Fresh starts

Happy New Year.

Let's resolve to:

Laugh often.

Whistle in public.

Forgive quickly.

Dance when we can, even if we're not very good at it.

And to all a good night

It's after 10 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and it's all I can do to keep from nodding off as I sit down to write this. I haven't sat down for hours -- but for reasons I truly love: cooking and baking for my family, wrapping gifts, touching up the paint job on the little stool I'm giving my youngest grandchild tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

If all goes well, the small person in our home won't be up before the sun. And that means a pretty decent night's sleep if we can manage to finish setting up his gifts before midnight. We have learned our Christmas Eve lessons well: Do not, under any circumstances, wait until late that evening to set up a train set under the tree. Not if you want to get some sleep before the wee ones wake up.

And remember to stock up on batteries.

Oh, yes: Keep it simple. You'll all have more fun if you do.

Merry Christmas.

Letting go -- again

I drove to Rochester today to cut some apron strings, the ones that have kept one of my grown children financially dependent on me for too long.

The thing is, I am as "guilty" as this grown child when it comes to this co-dependent relationship we seem to have. I, being a parent, think I can fix anything. It's what parents are supposed to do. Or so I thought. Give me a kid who seems to be doing well and needs just one more chunk of cash to get the next chapter of his or her life in order and I'm there with the checkbook.

At least, I was.

Today was a day for letting go and trusting that, as my mother-in-law likes to say, all will be well -- without my intervention.

We do our grown children no favor when we do too much for them. When they don't live up to our expectations we feel betrayed, resentful. Not a good frame of mind to be in at any time of year but especially not now, not a few days before Christmas.

Still, I have to admit to feeling a bit lighter tonight. I'm back home, and I am no longer tied to a financial arrangement that was sucking me dry. I have no one but myself to blame for that situation. But at least I've learned my lesson.

And, as usual, I learned it the hard way.

Two minutes and counting

We've gained a couple of minutes of sunlight in the afternoon. I know, I know, we're still losing a few minutes each morning, but that'll change soon.

Tomorrow is the winter solstice. The end of autumn. The official start of winter. And the beginning of that slow slog through snow and slush and ice to spring.

People who suffer from seasonal affective disorder (with that unfortunate acronym "SAD") may loathe this shortest night of the year, but on its heels come days when we start to notice it staying a bit lighter a bit longer until one day you realize it's still light as you sit down to dinner.

No, it won't be light enough for an after-dinner walk for a while -- a rather long while. But I'd rather be on this side of the solstice, anticipating the lengthening days, than feeling that sinking sensation I get on June 21 when the days start growing shorter.

Yup, it gets dark too early right now. But the darkness can't last. It never does.

No drama

We put up the Christmas tree last night. There were no serious injuries.

Actually, my husband assembled the tree, which we chose a couple of years ago because a) we didn't have to plod through deep snow to cut it down and b) it comes with lights already in place.

We fought the good fight with real trees for 27 of our 30 years together, making sure our growing children would get to enjoy the scent of fresh pine in their own living room. I'm happy to report that they both have good memories of those trips to the tree farm (and the hot chocolate and doughnuts that usually followed those trips).

I do miss the smell of pine and the way the cat would nap beneath the tree. She shows no interest in this tree that came out of a box.

But I don't miss the drama.

Anyone who ever watched their dad wrestle with a tree, a tree stand and a snarled-up string of lights knows what I mean. My memories of those wrestling matches include the night my dad threatened to pick up the tree, which was half-strung with lights and clearly not cooperating, out the front door and into the street. He'd had a tough day.

Last night, sitting on our couch with no other lights than the lights on the tree shining, I honestly couldn't tell the thing was a fake. But I know it is. And I'm OK with it.

News to me

Every time I hear someone say the newspaper industry is on life support and not expected to survive, I swear I can hear my bones creak.

