Grand

by Gail Balentine

“Aren't I old enough now to know what it is you do when you go away, Grand?”

I had known when Miranda was born on the night of the Harvest Moon that it would be her who took my place. And on her part, she had known there was something different about me even before she could speak. As she grew older, when I traveled she asked pointed questions about my trips and since part of my ‘gift’ is that I cannot lie, I made sure we were alone when I answered her. She knew I went places and helped people – strangers – but that was all she knew.

The child held her body tight as a bowstring, ready to let an arrow fly any minute. Perhaps she was right, it was time. It was necessary to take her education slowly, however, at a pace she could absorb. I looked down into two brown eyes, like deep pools of melted chocolate, so much like my own.

Now none of my three children knew of my activities. My husband may have suspected but I’m not sure. No, this ‘gift’ is passed from grandmother to grandchild, with no effect on the children of the women who have it. I learned from my Grand and would eventually pass it on to Miranda. To the rest of my family, I always have been and would remain simply Mom.

“Sit down, Miranda, and rest yourself. I will tell you what I know but I fear it will not answer all your questions”.

We both sat on the sofa and I spoke softly as I held my granddaughter close.

“It began in the mists of time, with stories. People would gather round fires and tell tales they had heard or talk about something that happened to them. As groups started to move about, seeking new places and meeting new people, families held fast to their favorite stories. And I suppose those stories got better and bigger as time went on”.

The little one laughed, a sweet twinkling sound. And then she said, “You mean like that game we play at Scouts where someone says something and it goes round in a circle and comes back all different?”

“Exactly like that, yes”. I patted Miranda’s long dark hair, bound for the moment in braids, but already trying to escape here and there. “It soon became the responsibility of the oldest woman of the tribe to tell the stories. The people called her ‘The Wise Woman’ and listened carefully to her words. Over time, they started noticing that some of these old women would weave new things into their stories and soon after changes would happen”.

I stopped, watched her face, and waited for her response.

 “Do you mean she was a fortune teller?”

Perfect question! I needed to deal with that right at the beginning. I couldn’t hide my grin.

“No, Precious, not anything like a fortune teller. What happened was, instead of talking to the whole group, she would look at one person directly and say something such as: A hunter becomes great when he learns to always treat his prey as his equal, sometimes his superior. Then she would go on with her story. If that man listened to her words, took them to heart, and went forward with them, he could indeed become a great hunter.”

Now those eyes, her whole face, showed confusion. “So that old woman – someone’s grandmother? – made him a hunter? How?”

“She couldn’t make him anything, but he could.” I decided to make the example a little more personal. “Let’s try it this way. If someone tells you that smiling and being polite will make people like you, will it?”

I loved watching Miranda’s face as she thought things out.  .

“No, Grand, it won’t make someone like you.” Then she laughed and said, “But it sure is a good start!”

I gave her another hug and laughed, too. That was enough for a first lesson.

****

River Run

by Terri McFadden

The first hint that we might be out of our depth was that nearly everyone present was about 20 years younger than our son, who was turning 40 that week. As we climbed off the bus and scrambled down the hill to the river Nile, I marveled at the sheer size of it. I’ve seen the Mississippi and the Missouri, the Thames and Seine, and the Nile easily surpassed them all. It surprised me that it was so wide, more than a thousand miles from Egypt.

When we’d planned the trip, months before, my husband and our children, Kalee, Mike and his wife Jen, had deferred to me about white water rafting. Kalee, who lived in Uganda, had done the research and suggested this as a possible activity. We all agreed it sounded fun. But did we want to go on category four or category five rapids? I thought about it very briefly – and chose five.  I remember thinking: After all, you only live once.

The day before we’d gone on a peaceful evening cruise, enjoying a colorful sunset over the river, birds, fishermen casting nets, somnolent crocodiles that looked almost unreal, like Disney World. Today, we were preparing to go onto an altogether different stretch of the river. We got our gear together, helmets and paddles, relinquished all our personal gear like glasses, shoes, and jewelry “because it will be washed away” - and made our way to the rubber rafts. Our family group of five was assigned to a raft with two other twenty-something couples from the U.S. and our extremely fit Ugandan guide. He served initially as our trainer and later, as we rushed down the river, our guide, steering the raft through the rapids.

In the smooth water near the river edge we learned how to crouch (not kneel!), staying on our feet, because if we hit rocks, only our feet would be bruised.  We practiced ducking when told to and “paddle, paddle, paddle!” when given the order. We had to hold onto those paddles, firmly at all times so that we didn’t smash a fellow rafter. Hang onto the ropes when we hit the rapids, said our trainer “and keep that paddle tight in your hand.” My word, I wondered to myself, What have we gotten ourselves into?

