The Feminist Grandma

Camping at Cumberland

 

 

 

 

 

 

In May, Joe and I went camping at Cumberland Island, a barrier island just north of the Florida border. Although there is some private property on the island, 18,700 acres have been set aside for the rest of us. No cars allowed, just people and bicycles, and lots of wild horses.

The world has so many beautiful places; this is one of them. A boardwalk traverses wide dunes to a long, empty beach. Salt spray discourages the live oaks from growing high, and their limbs twist to reach the sunlight. Underneath are palmettos, each frond with its population of tiny green frogs with large voices.

images: National Park Service

 

Only 300 visitors are allowed on the island at a time, so campsites and ferry tickets must be reserved many months in advance. There were few campers at Seacamp in midweek, and the beach near the campground was almost empty; back-country campers go to beaches farther north on the island.  Loud groups of school children arrived for daytime field trips, but we didn’t see or hear much of them. They were usually leaving as we went to the beach in the late afternoon.

The entrance to our campsite curved through the trees and underbrush so it was hidden from the trail. No water spigot, but there was a fire ring, a picnic table, and a high cage for all our food and sweet-smelling toiletries.  We hung our trash bag from the cage temporarily, thinking no scavengers would visit while we were in camp, but one well-fed raccoon came in boldly and chewed a hole in the bag  and another jumped on the table to get to our toothpaste and soap.

On the first morning I rose at five-thirty and boiled water for my coffee. I set out my big insulated mug and turned away to fill the cone and filter with coffee, then put them on top of the mug and poured the water through. The fifteen-minute walk to the beach through the twisted live oaks, the sky just beginning to brighten, brought memories of Amanda. We took her camping at Cumberland Island when she was seven, and as she and I walked to the beach at dawn, and saw the brilliant colors through the trees, she began singing ‘Mister Golden Sun, please shine down on me.’ click

 

 

I walked across the broad empty beach past rippling tide pools to the edge of the water, and watched the sky change. The sun was soon up, but it was another twenty minutes or so before a thin gleam outlined the dark clouds on the horizon. I drank the delicious, strong coffee. In my loudest tenor I sang what I remembered of a song from my youth – ‘Sun arise, she bring in the morning…’ by a now-disgraced Australian singer. It’s an old song, a chant and a rejoicing. click (the comments following the video debate the propriety of enjoying art by bad guys) 

I was purely happy, alone on the beach for half an hour, watching daybreak. Just a moment before the sun rose above the clouds, I heard someone walking up behind. I turned, and it was Joe. He hadn’t had his coffee, so I offered him my last swig. He took it gratefully, and then spat. “There’s something in it.”  It was an inch-long caterpillar, boiled. It had fallen into the mug as I put coffee in the cone. I had been drinking caterpillar soup.

 

Dawn post-caterpillar: still cheerful

 

We walked back to our camp along the boardwalk through the twisty oaks, past the bathhouse, down the trail. I tried not to think about the caterpillar. We met a woman and told her about it. “It touched my lips,” Joe said with horror. She answered without hesitating. “You kissed a caterpillar.” I was so impressed. When I encountered her again the next day, at the bathhouse with her husband, I praised her wonderful attitude toward life. “She finds something good to say about everything.” her husband said.  He didn’t seem to appreciate this, but it put a cheerful song in my head. click

Florida beaches are too hot from morning to late afternoon, so after breakfast we walked along the River Trail through the woods. Surprisingly, mosquitoes don’t seem to be very active yet; they only troubled us for about half an hour at dawn and dusk. It was a beautiful day for walking, with a soft, steady breeze.

The trail took us to Dungeness dock, and the broad pasture where wild horses graze. When we were there with Amanda, she saw a stallion’s imposing penis, and I explained, though I feared it could make sex scarier than it already is. Now it was the height of mating and foaling season, and the first thing we saw was a grazing bay mare with a white foal suckling beneath her, a bay stallion grazing a little distance away.

 

I was tired from the walk, though it was under a mile, and sat on a bench watching a dozen horses grazing, rolling in the grass, trotting around, while Joe took pictures. I was reading the park brochure when Joe called, “Look up.” I searched the sky for birds, but then heard hooves, and looked across to see the stallion galloping straight towards me, followed by the mare and foal. He hadn’t read the brochure about staying 3 bus-lengths away from people. I sat frozen, nothing to be done, but fortunately he turned about eight yards from me, and the family circled the field.

Feral horses grazing at the ruins  image: National Park Service

We walked on to the ruins of Dungeness, a mansion built by Andrew Carnegie. Joe headed to Raccoon Key, where he saw thousands of crabs swarming on the sand. I walked the mile back to the camp, exhausted and blue because my stamina is gone. As always, a song came to me, and cheered me up a bit, and I could sing freely on the empty trail.

I love camping.  I like the way daily activities become a slow ritual; showers, toilets, and potable water  were a ten-minute walk through the woods.  I like being outside in the dark under the stars. I like playing cribbage by lantern light.

I tried sleeping in the tent, but the ground, even with the Thermarest mattress, was too unyielding for my left bad hip and my right bad shoulder, and wouldn’t make room for my butt. So I slept outside in the string hammock, and I was blissful, looking up into the sky and stars until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.  The frogs sang all night and the birds began before dawn. 

It was wonderful, but this may have been my last tent-camping trip. I have less energy than I used to, and I need to sleep well at night. I can still spend parts of the night in the hammock in our backyard. I can still sit outside at dawn and dusk. And I can still remember, and sing the songs that cheer me.  click

 

 

A Gift from Doris

My sister-in-law, Doris, is perhaps the most literate person I know. When someone at her retirement community invited her to join a “Great Books” reading club, she took a look at the list and realized she had read them all, except for Gibbon and War and Peace, so she declined. Recently, dismayed by the state of the nation, she is focusing on non-fiction, the denser the better (though I think she’s still taking a pass on Gibbon). 

Perhaps we should read about declining empires  image:penguinrandomhouse.com

 

She may also be the hardest-working person I know. At 81, Doris runs an editorial service, translating from German and French, editing manuscripts and helping authors find publishers. Self-employed, she is a demanding and relentless boss. On a recent visit she told me defiantly that a journal editor would “just have to wait” for her translation of an article on dementia. He had sent it to her with no warning just before she came to Florida for a week’s vacation, and she couldn’t get to it until she returned home. It wouldn’t be back on his desk until ten days after he had sent it.

I love going for walks with Doris.  She can name every wildflower and tree. When she is deprived of walks by dreadful weather (they’ve had a very rough winter), she suffers greatly from being cooped up inside. Her only exercise then is yoga, Zumba, and fiercely competitive games of ping pong in the basement of her building. At the New Years Eve party, she choreographed and danced La Bamba with two other women, while her husband (my brother Don, age 91) sang. After a long phone chat with Doris I sometimes have to lie down to recover from vicarious exhaustion.

 

image: josh sorenson at pexels.com

 

It was Doris who introduced me last year to the Oxford English Dictionary Word of the Day. click It is now my daily treat. Almost all the words are new to me, and whenever I find one that delights me, I add it to a steadily growing list. Unfortunately, I can never use the words in conversation; no one would understand me (except, perhaps, Doris). Therefore, Gentle Readers, I am sharing some of them with you.  Though I have shortened the definitions, if you don’t enjoy dictionaries you may want to stop here.

Some words I love for their meaning: Quob [To throb, palpitate] - such a sexy word. Cwtch (rhymes with butch) [a cupboard or cubbyhole, cuddle or hug].

Some I love for their sound: Pisculent [Full of fish]. Puckeroo [Useless, broken]. Quagswagging [The action of shaking to and fro].

 

pisculent   image: alesha loben on pexels.com

 

I love a few words because I never knew we needed them, and they make me laugh. Demonachize [To remove or drive monks permanently from (a place). Zedonk [The hybrid offspring of a zebra and a donkey]. And my favorite, Hippanthropy [The delusional belief that one is a horse]. Obviously, we need a new word, Zedonkthropy. 

 

Gainesville (GA) Times – baby zedonk at Chestatee Wildlife Preserve

in Dahlonega, GA

 

One word we clearly need is resistentialism [The theory that inanimate objects are hostile to humans], though I don’t know why they call it a theory. How do you think I got all these bruises?

Many words on my list would help me in Scrabble if I could ever remember them, but alas, I suffer from obliviscence [The state of having forgotten, forgetfulness].

