Category: Stories

My first clue to the changing face of communicating with my family came from my daughter-in-law.  I would dial her cell phone and leave a long chatty detailed message and then receive a call from her saying she didn’t listen to it but knew to call me back.

Then my son made it clear if I would just text him, he could answer my questions – like “How are you, what have you been doing, when are your days off?”

However, my 15-year-old grandson will call me on his cell phone (after I text his Mom, saying I’d sure like to talk to him). This grandson is a wonderful photographer, I know because I see his photos on his Instagram account. “Send me some pictures please,” I say. He says he will but they never seem to land in my email inbox.

Instagram is his preferred place to show and tell. I notice in the comments under his photos strange notes by his friends making me think they go to another platform to really talk about the pictures.

This younger generation seldom checks an email or leaves a voice mail. I, on the other hand, love my email and check and read them all and listen dutifully to each voice mail.  I like hearing the intonation of the person’s voice – it gives me an idea of their energy.  Facetime is my new favorite, capturing the grandkids in their silliest moments, my sister at her best in the kitchen, or a new friend I’ve met in an online writing group.

When it comes to my grandchildren here’s the lesson I learned:  connect on the platform they use if I want to hear from them!

Even my most sophisticated friends who travel the world stay connected to their family and friends by using their smart phones and computers along with Zoom (a video call) and WhatsApp Messenger, a free service to smartphone users to message & call friends, sending photos and videos.

I still send letters and cards.  I believe my grandkids love to get something in the mail with their name on it.  Every holiday, I purchase eight “kid” cards (for Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter) and hand write a special note.  It helps when I put a little “WAM” (walking around money) in the envelope too!

I recently jumped into the online world of business as I began teaching a writing course on line after teaching it in person in Tucson.

As a digital nomad traveling in a motorhome 6 months of the year, I wanted to keep teaching.

I quickly learned I needed a support team, by that I mean an editor, a website specialist, and a virtual assistant.

All these positions are filled by talented women from all over the country.  We have different time zones and lifestyles so we communicate in writing. No problem, I’m a writer, I can express myself easily in that way.

But even that is challenging, because one claims she only likes Facebook messenger and not email, and another really prefers texting. It became so frustrating – I now ask before I collaborate with someone – how do you prefer to communicate?  “I like to use email, how can we work together?” I ask.

Sometimes I long for an old-fashioned phone call – like I used to do in my work in the corporate world where everyone was available by phone or by fax.

But I realize at this stage of my life, I can’t always have what I want. So I go with the flow while I hear the Rolling Stones singing “You can’t always get what you want” and manage the best I can in this digital world.

I find myself humming along with Mick Jagger to that 70’s song as I slip into my office, pull out my best stationary and write letters filled with heart-felt words to my old-fashioned friends.

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Here’s my blog post from the other day. This, written, in my private FB writing group is just the kind of thing we ‘practice’ on each week! You can join us.

I had a good cry, like put your head down on the table & cry kind of cry. My precious wifi was gone-poof-just gone! “How will I communicate with the world?” I wailed.

When you’re committed to writing, blogging, teaching online & your connection is gone – there is devastation! Where there’s a will there’s a way & the problem resolved but not that problem “inside” of me.

I began writing with long hard strokes, the pen indented my paper, it felt good – that light pressure under the pad of my hand moving along the lines.

Soon, I’d created some good words becoming sentences becoming paragraphs becoming pages. It took me back to one of the things I love about writing and that is it’s therapeutic. That’s just what I needed and it was truly a silver lining for a tough day!

Gratitude – Tim

It is a Thursday morning in November 2009. The sun is gently playing shadows through my dining room windows.  I love my house; it’s a big rambling thing over a half century old, lovingly remodeled by Tomas and me 10 years ago.

It’s a spacious 3500 sq. ft. and decadent for two people.  But on this day, I’m painfully aware of a third person in my space.  It’s Tim, my oldest son, my favorite person since his birth in 1966.  At 43, he’s 6’2”, an accomplished athlete, with angular features and the chiseled good looks of movie stars like Rock Hudson.

He’s been living with us since he and his wife separated months before. They’d had a rocky time of it for the past few years of their 12 year marriage.

He was to stay for 3 months until he got on his feet.

The complications began when he was diagnosed with cancer right in the middle of his living in our guest room. He started chemotherapy treatments. He lost his hair and had the puffy face of a Prednisone user.

I honestly thought that while he lived with us, we’d eat dinner together, sit around and watch TV or movies and talk about everything like the old days.

But his disposition is markedly changed; he’s nauseous, cranky, and despondent. I desperately want to help him feel better and offer to make him breakfast on this particular cool fall morning.

He’s just shuffling back to the guest bedroom where he’s living. And I know he will shut the door.

I really want to hug him this day. I really want to feed him or talk or get his blankey or any of the mom things that are coming to me….  Instead I just see the back of his bald head.

And then I saw it.  My hands fly to my mouth to cover my gasp. At the base of his neck right at the beginning of the back hairline is the mark of the forceps from his birth.  I always noticed it when he was a baby and felt he was forever marked by the brutal instrument doctors used at that time to pull babies from their mother’s womb.