I didn’t have much time to reflect. Soon we paddled our rafts out into the faster moving water, and we were off. Almost immediately we hit the first rapids. “Paddle, Paddle!” And we did. “Duck” and we did that too. I tried to keep my eyes open, but it was almost impossible and besides the only thing to be seen was white, churning water. Exhilarating, exciting, energizing. Wow! Just Wow! It really was the most amazing, physical experience.

After the first rapids were past we paddled into quiet water. All were laughing and possibly relieved that we’d made it through that first white water. Just five more to go. What an incredible day. And we survived it. On the bus back to the headquarters of the rafting company, I got into a conversation with a young nurse from the Netherlands, who was doing a rotation in Uganda. She marveled that Ed and I had been brave enough to go on the rafting expedition. “When I’m old.” she said, “I hope I’m just like you!”

A Hamster Tale

by Beth Alexander Walsh

There have been many animal stories throughout my children’s lives. Dogs have always been center stage family members but other pets have been added to the mix. There have been fish, a frog, hermit crabs and a rabbit. We have even hatched chickens on our dining room table, but my middle daughter’s hamster phase and specifically her first hamster Josh, became family folklore.

Josh was an amiable hamster. He liked to be held, (although I refused to hold him), and he wasn’t loud on his wheel at night, a problem we would find with a subsequent hamster. Josh was also very patient. He was frequently wardrobed in Barbie attire because he habitually rode in a Barbie convertible and played in a Barbie dream house. He also tolerated our terrier mutt Sam’s nuzzling and rolling him in his hamster ball.

One day while I was putting away laundry, I heard screaming from our family room. I ran into the room to find my daughter crying and pointing up to the cathedral ceiling. Perched on the edge of a ceiling fan blade, a dozen feet in the air, was Josh with his little nose twitching as he stared down below. Apparently, my eldest daughter had been teasing her sister by throwing poor Josh up in the air and catching him. One of the tosses went too high and he never came down.

Being a Mom means being a champion for your child, which meant at that moment I was getting a ladder and touching my very first hamster. Josh and I survived the incident and we were all grateful that the ceiling fan had not be on and turning, else this story would have  a ghastly ending. We also found that Josh was not as patient after his fiasco. The first time my hamster tossing daughter was allowed to pick him up again, Josh bit her. It was the first and only time he had bitten anyone and none of us could blame him.

Josh lived to the ripe old age of two and a half, the longest of the five hamsters my daughter would come to own. We kept hoping to get another Josh but the second hamster was a hissing mean cur that everyone was afraid of. The third was dead the next day after we brought him home and we returned his deceased body to the pet store. The fourth hamster jumped on the hamster wheel as soon we put him in the cage and never got off, keeping us all awake at night. He died several months later with what we assume was exhaustion. After the fifth hamster passed away and his little hamster body was laid to rest in our little hamster graveyard, I convinced my daughter that maybe it was time to move on from hamster ownership. She had plenty of hamster tales to last a lifetime.

Carpe Diem

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

No sparkling glass along the shore,

Gray clouds have shuttered sun behind its doors.

Trees stripped bare to branches brown...forsaken,

Against the granite rocks aground.

For now, we play a waiting game;

The sun peaks out and is gone again.

Till April’s Spring arrives,

The Ides of March will have their prize.

Then crocus and tulip bulbs will flower

As Mother Nature shows her power.

The cycle of her might continues...tides, sun, moon.

Another year once more...too soon, too soon.

Baseball and Broccoli

by Gail Balentine

One of my favorite things about New England is that we have four seasons. Our routines are by necessity varied and so with each season we develop rituals. Summer is a time to be more relaxed, travel if possible, spend time with family and friends, enjoy. Fall brings cooler weather, deeper colors, reflections, and sends us back to school, work or projects. Winter has wonderful holidays and a slower pace due to ice, snow and cold.

Ah, but spring? Spring is in a class of its own. After the long frosty winter, spring brings the return of energy, renewed hopes, walks outside, new beginnings, and the emerald green of grass and leaves.

To my daughter, spring specifically means two things: gardens and baseball. Which is more important? Hard to say. They are both long-time loves through winning and losing seasons, abundant crops and less spectacular produce. The end result of both is important, yes, but for her participation is life-enhancing.