I love the words that are useful in Florida summers. Summerful [Full of summer; summer-like, summery]; oam [Steam, vapor, condensation; warm steamy air, heat haze]; mafted [oppressed or stifled, especially by the heat].

image: Anderson W Rangel on Unsplash

 

There are many words I could use if I cared to write an essay about the President. When, disheartened and without much knowledge of history, I fear that we are in a time worse than any that has come before, I now have many venerable words that apply to The Rump, and am oddly cheered to think that parlous times are nothing new:

Ampullosity [Swollen or pretentious inanity; turgidity of language, bombast]; Boation [Bellowing, roaring; a loud bellowing noise]; Jactance [Boasting; vainglorious speaking]; Ondful [Malicious; spiteful, envious]; Homophily [The tendency of people to be drawn to or seek out those they perceive to be most like themselves]; Realia [Real things or actual facts, especially as distinct from theories about or reactions to them]; Imaginarian [A person concerned with imaginary things]; Jeel [Trouble; mischief; damage. Frequently in ‘to do jeel.’]; Jabroni [A stupid, objectionable, or ridiculous man; a loser, a knuckle-head]; Badmash [A scoundrel, a rogue; a miscreant; a hooligan, a ruffian]; Wanwit [A fool].

 

 image: History in HD on Unsplash

 

My only objection to the OED Word of the Day is that it so often turns my thoughts to The Rump. But it has also revealed to me that I am a verbarian [A person who is interested in words]. Writing this was great fun, my version of sport. (I think I am now officially old.) So thank you, dear Doris. You are indeed a walkative [Inclined to walk; characterized by walking] verbarian, and a beloved sister-in-law.

 

A walk at Paynes Prairie   - Joe, Liz, Don, Doris

 

 

Green Friday

For about 8 weeks I was sick with bronchitis. I coughed and coughed and coughed, and had no energy or stamina. I was still working on my writing, which right now consists of book reviews churned out at a mad pace, in an effort to expand my almost non-existent writers’ network.

 

image:authorsguild.org

 

But after working each morning I dragged around, lay down between chores, and tried unsuccessfully not to whine and complain. Joe advised  me that rather than say, “I just can’t manage to make dinner tonight,” I could simply say, “Will you do dinner?” And when I emerged from this truly annoying condition, I resolved to banish the word “exhausted” from my vocabulary.

 

image: the-lazy-trader.com

 

It’s been about a week since my energy returned. The first thing I wanted to do was rescue the garden. Huge amounts of spring rain followed by killing summer heat and mosquitoes had kept me away, and when finally the humidity and temperature dropped, the bronchitis hit. So everything was weedy and tangled. The wild hedge by the front walk was way over my head, and the giant bamboo was overhanging the path and slapping the roof of the pool screen.

 

 

Ever since our friend Ted gave me powerful long-handled pruning shears, I love pruning. I cut all the aspiring trees in the hedge down to chest level, and the next day cut back the bamboo. It all made a most satisfying pile by the curb, waiting to be hauled away. Alas, I can’t take a picture of it, since the yard waste truck has come and gone.

Joe’s daughter Leah was hosting her first Thanksgiving, and we were getting ready to drive to New Orleans on Tuesday when our granddaughter Amanda got sick and couldn’t go. She insisted that I should go anyway, that she’d be okay on her own. “I’m not fourteen!” she said indignantly. But I’m not leaving a 16-year-old by herself for five days, no matter how self-sufficient she thinks she is. So Joe went off and I stayed behind, both of us disappointed.

I occasionally descended into feeling sorry for myself, but I invited myself to Chris and Michelle’s for Thanksgiving dinner with a small group of good friends and Michelle’s smiling 96-year-old mother, whose failing memory has not destroyed her lively wit. The rest of the time I stayed busy with books and writing, looking into book publicists, listening to music while I crocheted hats.

 

image:skinnerinc.com

Thanksgiving day was chilly by Florida standards, but Black Friday was mild. After some time doing book things, I fed the birds their mealy worms, and sat in the sun cleaning up the big pots where I grow greens in the winter. The soil was still rich and black; the weeds were easy to pull. The weediest pot, filled with a gorgeous clump of wood sorrel, turned out to be the home of many large rust and black ants. Fortunately they didn’t bite. I didn’t want to kill them, and didn’t think of looking on the internet for a solution, so I put the pot in my cart and rolled it over to the woods, where I dumped it among the ferns.

 

image:fmcprosolutions.com

It took about an hour to weed all the pots. Now I had fifteen pots just begging for plants, so I went to Garden Gate nursery. To my surprise, there was only one other customer. To my delight, the nursery had just received new stock. They had lots of arugula, mustard, and chard, my three favorites, and teeny seedlings of a lettuce I’ve never seen before.

          
images: arugula, mustard johnnyseeds.com  chard bonnieplants.com

I bought 25 baby plants, plus three small red geraniums covered with buds, to replace the thoroughly dead old geraniums by the front door. I couldn’t stop smiling all the way home. Let others stand in endless lines to spend way too much money for huge amounts of stuff on Black Friday. click I’m happy to spend my own Green Friday browsing alone through flowers and greens.

 

Missing Luli

My sister Luli died in August and I’m beginning to come out of the fog. Someone told me that in Jewish tradition a mourner has no obligations for a whole year; friends and family simply take over and care for her. For about a month I stumbled around, losing things, forgetting, unable to process information. I couldn’t read. I certainly couldn’t write. In between bumbled tasks and necessary conversations I lay on the deck watching birds at my new feeder.

I spent hours cleaning up my garden, neglected during the months of Luli’s illness. I threw myself into brute labor, digging up a whole new bed, cutting back the bamboo. I planted a memorial garden, with Luli’s doorstep goddess gazing benignly from one end. Sweaty and filthy, I jumped into the pool and cried.

Though in most things I was inept, cooking became solace. My self- and Luli-absorption meant Joe and Amanda had to put up with a lot, but they were treated to new dishes, and many desserts.

All this activity couldn’t protect me from the sudden flashbacks to her terrible last five months. She was miserable: in pain, sometimes delusional, helpless, angry. I went up to North Carolina five times to take care of her. At the very end we had hospice, and they were wonderful, but even they couldn’t overcome the fact that dying is no fun at all.

The experience has led me to the book How We Die, with its reader-friendly account of how each organ system responds to senescence, leading to death. For some reason it was a great comfort to learn that a miserable death is common - we weren’t singled out for the horror.

Luli pops into my mind constantly. An article in the New Yorker on mythical beasts would have been just her cup of tea. Sexual harassment? We would have talked for hours. When Bill Clinton said, ‘I did not have sex with that woman,’ she sent me this postcard. I particularly like the nun on the left.

 

My first (and last) cruise to the Bahamas would have consumed at least three phone calls. The Taste of the Bahamas walking tour was worthy of at least an hour, with all the different dishes, and the guide who clogged interesting historical information with lectures about super foods and magic cures.

Luli fills my kitchen. She was a professional cook, and assisted Richard Sax on Classic Home Desserts. It’s crusted with flour, stained with butter, and crammed full of recipes she sent me by email or postcard. She was my private cooking coach, always available with advice by phone. When I stir a bit of butter into the pan drippings to make a satiny gravy, add a spoonful of the pasta water to the fresh tomato sauce, rub the roast all over with salt, I always think of Luli, who taught me these tricks. 

 

I seem to be channeling her. When I’m not cooking I think about menus and imagine recipes. I have long friendly conversations with strangers. For a while every item of outlandish news produced an idea for a cartoon, but though I share her creative imagination, I entirely lack her graphic talent.

We buried Luli's ashes in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. It was a glorious October day, blue sky, and the trees in full color. Her little hole in the ground is under a huge English walnut tree. Nearby is a pond and a tall marble monument to Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of Christian Science. Down the way is Harriet Jacobs, the escaped slave who wrote Incidents in the Life of a Slave-Girl. So Luli is in good company - Eddy would deny she's dead, and Jacobs was ungovernable.

Nineteen of us - all family - stood in a circle around the hole, with the urn that Ben found at a garage sale looking like nothing so much as a giant nipple. (Michael had a terrible time with TSA bringing the sealed urn from Raleigh-Durham to Boston.)

 

 

We shared memories, and sang. When we finished singing, we each took a flower from the bucket of flowers Clairie had brought, laid them in a ring around the hole, and threw handfuls of dirt onto that ridiculous urn at the bottom. We went on to a sumptuous lunch at Casa Portugal - Luli would have loved it - and then back to Esther's for pastries, tea and coffee.

