Bubbles, Alison, and Ava Jeanne leave the hospital to begin our lmulti-generational together! (Note the beautifully smocked – if I do say so myself – dress Ava Jeanne wears home. The bonnet Ava Jeanne wears was worn by her mother when she came home from the hospital.
Sounds of
Tiny hands slapping watermelons
and joining in with applause
until she knows an A+.
Boats making their way
through the deep water of our backyard.
Birds melodiously conversing
with birds of different feathers.
Wind chimes singing a duet
with clacking palm trees to the tune of gentle breezes.
The feel of
Really cold ice on her tongue.
The tickle of peach fuzz against her chubby cheek.
Heavily mayonnaises potato salad
squishing through her tiny fingers.
Ephemeral bath bubbles on her arms
Ocean waves stealing the ground from beneath her feet.
Scents of
Roses and peonies.
Heavy hot air of the Lowcountry summer.
A watermelon busting open.
Bubble gum flavored toothpaste.
Seeing
Her mother’s face when she enters the room.
The vast ever-changing ocean.
Her bedtime bottle.
Slowly
slowly
Sometimes taking one step forward
and thirteen backwards,
The shroud of grief is pierced
at least momentarily
and she reacquaints me with
wonder
delight
and hope.
~~~~~~~
Notes:
~ Ava Jeanne is a year older now than in this photo, but the computer wouldn’t cooperate and upload the photo i want to use.
~ My mother took her last earthly breath last fall, and still I grieve. Hard.
~ This was written as granddaughter Ava Jeanne took her 2-hour nap this afternoon in my lap. I know, I know. I shouldn’t be rocking her at this stage . . . but one thing I know for sure: I won’t get a second chance to do this.
Today began with a visit to Lowcountry Whimsy, a delightful gift shop filled with . . .
Amazing Things
(Photo: Two smiling women – one wearing pink, the other wearing turquoise and a hat that says “Stand close to people who feel like sunshine” – stand in front of a sign bearing the words “Amazing Things.”]
To hear Jeanne read this post (3 minutes 57 seconds):
Beautiful Beautiful Things
[Photo: The same two women stand in front of a sign bearing the words “Beautiful Things”]
Magical Things
[Photo: The same two smiling women stand under a sign bearing the words “Beautiful Things.”]
We each fill (and payfor) a small bag filled with goodies that will serve as souvenirs for an indescribably fun weekend of togetherness as well as reminders of how we can live a life filled to the brim with intention and delight all the time.
[Photo: a small square of paper bearing the image of a red heart with gold and silver lines radiating from it.]
As we make ready to leave, Sylvia the owner of the shop, treats all 3 of us to a lesson in using Flying Wish Paper. First, you select a fireproof base. I choose a heart. Imagine that.
[Small square of paper with image of heart in the center covered with a small square of thin purple paper.]
Then on a sheet of tissue paper, you write your wishes and intentions. Things like spelling and grammar don’t matter one iota cause there is no spell check to wag a finger at you. Shoot, you can even write your words and intentions all over each other and in every direction like I did, and you won’t lose points over your lack of neatness and legibility.
[The small square of paper with the heart image serves as the base for the thin purple paper that is now on fire.]
Then you fold the tissue paper so it will stand up on your fireproof base card, and set it on fire. Yes, really. When the flame has almost eradicated the entire square of tissue paper, the tissue paper takes flight. Lastly you gather the tiny little bits of burnt paper, nesting them in the palm of one hand while shielding them with the other hand and take them outside where you gently blow them into the wind. Our plan is to use this paper on December 23 as part of our New Moon Ritual.
[Smiling woman in pink displaying a blue journal with pink band titles You Got This.]
In the Things I Thought I’d Never See category we have Alison picking up and looking through a productivity journal / planner. She was not coerced, she did this of her own free will. I joke about this because historically I’ve gotten eye rolls and audible sighs when I pick up my planner or share plans I’ve made. My baby girl is growing up! We did not purchase this journal, though, cause she already has a planner she likes to use. And I tell y’all what, she did such an outstanding job of planning this entire weekend, it looks like I’ll soon be handing over my crown.
