better yet when several such sentences are strung together for impactful, unforgettable paragraphs. It happens. It inspires.

More words. In the form of the right sermon at the right time. The kind of sermon that makes me glad I put down the Sunday paper, got ready and got out the door. Sometimes sermons can make me wish I'd stayed home. Other times—the inspirational times—they fill my body and soul and make me ever-so thankful I have faith.

Even more words. These in the form of comments. From readers, from you. Things like, "So many of your posts make me laugh and tear up." And "I really do enjoy reading your posts to start my day!", "You are the kind of Grandma I wish I would have had when I was a child without any grandparents", "Love that you inspire us with words and pictures... make us think about what is really important...", and so many more. They inspire. You inspire. You make me want to give more, to be more.

Music. Live performances are life-affirming, but they're few and far between anymore. So I'm inspired by the vast variety of recorded options, from this to this. To this, and this, and this, and this. And others. So, so many others. Even more likely, though, I'm inspired when hearing Jim channel Randy Travis. When he thinks I'm not listening. When he thinks I still don't like his favorite country star.

The mountain outside my door. Pikes Peak is my compass, always to my west. Always an anchor. Always proof that I'm home.

My neighbors across the street. Who are attempting to grow a vineyard on their massive lot. Smackdab in the city. Suprisingly, it's working. Surprisingly, that inspires me, encourages me to ignore naysayers who doubt what I can—and will—achieve.

My oldest daughter. Who struggles with finding the right path, trying out this one and that one. She keeps moving, keeps trying, keeps pushing on. Keeps working to create a path uniquely her own. Keeps encouraging others to do the same. Keeps smiling. Keeps believing.

My middle daughter. Who struggles with the balancing act of kids versus career. Choosing one, then the other, then the other. She makes it work. And keeps choosing—what's right for her, what's right for them, what's right for her family, what's right for her well-being. Not all at the same time, but all at the right time.

And my youngest. Who often just plain struggles. Yet when she does, when the struggle becomes too much, too rankling of her soul and her spirit, she leaps—against everyone's words of caution—and she always, always, ends up soaring. And she always ends up inspiring me to do the same.

Most of all, of course, there's Bubby and there is Mac. The two who, innocently and obliviously, inspire me to be bigger, to be better, to be more than I am. The two who have inspired me to be—and helped me become—far more than I was before.

Photo by Alison Baum

This post linked to Grandparents Say It Saturday.

Today's question:

Where do you find everyday inspiration?

5 things I used to be...and one I still am

Because of various opportunities presented to me in the past few weeks, I find myself again and again promoting the notion that I'm qualified for this or that because of things I used to do, things I used to be. More and more I feel like I'm singing an off-key version of Bruce Springsteen's Glory Days, trying to convince the world I once was great...back in the day.

Despite no longer being things I tout, I keep telling myself it's okay to utilize them when appropriate, that the sum of my parts, my past, make me who I am today.

The one I've been utilizing of late is that I used to be the special sections editor at the newspaper. Although a writer long before that, it's the "editor" title that seems to make people take notice. Little do most realize that the "editor" title was just that: a title. No powerful abilities, no magical results. Except, of course, when it comes to impressing folks who might open a door for a writer. So for that thing I used to be, I am truly thankful (but mostly thankful it's no longer something I'm required to be).

There are plenty of others things I used to be.

I used to be shy. Achingly shy. Turn-my-stomach-into-knots-and-render-my-voice-mute-in-the-face-of-strangers-and-authority shy. Until I had children to protect and support in the face of teachers, doctors, coaches, bad boyfriends and more. Being crowned editor helped, too, as with that title came the obligation to speak up and protect my people and publications, my writers and our writings in the face of the newspaper and advertising gods that be...or were.

I used to be one to work with numbers, not words. I worked for mortgage companies, for a major auto finance company. I learned to hate numbers. But I also learned to pay attention to them—and to be a formidable force when it comes to securing a mortgage, even tougher when buying a car.

I used to be a licensed nail tech. Am I now someone with a penchant for perfectly polished fingers and toes? Far from it. But it made me less ashamed of my hands. The hands I used to hide at all awkward costs because of hateful comments made by a sister. Not because my hands became beautifully manicured, but because it's impossible to work on someone else's while hiding your own. So I stopped hiding them. And stopped worrying about things my sister said. And stopped thinking such things mattered at all.

I used to be a Girl Scout Leader. Did it leave me craftier and wiser than the average mama bear? No. But it did give me three life principles I regularly fall back on: 1) Make new friends, but keep the old; 2) Be prepared; and 3) Right over left, left over right, makes a knot neat and tidy and tight.

As the post title says, those are five things I used to be. Five things I am no more.

And the one I still am? Simple: I am a mother and wife, the one thing I've been longer than any other thing.

But that's two, you say? No. Having been pregnant when Jim and I married, the mom-and-wife things go hand-in hand, are one. And it's that one that I've been for the majority of my life and above all else. Fortunately that one thing expanded to become many. The mother of babies, then toddlers, adolescents and teens became a mother of adults. All very different things, but very much the same. The mother of adults become a mother-in-law. Then, of course, that mother expanded (as did her heart) when she became a grandmother...partner to a grandfather. Still a mother and wife.

All the things I once was made a difference, but it's the one I still am that truly defines me, that matters the most. The one that always will matter most. The one I always will be.