 

The gathering was comforting and moving. I'm so glad to have my family, and that Luli's ashes are in that beautiful place, with my brother Dickie’s nearby. What stays with me is that bright ring of flowers - daisies, roses, snapdragons, mums - on the ground around her little grave.

 

Clairie took charge of arranging Luli’s grave marker. We wanted one of her cartoons, but Mt Auburn said no human figures, without even seeing her naked, cavorting woman. We settled for one of her cats, and the following verse:

The worst thing about being in your coffin
Is that you’re unable to eat as often.

I knew Luli would have liked people to laugh as they passed her grave.

  

 

 Now I have her picture on the cookbook shelf over the counter where I work, above the KitchenAid mixer I inherited. It’s not a surprise anymore each time I see it and remember she is dead and gone. I am purely and simply missing Luli.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Duct Tape

 

2 New Year's gifts for my dear readers: a light hearted encomium to the sine qua non of home maintenance, and an easy recipe.

A couple of months ago Joe said, “I’d like a birthday party this year.” We only celebrate our birthdays in a big way every few years, so I told him if he’d give me the list I’d organize the whole thing. Then I forgot, and I think he did too, until eight days before the date. We went into high gear. He gave me the list, and some email addresses, and I sent forty invitations.

What about the menu? I suggested a big pot of chili, fried chicken from Publix, salad, and of course birthday cake. Over the years I have let go of the show-off cook, so I felt no need to prepare all the food for thirty or so people.Joe made it even easier. He wanted oysters, and he wanted to be in charge of them. He vetoed the chili, asked for deli sandwiches and fried chicken. And for everyone who asked “What can I bring?” the answer was salad.

After consulting with Luli, my sister and on-call food professional, I decided I could quadruple the Blitzen Kuchen recipe to make two sheet cakes without any unanticipated chemical reactions. (I did not consider the capacity of my stand mixer, and after beating the butter, sugar, and dozen eggs I had to transfer it to my largest bowl and mix in the flour by hand.)

The bowl was too small

The guests were all old (in both senses of the word) friends of one or both of us. There were clusters of guests - Joe’s poker buddies, his movie and football buddies, and the Muumuus - many with spouses. These were supplemented by a few outsiders who were welcomed by the different groups, including my middle-aged son - some of the people had known him as a toddler. And people saw old friends they had lost track of - there were warm reunions complete with pictures of grandchildren.

The weather obliged us. The sky was overcast and blustery, almost chilly, perfect for raw and grilled oysters out on the deck, with plenty of beer. As it got darker and colder, we moved inside to eat sandwiches and chicken by the fire, with Etta James on the stereo. Sitting on couches and folding chairs and coffee tables, people talked of books and movies and old affairs and (ugh) current affairs, which led Kristin to give us a song about Hitler’s (and Himmler’s and Goering’s and Goebbel’s) balls. She sings very well.

image:michael'stvtray.com

The party was well underway. Joe was basking in friendship - I’m not the only one who loves him. I was moving from place to place, checking on this and that, responding to the teenage girls’ boredom complaint with a look and then Netflix on my laptop, when Bruce said, “Liz, the front door won’t close.” “Whaaat?” (Translation: I don’t have enough to think about?)

It stood open about 18 inches, letting in the cold and letting out the cat. It wouldn’t go over the threshold. On our knees we discovered that the bottom of the door had come loose and slipped down. We agreed that this called for Larry, a retired cabinet maker with meticulous skills and a generous willingness to help. I went out on the deck and said, “Larry, please stop shucking oysters and come help with the door.” (We had bought a bushel and hired a shucker, but guys like to stand around shucking oysters and shooting shit.)

 

image:gypsygema.com

I went about my business while Larry and Bruce investigated, until Larry called for...duct tape. So much for the gifted cabinet maker. They jammed the bottom board up where it belonged and fastened it neatly. “To fix it you’ll need to take the door off the hinges. This is just a temporary fix,” Larry said. But I wasn’t so sure. Duct tape is a theme of our decor. The lovely silvery gray complements our lifestyle (I sneer at the brightly-patterned stuff they sell at Office Depot.)

Seven years ago Amanda was, to put it kindly, rambunctious. Sometimes it was a product of anger, but sometimes it was sheer exuberance. She was dancing in the shower one night when she slipped and grabbed onto the ceramic soap dish set into the tile. It broke off, leaving a gaping hole which exposed the pipes. (I still don’t understand how the weight of a slender seven-year-old could accomplish this, but that was her story.) Call the tile man? No. Get the duct tape. Joe, an ingenious - if not a handy - man, made a neat silver rectangle which has lasted to this day.

 

 Three years ago Amanda had settled down and we had a slumber party for her 11th birthday. click This entailed moving all the living room furniture against the walls and laying down pads and mattresses. It was a lovely and boisterous affair, and after she had slept it off, Amanda was very cooperative in restoring the house to our standard of tidiness. Alas, in pushing the piano back into place she smashed the light switch plate and rheostat. Clearly a job for...Superduct!

This repair only lasted a week or two. I was uneasy about all the unprotected electrons shooting around behind their silver cover, and tired of not being able to turn on the lights, so I called a handyman.

image:warningacooleelectric.co.uk

I have written before about our low standards of tidiness and decor click. I love to visit my friends, their houses filled with beauty and the tranquility that comes from order, at least when they have visitors. Our disorder is a product of laziness, distractions, and perhaps most of all, the way messes become invisible as time passes - I no longer see the shoes in the middle of the living room, the pile of books waiting to be shelved.

Joe and I are fortunate to be well-matched - I can’t imagine a tidy person living with either one of us. It’s not that I’m proud to be a slob - sometimes I even think how nice it would be to be otherwise - but I’m no longer embarrassed. And in the way we all redefine our faults as virtues, I have created a new etymology for sLOVEnly.

 

 

 

BLITZKUCHEN

350 degrees (325 for pyrex)   8"pan, greased and floured   25-30 minutes

1 C white flour

1 t baking powder

pinch of salt

1 stick unsalted butter, softened

3/4 C sugar 

3 eggs

zest and juice of half a lemon

1/2 t vanilla

Cream butter well, add sugar and lemon zest, beat well. Beat in eggs, lemon juice, vanilla. Stir together the flour, baking powder, salt, and beat in at low speed just till blended.

Frosting:

1 stick butter

1 C powdered sugar

2t vanilla

3oz unsweetened chocolate, melted (I do it in the microwave at 50% power)

Cream butter a LONG time, beat in sugar for a while, add vanilla and chocolate. If too soft to spread, refrigerate a while, if then too stiff, put in bowl of warm water and beat again.

 

 

Que Sera, Sera

 

For years I’ve had an idea running unnoticed behind my thoughts, the way programs run in the background on a computer: this is the way my life is supposed to be.

image:slideplayer.com

 

It’s an idea that can lead to resentment, but recently I’ve had a revelation. There’s no supposed to be; there’s just what is. Maybe this new (to me) version of truth will help me with my quest for acceptance, as in, “Accept the things you cannot change.”

It’s not that I’ve ever thought life was supposed to be all gardens and beaches. Accidents and illness, struggle and heartbreak - I’ve long known they were part of the mix. Since I was quite young, I’ve had a vision of how life works. You go along happily for a few years, encountering joys and troubles along the way but staying fairly upright, when suddenly life comes along with a catastrophe and pulls the rug out from under you. 

 

image:missionblueprintonline

Still, I had a sense that there was some natural progression from infancy to old age, stages of life that would come in a certain order. This was one of a number of unexamined assumptions produced by a safe and secure childhood. As a child I lived in a luxurious cocoon. I was the youngest of four children, the baby of the family. My family was intact, my father made a very good living, my mother made a comfortable home life, my brothers adored me.

a luxurious cocoon  image:busyknitter.com

Some of these unexamined assumptions are useful: I can do it; I am loved. Some are just silly. I was born when my parents were in their forties; we lived in big houses. My grown brothers lived in tiny apartments. I concluded that when you’re young you’re poor and when you’re old you’re rich. This idea miraculously survived years of working in poverty law. I was probably forty when I realized there wasn’t a natural progression from one state to the other.

images:thetinylife.com, wikipedia.org

When I was little I assumed my future was college, husband, housewife, motherhood. (You can tell from this when and into what class I was born.) This assumption exploded with the second wave of feminism, with reading the Second Sex at fourteen and The Feminine Mystique at fifteen. When the dust had settled, a new assumption took its place. I was in charge of my life, I could choose my path.

