I am Responsible for the Squashed Squirrel

I just saw a squirrel get hit by a car right in front of mine.

One moment, there were two squirrels playing - maybe courting, maybe fighting - on the sidewalk, bounding around each other, coming together, bouncing apart, skittering in a circle only to fly at one another again. Suddenly, in its dance, one leapt right off the sidewalk and met the tire - possibly even just the barest edge of the tire - of an oncoming SUV.

Twitching. Fabulous tail fanning.

I adjusted the steering wheel of my car two inches to the left, sliding by without a sound, without ceremony.

That just happened. Poor squirrel.

A peek in the rearview mirror. Still down. Get up, squirrel. Be okay.

Squirrels. Because who did the other squirrel lose? A playmate or childhood friend? A lover? An enemy? A brother.

I have lost a brother.

And then the shock. In the midst of watching nature happen, before I was even fully able to wonder about it, I was confronted with its death. I wasn't just witness to the death of the squirrel and some kind of natural relationship, though I'm sure that was also the outcome, but the death of nature itself.

And I am just grieved.

What are we doing here? 

Starting an Inning on Second Base

By Wade Shaw, Grandfather of Redwinger Ethan

There is a reason for the plate on the pitcher's mound in baseball, but its exact purpose is not always clear.
I was able to watch grandson Ethan's Redwing team Tee Ball semifinal game yesterday with the Moms in the north bleachers. For October in Texas it was windy, and surprisingly cold, and we were all feeling chilled as the game's innings went on for a good long while. There were copious runs, but no real scorekeeping. There were no outs that I noticed. None of us in the bleachers really knew many of the rules, but everyone knew one important rule.

Every Tee Ball game ends in precisely 45 minutes.
But this one had not ended after an hour, and in the bleachers the other Moms were pawing at their cell phones inside their purses, texting, "we b late. dunno wen. get pizza". Probably the game would end soon

But it did not. After another chilly 20 minutes, and uncountably more runs, the coaches met on the pitcher's mound. After some scribbling on the scorekeeper's card the coaches eventually shrugged, nodded, and returned to their dugouts. A rumor sprang up the rows of bleachers followed closely by smiles of relief. A final sudden-death inning had been declared. Run counting being politically incorrect in Tee Ball, the winner would be the first team to put a runner out.
"Whatever," the bleacher Moms grumbled, "it's dinner time". We didn't know the rules, and sudden death sounded, well, quick. After a day of school the lads in the dugouts were clearly reaching a hunter-gatherer crisis. Most players were now fruitlessly picking through their backpacks for previously-scorned lunch snacks.
In the event, we all thought we knew at least one more baseball rule. No one gets on first base unless they bat. Right?
Wrong. There was surprised chatter in the bleachers, when at the start of this final sudden-death inning, Ethan's coach shouted into the dugout, "Ethan, put your helmet on and go stand on second base. No. Leave your glove. Go right now!"
Ethan hadn't batted, and in fact no one on his team had. How could Ethan go straight to second base, we wondered, even in Tee Ball? The coach then called the next Redwing batter up. "What's this?", the Moms muttered quietly, none daring to to question Tee Ball rules. "Its Tee Ball rewind!", someone quipped to short laughter. "Ethan was on second in the last inning, so..."
Out on the diamond with both feet on second, Ethan looked intently towards right field where he often played. "Why is he looking out there?", I asked his mother quietly. "Not unreasonable." another Mom offered. We'd already seen the opposing catcher take his bat and go home. Perhaps Tee Ball rules allowed the team at bat to loan fielders to the opposing team?
Whack! The Redwing batter hit a sudden grounder, and Ethan leapt off second base and ran like the wind. He ran straight for the pitcher's mound in fact. In both bleachers the Moms were up and yelling, "Third! Run to Third"! Ethan slowed at the mound, grinned, and made a careful circle completely around the pitcher's mound on his way to third base. Safe, he acknowledged a standing ovation from the Moms of both bleachers with aplomb.

Why put a base on the pitcher's mound if you aren't supposed to run around it, I thought, as the Moms pushed post-game snacks through the dugout fence to the Redwings.

The Dancing Bear

The most important thing to understand about taking care of yourself is to use the everyday resources surrounding you.

This bear recognizes the potential of a tree. He demonstrates one way to get either a back rub or some good exercise - or both!