I spent a long time, maybe too long, working for a newspaper and have, for far longer, been a newspaper reader. I credit my parents for that. Two dailies -- the local paper and the Cleveland Plain Dealer -- were delivered to our home when I was a kid. I took pride in how well I did on the weekly current events quiz that ran in my local paper.

And like many people of a certain age, I cannot imagine mornings without a newspaper in my hands. I've tried reading the morning news online, taking care not to drip milk from my cereal bowl on the keyboard, but it's just not the same.

Geez, I sound like an old coot. But even some younger "coots" I know agree that it would be difficult to do without a daily paper.

This weekend, after a long stretch in the same building, the newspaper where I worked for more than 30 years is moving. The building's been sold, and the paper will lease space in a building a few miles from its current site. I'm one of several people who were let go this year in yet another attempt to keep the paper afloat.

Sad as I am to no longer be a part of it, I wish the paper well. I don't like change -- and I would hate to lose something that's as much a part of my morning as that bowl of cereal.

A not-so-random act

I needed the story I heard at church this morning, needed it to remind me of the goodness that's all around us if we look hard enough.

Just days after a brutal killing at the campus where I teach, I heard that the good people of the church I go to had dug deep into their pockets to help someone who, literally, arrived on the doorstep of the church rectory about a month ago.

A priest from Malawi, who had visited our church as part of the diocese's annual missionary appeal, showed up unannounced at the rectory to raise more money for his desperately poor parish. He e-mailed the pastor to let him know he'd be coming, then borrowed $1,600 for air fare to New York.

Well, the e-mail never arrived -- but the priest did. The diocese, meanwhile, said "no way" to a second financial appeal for the priest's parish.

That didn't stop the pastor of my church from asking his parish family if they'd be willing to help this young priest who must rely on public transportation to make his away around his massive parish, where the monthly donations are barely enough to keep body and soul together.

This morning, as I sat in church and wondered what the coming week at the university would be like in the wake of the murder that occurred there a few days ago, the pastor announced that his parishioners had donated $7,000 for the priest from Africa. In the depths of a recession, that's a remarkable sum.

Even in good times, that's a remarkable sum.

I'm grateful for people's willingness to help a stranger from a strange land, grateful for this much-needed reminder that goodness is more powerful than whatever it is that turns a heart so dark it resorts to violence.

Random acts

The university where I teach is mourning the death of an emeritus professor who died today after being stabbed by a man believed to be a graduate student. Already people are saying this isn't the sort of thing that happens around here. But, sadly, it does.

After all, this community was the site of a massacre in April when a man shot 13 innocent people to death during an English class for immigrants. We just don't like to be reminded that we're like every place else.

I don't think I'll feel frightened when I return to campus next week. I do expect to feel sad. I did not know the professor who died, but his death at the hands of another member of the campus community will cast a pall over the last week of classes -- and beyond.

The shootings in April were followed by remarkable acts of kindness and generosity by the community. I hope for a similar response on campus. I promise to commit at least one random act of kindness next week. I plan to ask my students to do the same. Because it's going to take a lot of goodness to overcome the evil that claimed a life this day.

Thanks -- a lot

Thanksgiving 2009 is just about over, but I'm still mulling over the things in my life for which I am grateful. One is a growing awareness of how gratitude itself can transform the way I look at life in general and my own life in particular.

Once, while attending a memorial service for a young person who had died tragically -- and what young person's death isn't tragic -- I heard a priest say that spiritual living is grateful living. It seemed an unusual thing to say at a moment such as this, when gratitude was probably the furthest thing from the minds of those who loved this boy the most.

But the more he talked about it, the more I came to realize the healing power that gratitude can have, especially at a time of great loss. Gratitude can turn the mourning of our losses into celebrations of what we once were blessed to have.

In my own life, gratitude has proven to be a powerful antidote to anxiety and regret. I'm pretty good at brooding over the past, so I need all the antidotes to that tendency I can find.

Gratitude seems almost too simplistic, but it can be a powerful force. Instead of fretting over what I don't have, I try to think of all I do have and all the things I've gotten to do -- things that, as a young person, I only dreamed of doing.