I’ve always known life isn’t fair. When I was raising two kids they’d say, as siblings do, “It’s not fair.” And I’d annoy them with a little ditty, “You always, you never, IT’S NOT FAIR,” and tell them no, life isn’t fair, that’s just the way life is. Every year I’d spend a semester and three credit hours trying to teach my law students that life’s not fair. They had not entirely earned their good fortune, nor did poor people deserve their misfortunes; a good deal of everybody’s situation was due to luck, good or bad. click

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans. I’ve known this for years; I’ve said this for years. Yet there in the background, belying this knowledge, was the belief that my life would proceed in ordered stages. 

image:thepragmaticcostumer.wordpress

The gods have laughed at me over and over, yet I have to learn the lesson again and again. I had to learn it once more when my son came home to recover from a serious illness. Now the four of us - hard-working husband, retired wife, teenaged granddaughter, and middle-aged son - are bumping along together as well as we can. It’s not what I expected when I retired. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be.

All my life I have struggled to accept what comes my way. I should have been an alcoholic; then I could have gone to meetings and heard the Serenity Prayer. Maybe it would have sunk in. But I can’t go much beyond one drink without getting drunk, and I hate being drunk. I prefer musical inspiration anyway; I want to learn to take One Day at A Time. click

Writing has always brought me clarity. But I’m still confused, still trying to understand. There's no supposed to be. There's just what is.

N.B. This post is full of God and Jesus. I haven’t become a believer. Growing up in a sanctimonious culture, I’m saturated with pious aphorisms. And just about my favorite music is gospel, full of trouble, promise, and joy.

 

 

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The Cute Old Days

Most of my old friends near and far are grandparents now. They share their grandchildren’s pictures on Facebook, and though I usually ‘hide’ cat and dog videos, I love looking at babies and toddlers, especially when my friends are in the picture, beaming happiness.

My grandparent status is different, though hardly unusual, because I’m raising mine, and she’s a teenager. She lived with us for a couple of extended periods before coming for good when she was eight. We’ve had the usual travails of child-rearing, and then some. But I’ve had a grandmother’s full share of adorable and adoring. And I want to share those stories, because mine was once just as cute as yours, and because I like to remember those days.

Just as cute as yours

I love to sing, and in those days Amanda loved to hear it. I wrote a song for her before she was born ‘Ukelele, huckleberry, Amyanda Rose, she’s the sweetest baby, everybody knows, Orange blossom honey from her head down to her toes...’ To sustain us both through hours of walking (me) and screaming (her), I had Elisa’s song from my childhood ‘Aa naa naa mi nena de mi corazon..’ click.   I wrote a toilet training song: ‘I went peepee in the potty... I’m such a great big girl.’ To my amazement she sang it to me just the other day.

And then there was the huge repertoire of songs to get her to sleep at night. She had me trained to stay with her until she slept. I particularly remember holding my breath and inching my body off the bed after twenty renditions of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, only to hear “Grandma,” as I reached the door. We had On Top of Old Smoky, You Are My Sunshine, Fox Went Out on a Chilly Night, Down in the Valley, Go Tell Aunt Dora, and many, many more. I look back and wonder, what was I thinking? I’m a great believer in bedtimes, and bedtime routines, but somehow our routine had become sing until you drop. I think I was a pushover because I worried about what was going on at home.

 

Like Grandma, like Grandbaby: until she matured into self-consciousness, Amanda would frequently break into song. At three we took her to Jacksonville Beach. Joe went in to ride the waves, Amanda and I sat in the sand at the edge of the water, making drip castles. Every time the water ran up under our bottoms the castles washed away. Every time, she laughed. And suddenly she began singing, ‘Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham.’ click

First trip to Jax beach - in winter

 

We took her camping at Cumberland Island when she was seven. It’s a special place, only accessible by ferry, a national seashore in southern Georgia with long empty beaches, wild horses, and billions of birds. Though it was supposed to be a tenth anniversary celebration, suddenly we had Amanda. So we borrowed a bigger tent and went on our first real family trip.

 

some of the billions:oystercatchers  image:Jacksonville.com

Everything was new to Amanda. It was her first boat ride - she and Joe stood in the bow to catch the wind in their faces. We disembarked and got a cart to haul our gear over the long trek to the camp site. We slept cozy in the tent, the October weather mild and the mosquitoes gone, and through the night heard the wild horses galloping down the trail.

 

image:ajc.com

We rose early, and Amanda and I took flashlights to walk the long path to the bathrooms, and then through the woods to the beach. Through the moss-draped oaks the sunrise filled the whole sky with rose and gold. And Amanda began singing, ‘Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me.’ click

 

image: m.flikie.com

 

Cumberland Island is magical in so many ways. We watched the waves and birds and sunrise, and then returned to the camp where Joe was making breakfast. When breakfast was cleared away, the three of us set off to explore the island, walking carefully down the trail to avoid the piles of horse shit. “Grandma, the doodoo is moving!” We squatted down, and sure enough, iridescent dung beetles were patiently rolling balls of horseshit along to wherever they thought it should go.

image:toptenz.net

Children like shit. Whenever Amanda was staying with us, we would go for a walk in the evening, Joe holding Trisket’s leash, Amanda on her tricycle. I was in charge of picking up the poop, until the day when Amanda said, “I want to carry the doodoo.” Proudly she led the parade, with the plastic bag of shit dangling from her handlebars.

Maryanne and I have been friends since 1980; like me, she acquired a child late in life. When they were little the girls loved to play together, and Joe and I spent a lot of time with Maryanne and Larry. We were so at home at their house that I could honestly say ‘Being with you is almost as good as being alone’(and they didn’t take offense).

On a chilly night Larry made a fire in the living room and the girls roasted marshmallows. Soon they were covered in melted marshmallow, particularly fetching on Amanda’s dark skin. They were purely happy; so was I. Sharing this unexpected road with Maryanne has doubled the pleasure and cushioned the bumps.

When Amanda was in kindergarten I picked her up every morning to take her to school. One day she found a soup pot and wooden spoon in the back of the car (no, I don’t remember why), and she decided to make breakfast. From then on, I chose my daily breakfast from the menu she recited. I could have bacon and eggs, pancakes, spaghetti and meatballs, black beans and rice, or chicken soup. It was all delicious, especially satisfying on winter mornings as we drove through darkness with dawn just breaking. I asked her once what was in the soup. “Chicken...and soup,” she told me scornfully - any fool would know that.

All you need is chicken...and soup. Images:recipesfab.com, allrecipes.com

Amanda was briefly a Brownie, and in fourth grade Joe took her to the Father-Daughter Dance. We went all out for this, knowing it would likely be the last time she would happily go dancing with Grandpa.

Brownies selling cookies

She needed a special dress. Until now, fearing squabbles and tantrums, I had always bought her clothes, returning whatever she didn’t like. This was our first shopping trip together, and it was a revelation. She was quick and decisive, and we found a dress in twenty minutes. And what a dress: very grown-up-looking and entirely modest - we both loved it. We had time and energy for shoes - jeweled silver sandals with a slightly elevated heel. And later I went to Beauty Max (the place for costume jewelry) for diamond earrings and a hairclip.

The afternoon of the dance, I painted her nails and fixed her hair in a bun, and we came out to present her to Joe in her full glory. “Wait,” he said. “There’s one more thing.” And he went to the refrigerator and brought out a rose corsage.

 

She won a prize for her dancing

 

Since I saw her born, I’ve known I was lucky to have my grandbaby living nearby. People often say the joy of grandchildren is you get to have them for a while and then you get to send them home. We don’t have that with Amanda, instead we have the complex joys of raising her.  A recent article in the paper told me that people who take care of their grandchildren have a reduced risk of Alzheimer’s. I was delighted, until I kept reading and learned that those who are full-time parents to their grandchildren have an increased risk. Oh well.

 

Now we have a brand-new grandbaby, who will be the borrow and return type. Joe’s daughter Leah gave birth to a HUGE baby, Ula Mae, on June 1. All is well there - the love was immediate and overwhelming, and mother and baby are champion nursers. James is doing everything fatherly possible given that he lacks functional nipples. The little issue of sleepless parents will resolve itself after a while. They don’t live quite close enough, but New Orleans is only an eight-hour drive, and I’ve learned from my friends that Facetime does wonders. It’s my turn again to be fatuous and adoring, and I can’t wait.

