Some pictures from Animal Kingdom

Today I'm going to Epcot with my daughter and granddaughter. We all own annual passes for Florida residents. They were expensive enough that we go to the parks often to justify the absurd expense. I favor Animal Kingdom, but daughter and granddaughter like Epcot. I happily shuffle along with the younger ones. Well, usually behind them. They look back occasionally to make sure I'm still there, ha. Don't worry, I won't let them out of my sight.  

Today we're eating lunch in Japan. Granddaughter E is leaving soon for London, and I'm happy to spend this time with her. I think today I'll try a vegetarian sushi roll. Why not?

Last week grandson N was not in school yet, so we all went to Animal Kingdom. The best things about Animal Kingdom are all the shaded areas and animals. I will always be a sucker for the Safari bus ride. Here are some pics of Animal Kingdom.

Nicobar Pigeon

Victoria Crowned Pigeon

Ibis

Rhino

Elephants

Giraffe

I don't remember what this is.  

 Bongo

Crinum Lily

Flamingos

Will you forget the pain?

When I was in hospital giving birth to our daughter 47 years ago, we agreed to allow student nurses to observe my labor. Actually, I didn't agree. They never asked the writhing mass of agonizing humanity in the bed. Instead, they asked my 20 year old husband, who said "Sure."

The student nurses engaged with me before and after contractions, asking questions. I remember announcing (loudly) I was never having another child because it hurt like Hell. They giggled and knowingly assured me I would both forget the pain and have more children. Well, that pissed me off.

Seriously, they said that to a woman in hard labor. No sympathy, no drugs, just happy-crap jargon. As if that information would make everything okay. The present doesn't exist, only the future? Nah, if anyone knows  reality it is a woman in the throes of hard labor.

Right then and there I made up my mind NEVER, EVER to forget, and not to have more children. True story. I am my own worst enemy.

The first night home with the baby I slept as badly as she did. I kept dreaming famous patriarchal icons got me pregnant and I was going to be forced to deliver their baby against my will. One famous icon was John Wayne. The other was Pope John XXIII. Thankfully, I didn't dream about the sex.

My niece had a baby yesterday. Another niece had a baby last week. One of my granddaughters is due in a couple months. It's all so glorious and exciting I can hardly breathe.

When women I love are in labor I can recall my own labor and delivery crystal clear.  Except for the pain. I know it hurt, but I don't remember hurting. 

I kind of wish I had done it again.

We are the lucky ones!

Yesterday I received Valentine's Day flowers from my three grown-up grandchildren who live up north. You really have to know a bit about our short but profound history to fully understand how touched I am. 

I've written about this before, but let me summarize: My husband, T, did DNA testing in late spring 2017 to determine his ethnic heritage. When he received his results, he was surprised to find he had another daughter, named R. He contacted her within 10 minutes of reading of her existence, and immediately they began to build a relationship. This is a relationship that flourished and continues to grow and deepen for all of us who are related to this man and his oldest child. Sometimes these things don't work out; however, we are the lucky ones.

At one point I was complaining that there was no familial name, no role to label me. Why? Because I'm a self-indulgent and needy monster, of course. The love I feel for our family and everyone in it is over the freakin' top!  I'm not the birth-mother. I'm not the familial grandmother (they already have grandmothers who were quite wonderful). I'm not really a step-mother, either. So what am I? Can we PLEASE make this all about me?

Luckily, R thinks I'm funny. So when I complained to her about this (and yes, I really did complain to her about this because I am a self-indulgent and needy monster with absolutely no filter) she said I could be her Fairy Stepmother. Well, alright! See why I love this woman?  It turns out her 3 children are equally as lovable.

The card that came with the Valentine flowers says:

"Happy Valentine's Day, Fairy Grandmother!
  Love, The Fairy Grandchildren"

BIG smile. Thanks, SM, AC, and MC. I love all of you, too.

When company departs

Visitor season in Florida is going on full force as the frozen Northlanders make their way south to warm up. This natural phenomenon also warms up our hearts.

The only downside to visitors is the ridiculous amount of food that is leftover when they leave.  Honestly, I try my best to stuff them like sausages when they are here, but legally I am unable to force feed them. Or at least that's what my husband tells me.