[Unsmiling woman in pink rolling her eyes in jest sitting beside the woman wearing red heart-shaped eyeglasses. They sit in front of a sign for the Five Eighths Seams Fabric Store.]
Next stop: The Five-Eighths Fabric Store where one of us was obviously more excited than the other.
[Photo, top: 7 pieces of fabric are fanned out on display. One is covered in images of cats in hues of white, black, and tan; a pink fabric bears images of eyelashes; two pieces of fabric are covered with images of pink flamingos; one piece of fabric is musical notes and symbols on a cream-colored background; the next piece of fabric is an abstract design of circles (reminding us of my grandmother name: Bubbles) in various shades of pink; and the last piece of fabric is a pink base covered with multi-colored hearts resembling the Valentine’s Day candies.]
(Though she did pick out several fun, colorful, smile-enkindling fabrics that we brought home for me to use in Junior’s first quilt.) (Why yes, that is fabric with wings . . . though some would argue it’s really eyelashes.)
[An opened bottle of Sparkling Grape Juice and two hands, each holding a paper cup practically filled with grape juice sit in front of a cup filled with trail mix.]
Tired and filled with joy, we come back to the hotel room early, popping the top off a bottle of sparkling grape juice then toasting each other, us, Junior, and offering gratitude for this astonishing weekend and the sense of wonder and joy it continually lays out before us.
[A quilt top made of pink fabrics surrounded by pineapples in yellows, golds, and pinks.]
Then Alison tucks herself in under the quilt I made her when we went for her frozen embryo transfer. Pineapples are symbols for fertility, and, as you can tell by the fabrics, she loves cats and pink.
[Photo: Another view of the quilt that shows the background fabric of cats in colors of greens, yellows, pinks, and browns.]
[Photo: The quilt is bound in the fabric that is used on the back of the quilt.]
Every quilt my grandmother made was created to be used, and without exception. she backed each one with flannel, binding them in what now has a name: self-binding. My family couldn’t love those quilts any more. In fact, fights have broken out over who gets to sleep under the one bearing my name because let me tell you, there is no better, deeper, dreamier sleep to be had then when snuggled and snoring under that quilt made just for me by Grandmother Ballard. Because of that, every quilt I make to be used (as opposed to being hung on the wall) is backed with flannel and finished off with self-binding.
This particular quilt is named Tantivy (tan TIV ee), a word meaning at full gallop, and the story about the name is another post for another day.
When we picked Handful up from school today, he had a 6 word greeting for me: “Bubbles, today was gooder than yesterday.” And that was before he knew there were two new monster trucks waiting for him at home..
First he tries them on as a hat.
Then he introduces them to each other so they can become friends.
Sprout enjoys the new Princess Palace her Aunt Betsey gave her. (Aunt Betsey is really Cousin Betsey, but we don’t get tangled up in things like that.
Soon the Princess Palace is filled with Handful, Sprout, Bubbles, 3 new monster trucks, an ipad, a music-maker that we call a sound system, 2 small cars, and 2 bottles of water. I texted Betsey and, at the risk of sounding ungrateful, asked if there was a Princess Palace Annex available. With air conditioning.
Handful and I developed a secret password to keep, well, y’all know why we created a secret password – same reason everybody develops secret passwords – and 3 seconds later it became quite apparent that I need to work with Handful on the meaning of the word “secret”.
Grave Digger developed some dreaded tire problems, and Handful knew just what to do, pressing the wolf ear headbands into service.
I mistakenly took possession of 1 of the new monster trucks, and was promptly scolded by Handful who looked at me with a face of disappointment and said “Naughty, naughty Bubbles.”
There was tickling.
Books were read.
Bed covers became garages.
A book from Aunt Fwoozie and a stool became a ramp for the new monster trucks to use for their death-defying tricks.
In another part of the land of our creating, books become stepping stones on a path that lead to all kinds of fantastic adventures.
When in Celle, Germany for The 70273 Project Special Exhibit, I picked up a book on fire engines and fire fighters. In German, of course. It’s in amazingly good shape considering how much it’s been enjoyed.