How I Spent My Vacation

 

It was Sunday, 8am. The car was loaded - CD’s, snacks, maps, and my own big-font back-road directions. I was headed to Lake Dreher in South Carolina to camp a night with my high school friend Emily, and then to Chapel Hill for four nights with Luli. Freedom! Giggles! Long intimate talks! What could be better? I had just buckled my seat belt when my cellphone rang.

A campsite at Lake Dreher

It was Luli, but not lively Luli. It was her dead voice. She was speaking from the abyss. “Lizzy, don’t come. I can’t have houseguests. I can’t see anyone.” I had never heard it so bad, though I’m careful not to miss our daily phone call when she’s depressed. Of course, when she’s at the bottom, she doesn’t answer the phone.

I called Luli’s psychiatrist, who told me to come right away. I called Margaret, Luli's good friend and neighbor, who promised to keep an eye on her. I called Emily and told her my sister was sick and I was going straight to Chapel Hill. Ten hours later I was driving in the dark, lost as usual in the surreal meanderings of 15-501. I called the motel Joe had booked for me. It was only two blocks away, and in a few minutes I had collapsed on the bed. Luli refused to see me, but agreed I could call her in the morning.

image: aaroads.com

In the morning, she said Margaret and I could come over after breakfast, and the first thing she said when we arrived was, “My sense of humor is returning.” Luli’s depressions can go on for more than a year; this had been only twenty-four hours. She wasn’t all the way out of the pit; she lacked energy and had that frailty of someone who has just emerged from a nightmare. Still, Luli was back. Despite a sharp pain in her gut, which she attributed to a new iron prescription, she was ready to visit. We settled her on the couch with a heating pad.

By mid-afternoon she told me to cancel the hotel and stay with her. Nausea had joined the pain, but she remained pretty cheerful. I ate a delicious supper of salad and Luli’s frozen clam chowder. She ate a few bites of yoghurt and threw up. She persisted in blaming it on the iron pills.

 
images:chowhound.com, foodnetwork.com

It was 2:30 in the morning when she woke me up and said we had to go to the emergency room. I found the directions on Mapquest; at that hour there was no traffic, and it was a straight shot and short drive. Or it would have been had I turned left intstead of right on Columbia - I blame Mapquest but it certainly could have been me. When I knew I was lost I pulled over, turned on my flashers, and called 911.

image: driversed.com

As I had hoped, a police car pulled up. Officer McDonald said we could wait for the ambulance or he could lead us to the ER, a mile away. I chose that. Luli was in no condition to choose anything - she was doubled over in pain, which now stretched from her belly to her breast.

The parking lot was full. Officer McDonald, his name now inscribed in the Book of Good Deeds, told us to inform the receptionist we’d left our car in the driveway. The waiting room was even fuller than the parking lot. I muttered to Luli, “Tell them you have chest pain.” In classic Eder-family fashion she began by minimizing it, so I interrupted and said, “She has chest pain and vomiting.” We were in triage in less than a minute, with a kind, plump doctor who sent us back immediately to the “cardiac room” a big room with one bed, one plastic chair, and many monitors and machines, right across from the nurse’s station.

 

image: southcountyhealth.org

Mary Scott, a lovely 14-year old nurse, spoke soothingly as she took Luli’s vital signs, set up monitors, started the IV and - Hallelujah - began the morphine. I sat on the chair, covered with coats and purses, and watched Luli’s lips slowly curve upwards.

The Land of Morphine  image:neurorexia.com

 Luli is not a whole lot sillier on morphine than she is in real life. She was back, and she proceeded to charm everyone who came in the room, flirting and joking and making it clear that there was a real person underneath all the tubes and monitors. While she enchanted the staff, I wrote down everyone’s name and what they told us.

At 7 o'clock the shifts changed, and brought a new nurse, Peter. Like Luli, he was a New Yorker, and they talked about neighborhoods and theater and everything New York while he learned all about her condition and did a thousand medical things. If he hadn’t been living with his fiancé, I think he would have asked Luli ro marry him. I asked him if we could turn off the lights so we could get some sleep. He had only been at UNC a few weeks, and though he looked all over the room he couldn’t find the switch. He went out in the hall, crossed his fingers, and flipped a switch. “I hope this doesn’t turn off anything important.” The lights went out, an aide found a recliner for me, and we slept a bit.

 

Nurses work REALLY hard. image:mlive.com

I was too tired to be tired; Luli was drugged. Coffee for me, X ray, CAT scan, blood tests for her. A resident came in with the results - there’s a hernia and an intestinal blockage, we’re going to consult the cardiac team (Luli has a bad heart valve) - and he was gone. Luli was still on morphine, she didn’t care. But I knew “intestinal blockage” was serious. And I didn’t know what they were going to do about it, or when, or ANYTHING.

I went looking for Peter, who was watching two monitors, writing in a patient chart, and eating a bagel. He didn’t know who the doctor was, and I couldn’t remember his name. But shortly afterwards a tall blonde woman came in followed by two young women and a man. They were the surgical team, led by Dr Dreisen. She introduced herself to both of us and carefully explained what they were going to do, down to the different types of mesh they would use depending on what they found inside Luli. If the piece of intestine trapped in the hernia were healthy, things would be pretty simple; if it were infected or dead, they would do a bowel resection.

image: drugs.com

Luli was still stoned, and still charming, but she was calm and lucid. She asked about the possibility of a colostomy. She told about the nightmare of her week-long UNC hospital stay seventeen years ago after a pulmonary embolism, when ineptitude, neglect and cruelty reigned. Dr. Dreisen apologized for what used to be, and assured her they would take good care of her this time. As soon as they had consulted with cardiology they would get her into surgery.

In less than an hour I was following Luli’s gurney all over the hospital and in to a pre-op cubicle in the surgery suite. Another team of three came in, led by the anesthesiologist who specialized in cardiac cases. She was as clear, thorough, and kind as Dr. Dreisen, and even taller. She questioned Luli at length, and responded to each answer with “Awesome.” She explained that they were going to lower a camera down Luli’s esophagus so they could keep an eye on her heart during the surgery. After the long interview, which included medical and personal details, and Luli’s somewhat strained wit, she concluded that we were both awesome. My concern at having a twenty-year-old responsible for my only sister’s heart was allayed by her awesome knowledge of all things cardiological and anesthesiologocial, and the clarity of her explanations.

I sat in the surgery waiting room with all the other people whose loved ones were being cut open. I was exhausted. I was scared. I had a raging case of cystitis and was desperate for pyridium, the pain-killer. I asked the very kind volunteer where the nearest pharmacy was, and she told me there was one in the cancer hospital. I walked and walked to the far end of the complex, to discover that this was the pharmacy where outpatients got their prescriptions. I walked back to the other end, and almost cried when the volunteer in the little sundries shop said yes they had pyridium. I swallowed two on the spot.

 

It's really four hospitals, and VERY large

I returned to the waiting room, and then Luli’s friend Kathy showed up to keep me company. We talked about everything. Though she was dealing with her father’s severe medical emergencies, her mother’s distress, and the imminent death of an old friend, she was going to spend the night with Luli in the ICU.

At about five Dr Dreisen came out, gleeful. All had gone well, they’d shoved the healthy intestine back where it belonged, and patched up the hernia. From that moment, things just got better and better. Luli is a 71-year-old woman who works out vigorously five days a week. They kept her in the ICU because of her heart valve, but she recovered ridiculously fast. We had gone to the ER at three in the morning Tuesday, and left the hospital at noon on Friday. I stayed with her till Monday. Four weeks later Dr. Dreisen told her she could return to the gym and resume her regular workout, with the exception of the rower and Pilates.

 

 image:crossfitsweatshop.com

 
Hospital World makes the outside world disappear. There’s nothing but long corridors and elevators, bustling people in scrubs and white coats. I must have encountered two hundred people at that hospital: desk clerks, doctors, orderlies, nurses, cafeteria workers, aides, housekeepers, medical students. I met them at length as they cared for Luli, or briefly as they served me a meal. In elevators they greeted me with “How are you doing?” At the information desk they helped me find Margaret - I was waiting for her in the Corner Café; she was waiting for me at Starbucks. Fourteen hours after we’d arrived at the ER, when Luli was out of surgery and settled into the ICU, I went down to see about my illegally parked car. The parking lot attendant: “We were trying to find you, we didn’t want to have it towed, we paged you, aren’t you Gonzalez?” And there was my car where I had left it.