Sometimes it's enough to think of that young boy and to recognize how blessed I've been just to be given the gift of time.

11/22

I can't see that date without being thrust back into an eight-grade math class, the place I happened to be when the voice of the school principal came over the PA system and announced that the president had been shot. We were immediately sent back to our homerooms and told to pray in silence. I remember thinking that if the president died, nothing would ever be the same again.

The nun who was my homeroom teacher sat quietly at her desk as we filed in, her eyes brimming with tears. Time seemed frozen as we sat there and waited for the news we all feared would come. And when, at last, it did, they sent us all home.

I recall thinking that normal television programming would likely be pre-empted for much of the afternoon. I never imagined that four the next for days I would be riveted to the TV set, watching events unfold: the swearing-in aboard Air Force One, Mrs. Kennedy in her blood-stained suit emerging from the plane, Oswald's death, the funeral cortege and that incessant beating of the drums as the president's casket slowly made its way to Arlington.

A few years ago, while helping my mother empty out her house, I came across some school papers she'd saved. One was a spelling test. I figured she'd kept it because I'd gotten all the answers correct.

Then I noticed the date I had neatly written at the top: November 22, 1963.

I tucked the spelling test into a folder to take back home with me, to remind me of a time before life changed. Forever.

Thinking of home

A week from now I'll be well on my way to Ohio to be with my family for Thanksgiving, the first time I'll have been there for that holiday in years. As I sit here thinking about that trip, I'm listening to Judy Collins sing about her grandmother's house, which is "still there, but it isn't the same."

My own grandmother's house is still there, back in Ohio, still owned by my family, though hanging onto it hasn't always been easy. It was built by my great-grandfather, a German immigrant. My grandmother and my mother were born there. My grandfather spent some of his last hours there.

But, as the song goes, it isn't the same.

My brother lives in the smaller of the two houses on the property. The other, the main house, is occupied by tenants, good tenants who pay the rent on time. But it just isn't the same.

I make a point to drive past there when I make my way home to Ohio. And, as Collins sings, I wish the others who drive by it could see what I see: a porch full of people on a warm summer evening, rocking, swinging, talking and laughing, while the children look for buckeyes in the tiny yard or roost on the porch steps and count the cars passing by.

But that was a very long time ago. My grandmother died in 1980. Her beautiful things have been dispersed throughout the family (though my brother still dreams of one day filling the house with all its original furnishings). And while the house doesn't look bad -- in fact, it looks well for its age -- I've come to accept that it is, after all, just a house.

Thank goodness for memories that don't dim with time. Because when I want to, I can put myself there, on that porch, on a warm summer evening with the nighthawks screeching overhead, watching cars -- and time -- pass by without a care in the world.

Lights on

I saw my first neighborhood Christmas light display a couple of nights ago. The folks who live in a tiny house down the road had decorated their backyard shed, complete with lights, to usher in the holiday season.

Never mind that it's 65 degrees in our part of upstate New York at the moment. These folks are ready to party.

Given how dark it was at 5:15 p.m. yesterday, I can hardly blame them -- even though I usually don't unpack our Christmas lights until the first of December. This time of year, we need all the light we can get.

Which brings me to Iceland, a remarkable place I visited for a week in August. Come this Friday, the sun won't rise there until 10 a.m. I've read that on Dec. 21, the stars will still be shining at that hour of the morning.

The sun is setting in Iceland at roughly the same time it sets here -- for now. Before long, though, Icelanders will be down to just a few hours of daylight a day. I hear they party a lot to ward off depression.

I try to think of Iceland when I find myself grousing about the annual descent into darkness. Sort of puts things in perspective.

Flu footnote

I made a quick stop at a big box store this morning and overheard two of the checkout clerks chatting with a woman who had covered her mouth with the "neck" of her turtleneck.

"You don't really have flu, do you?" one clerk asked the woman -- who proceeded to nod her head yes.

