For the birds

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We have a small waterfall in our back yard. All summer long it gurgles and burbles and lends a small portion of peace to our place smack dab in the flight path of the airport and mere blocks from one of the busiest traffic corridors in the city.

I love the waterfall. At summer's end, I lament the loss of the trickles of tranquility as the water is shut off, the pump put away for the winter. And winter has indeed come to my part of the mountains, despite the calendar saying it's still fall.

Yes, it's time to put the waterfall to bed for the season.

But Jim is rebelling this year, refusing to shut 'er down. He loves the waterfall more than I, spends more time fiddling with the rocks, the water flow, the chemicals to keep it clean, the daily clearing out the leaves and needles. And more time admiring 'the heads' he mounted at the top of the waterfall.

(If you read this post, you understand the significance of the 'the heads' in our lives. Despite the significance, I still groan regularly about Jim placing a miniature version of the national memorial -- courtesy of the darn Sky Mall catalog -- in our yard.)

So with temperatures falling well below freezing every night -- and during some days, too -- the little waterfall that could does ... keep flowing. Which I think is really stupid.

"What a waste of electricity," I say to my (usually) utility bill-obsessed husband, thinking that'll do the trick, show him how irresponsible and expensive it is to run the waterfall all winter. He just ignores me.

"You're going to burn out the motor," I keep telling him. It won't fully freeze up because the water's moving, he responds, adding, "And it'll look so cool when it freezes around the edges. Remember the one time it did that?"

Yeah, I remember. But it was a freak freeze, and we shut down the waterfall right after that.

Jim continues ignoring me, the water continues flowing and I continue thinking my husband's a nutjob.

Tuesday morning I let the dogs out and glanced over at the waterfall. It had frozen all around the edges, leaving only a small stream flowing down the rocks and a little tiny pool at the bottom. And in the stream and the pool were several birds, merrily splashing away, thrilled by their luck at finding fresh flowing water when all the birdbaths in the city surely were frozen.

It was a delightful sight. And once the birds flew off -- frightened away by Lyla and Mickey dashing out for their morning potty break -- the nearly frozen fall remained chillingly magical.

 

Much to my chagrin, I had to admit Jim was right. Just like the last time the waterfall froze, the icy sculpture definitely did look so cool.

Consider my tongue bitten. I'll back off cussing about the waterfall. I'll stop trying to convince Jim that not shutting it down for the winter is a really dumb idea. The water can flow, I guess, and I'll keep my mouth shut.

But I'm only agreeing to let it flow for the sake of the birds.

And in hopes that next time I'll be able to snap a few shots of the birds enjoying the unexpected deep-winter delight before the dogs frighten them away.

Holiday question of the day:

If you were to create and market an ice cream available only during the Christmas season, what flavor(s) would your concoction be?

Somewhere in time

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Sunday at 11 a.m., Jim and I settled into the car for a six-hour drive home from South Dakota. We spent the the first half of that drive, nearly three hours, without conversing, listening only to the iPod on the stereo. Mile after mile, we spoke barely a word to one another, both of us lost in thought, considering the weekend, absorbing what we'd learned.

We had left for South Dakota early Saturday morning, arriving that afternoon at the nursing home where Jim's mom resides. She was propped up in her wheelchair watching "Giant" on the tiny television on her nightstand.

We said our hellos, hugged her fragile body, taped together her broken glasses that had the lens inserted upside down, commenced a visit. "Giant" served as the primary focal point, fodder for filling awkward moments as Jim and I attempted normal conversation with his once vibrant, talkative, normal mother.

Our attempts were met with stories from Mom about her outings to various places from her past -- visits she believed had happened just days before, despite not having left the nursing home for about a year. She talked of how grand it was to have attended and be escorted down the aisle in her wheelchair at her brother's wedding, a wedding that took place more than 50 years before -- 50 years before the amputation that took part of a gangrene leg and committed her to a wheelchair earlier this year.

She talked about recently attending church at the church she and I attended together 20 years ago, when the girls were young and Jim worked on Sundays and couldn't go with us.

She talked about phone calls and visits from relatives who, in reality, rarely call, never visit.

She talked of how beautiful Elizabeth Taylor was in "Giant."

We wrapped up with a promise to return in the morning, to spend more time with her before heading back home after the quick trip. Then we went to Jim's sister's house. His oldest sister, his medically trained sister, his sister who visits their mother each and every day, his sister who best knows what to do about Mom.

My first question to her as we unpacked our bags was, "Do we go along with Mom living in the past?" Or do we call her out on such things, try to jog her memory, try to bring her back to reality? The latter was the original tack when Mom first suffered a stroke and mental impairment from violently hitting her head during the associated seizures. It no longer felt like the right tack.

Sue assured us it's not. "She's too far gone and that part of her brain will never return," she said. We learned it's best to play along, to not frustrate and confuse Mom. We learned it's best to let her reminisce about days when she felt happy, content and whole. Days now lost somewhere in time.

That's not all we learned during our too-short weekend trip. From the last boxes of Mom's personal items, the final remnants to divvy up between siblings, we learned of a few of Mom's prized possessions, things that mattered most to her.

We learned of hundreds and hundreds of photos Mom had saved in her cedar chest, many of them photos she rarely shared with the family. Treasured photos of her grandparents, her parents, her siblings, herself. Beautiful decades-old renderings of lives well-lived: births, parties, communions, weddings, new homes, new babies, new starts on life.