The parking attendant was one of 100's of kind people. image:hospitalparkinguwo.ca

 

Clearly management has set the tone for this hospital. I suspect the head honcho is a nurse, because the focus is on the patient, and families are welcome, even in the ICU, where the patients are in private rooms instead of multiple beds around the nursing station. The predominant note is kindness - I think they pump it through the ductwork - followed immediately by knowledge, technical skill, and clear communication. We only encountered a couple of staff who need some coaching: the resident who delivered bad news with no explanation and then disappeared, and a housekeeper and transport orderly who talked non-stop, wearing us both out.

I have read that hospitals are making themselves over, with fine cuisine and chic decor. I don’t care about that. What matters is people who remain humane as they deal with crisis and killing workloads, who know that what is routine and ordinary to them is unique and frightening to patients and families.

I don't want lobster (Lenox Hill Hospital  image:NYPost.com)

Even with the best of staff, no one should be alone in the hospital. And no one should be alone waiting to hear the news after surgery. Kathy distracted me in the waiting room with videos of her grandbaby; Margaret organized Luli’s friends and shared night duty with me and Kathy, while other friends spelled me during the day. Staff were impressed by the support, and the anesthesiologist said, “I don’t think my sister would do that for me.” In our case it’s payback. Years ago I arrived at Luli’s house with the flu. She spent a week taking care of me with garlic soup and single malt. After each of my knee replacements she came to Gainesville for a week. She cooked delicious dinners every night, and left us with a freezer full of stews, soups, and chicken pot pie.

image:todaysparents.com

It was an unusual vacation, not at all what I had hoped for. But this dramatic and terrifying emergency, which in the end was merely a hernia repair, brought several unexpected benefits. My sister and I are closer - I wouldn't have thought that possible. I got to know Margaret, who is my kind of people. And Luli, whose brief depression had been brought on by the prospect of cardiac surgery at the place that had ill-treated her so long ago, saw that UNC Memorial had been transformed. She met and admired the cardiac team, and learned all about the proposed valve replacement. I can't say she's excited about the prospect - she'd probably prefer a week in Paris -  but she's not dreading it anymore. She'll probably get it done sometime this summer. And I bet that by Labor Day she'll be back at the gym.

It’s Really a GRAND Canyon

Seventeen years ago, when I was 51, Joe and I donned 35-pound backpacks and hiked down the South Kaibab trail click to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. There we camped for two days, eating huge delicious meals at Phantom Ranch, and then hiked out on the Bright Angel trail. click  We started out early in the morning, and I was so exhilarated by the beautiful dawn light and the glory of the Canyon that after we crossed the bridge and began climbing, I started to sing. ‘Yay for me, yay for me, I’m as happy as a bunny in a tree, Yay for me, yay for us, if it came along you know I’d take a bus.’ This proved conclusively that exercise is intoxicating, and annoyed the hell out of four exhausted hikers in spandex bike suits who were sprawled by the side of the trail.

When we emerged from the Canyon, I was both giddy and exhausted. A mother with two young girls stopped us. “Excuse me, did you just hike up from the bottom?” Proudly I said yes. “Would you mind if I ask how old you are?” Proudly I told her. “You see, girls.” she said, “You can do ANYTHING.”

Back when we were young

 

Planning for our Thanksgiving 2015 trip to the Grand Canyon began a year in advance. Joe reserved two cabins for two nights at Phantom Ranch. Originally, there were going to be ten of us. But two women got pregnant and one man developed knee issues, so they and their partners had to drop out. Other preparations included Amanda saying she wouldn’t go, and me telling the trainer at the gym that I had to train for the hike.

And train I did, until I was rowing at a furious pace, proudly dead-lifting 80 pounds, and doing all kinds of lunges and burpees and other horrors, which became less horrible as I grew stronger. I climbed down and up the 230 stairs at the Devil’s Millhopper, working up to six repetitions, defeated only by boredom. My pulse stayed pretty low through the climbing and rowing, but I quickly grew short of breath. Still, after an echocardiogram and pulmonary tests, my doctor cleared me to go.

 

image:epicweird

I knew I was fitter than I had ever been. I had strengthened my legs so that as I walked I felt a new sense, or perhaps a youthful sense, of certainty, confident that if I stumbled on loose rock or uneven ground, my legs would not let me fall. I knew I would be slower than the others, but that would give me precious solitude. I looked forward to coming out of the Canyon with the same sense of triumph and pride I had felt seventeen years before.

As Thanksgiving approached, Joe’s emails to the rapidly shrinking group increased. So did Amanda’s resistance. I began to worry that we would have to drag her on to the plane. Since she is 120 pounds of solid muscle, this would not have gone well. Then someone suggested we invite her best friend to come along. To my surprise, Ella’s family agreed she could go. Amanda was very pleased: “At least Ella and I can suffer together.”

Our trip started in Las Vegas, a city at the top of the hole-in-my-bucket-list of places I had vowed never to visit. I was surprised and pleased to find that everything about it made me laugh. And the girls loved it. Our 20-year-old Australian cousin Johanna joined us after a grueling trip from Sidney, and the five of us shared a hotel room surprisingly amicably. Joe’s brother Matt and his wife Amber (one of the pregnant non-hikers) were in town for a conference, and we all went together to Valley of Fire State Park, where we walked a trail of rocks and cliffs entirely covered with ancient Native American graffiti. Petroglyphs are among my very favorite things. That night Amber had a birthday party for Matt, complete with an astounding magician, who delighted everyone, but especially the girls. All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a happier beginning to our adventure. My throat was sore and scratchy, but I attributed it to the zero humidity.

 

Petroglyphs at Valley of Fire  image:inzumi.com

 

We made the five and a half hour drive to the Canyon with no mishaps, checked into our motel, and walked to the rim to see the views. Amanda took a zillion pictures with her new selfie stick. We were up late getting our packs ready, and up very early to eat breakfast and catch the 7am shuttle bus to the Kaibab trailhead. It was freezing cold, clear, and beautiful. I was so excited.

 

At the trailhead

The girls start down the trail

The other four soon were far ahead of me, and I enjoyed the solitude. The early morning light just adds to the magic of the Canyon. Down and down and down, awed by the constantly-changing views, getting used to the hiking poles, opening my jacket, removing my hat and scarf as I got warmer. I passed people, and people passed me, and we all exchanged cheerful greetings. Younger hikers expressed admiration in that sweet but condescending way that young people talk to old people. I kept drinking plenty of water, and I tried to eat some snacks, but I found I had no appetite. The trail became tricky - lots of ruts and loose rock.

 

 

At Cedar Ridge, (1.5 miles down), my gang had waited for me. There were pit toilets, and beautiful views. At Skeleton Point (3 miles down) a lot of people had stopped to rest and have lunch, and I found my gang again. I ate what I could - some cheese and sausage, some bread - but I didn’t feel hungry. Mostly I feasted on the view. After eating a lot, the girls were restless, and we sent them on ahead. They leaped and pranced down the steep switchbacks.

After Skeleton Point, nausea set in. I tried to nibble on trail mix, but I couldn’t keep it down, and didn’t dare put anything else in my queasy stomach. The others were far ahead, and I wondered whether I should turn back, send a message down to Joe with passing hikers. I was afraid he would be angry. I didn’t want to give up my dream of the trip. I wanted to do this, goddamn it. So I continued to Tonto Platform (4.5 miles down), where they had been waiting half an hour. I ate bread and jam, lay down for a bit, and trudged on.

Passing hikers now expressed concern instead of admiration. A woman hiking alone said, “You look like you’re worn out,” and I said yes, annoyed. “You’re kind of grouchy.” “I’m just trying to keep going, I don’t want to talk.” “Let me have your pack.” And then I saw the patch on her jacket - she was a ranger. She took my pack, commented that it was heavy (I always take too much water) and strapped it over her chest, so now she had one in back and one in front. It was a lot easier walking without it, and even easier because she chattered away, distracting me from the hard slog. I asked her if there was any way out besides hiking - maybe there was an extra mule? - and she said no. But she assured me that our route out on the Bright Angel was much easier - the Kaibab trail was a mess, she said, and passed some remarks about Congress and funding. She stayed with me to the foot bridge over the Colorado River (6.3 miles down) and then turned around to hike back up to the ranger station, leaving me with a mile and a half of easy level walking to Phantom Ranch. I had been hiking nine hours, though the trail usually takes about six.