It’s back to the big bed for a game of jump-jump-fall with Pink Ellie, who proved to be quite patient and accommodating. Truth be told, I think Pink Ellie enjoyed the game as much as Sprout.
The doggie door provides a stellar escape hatch.
Because everybody ate such a good supper, there was a walk to the ice cream truck for dessert. Handful and I have a rule about ice cream eating: We only share ice cream with people we love. And that’s the truth.
Handful and Sprout ran off some of their ice cream by playing chase in the alley where we sat. When Sprout’s 2 year old gait faltered and she sat down on the asphalt with a thump, it was Handful to the rescue with a hug.
I heard from both the other grandmothers today, something that’s always a treat for me. I’ve said it before, and I’m saying it again: I am so lucky to share these amazing chiclets with these two other women. And, if I might say so, these two chiclets are pretty darn lucky to have 5 grandparents with different interests, backgrounds, talents, experiences, and personalities.
From start to finish, it was a day filled with . . .
Today, in plain sight of the demanding to do list, I shove everything aside and sit writing letters to my unborn grandchild in a beautiful journal my friend Tari bought for me when I took it off the shelf and told her of my plan. I won’t know this grandchild like I wish I would, you see, and she or he won’t know me, either. Geographical distance separates us – undoubtedly not as much geography as lies between some of my friends and their grandchildren – but today I take no solace in comparisons, and the scolding voice that admonishes me I ought to be ashamed of myself for such frivolity in light of all that needs to be done and warns me with a wagging finger that such honesty could bring consequential riffs in an already extensive geographical divide, is asked in no uncertain terms to go hurl itself off the top of the waterfall.
Today my heart breaks into a thousand shards at the thought of it all, and that is just the way it is.
I pen these letters in what most surely will be Book One in hopes that One Day, when the child is old enough to think his own thoughts and wise enough to ask her own questions, she/he will take this book to a quiet spot – perhaps on a boulder in the middle of a particular waterfall – and get to know me more deeply and will feel my caring, love, and unwavering support, maybe even glean some wisdom, in my inked words.
The time draws near when I need to assume my grandmotherly moniker. Now “Grandmother” is a fine name – and I count myself lucky to have known some mighty fine women who went by that name. But me, I long for something different. Am I being difficult? Is it because my mother, who honored her promise to her mother-in-law to name her firstborn after the mother-in-law’s son who was killed as a teenager, chose to spell “Gene” (my uncle’s name), J-e-a-n-n-e? Is it because I’m a writer? Do I put too much stock into names? Maybe, and I don’t give a rat’s ass why, I only know that I want special names for us.
My friend Jane Cunningham, who hails from New Zealand, sent me the most beautiful scarf made of yak wool, and it came to me in a mailer bearing the word “Kaitiaki”, the Maori word for protector or guardian. “Tiaki”, the mailer explains, means “care.” I’ve kept the envelope for I don’t know how many months because that word spoke to me, and though my Southern tongue will most definitely mangle the pronunciation, it’s a word that tapped its foot and cleared its throat by way of saying “Heed.” Might this be The Name?
Maybe I spend time on this because it is the one thing I have some say over. A child’s personal history begins with the memories and stories of their grandparents. This child will not know independence and grow wings by walking to see me the way my young children walked to see their grandparents. And this child may not sit at the table with the roots of multi-generations telling stories and kidding each other, or have a treasure trove of stories about great great aunts who hid cheeseballs in pecan trees, or great granddaddies who saw a teddybear advertised in the Western Auto weekly flyer and insisted on going right then to buy one with his great grandchild, or know what it’s like to ride on a tractor for hours on end with his granddaddy, or go see her grandmother after school and be paraded around the office as the obvious apple of her grandmother’s eye, or have any other number of opportunities to give him or her paternal roots that run so deep . . . but she or he will have a book of letters, and we will share special names.
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Hey, Sugar! I'm Jeanne Hewell-Chambers: writer ~ stitcher ~ storyteller ~ one-woman performer ~ creator & founder of The 70273 Project, and I'm mighty glad you're here. Make yourself at home, and if you have any questions, just holler.
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