T's daughter R (my fairy stepdaughter) left this morning. It was hard to see her leave because we love her so freakin' much and enjoy getting to know her. So I was sad when we walked into the house after dropping her off at the airport. Sad is a very dangerous state to find yourself in when there is half a pecan pie AND a third of a red velvet cake in the fridge. Or potato chips in the pantry. Oh wait, aren't there a couple of pints of ice cream in the freezer, too? 

Psychic?

I went to a psychic recently for a mediumship reading. Yes, I know that's a wacky thing to do, but it was fun and eerily accurate. The outing was my birthday present to my daughter and we went together. We figured we knew all the same dead people, so why pay for separate readings?

Many years ago, my friends and I would attend a few Spiritualist Church camp's Wednesday night readings each summer to hear what we could hear. We tried to be respectful of religious aspect of the service, but I'm afraid we were a naughty bunch of heathens looking for a good time. Still, there was always "something" said or revealed that was close enough to truth that it brought us back.

One summer night, the poet Diane Ackerman was there with a posse of loud and confident women. I heard one describe the evening as a field trip. That was how it was for my gang, too. A field trip. This is where I should include that smiley face emoji with a clenched toothed smile. 😬

I'm a staunch agnostic, so I am never convinced it is real, but I am also never convinced it isn't. I take what I can get, and I enjoy the process. When the psychic is faking or trying too hard to convince me, I smile (a little too hard) and ignore the BS. When s/he is spot on, I get big eyes and know I won't be able to sleep that night. There is usually some spine tingling accuracy thrown in to justify the payment.

The more the merrier!

My husband, T, had his autosomal DNA tested last May in hopes of finding out his heritage. This is a popular endeavor in the U.S. right now and at least one other blogger has written about it recently.

Autosomal DNA gives you information about all your ancestors, not just ones in a male or female line. When you get the results it also gives you biological matches to near and distant relatives who have also had their DNA tested on ancestry.com, telling you what the matches are to you, like siblings, 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, and 4^th cousins. Well, when he got his results it revealed to him that he has another biological daughter. BIG surprise! He had no idea. It was the 1960s, for crying out loud.

R was given up for adoption by her birth mother. She did her DNA test as a way to find her birth parents. Many of her DNA "cousin" matches had the same last name as T. Since she didn't know about T, and he had not yet submitted his DNA, the repeat appearances of those family surnames did not help her in her search. R assumed that she would not find her actual biological parents unless they submitted a DNA test via ancestry.com. Which is what happened with T.

She is a lovely person, solid and good. There are many interesting similarities between her (and her children) and the rest of T's family. We have grown-up grandchildren now, and another son-in-law!!!! Plus our daughter, M, now has a sister! When I wrote my bit about the concept of Grace a while back, this is what I was referring to; this unbelievably mind-altering, joyous cosmic gift.

New York City with my girls

What a great time, 3 generations of women together in NYC. Sure, there was squabbling and snark; however, those inevitable moments sparked by lack of privacy were overshadowed by the love we felt and the fun we had.

We flew from Orlando to Newark, NJ, then took a hotel shuttle to Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel. The 3-day musical theatre workshop (acting, singing, dancing) was staged by Broadway Artist Alliance, housed in the heart of the Theatre District. The hotel was conveniently a block away.

E's workshop started each morning at 9:30. M&E sleep until the last minute (trusting the world again). I wake up at the crack of dawn. I did NOT want to be around when they woke up late and crashed around the hotel room. I slipped out and went down to the lobby to drink lots of coffee and read an actual newspaper. Oh yeah, there were BAGELS. The real deal. I was in heaven.

The workshop didn't end until 7:00 p.m., leaving M and me free to roam, shop, eat, and talk each day. I loved spending time alone with her. It was also a long school holiday weekend, so crowds on the street were fierce. I walked fast, weaving and bobbing like a prizefighter. Or maybe more like a drunken sailor on leave, desperate to keep up?

Space is a prime commodity on an island. Stores in the City are narrow and multi-floored with people everywhere, even grocery and drug stores. It seemed odd to take an elevator to get to the sinus meds in Walgreens. Buildings are unique and details a joy, especially on the oldest, funkiest buildings. I had a good time just looking at things.