 

Footbridge over the river

 

My family was already settled in. Amanda and Ella shared one cabin, which they never left except for showers and meals. Joe, Johanna and I shared the other. The cabins were built in the 1920's; each had four bunk beds, a nightstand, chair, sink and toilet, and very little remaining floor space. We used the extra bunks for our gear. I had time for a shower in the bathhouse before dinner.

Dinner is served family-style at the Ranch - steak or hikers’ stew, salad, cornbread, chocolate cake. After an all-day hike it is the best meal you ever ate, though the stew, loaded with beef and vegetables, is oddly seasoned with cloves. But I was still nauseated, and could only nibble a bit. I went to bed immediately after dinner, and knew nothing until morning.

 

 

Phantom Ranch cabins  image:tinyhousedesign.com

 

In the morning my hunger was as huge as the breakfast - eggs,sausage, bacon, pancakes, potatoes, juice and canned fruit. The day was sunny and warm, and like my appetite, my happiness had returned. Johanna went off by herself, and Joe and I walked the trail along Bright Angel Creek for a couple of hours. In the afternoon we wrote postcards in the dining room, and at dinner I did justice to the meal.

 

The Creek Trail (little white line at the bottom)

Happy on the Creek Trail

Cactuses on the Creek Trail  (Honi soit qui mal y pense)

 

We didn’t settle down to sleep till 11. About 1am my cold came on full force. With my nose completely blocked I slept little, and lay awake dreading the day ahead. We got up at 5:30. We had agreed I would start before the others, and when they caught up, Joe would hang back with me, and Johanna, Amanda and Ella could go on as fast as they liked. He gave them our credit card so they could check into the motel when they reached the rim. Still hungry, I ate a big breakfast, and started off alone under the stars.

I crossed the bridge. I was happy, proud, grateful to Joe for planning the trip and watching out for me. The vastness, the solitude, the sky brightening and the river gold with dawn, my legs strong, and my head clear now that I was no longer lying down. The colors of the Canyon gradually emerged with the light. We had five miles of beauty and steady walking up hill. Approaching Indian Gardens, the half-way point, where there is a campground and ranger station, the trail is lined with tall feathery cottonwood trees, and the view is green all around you. We were ready for a long lunch break. We took off our packs, sat on the benches, and pulled out the food.

 

Indian Gardens  image:cedarmesa.com

Still happy at Indian Gardens

The mules came and the riders creaked down from the saddles, staggered around on their unaccustomed legs. I was so glad not to be on the mules. At narrow sections of the trail the dizzying views threaten to suck you over the edge; I can’t imagine being elevated above mule-height, with no control over the four legs beneath me.

 

image: grandcanyonhistory.clas.asu.edu

 

I ate a big lunch, feeling content, and we started off again. The next stop would be in a mile and a half, at the rest house three miles from the rim. But as we got closer, I had less and less breath. My sinuses were clear, but the cold had reached my chest. I could catch my breath after a brief rest, but only two or three steps left me breathless again, and I was really cold. Though I hated my weakness, we quickly realized I couldn’t keep going.

Joe settled me on a bench in the rest house, a small open stone shelter. He wrapped me in an emergency blanket and called the rangers on the emergency phone. The dispatcher asked many questions as he reported on my condition, and said they’d send a paramedic ranger down to help. I felt guilty and ashamed, but mostly I felt enormous relief at the thought of being rescued. I was still cold, but getting warmer under the blanket.

 

Three-mile resthouse  image:visionbib.com

 

The ranger, a young woman, arrived in about half an hour. She unlocked the emergency stores box, wrapped me in a sleeping bag, and began heating water for ramen on the little stove. She questioned me at length, and then explained our options. She could hike back down with us to Indian Gardens and we could spend the night at the ranger station there, then hike out. Or we could all slowly continue the hike out, and evaluate my condition when we reached the next shelter, a mile and a half from the rim. If necessary, we could spend the night there. She said it might be one in the morning before we made it out, but she could definitely get us to the rim. The helicopter I had been dreaming of was not an option. I learned later that at $20,000 a trip, the helicopter is reserved for cases which have to get to the hospital fast. Even a broken leg only gets you carried out on a stretcher.

Neither Joe nor I was willing to give up the elevation we had gained after Indian Gardens and hike that mile and a half over again. So we decided to hike out with the ranger. I was miserable, but also relieved to have the ranger take charge of my pack and our pace. Joe was relieved too; it was hard to be the one responsible in what had become a dangerous situations. After more ramen soup, we started out, first the ranger, then me, then Joe. We walked at a pace so slow that I didn’t lose my breath, and we stopped to rest, sitting on rocks, about every hundred yards. The ranger kept us entertained with stories. We walked that way for hours. By the time the stars had come out I was falling asleep every time I sat down.

We reached the next shelter about 10:30. The last mile and a half of the trail is a brutal series of steep switchbacks; the ranger said I couldn’t possibly tackle them without some sleep. We would have to spend the night in the shelter. That was bad news, but I knew she was right. The really bad news was yet to come. She only had an hour left in her shift. They’re not allowed to work overtime, and so she couldn’t stay with us. It was Thanksgiving night, and though she checked with the dispatcher, there was nobody else to send down. She would set us up with emergency supplies, but we’d be on our own. Joe was furious, but he controlled his temper. I was just stunned, and horrified. I had felt so safe with the ranger there. And I was still trying to get my mind around the thought that we were going to have to spend the night outside, in temperatures below freezing.

 

Shelter for the night  image:gjhikes

She heated up more soup, and spread sleeping bags on the floor. She covered us with emergency blankets, and spread a tent over us for more warmth. She promised to get a message to Johanna that we would hike out in the morning. And then she left.

I slept hard. I woke several times to take the long walk up to the toilets. The full moon lit the looming cliffs and deep drops of the Canyon.

 

image: gubbyblog.blogspot.com

 

We set out again before sunrise. Five hours of sleep had restored me. We had a mile and a half of steep climbing ahead of us, but I had learned how slowly I needed to go, and had no doubt that I could do it. Joe went ahead to tell the girls we were okay. I found my way back to the motel, we packed up, and drove the five hours to the airport. I slept all the way. I don’t remember anything about the flight home.

For ten weeks I battled repeated respiratory and ear infections, with three courses of antibiotics. I learned that you don’t treat a cold with a ten mile climb and freezing weather. Joe remains convinced that I didn’t train sufficiently. This makes me angry, but I know I can’t change his mind. I also know he’s wrong - the only part of me that didn’t fail was my muscles. I was only a tiny bit stiff after both hikes. Nevertheless I was ashamed of my failure. I couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t write about it, couldn’t think about it much. I couldn’t look at the pictures; they brought back my fear and desperation.

It was a long time before I realized that I hadn’t failed. I had hiked seven miles down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and hiked back up ten miles. I had survived the freezing temperatures and high altitude, and persisted through nausea and a respiratory infection. It was anything but an elegant hike; it was a slog and a struggle. It’s still hard for me to focus on the details. But bit by bit I am remembering the glorious times as well as the horror. Slowly I am coming to feel proud of what I willy nilly accomplished.

Some people find comfort in their faith in a benevolent and loving God. I find comfort in the indifference of the universe. All the joys and troubles of my life don’t matter a bit in the large perspective, and I am no more significant than a dust mote in space. I felt that comfort as I looked out into the Canyon under the full moon. I was awed by its power. I know I was fortunate to be forced to spend the night in this place.

As for Amanda, our reluctant and resentful hiker? She hasn’t thanked us for the trip. But she never complained during the hike. And in the last month she has said no fewer than three times, “I still don’t like walking. But sometimes I like it if we have to walk a mile or so. I tell my friends, ‘This is nothing. I hiked ten miles out of the Grand Canyon.’ ”

 

Unless otherwise credited, photos are by Joe, taken with his cellphone.

 

 

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NEXT POST: APRIL 1

 

Searching for My Mother: Argentina, Part 2

In the previous post, I wrote about some misadventures on our trip to Argentina. Why Argentina? I was born there. My father worked for an imperialistic American company, which I am still embarrassed to name, and he handled their legal affairs in Argentina. My parents lived in Buenos Aires for many years; my brothers Don and Dick were raised there. My younger brother fell in love with Esther, the little girl next door; they married at 22, had seven children, and were together almost sixty years.

Dick and Esther and the first three

We left Argentina and returned to the States when I was 6 months old. I had been back only once, for a glorious two weeks at Christmas when I was nine. We lived in Bolivia, and though we were living high on the hog, it was a very scrawny hog.