We learned teenaged Mom was an avid fan of the glamorous movie stars of the '40s, collecting -- and keeping -- old-time studio shots, postcards, autographs, from Dorothy Lamour, Lana Turner, Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Gene Kelly and more.

We learned she still had Jim's baby book, achievement records, locks of hair.

We learned she had carefully tucked away the newspapers containing my very first published articles.

We learned she kept in a manilla folder in her desk every card, every letter, every thank-you note that Brianna, Megan and Andrea ever sent their beloved Granny.

We learned of these and many other things Mom held on to in hopes she'd never forget.

Mostly we learned -- during those hours of silence as Jim and I reclaimed the miles between South Dakota and home -- that we're not yet ready to fully consider the loss of Mom, of Granny. We learned we're not yet ready say the words that open the floodgates.

As we got closer and closer to Denver, we made comments here and there, turned up the radio a little louder. Jim sang. I whistled. Soon we were discussing the girls, the coming week, the never-ending to-do list.

We didn't discuss Mom.

Eventually we will.

Eventually we'll talk. Eventually we'll cry. Eventually we'll mourn.

Somewhere. Sometime.

Today's question:

What is among the treasured photos and papers you're saving?

Worth the time?

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  PLUS    EQUALS 

We're all busy, we're all trying to fit 26 hours of activity into the allotted 24. And in that flurry of fun are lots of things we do -- or at least that I do -- that I really don't think are worth the time it takes to do them.

Making coffee? So worth the time. Making the bed? Not so much. (Luckily bed-making is Jim's job, not mine.)

The ultimate example of something that I consider not worth the time it takes to do it is the Thanksgiving meal. I enjoy cooking. I like making yummy stuff for my family, immediate and extended. But gee whiz! You spend weeks planning and shopping for it, days cooking for it, hours getting it on the table and POOF! It's over in less than one hour, sometimes even quicker than that.

So not worth the time.

Fortunately life is not a total waste of time; we're not forking out minutes without racking up emotional payoff. Indeed, there are a few things in life that, despite the hassle, despite the time investment, prove to be totally worth it.

Tuesdays at 6 p.m. is our standing Skype time with Bubby. I had purchased four picture books to be shipped from Amazon to him and four of the same books shipped to myself so I could read a book to him while Skyping. This past Tuesday was the designated day for Bubby to open the boxes and choose the first for us to share.

But Tuesday evening was crazy busy. Jim had lots to share when he got home from work, then we had even more to discuss after his telephone conversation with his out-of-state brother. Then my boss from the literacy center called with a request that caused a bit of consternation (and guilt) on my part and when I hung up with her, it was after 6 p.m.

Then the phone rang again.

It was Megan. "Umm, it's after 6 p.m. and you're not online? What's up? I'm sitting here explaining to my crying son exactly what it means to be stood up."

"Cuss!" I replied, explaining why I was running behind.

She was just kidding about Bubby crying and about making him think Grandma's a screw-up, of course, and she said we could just do it another time. For a split second I was tempted to take her up on the offer. Skyping does take up some time, which I was short on, and it is a bit of a hassle because I have to unplug my laptop from the big monitor, keyboard and mouse and move to the dining room with it so Jim can participate, as it's too crowded at my desk for the two of us.

But I had said we would Skype, that we would open the books, that we would share a story. And this grandma doesn't go back on what she says she'll do.

So we Skyped. Jim and I watched as Bubby eagerly -- but patiently -- awaited the opening of the Amazon box with the surprise goodies inside. His eyes grew bigger and bigger ... then his face lit up, his smile became a grin and he exclaimed, "Books!" All the while goosebumps covered my arms and my heart grew not just three but ten sizes that day.

I showed Bubby that Grandma has the very same books, holding each up to the webcam. He immediately selected "I Love Trucks" and off we went, sharing a story across the 819 miles between us. I read, he turned pages, Megan and Jim listened. We all laughed about cows and bunnies and trucks.

Bubby loved it. I loved it. Megan and Jim loved it, too.

Was it worth it? You bet your bippy, it was! For that, my friends, is one of the very few things in life that was, is and always will be so worth the time that it takes.

(Disclaimer: Astute regular visitors may think these Skype photos are from a previous session and you are correct! I was too busy reading -- and grinning -- to take photos of the session of which I write.)

Today's question:

What is one thing you think is definitely worth the time it takes?

We now pronounce you ...

/

There's been a fair amount of conversation in our family regarding what the grandkids will call grandma. I kind of liked G-Ma; Megan wanted Grammy; Bubby has chosen "Granna" ... which also comes out, at times, as "Gramma." That's perfectly fine with me; it's much preferred over the original "Graya."

Not so much has been said about what Bubby and future grandchildren are to call Jim. His only request was that he NOT be called "Pop," as that was the moniker of his not-so-nice stepdad.

So Jim and I have been toodling along, figuring we're just plain ol' vanilla "Grandma and Grandpa."

Bubby seems  to have a different idea for Jim.

When he first started forming words and identifying things around him, Bubby mixed up his syllables for lots of things. So we didn't pay all that much attention to what he'd been calling Jim.

But during our Skyping session Tuesday night (which provided all the photos for this post), Bubby made it very clear -- after being asked "Who's that?" several times in reference to his grandpa -- that his pronunciation wasn't a mistake, that Jim is now and forever will be ...

... "PawDad!"

Yep, Bubby called him PawDad many times, all with a huge smile on his face.

And with that, "PawDad" Jim will be.

PawDad and Granna. Are there any better grandparenting names than that?

I don't think so. At least not for us!

    

Today's question:

What makes you laugh out loud?