"Where's the Lysol spray?" the other clerk asked. "We need Lysol spray. And those sanitizing wipes."

By this time, the woman in the turtleneck had scurried out of the store. I, standing nearby, realized I'd been holding my breath for several seconds. Deciding I'd do more damage to myself by keeling over than I would by inhaling, I chose the latter.

OK, I did use the hand sanitizer when I got to my car.

You can't be too careful.

Not keeping in touch

Daily news reports about the toll the H1N1 flu virus is taking has me stashing little bottles of hand sanitizer in the various corners of my life. That's on top of the hand sanitizer stations I see around the campus where I teach and at my grandson's day care center, among other places. (I half expect to see one some Sunday next to the holy water font at church.)

As a result of all that hand cleaning, or perhaps in spite of it, I haven't fallen victim to the flu -- yet. I haven't had my flu shots either because there hasn't been enough of the stuff to go around. As someone not considered "high risk," I doubt I'll be able to get those shots any time soon.

I don't even like thinking about the flu and the fear it's ignited (I really should stop paying attention to those daily news reports). I don't like feeling uncomfortable when someone reaches out to shake my hand. I'm not even that fond of hand sanitizer -- which, by the way, stings like crazy if you have a paper cut.

But it is flu season. H1N1 has arrived. And a lot more people are likely to get sick. I just hope this experience leaves people grateful for good health and not fearful of human contact.

So go ahead and hug. Just make sure you cover your mouth when you cough.

And don't forget the hand sanitizer.

Blessings counted

I'm just back from a funeral home where I witnessed a parent's worst nightmare come true. A young man I knew when he was in elementary and middle school with my son had died. I can't begin to imagine the depth of his family's grief.

My son was with me for the calling hours, his first time at a funeral home. He held up well -- better than I did, but I kept wanting to put my arms around him, hold him tight and never let go.

I can't, of course. He's got his own life, his own family. He knows how to take care of himself.

Still.

We humans are so good at taking what we have for granted, and that includes our own families. But how many times have we heard stories of healthy, happy young people heading out the door and never coming home? How many times have we watched news reports of massacres such as the one at Fort Hood -- and, earlier this year, in Binghamton, N.Y. -- and wondered how a day that probably seemed quite ordinary to the victims could turn so deadly so quickly.

Tonight, as I write this, I'm counting my blessings. My children have not always been good to themselves, but they are learning. And they are still with us.

I hope they'll be patient with me if I hug them a lot in the days ahead. I need them to know they're loved. I need them to know how glad I am that they're still here.

... so I won't be scared

We were making our way down the stairs at my grandson's day care center for the annual Halloween party when he paused and said, "Hold my hand so I won't be scared."

I gladly took his hand, but I couldn't help wondering what it was he thought might frighten him. He'd had a few run-ins with a bigger boy in his room. Maybe that was it. And there had been lots of talk of ghosts and goblins in the run-up to Halloween. Perhaps too much talk.

Whatever the cause, slipping his small hand into mine was apparently the solution: When we reached the bottom step he raced ahead of me.

I know the day will come when I'll reach for his hand and he'll pull away, informing me that he's too big to need his grandmother holding on to him. Experience tells me that day will come all too soon.

But not yet. Not while there are bigger boys and spooky spirits to be vanquished. Not while a little boy still believes in the power of a loving touch.

Boo

In a couple of days, the small person in our house will go trick-or-treating for the first time. I trust he won't be terrified.

Halloween has lost some of its creepiness as more and more people have turned it into the year's second-biggest excuse to decorate their homes (Christmas being the first). I'm still amazed at the light displays and inflatable pumpkins, ghosts, witches, etc., I see as I drive around my town.

In my own trick-or-treating days, I'd go from house to house with one of my big brothers, taking care not to go to the scary ones. Like the house where an ancient man, known for his bone-rattling cough, would sit on his porch all day and sneer at passersby. Or the one where the lady of the house was rumored to be insane.