We went to a NY style pizzeria and devoured a fabulously greasy pepperoni and black olive pizza! The crust was perfect. I'm happy to report Florida pizza will never satisfy my granddaughter again.

Homeless people begging on the streets are heartbreaking. I imagine native New Yorkers become desensitized, but it hurt my heart. One young man was lying next to a building covered with a dirty blanket. He was clearly sick or high, his eyes glazed. He never looked up, even when I put money in his cardboard box and he muttered a weak "Thank you." He is someone's child. I wanted to hold him in my arms and call him honey. I wanted to tell him everything will be okay, even though I know it won't. I wonder if his parents know where he is? I hope not.

Me, capturing something "important" while M screamed at me to get out of the street

Our first Christmas tree

We were 16 when we found each other. We were not exclusive those first few years, times being what they were. In 1970, I was in San Francisco and he in Upstate New York. We kept in touch via love letters. I took LSD one night and came to realize that he was the one I was meant to be with. Sheesh, it is a little embarrassing to write these things, but this is our truth. We were part of a generation of magical thinkers. It is only by the grace of God or the luck of the universe that we managed to stay alive and reasonably sane. Some didn't make it.

On the Winter Solstice of 1970, I left San Francisco and returned to Northern Indiana specifically to be with T. His father had recently died. He hitchhiked back "home" from the commune he was living on in Upstate New York to spend time with his mother before moving on.

We started our life together "crashing" on the living room floor of a friend's apartment. We were your average crazy hippie kids with neither resources nor life skills. The first two Christmases we did not put up a tree. Like all our friends, we went to our parents' houses for Christmas in those glory days before responsibilities and real jobs caught up with us.

That third Christmas, in 1972, we had a nine month old baby, entry level jobs, and a scruffy apartment all our own. Some kindly, concerned relative gave us an old, artificial table-top tree and we decorated it with pipe cleaners and construction paper. It was glorious, our first Christmas tree. We put it on the card table we used as a kitchen/dining room table. The presents went underneath the table. Santa came to our house for the first time that year.

I fancied myself an artist so most of the decorations are ridiculously abstract

A Ghost of Christmas Past

Will the sappiness never end?  Sorry, but it IS Christmas time which just turns me into a simpering wimp.  Or maybe a whimpering simp.  I can't help it.  Here is my most potent Christmas memory.

T and I have been together for a long time. In fact, this will be our 45^th Christmas together. The years provided many good Christmas memories for us, but I have a particularly warm and fuzzy memory of Christmas Eve 1978. That one holds special meaning to me not because of anything we received, we were young with limited resources, but because of the uniqueness of it; Christmas Eve 1978 had a nearly perfect Christmas “feel” to it.

Setting the Stage:

Our daughter, M, was 6 years old. T and I were both 26. T had spent the first half of 1978 living in in New York City where he and his band mates were trying to make a go of it. We were physically separated, but we were still together. I stayed put and kept the home fires burning where I had a job and where little M was attending kindergarten. T came home one weekend a month to visit. It was really hard on all of us. The idea was that if the band worked out then M and I would move there, too. Truthfully, it was a relief when the band broke up and T came home. He got a job at a record store after he came back.

Christmas Eve 1978:

He had to work on Christmas Eve. After the store closed at 5:30 p.m. there was a holiday party for the employees and their families. We lived about 10 city blocks away. That seemed like a comfortable walking distance back then. It must have been one of those periods where we did not have a car, or perhaps it had broken down? It is hard to remember. T had walked to work. M and I probably took the bus downtown to meet him at the party. The buses did not run late, so we intended to walk home together, which we did.

The party was great fun, very festive. It was dark and snowing by the time we left, but not bitter cold. The night sky was filled with big, heavy snowflakes. One of us was only 6 years-old, so as trite as it sounds we made a game of catching the snowflakes in our mouths. T hoisted N onto his shoulders and the three of us proceeded to walk home in the dark, in the midst of the most beautiful snowfall I can remember. Houses were decorated and multi-colored lights lit our way. 1978 had been a struggle, a crossroads, a difficult year for our little family. We were happy to be together. We laughed and talked all the way home. I will never forget how magical it felt to be the three of us against the world that Christmas Eve.