She tolerates the cold of February by making a holiday out of when, outside of Fenway Park on Van Ness Street, the Boston Red Sox’ equipment truck gets loaded and departs for Fort Myers, Fla. She’s always part of the competition for tickets and her brother snags a game for her each year. Sweatshirt and baseball caps for the home team will be dusted off and schedules worked around important games.

Along with baseball fever comes garden fervor. Out comes her garden notebook and she reviews notes on what she grew last year, draws on graph paper what space she will need this year, and orders her seeds. It’s a family affair. She and her husband tour the back yard with a critical eye toward what needs repair and replacement. He and their son will do that work, as well as build shelves inside to hold starter plants and grow lights.

As spring evolves into summer, broccoli, tomatoes, peppers, green beans, strawberries, peas, radishes, asparagus, herbs and flowers will be harvested. Strawberry jam will be made in June, pickles in July. She generously shares produce and lets nothing go to waste – including what seems to be huge amounts of zucchini that she swears come off only one or two plants.

Come fall, it is time to enter vegetables in competition at the Topsfield Fair, put the garden to bed, and look forward to the World Series. As the Red Sox wield their champion bats, my daughter gives them her award-winning green thumbs up!

                                                                                 

Who Knew

by Terri McFadden

The admissions scandal that rocked the college and university world last week has stayed with me. Rather surprising given the rapidly changing, mostly awful, news we scroll through daily.

But I think this story resonated because I had no idea that I’m not living a happy, successful life. Nor, apparently are my children, and most of my friends and colleagues. This is because we’re told that only people who go to elite colleges can truly become successful. And the corollary is that only successful, rich people are really happy.

Not being a person who uses bad words, I won’t write what I’d like to. Just let me say this is one of the most absurd notions I’ve run into recently. Apparently though the rich and famous and not so famous who bribed, lied and cheated to get their children into elite schools think this way. Judging from opinion pieces I’ve read, they aren’t the only ones.

The minister at my church often says “Do we believe this to be true?” Do we, as Americans, truly believe that only those who attend elite colleges will be successful? Indeed, do we, as Americans, believe that only college educated people can be successful? Do we, as Americans, believe that only the rich are happy?

For me every question above is a resounding no! Certainly, I don’t reject education. Far from it. I love learning and spend a great deal of my time studying and reading on many topics from history to science to religion. I even attended, for a time, an elite university because I worked there and took classes practically for free. I loved it. But the best (and hardest) class I ever took, I took at my alma mater, Salem State – not from the “Best University in the World”.

For most of the people I know success is measured not in net worth and not in the schools attended. Instead, it is measured by the quality of relationships, the quality of and pride in the work you do, the esteem that others have for you and the esteem in which you hold the people in your life. The good that you do for others.

Looking out into our world through the lens of news and social media that seem to shape so much of what we see, I sometimes wonder how those people – those rich and famous who think it is okay to lie and to cheat and to steal to get what they want – how can they live with themselves? Sometimes I actually feel sorry for them, so completely have they missed living a successful life.

I want to tell them a secret: You only have one life to live. Live it with honor!

Musings on a Cold February Morn

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

The sun is brightly streaming in my bedroom window on a very cold winter day as I awaken in my cozy warm bed. I think I would like to spend a little more time in this pleasurable nest before I get up to start another day. My mind is flitting about, jumping from one thought to another.

I have a loving family, all well and happy; a comfortable home, full of food and all else I need...maybe too much. As I linger on my blessings, I become acutely aware that I am thinking of the song, “Don’t worry, be happy”.  I like to think I am usually a happy person but it bothers me that these lyrics sound too good to be true as it can be difficult to carry out.

I would be happier envisioning more peace in this world-real lasting peace, not the tentative, off and on kind.  So many countries, led by dictators, autocrats, selfish, greedy, obscene leaders with no regard for their native lands nor their citizens and others living there is a cause for fear and anxiety.  Families are dying of disease, poverty, climate change disasters, violent crimes, not to mention wars all over our planet...even in our modern advanced democracies.

Respect for people and Mother Earth is an afterthought or blip on our communal screen.  Aware we seem to be, committed to action, not so much. Are we becoming a world of “I want” and not of “I care?” Or is it possible for future generations to have a safe, clean, healthy, habitable, peaceful world?

My pleasant awakening seems to be going into a pitfall so I shall switch gears.  I start to pray. Dear Lord above, you give me so much and I am most thankful, but as usual I will ask for more.

Help me and others to give of ourselves and help those in need as we practice acts of kindness, patience and love. Then, maybe, we can start a peaceful, fulfilling revolution, one by one, step by step.

O happy day! Let the sun shine bright and guide us to bring light.