Later in the evening, vandals would come out and go on a pumpkin-smashing spree. One unusually balmy Halloween night found my brothers and me sitting on our front porch, eating candy and guarding our pumpkins long after the street had grown quiet. Unlike some neighbors' pumpkins, ours would live to see another day.

Now I live on a country road where the worst Halloween vandalism we've ever experienced was the time someone turned our pumpkin upside down. And though we don't get many trick-or-treaters out here, we still plan to stock up on miniature candy bars and carve a pumpkin.

On Saturday evening, we'll set our pumpkin out on the front stoop, light the candle inside it -- and trust that no one will sneak up when we're not looking and turn it upside down.

364 days and counting (Or, why I've started a second blog)

Yesterday marked the end of my 59th year on the planet. That makes today the first day of the year-long slog toward my 60th birthday. I intend to A) get there and B) get there in better shape -- physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually -- than I am today. I have my work cut out for me.

As part of that commitment to myself and to what I hope will be a better year, I'm starting a new blog, my second on blogspot.com. I considered naming it "On the road to geezer-hood" but decided "Pushing 60" was a kinder, gentler way to refer to the year ahead of me -- and any of you who are approaching that birthday. You can find it at www.pushing-60.blogspot.com.

I plan to post a brief message to the blog each day about my successes (and failures) along the way in the hope that you might find something useful there. If not, it should be good for a laugh or two. The last thing I want to do at this stage of my life is start taking myself too seriously.

Feel free to use the new blog to share your own ideas on this next decade of life. Getting older may not be the easiest thing we'll ever do, but we don't have to do it alone.

Gridlock

From a distance it looked as if there must have been a pretty nasty accident at the busy intersection up ahead. I could see flashing lights and lines of backed-up cars.

It wasn't until I'd almost reached the intersection that I saw what was going on: Some elementary school students, with an assist from the local police, were crossing a four-lane parkway after a field trip to a nearby fire station.

Shepherded by teachers and parents, the children walked two-by-two, holding hands, in the brisk morning air. And for a moment, those of us in our cars, those of us in a hurry, could only wait and watch -- and maybe, in that moment, remember how much simpler life used to be.

Of pancakes and fire trucks

The pancake-breakfast fundraiser at our local fire station has become a biannual ritual, and not just because of the great deal on the filling food.

As soon as the small person in my life catches sight of the uber-sized ladder truck parked outside the station, the excitement level in the car goes through the roof. He could spend the entire day checking out the trucks and other equipment and still be ready for more.

Best of all are the people who make that station work, not just during pancake breakfasts but day in and day out -- and all through the night. Most of those people are volunteers, and their devotion to their work is palpable. You can see the pride in their faces as they show off the latest piece of firefighting equipment -- even when the audience of the moment is made up largely of little kids.

I grew up in a small city with an all-professional fire department. When I first moved to upstate New York I was surprised at how many of the fire departments were staffed by volunteers. And, I admit, I was a little uncomfortable with the idea. Not anymore. And not just because they make some mean pancakes.

Thanks to every one of them for helping to keep my family, my community, safe.

Forecast from hell

The man in line ahead of me at the market yesterday was glued to the little TV monitor that's permanently tuned to The Weather Channel.

Me? I was in my late-afternoon stupor, waiting for the people ahead of me to cash out and leave.

A single word from the TV monitor woke me from my daydream: snow.

Say what?

"Here we go," sighed the man in front of me. "You watch. One day soon the north country's gonna get clobbered. It's gonna be one of those years. I can just feel it."

I went into denial mode. Snow? On Oct. 15? It couldn't be. For crying out loud, there was a robin in our pine tree this morning.

But then, en route to the grandchild's day care center this morning, I saw it: tiny white flakes hitting my windshield.

Now I hear that we're under a winter storm watch for the next day and a half.

This is someone's idea of a sick joke, right?

Right?

Well, shut my mouth ...