It looked like four red dots, a mark like a chicken might make if you took its claw print.

Tim’s hair had covered this for decades, now it’s visible and it puts me into a new state of sadness.

My son, my beloved most treasured son, has cancer; he’s suffered every measure of torture from the pain in his gut which gave the first sign to the 6 drug cocktail he’s given in his vein every other week.  Then a periodic lumbar puncture to test his bone marrow and gallons of blood drawn over the three years of his treatment.

He’s one of the few people I’ve known his entire life and I love him like I love my own life ….and he stands with his back to me, an angry, sullen and sick person and I can see the evidence of his birth.

I cry all day. I pray. I ask my friends to pray. I see a therapist.After six sessions and some drugs, I get through it.  Better yet, HE gets through it.

In March 2010, his cancer journey ends as Doctors pronounce him in remission.  He begins to pick up the pieces of his life.

Of course I’m grateful for his recovery, his life and for his renewed enthusiasm to help others.  He is an avid healthy lifestyle proponent, a writer sharing his cancer journey and his love of running. I’m grateful he’s in my life and that he’s my son.

I’m proud when I hear my son say he’s kicked cancer’s butt.  He likes to quip; “People often say it’s good to see you!  I answer with its good to be seen!” Seven years ago I wasn’t so sure I’d be seen again.  But I kicked cancers butt and I say yes, it’s good to be seen.”

Yep,that’s my boy.

When I think of that word, my mind goes immediately to sex. I consider all of the steamy and erotic experiences that I could write about…and I decide to spare you those details. (You’re welcome for that!)

As I sit down to write this piece, I find myself stumped. What on earth am I going to write about? Other people are passionate about world peace, global warming, and starving children. They take big stands on big issues! What issues hold such a place in MY heart?

I recall how, when I was younger, I fought for equality for women in the workplace. Yes, I can say, “I did that!” I honored women along the way, those that went before me and those whose hands I grasped to pull them upward. But that was thirty years ago – what about now?

I think of all the small things I have been passionate about: food (and I mean really good food), and wine (really good wine). Flowers in my pots, red flowers always, especially geraniums – oh, and the pots are cobalt blue! Decorating my home or my office – I have the drive to tackle every shelf and corner, each picture frame and knick-knack on display, until I am finished.

I was passionate about Downton Abbey and watched every single episode. Instead of crying about the series ending, I just started watching other British TV series. And then I became passionate about British television!

I’ve been passionate about a dozen or so old boyfriends, until I realized I didn’t like them anymore and then I became passionate about getting rid of them!

I can imagine you think me fickle now, after hearing about my past passions and the way that I jumped from one to another. But I know what passion feels like, whether it lasts for a moment or forever, and I enjoy the heat of it for as long as it burns.

Now that I’m older, I can definitely say that I have one passion that will not dwindle and fade, and that is my love and adoration for children. Naturally the small ones – babies and toddlers. Really, who doesn’t love babies? But I have to say that those long-armed, gangly-legged, pimple-faced teenagers burrow themselves into a special place in my heart, as well.

I guess I am drawn to their sweet faces and inquisitive nature. Perhaps it was becoming a grandma, and missing those times when my own children were small. But – no matter the reason – I love them, I adore them, and I am passionate about them. I love to read to them, listen to them, ask them questions, feed them, and challenge them.

Take my grandson Devin, for instance. He’s 5 years old and built like a fire hydrant. His mama keeps his hair short in a buzz cut, and he’s got a little swirl right in the front of his hairline. He’s fair, with the pale blue eyes of his mom’s Norwegian heritage.  He’s always smudged and dirty no matter how many baths are forced upon him, and he is usually adorned with at least one Band-Aid. This kid is the real-life Peanuts character “Pig Pen,” and I just can’t resist loving him up.

When he wants, he’ll climb on my lap and ask to have his back scratched. I’ve learned that his version of back scratching is a long lazy dragging of my fingernails lightly over his tee shirt – so it’s just shy of a prickly tickle and just short of itching a mosquito bite.

When he’s had enough of that, he rolls over from his tummy onto his back and asks me to rub his arms. He holds them straight out like Frankenstein arms. I gently run my flat palm from his little shoulder to his hands. “Is that good?” I ask. “Now the other arm,” he commands. I dutifully rub the second arm.

After a few strokes he flips his hand over, palms up, “Now this side.” I notice his eyes are closed like he’s in some kind of ecstasy. And me, well, I’m in ‘grandma heaven’ as I love the feel of his soft skin under my fingertips; the little dimple on the inside of each elbow provides a dip and a curve as I traverse the short length of this little guy’s arm.

His eyes open and I think he might be sleepy. He murmurs, “Grandma Susie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m hungry.”

Sighing softly, I rise from my chair and go to the kitchen, pull out the peanut butter (smooth – not crunchy) and the soft white bread I buy just for him, and I cut off the crusts with a smile. This is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the word, “passionate.”

But as I prepare to make the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich that Devin has ever tasted…I know without a doubt that this is the deepest and most undying passion I could ever experience.