Sometimes I miss snow

Nutty as a Fruitcake

I made fruitcake for the holidays. I know – Ick.  Many people hate it. I like my mother’s dark fruitcake recipe, which I make without the icky stuff she put in her version. I use dates, dried apricots, raisins and walnuts. No red or green candied cherries! As a result, I feel disgustingly superior and virtuous.

Only my daughter and I will eat fruitcake these days. I could easily skip it, but this is my first Christmas since Mom died. I miss her and I really wanted to make it. It will make my daughter happy. Maybe I can talk my granddaughter into trying it? Stranger things have happened.

Mom made fruitcake every Christmas I can remember until the slow progression of that hateful Parkinson’s Disease made it impossible for her to bake. Then I started making the Christmas fruitcake. I would send her one in the mail, just like she used to to do for me after I got married and moved far away. They weigh a ton, so the postage probably cost more than the ingredients; but it was my special gift to her. I felt I was honoring her in the making of it, and I knew she liked that I was carrying on her tradition. As a mother and a grandmother I understand that now.

Food-related holiday traditions are the legacy of the common woman. As long as someone is still making our recipes we have achieved some form of immortality.

Of course, as a daughter (or son), you have to make these things a little different than your mother did. We must put our own spin on it to reflect our uniqueness, our modernity, our necessary and never-ending rebellion. Who among us actually wants to BE their mother? Not many.  We adjust and tweak to insure we are different. How much we have to tweak depends on who our mothers were.

I must confess that I stopped making them a few years ago, in 2012 - that fateful year when the fruitcakes I made went moldy. It made me so mad, that mold.  I threw a big, stinkin’ fit and stopped making the effort in subsequent years.  I guess I showed them! Now I regret that and so many other things. I was not the best daughter I could have been.

I cannot go back and make my mother a fruitcake for 2013 and 2014. Instead, I made a memorial fruitcake in 2015. I am storing it in the fridge because in Florida I do not have a cool basement, or any basement for that matter. I am going wild with the brandy. If it gets moldy I am going to throw it out without saying a word. I am keeping my anger in check. This is now a ritual, a sacrifice, an act of love. From here on in it is the making of fruitcake that is important, not the eating of it.    

It occurs to me that she may not have liked my version of the fruitcake. As I shamelessly bragged above, my version does not include candied green and red cherries, and who knows what other carcinogenic or candied crap she used to put in her version. She never believed those things could be bad for you. She liked the bad stuff, my Mom. It used to drive me crazy.

She definitely did not soak her cheesecloth in brandy. She used apple juice and wrapped the cakes in muslin. I am quite sure she also liked thinking that her fruitcake was better than mine. And, of course, it was. To be completely honest I miss the red candied cherries. I probably should not admit it or the thought police might come and haul me away. Out of sheer orneriness, let me say it loud and proud: the red candied cherries were my favorite part. I was a fool for not realizing that earlier. Next year I will put them back in.

I just realized that instead of giving her the fruitcake she wanted, I gave her the fruitcake I thought she should have. Aaaack! It is a good thing she loved me, because I can be insufferable.

Mothers understand these things, though. At least I do when my daughter now makes many of "my" Christmas cookies just a little bit different than I did. To become our grown-up selves we must separate from our mothers.

I am beginning to understand why a mother will always love her children more than her children will love her. Otherwise, none of us would ever leave her and no one would ever grow up.  It is as it should be.

The Happiest Place on Earth

I had been sick for a couple of weeks.  It was intermittent and since I had a physical exam scheduled for the end of this month, I ignored my discomfort.  When I got chills and fatigue I surrendered and went to the doctor.  Until the antibiotics kicked in I was bedridden for a few days and could not do much of anything except read and sleep.

This is a nice thing about being retired.  When one gets sick one can actually go to bed and sleep no matter what time of day it is, and for as many days as it takes to get better.   No guilt, no concern; it is downright sinful.  As always, it felt so good to be bad.

After a few days of antibiotics and inactivity I felt well enough to venture out and visit The Magic Kingdom with my daughter and both grandkids.  We were all excited and happy to go.  It is purportedly the place where dreams come true – and for crying out loud, it is The Happiest Place on Earth.  Can’t beat that!  I probably have a few dreams left. 