People sometimes ask me why I live out in the country (or, as my children used to say, in the wilderness). I wish they could see what I'm seeing right now: sunshine turning already beautifully colored leaves into stained-glass-brilliant reds and golds.

It's "peak weekend" in my corner of upstate New York, where you can find people walking and driving around slack-jawed and speechless as they take in the show the maples and other hardwoods put on this time of year.

I need go no further than any window in my house to see what they're seeing. I am surrounded by hillsides that, at any given time of year, make me feel as if I am indeed far from civilization -- when, in fact, the nearest grocery store is only a 10-minute drive away. I have, as they say, the best of both worlds.

And yet ... I felt a pang of jealousy earlier today as I drove atop a nearby hill on my way home from church. There's a lovely house with a view of the Susquehanna River valley that would take your breath away on any given day. This day, though, I found myself wondering how the people lucky enough to live there manage to tear themselves away from their windows to do whatever else the day demands of them. They could sell tickets to that view and probably make enough to pay their heating bill for the next few months.

Now, back home and working at my dining room table, I pause every few minutes to peak at the hill to the east of my house to see which trees are catching the sunlight at the moment. In a while, I'll rouse the dog and take her for a walk down the road for another chance to drink it all in before the colors fade, the leaves drop and, all too soon, the curtain falls on this show of shows.

Tribute

She's a cashier at a supermarket, and I do not know her name.

In fact, if she hadn't had to ask a co-worker to check the price of an item I was buying, we might have exchanged no more than a few words.

But there we were, killing time, and we struck up a conversation.

She'd been having a rough day. And it was far from over.

I asked how much longer she had before the end of her shift.

Five more hours, she said. Then, after being on her feet at the store all day, she'd have to get her baby ready for bed. With her husband in the military, she was facing a long evening alone.

I wished her well and left the store, wondering how many other military spouses would go home that evening to a child -- or children -- who needed to be fed, read to and put to bed at the end of what might have been a long day.

The sacrifices of these wives and husbands, left behind to hold their families together on their own, don't get the recognition they should. This is one small attempt to right that wrong.

What, me worry?

A friend who, like me, has a child in her mid-20s posed a question the other day that's been nagging at me for some time: When does parenting end?

The short answer? It doesn't.

I figured it wouldn't help to tell my friend about my 97-year-old mother's world-class ability to worry about her five offspring. Her latest obsession is my older brother's decision, made decades ago, to stop going to church. She has made it her personal mission to pray him back to the fold. Good luck with that one, Mom.

Worrying is like a muscle: The more it's used, the stronger it gets. And who worries more -- or better -- than parents?

We wake up in the middle of the night to check on our babies and make sure they're still breathing.

We fret over any hint that they might not be developing at the same speed as the baby next door. (What's that? You say your little girl STILL hasn't taken her first step? Why, just the other day our little Gloria climbed the stairs ALL BY HERSELF!)

We worry that our kids will continue to cry long after we leave them at day care, when, in fact, they forget about us five minutes after we say goodbye.

We lose sleep over their first report cards (What is WRONG with that teacher?) and examine every new tooth as it comes in, wondering how we'll ever pay for braces.

Then one day they're adolescents and we find ourselves longing for the good old days when diaper rash was their biggest problem.

My children gave me plenty of opportunity to exercise my worry muscle. I found solace in sharing my concerns with parents in the same boat. It took awhile, and a lot of talking and sharing, to realize that worrying wasn't getting me anywhere but depressed. It wasn't changing anything either.

And that's the trap we worriers set for ourselves. All the time we spend worrying saps us of the energy we need to think clearly and decide how to respond, not just react, to the troubles our children get into. Once we figure out how to do that, we can begin to let go, stop trying to solve our children's problems for them -- and let them grow up. The feeling of release you get when you reach that point is beyond belief. You sleep better, too.

When does parenting end? I hope it never does -- at least, not completely. I want my grown children to see in me someone they can turn to for advice, someone willing to listen when they just need to vent.