Photo: That's my peeps. That's what matters.

Today's question:

What did you used to be? What will you always be?

Grandma angst

TEEN Lisa, left, with former BFF NormaAh, the teen years. The insecurity, the drama, the distorted image of yourself and your place in the world. The overwhelming angst of it all.

Thankfully we grow up, we become adults, we leave all that behind.

Until we become grandmothers.

In many ways, being a grandma is much like being a teen. It's rife with insecurity, jealousy, a need for acceptance and assurance from those we adore that we're good enough and that they really do like us as much as we like them.

Angst, once again, in all its ugliness.

Like teens, grandmas spend an inordinate amount of time pining over another. We're thrilled when the phone rings and it's a grandchild. We're distraught if the phone calls are few and far between.

We are always on the lookout for gifts to buy, cards to send, activities and ideas to share. We delight in the sharing, thrilled with the approval expressed by a giggle, smile, hoot, holler and hurray of "Thanks, Grandma!"

GRANDMA Lisa, with Baby Mac and Bubby We take more photos than we'll ever print then plead for more directly from the source. We keep copies on the computer, in scrap books, in brag books, on desktops and walls. And we point them all out to whomever, whenever, we can.

We want to hug and touch and squeeze the little ones with every fiber of our being. And when we're apart, phantom pains plague our days until we can once again hold them in our arms.

We profess our love in myriad ways and anxiously await the love to be returned. When that love isn't demonstrated in return as quickly or as often as we crave, we start to worry another may have taken our place. Another grandmother, in particular. Jealousy eats at our very core, but like a prideful teen, we grin and bear it in the face of our perceived nemesis, then spend hours licking our wounds in private.

We primp, preen and diet with the determination of narcissistic teens in hopes of being physically fit — and remaining so for years to come — to join in the games and activities of our youthful dears.

And we once again walk the thin line with Mom, balancing between wanting to say exactly what's on our mind but knowing she can keep us from hanging out with our heart's desire if what's on our mind upsets her, questions her authority, her ability. Only this time the mom with whom we verbally tangle and tussle isn't our birth mother, but the mother we birthed — our daughter. Or our daughter-in-law, wife of the father we birthed — our son. Crossing the line with either may result in being put on restriction, disallowed from seeing our grandchildren.

So we occasionally bite our tongues, bide our time. Which is okay, because through years of yearning and learning, we now know we won't die if we don't have our say, if we don't get our way.

And that right there is the difference.

As teens, we were extreme, always and overly dramatic. We wanted to be the one and only who made another's world go round. And every single moment felt to be one of do or die.

As grandmas, though, we've learned to temper the angst.

We accept that we won't always get what we want, that moments of insecurity will pass, that expressions of love from a child may wax and wane but that the love itself always remains, will always be there. Regardless of the frequency of phone calls made or received, the number of cards mailed, the piles of photos taken and shared.

Regardless of the amount of time spent together.

And, most fortunately, regardless of the amount of time spent apart.

Today's question:

What has been your most recent teen-like act or behavior, positive or not?

This post linked to Grandparent's Say It Saturday.

A grandma by any other name?

Unique boys, normal namesMy name, Lisa, was the No. 1 name given to baby girls during the '60s, according to the Social Security Administration. Which means there are a lot of Grandma Lisas out there. Or soon will be.

The decade before, Mary was the No. 1 name for females. One glance at the list of Grilled Grandmas confirms there certainly are a lot of Grandma Marys — as well as oodles of variations on the name — out there, too.

For both decades as well as the decades before, names in the top 1000 — which according to SSA make up 73 percent of all names for a given period — included more than a few handfuls of Rebeccas, Debras, Patricias, Katherines, Karens, Lauries, Susans, and others (you know who you are), along with variations on all of the above.

Which means, as folks of those decades make up the current generation of grandmas, there are lots of grandmas going by all those names.

Pretty normal, common, reasonable names ... for babies as well as for grandmas.

What I've wondered of late, though, is how normal, common, and reasonable today's crop of names may be ... for babies as well as for the grandmas — and grandpas — they will eventually become.

Take a look at a few of those in the top 1000 for 2010 (which, like I mentioned above, are 73 percent of names given for the year):

For little girls and future grandmas, you've got the basic names such as Isabella, Ava, and Abigail. But then there's Yamileth, Xiamara, Milagros, and more unpronounceable monikers. And those aren't even the ones at the very bottom of the list.

Little boys and future grandpas don't fare much better. Sure, there will always be Jacobs, Daniels, Michaels, and more. New additions, though, include Yair, Keon, Pranav, and Legend. Legend? Are they kidding?

I just don't get it.

But then again, I'm of the year that Cyril and Consuelo were at the bottom of the list. While likely seemingly odd way back in the day, those are now pretty much accepted and common names in the general population. So maybe fifty years from now, when today's newborns become tomorrow's grandparents, Grandma Xiamara won't seem all that strange after all.

Of course, after school years plagued by having to correct others on the pronunciation of her atrocious name, little Xiamara just may change that name the very second she becomes an adult. To something that rolls a little more easily off the tongue, something more pleasant to say and spell and hear.

Something simple.

Something like Lisa.

Today's question:

If you had the opportunity to name a newborn entering your family something completely of your own choosing, what name would you choose?