Unfortunately, Fate had other plans for us.  She is such a pain in the neck.  I thought she had forgotten about me after she gobsmacked me with anxiety while keeping me stuck in a travel trailer for three months.  No such luck.

FYI, The Magic Kingdom is my least favorite Disney park.  It is every child’s favorite.  It is also the only Disney park that does not sell beer.  Consequently, the place is packed with hysterically giddy children and frazzled parents who must experience the park and their over-stimulated children sober.

We parked in the Heroes parking area (Simba lot, row 21) and from there took the tram train to the boat.  Eventually the boat filled up with enough people and departed for the Magic Kingdom.   M and I have done this before with two year-old N and he likes the tram ride and the boat.   This time, however, he was all hopped up on testosterone and clearly suffering from Baby Attitudinal Disorder (BAD).   Remember, I never had a son.  I was one of your original radical feminists in the late 60’s/early 70’s.  Back then I was pretty sure there was no difference between boys and girls besides the obvious biological thing.  I was anti-nature and pro-nurture.  Consequently, this boy energy thing never fails to catch me off guard.   How could I have been so wrong?

N did fairly well on the tram, although he would not sit still and I had to wrestle him down to keep him from flying out of the moving tram.  His mother had the folded up monster stroller between her and the rest of us at the opposite end of the long seat.   She is so clever, that one.  When we arrived at the boat I found his favorite place so that he could watch the water and the other boats.  No, that was not good enough.  He insisted on walking around the boat to investigate.  It is a double decker boat and we walked up the stairs.  Unfortunately, when we got upstairs they cordoned off the steps and started the boat moving.  That meant we (N, his 10 year old sister E, and I) were stuck upstairs.  Mommie was downstairs with the monster stroller.  The boy was miserable.  I tried to distract him but he was screaming for his Mom.  He got very angry with me and said “Gwamma, you go!  Get up and let Mommie sit down.”   I calmly explained that the captain makes the rules on the boat and he said we had to stay upstairs until the boat stopped.   He did not seem to understand English.  He wanted his Mom.  Like Woody Allen once famously said, “The heart wants what the heart wants.”   The tween granddaughter was sitting not far from us with her head turned as far in the opposite direction as it would go.  She did not have much to say; in fact when I spoke to her she seemed not to hear me at all, as if she was not with us. Odd.

When we got there, he insisted on walking.  Too bad, because when we put him into the stroller he is delightfully docile and cooperative.  On his feet he runs away.  Still, one must save these extraordinary efforts for when they are most needed.  The time would come.

E and I went on the Haunted Mansion ride while M and N went on the Dumbo ride.   Great fun, good start to the day.  E was so happy to show me the Haunted Mansion sights.  It was great to be alone with her for a few minutes.  I love that girl.  We all met up afterwards at the baseball themed Casey’s Corner for hot dogs and fries.  There was actually a vacant table inside the air-conditioned restaurant so we grabbed it.  Good thing, because almost immediately the heavens opened and the rains fell down. Luckily there is a large shopping area attached to the hot dog stand, so after we ate we were able to wander in and shop while it rained.  It rained hard for an hour.  Try keeping a toddler politely occupied in a store for that long.  He runs; he does not walk.  He has to touch everything, and he has a penchant for jewelry racks.  Specifically, he likes to put necklaces on with great force.  There were toys, and that kept him busy for a while.  Of course they were all in boxes and we would not let him open them so that frustrated him a bit.  There was, however, an open bin filled with long plastic swords… The sword was retractable and opened in 5 different layers, which was dangerous on so many levels.  Thank you Disney.  He was entranced.  Then he wanted to play hide and seek inside the store.  Or maybe he just wanted me to chase him.  Hard to tell.

My sweet tween granddaughter had money burning a hole in her pocket and wanted me to shop with her.  I tried, I really did; however, I kept catching sight of N as a flash of light running down the aisles and I simply had to grab his chubby little self to keep bad things from happening.  His mother was doing the same, but he is a fast little stinker.   It takes a village and all that.  It might require the infantry with this kid.