Now, if they'd just go to church ...

Fall-out

It's a yin-yang time of year.

One morning brings the mournful honking of Canada geese heading south, which for those of us who call upstate New York home is a certain sign that cold weather is coming. But that same day also brings a bluebird sighting, a bit of winged evidence that while it may be getting colder, it isn't winter yet.

As the sun continues to set earlier and rise later, I find myself feeling grateful every time I hear a robin in the pine tree near my front door, grateful for every remaining blossom on my rose bushes, grateful for the feel of the soil in my hands as I plunge tulip bulbs packed with the promise of spring into their new home.

Seasons change, and if you're lucky enough to live in a place where you can see and feel that change, you know that as winter follows fall, spring will conquer winter and the days will, in time, grow longer.

For now, we'll just have to accept the dark days, safe in the knowledge that they can't last forever.

Fear factor

You can't pick up a newspaper or turn on the news without running into the latest on the H1N1 virus -- aka swine flu. For that matter, you can't go far without coming across an uber-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. They're everywhere, which is probably a good thing. But I wonder about the impact all this fear of the flu is having on basic human relations.

Have you noticed anyone holding back when you reach out to shake hands lately? Have you gotten any dirty looks from passersby when you sneeze in public (even if you sneeze into your elbow, which we're all supposed to do now)? Wondering if you should dodge Auntie Maude's hugs and kisses next time she comes to visit? Join the club.

A family member says fear invites trouble, that we'd all be better off if we adopted a more positive attitude about life in general and the swine flu in particular.

Probably.

Maybe.

When can I get my flu shots?

A heart for caring

The 50-something woman sitting with a young boy in the pediatrician's waiting room had struck up a conversation with another mother, and I was soon included. The boy had the same first name as the grandson I was waiting with -- a natural ice-breaker. Before long we three women were sharing "war" stories from our lives as parents.

The day hadn't been going all that well. I was, as I often am by midday, wishing I could close myself off from the rest of the world and take a nap. Raising a toddler is exhausting at any age, but as my mother likes to remind me, I'm pushing 60 -- as hard as I can, under the circumstances.

I assumed the boy who shared my grandson's name was, perhaps, the youngest of the woman's children. But no, she said. Her biological children are grown now. This boy was one of eight children who have found their way into her home, and her heart, through foster care and adoption. One of those who came to her was a pregnant teenager who decamped after delivering her baby. That was years ago, and the baby, now in school, is one of that houseful of children who call the woman Nanny.

What struck me, aside from the remarkable facts of her life as it is today, was the woman's cheerful attitude. She didn't look tired, didn't sound tired. What she looked like, what she sounded like, was happy.

The wee one at home was being difficult that night as I attempted to get him settled down for bed. My thoughts drifted back to the woman at the doctor's office. I wondered what bed time at her house must be like.

As I struggled to stay awake long enough to tell my grandchild one more story, I imagined her gliding from bed to bed, planting kisses on the foreheads of eight children who would soon fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that they were loved.

Sign of the times

You know summer's over when ...

• The mornings are quieter than they were just a few weeks ago (because the songbirds that haven't left town yet can't think of anything to sing about).

• You have this overwhelming desire to bake something. Anything. Preferably chocolate.

• They start making announcements at church again (time to sign up for soccer, religious ed. classes, pee-wee cheerleading ...)

• The dominant colors of the flowers along the side of the road are yellow and purple (the asters are attractive; the goldenrod, not so much).

• You start to see commentaries like this one written by people who grow winsome at the thought of summer slipping away.

Gee thanks, Mom

Moms are the people who tell you things you need to hear, even things no one else would dare tell you.

Like the time a college friend decided to go "au naturel" and stopped using deodorant -- until his mom sat him down one day and said, "Mike, you stink."

I made the mistake of complaining to my own mother recently that my knees felt a bit stiff and sore.

"Well," she replied, "you ARE almost 60."

"Geez, Mom," I said, "I have a whole year and a month before I reach that milestone."