Surely our parents took us around to see the sights, but all that I remember from that vacation is the food. In Buenos Aires we ate huge  quantities of beef and dairy. I had frogs’ legs and snails for the first time, bamboo ray with black butter and capers. We stayed in a luxurious old hotel, and breakfasted in our room on eggs, bacon, creamed mushrooms, croissants, and hot chocolate with whipped cream. At night my parents went out and Luli and I had room service again: delicious sandwiches of turkey and ham, fresh fruit and butter cookies.

 

In the 1930's when my parents moved to Argentina, many middle class families in the US still had maids. When they moved back home in 1948, they didn’t understand life in the States. They brought with them an Argentine cook, a maid, and a nurse for my brother, who was recovering from polio. The maid and the nurse soon found other jobs; Elisa Dellepiane, the cook, stayed with us until I was eighteen, and returned to nurse my mother when she was dying.click

I write this in my newly cozy office, where I’m now spending a lot of time on the day bed, Here I read, write, crochet, practice my singing, and retreat from my uneasy role as mother of a teenager. To my left is a large sepia photograph of my mother at twenty, in front of me a black and white photo of her at forty. In this room I feel loved.

Like any immigrant who goes back to the old country to find her roots, I went to Argentina looking for echoes of my family’s life. I knew the stores and streets had changed. But on every corner, in every cafe, I tried to imagine my mother.

Mother about 1932

On Christmas Eve, after our money-changing adventure click, we took our taxi back to the Recoleta neighborhood for lunch and a museum. Our driver pointed out all the sights along the way, including the race track and polo grounds. My parents loved to go to polo matches and horse races, along with Buenos Aires high society, which took its cue from the British aristocracy.

Dad was descended from Jewish Eastern European immigrants. His maternal grandfather had gone to Colombia in the nineteenth century and established a sugar plantation. My great-grandfather is referred to as El Fundador (the founder); I call the Colombian side of the family the oligarchs.

El Fundador

  Dad grew up in New York, and while he acknowledged that his father was Jewish, he always denied that his mother was. Like the Argentines, he yearned to be British aristocracy. Esther, my sister-in-law, says he always reminded her of a little boy pressing his nose against a bakery window.  

We sat outside at an elegant Recoleta cafe, and relaxed for perhaps the first time in BA. Amanda had a very disappointing ham and cheese sandwich; Joe and I split a delicious “lomo” sandwich on baguette - the most tender, tasty beef, cooked medium rare.  Amanda was happy and jokey, asking about how I learned Spanish, interested in everything she saw.
 
We sat a long time in the warm sunny day, under the shade of a huge historic rubber tree. Its spreading branches were supported by posts, except for one, held up by a statue of a man bending over and taking its weight on his back. A busker nearby, wearing a most penile clown nose, played carnival music on his accordian.

 

That evening we went to the outdoor ‘midnight’ mass at Iglesia Nuestra Senora de Pilar, next to Recoleta Cemetery. It was held at 9PM, since Argentine families have their Santa Claus and Christmas feast on Christmas Eve. As we neared the church after a mile-long walk I heard Adeste Fideles in Spanish.  The night was soft and clear; people brought folding chairs from inside the church. It was a big crowd. The choir, high school kids, sang many songs, and the congregation often sang along - Christmas carols, soft rock, folky songs.

 

Iglesia Nuestra Senora de Pilar  source:Barriada.com.ar

 

The priest’s brief sermon was sweet and kind, focusing on the shepherds, and how you can change the world, Argentina, Buenos Aires, and yourself, by letting Christ into your heart. Or something like that. I understood 87 percent of everything that was said, and of course recognized all the readings from Luke and Matthew. They finally got the bread turned into flesh and the wine turned into blood, and many people lined up to take communion, while others carried their chairs inside and left.
    
The service moved me, because it all carried my own past, while I felt the strength of this community and how much I was not a part of it. And throughout it I was thinking of Mother. She was Episcopalian, my father was an atheist, but I imagine they both went to the Anglican church in Buenos Aires. They probably went to Christmas Eve midnight mass. The feeling kept rising in me, “I want my Mommy.”

Joe wanted to see inside the church. I stayed outside with Amanda, who had been well-behaved and surely dreadfully bored during the service, despite the lots of music, and was now surly and loud-voiced. ‘Ooh, I want to drink the wine, why can’t I.’ I told her I was disgusted and ashamed of her and I didn’t want to hear another word until we left the service. She shut up for a while, and then said, “Can I ask a nice question?” I agreed, and she asked why we left Argentina. She was very interested in my history, and impressed, I think, by my fluency in Spanish, as was I.

On Christmas Day we tried and failed to visit several parks and zoos, and found them closed. But one of the most famous places in Buenos Aires was open. The fourteen-acre Recoleta Cemetery is almost two hundred years old. Over four thousand above-ground tombs are crowded together along paved paths divided by tree-shaded pedestrian boulevards, each family striving to outdo its neighbor.

 

"La Recoleta Cemetery entrance" by Christian Haugen 

 

 "Liliana Crociati de Szaszak (full)" by Iridescent

 

We arrived in the late afternoon when the light was particularly lovely, with long shadows and glowing statues. Joe went off to take pictures, and I was free to follow the pamphlet guide I had printed from the internet. Without it I would have been lost and aimless in that huge corpse-filled place.

The pamphlet gave a lot of information about Argentine history, which I appreciated, and explained the arrangement of the tombs. You can peek inside and see one or two coffins, maybe some urns, with an altar above them. The decor is elaborate - stained glass and wood paneling, sculpture and bas relief, crucifixes, paintings and photographs. Stairs lead underground so that when a new corpse arrives the decomposed remains can be moved to the basement. Families must pay for maintenance; when they stop paying, the spiders and dust move in.

I only made it to the first twenty-one tombs highlighted by the guide, but it was plenty. I didn’t see Evita Peron’s tomb, but the pamphlet had lots of information about her, unlike the stupid French biography I had tried to read, which was full of dreamy postmodern musings.

Eva Peron

Evita died at 33 of uterine cancer. The military didn’t want her embalmed corpse to be a political organizing symbol, so they stole it from where it was displayed in the Peronist’s headquarters, and each general kept it for a while in his house. One general was so worried about it being stolen that he slept with a gun under his pillow.  When his wife came home late one night he claimed he thought it was a Peronista come for the corpse, so he shot her dead. Hmmm.

Another story of marital disharmony was reflected in a large elaborate tomb. White marble man seated pompously, looking like a nineteenth century business man. Seated behind him, back to back, white marble wife, looking like a satisfied and respected materfamilias. She was a very extravagant woman, and he became so frustrated that he put a legal notice in the paper: ‘I will not be responsible for any debts incurred...’ She was so angry that when she had the tomb built she said she wanted to face away from him for eternity.

The sky was deep blue, the sun hot but the air dry. I loved all the stories, loved the puzzle of following the map and locating the tombs, peeking inside, looking at the statues. A guard came through, ‘fifteen minutes to closing,’ so I made my way to the entrance. I glanced at a very new tomb on a corner, brown granite with a full-length metal bas-relief of a rather glum woman with leaves above her. The family name was Dellepiane. I was stunned - that was Elisa’s name, Elisa who had been for me some combination of grandmother and aunt, who spoiled me and Luli in the kitchen, who shared the mate gourd with us in the afternoons.

 

Elisa, Liz, Luli

 
For a few moments I thought, My God, could it be Elisa’s family? I looked for names and dates, but apparently nobody was buried there yet. I was pretty sure Elisa’s family was not of the class that would be buried in Recoleta. Sure enough, when I googled it, I found a famous general, an Avenida Dellepiane, a Dellepiane Bar listed under gay bars, and all kinds of Dellepiane’s on Facebook, far too many to try to track her down. With all my thinking and grieving about Mother as I wandered in Buenos Aires - I only just then realized and remembered that this was Elisa’s life too.
 
Memory comes in scraps and bits, woven together by imagination. The stories I imagined as I wandered around Buenos Aires weren’t even my own. I pictured Mother with my baby carriage in the square in Belgrano, Don and Dick and Esther in the white uniform smocks that children wore to school, Elisa returning to her niece’s family when she retired.

  School uniforms

 It is all fiction, but if I were rich, I would go back to Argentina for a month or two, and dream more memories.

 

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NEXT POST: MARCH 13