Finally we could take it no longer.  It was still raining but it was winding down.  We opened our umbrellas, harnessed the boy into the stroller and went on our merry way, nerves shot and minds muddled.  Oh, and I bought one of those swords.  Seriously, I did.  It made him SO happy, and it gave him something to do while we walked around.  Of course he kept leaning over the stroller dragging the sword underneath which drove his poor mother crazy, or retracting and opening it quickly so that bystanders were endangered, but what the hell – he was happy and occupied.  Trust me when I say that was all I cared about at that point in time.  M, E, and I were miserable.  I was a little nervous that his father was not going to be happy with me when N brought the sword into their house, but it was only $10 and he was happy.  I am pretty sure there is no other toy at Magic Kingdom that only costs $10.  Someone had to be happy in the Happiest Place on Earth.  Let it be the boy.

We had fast passes for a few more rides, so we found our way to The Little Mermaid ride.  We parked the stroller and let him out in order to get on the ride.  Big mistake.  He immediately made a break for it and I had to chase him into the Peter Pan ride across the way to catch and carry him back to the Little Mermaid.  I am so thankful for fast passes, otherwise we would have had to wait in line with him for 10-30 minutes.  Can you imagine?  With a fast pass you can pretty much walk right in.  He loved the Little Mermaid ride from the moment the restraining bar came down and hemmed him in.  When the ride ended we were going to walk to the final ride for which we had fast passes, Winnie the Pooh.  But it started raining again and he was kicking and screaming as M put him in the stroller.  She suddenly announced we were going home. I concurred with great feeling.  E was understandably pissed. 

We were able to keep N in the stroller for the ride on the boat to the tram.   He was great and played with his sword.  E was not talking.  M was only communicating with her iPhone. I was grateful for the quiet moments and the sound of water slapping against the boat. Or maybe it was the sword hitting the stroller wheels?

Unfortunately when we got off the boat we still had to get on the tram train to take us to the parking area.  Getting on the tram meant we had to take N out of the stroller, fold up the monster stroller and lug everything onto the long seat while convincing N to sit still until the tram started moving.  Horrors! 

N wiggled, squirmed, and yelled during the whole tram ride.  I was terrified he would fall out, even with me at the end of the row.  Finally we arrived at Heroes Parking, Simba lot, aisle 21.  The train stopped and we all lumbered off the tram.  M lugged the monster stroller off and struggled to open it quickly in the middle of the street.  It was not easy.  She might have been swearing at that point.  N refused to get off the tram.  I had to grab him and carry him off.  As I set him down he crumbled into a heap of sobbing baby flesh in the middle of the street.  He refused to stand up.  He weighs a ton.  I picked him up and lugged him across the street to the waiting stroller.  I may or may not have been dodging oncoming cars.  I felt my back go out.  I was on my last nerve.  I deposited him into the stroller.  N and E were not speaking and their eyes were glazed.  They walked fast with the boy in the stroller to the other end of the lot where the car was parked.   I could not keep up and decided not to try because, well, I was afraid I hurt my back lugging the boy across the street.  Plus, if you remember from the beginning of this post I had been sick.

When we got to the car M was struggling to get N out, harness him into his car seat, fold down the stroller, lug the heavy-ass diaper bag into the car, get him water, treats, etc.  I wandered back in her general vicinity to help.  She looked a little scary.  She said in a very controlled voice, “Mom, just go sit in the car.”   I did.

N fell asleep in his car seat.  No one else spoke. Well at one point I jokingly said to E, “Next time you find out we went to Magic Kingdom while you were in school you won’t be jealous, instead you will feel sorry for us.”  She did not laugh, reply, or even look in my general direction.  She was steaming mad.  I felt so sorry for her.   It is not easy having a two year-old brother.  I said “I am sorry it wasn’t fun for you.”  She replied “It would have been more fun going to school.”  Ouch.  I will make it up to her, never fear.

N woke up just before we got home. He was happy after his little catnap.  He was sweet and funny.   I remembered why I love him so much.  It had rained hard and there was water running down the gutters on the side of the street outside his house.   He and I like to go down and splash in the water barefoot after a heavy rain.  We took off our shoes and splashed around.  It was lovely until he made a break for it and starting running down the street.  I managed to catch him and carry him home just as M came outside to see what was up.  Then I went home and took a three-hour nap.   True story.