She wasn't impressed.

I suppose I could have reminded her that in a couple of years she'll be "almost 100." But some things you just don't say to your mom.

You only think them.

Move over, Pooh

I once heard a relative announce, in a shrill voice, that his wife was to buy NO MORE STUFFED ANIMALS for their children. I thought he was being unduly harsh.

Yesterday, as I sorted through the mountain of stuffed animals that has taken over roughly half the floor of my grandson's room, I saw the wisdom in my relative's outburst. It isn't so much that we've bought our grandson lots of stuffed animals, it's that we -- correction, I -- kept too many of the critters our own kids collected so we'd have them to share with our future grandchildren.

My grandson has no fewer than four Winnie the Poohs (or would the plural be Winnies the Pooh?), including an all-white collector's edition purchased by a well-meaning family member. His stuffed rabbit collection threatens to edge out his one and only stuffed whale, stuffed caterpillar and stuffed armadillo (yes, they really do make stuffed armadillos).

The solution might seem simple: Give away (or toss) a bunch of these adorable bits of fabric and fluff. Uh-huh. Ever tried pitching a Pooh bear? Or flinging one of those floppy-eared bunnies your babies took to bed with them every night into the "giveaway" bag? It takes the kind of detachment I clearly lack.

Maybe we could rent a storage area ...

'Slow down, you move too fast ...'

Driving home today, I spotted a maple tree that had turned almost completely red. Already.

I know summer is winding down, but this tree is clearly an overachiever trying to get the jump on all the other maples. Showoff.

September is when those of us who call upstate New York home get to savor the changing colors of the leaves (followed by six months of bare branches). And savoring those changes is what I intend to do.

So please, trees, take your time. Autumn will find us soon enough.

Eight years already?

This Friday marks the eighth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Here's what I wish Americans would do to honor those who were taken from us that day: Stop shouting at each other.

I can't recall a time -- at least in recent memory -- when the country seemed so ticked off. How can we expect our children to become responsible, open-minded adults if they grow up listening to their elders ranting and raving at those who don't see the world the same way they do?

In the immortal words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along -- at least a little better than we have been?

Need something to make you smile?

Check out the wedding announcement "Knight-Mills" in the Saturday, Sept. 5, edition of the (Binghamton, N.Y.) Press & Sun-Bulletin (See "Celebrations," Page 10C).

The newlyweds, Ruth Mills and David Knight, were friends in their teens. They married other people but were both widowed when they ran into each other last summer at Wal-Mart, where the groom works as a greeter.

The happy couple tied the knot on Aug. 7 -- at ages 83 and 84.

God bless 'em for reminding the rest of us that love is ageless.

You have to start somewhere ...

I've been putting off starting this blog for a few months now, ever since my part-time newspaper job went the way of the wind. I'd guessed for some time that my days at the paper were numbered, given the state of the industry, but it's still difficult to accept that my days as a newspaper columnist are likely behind me.

But that hasn't stopped me from thinking like a columnist, imagining how I might turn day-to-day experiences into commentaries others can relate to. Hearing from readers that something I've written has touched them, or that they've recognized themselves in my words -- well, that's what I miss most about writing a column.

So here I am, ready to start again, hoping you'll find something here that's worth your time -- and that this new venue will allow us to speak more directly to each other.

Writer, interrupted

8:30 p.m.
The resident toddler is watching a Disney movie.
I sense a window of opportunity to do a bit of writing.
I settle into my corner of the couch and log onto my brand new blog. A couple of ideas pop into my head, and ...
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not this late."
"Why?"
"Because."
I go back to my writing, confident the 3-year-old has accepted my explanation.
Wrong.
"I want chocolate milk."
"Not now," I say. "It's almost night-night time."
"I want it."
"Too bad."
I go back to my writing, confident that I've won this one.
Wrong.
"I WANT chocolate milk."
I reconsider my decision to start a blog.
"Can I have a cracker?"