Close to Six at Twenty-six

They say: Where does the time go? Where does it? I was absent-mindedly washing my son's hair in the bath tonight when I realized that he is almost six years old.

Almost six years old! My memories start at six.

I was pushing bubbles out from between the strands of his hair, rubbing his little scalp with my fingers as the realization washed over me. His skin still has that plumpish, sweet-baby clarity, but his legs are long and knobby like a foal's. He has running legs, playing legs - dotted with penny bruises from tumbles and fine scratches from tree-climbs.

I don't think my legs were ever like a foal's, though they were always bruised at the knee - rollerskating at six, seven to twelve.

I remember being six. And maybe that is why his age struck me the way it did tonight, at the edge of the tub, on my knees, at the mercy of the moment. Because I remember six, and because he is almost six.

He will remember six. He will remember this moment, I thought. The magnitude of this!

I don't really remember a whole lot about five. Things started at six. When I was six, I spent days at the art table making sock puppets, pretending to be a teacher, watching Matlock and microwaving marshmellows when no one was looking. I had a tiara. Six was good.

Most importantly at twenty-six, six does not feel that far away. I do not feel old enough to have a six year-old son. If we are being honest, most of the time, I feel six myself (minus the energy and plus the PMS). Six feels near, close. If I turned my head over my shoulder, I'd see six. If I reached back, I'd touch six. It would be fuzzy. It would be warm.

Six glows in the dark and is clean. It smells of Zest soap and Pert Plus, having been sterilized by time, I'm sure.

And my son at twenty-six? Twenty-six is good, too, but he'll remember six. Now. Today. This moment could be with him forever, with him at twenty-six, thirty-six to sixty-six.

It is strange to think that my son will remember the moments we make together - here in the bath, on the playground. I often wonder what our memories will mean to him. I wonder which memories he will really remember - the ones he will hold close to his heart, revisit, dedicate time to. I wonder which ones will fade into luke-warm, out-of-focus childhood feelings and which ones will crash over him at night just before sleep in his 20's and 30's - the sharp ones that feel like they just happened but came in like a flood from nowhere.

I hope he remembers me washing his hair and playing Billy Goats Gruff on the playground. I hope he remembers snuggling and hot chocolate before school. Surely, he'll remember snuggling! We spend so much time doing it. I know he'll remember times I wish he wouldn't. There are plenty of grumpy-mommy moments to choose from - moments of uncertainty and hesitation and sheer exhaustion.

Regardless, I look forward to his discovery, whether or not I witness it or get to discuss it with him, of the nearness, closeness, the just-over-the-shoulder feeling of being six. Because what a marvelous thing memory is! Really, the magnitude of it's presence. Time passes but remains suspended in our minds through memory, if we are careful - like a twenty-something toy boat in bath water, bobbing, carrying us.

So what does my value of memory and time and preservation and closeness mean for my son? What does this mean for us - for Moms who can still feel their childhood but have children of their own?

Memories are contributions. Contributions to create with care. Today. Cliche sentiment? For sure! And with good reason.

If I am twenty-six and still I feel close to being six years old, like I can grasp it in my hands and pull it back to me with the singular desire to remember, we must act, create, live and build memories of wonder and happiness each day, right now - for ourselves and those around us.

By acting, creating, living, building we are changing people. We are contributing to their lives, and through memory, to their futures. For that reason, we must make memories out of the good-fabric of who we are. Because we will remember. Our sons will remember - our daughters, our husbands and friends. And our memories will be part of us and of them.

And not only will we be in memory, our memories will be close, reachable. They will be all around us and in us and in others - from six to twenty-six.

These memories I create today, all of them will be in my son's future and in my future son.

The Grateful Nostalgia within me says: Thank you, builders and designers of six - parents, friends, teachers, writers, sock-makers, Matlock, Zest. Thank you for six, however soap-stained and sanitized. Twenty-six would not be so grand without such times.

May I do as much for my son.

Ethan's Computer Art, March 2008

Great use of color. Hans Hoffman, you may have met your competition.

Team S Update

I have been working like a dog - hence me laying down like one in this picture. Stella is bewildered. "What the heck are you doing down there, Momma?"

As some of you know, I am now the Marketing Director for the Lauterstein-Conway Massage School here in Ausitn. I'm trying to wiggle my way in to their Workshops department, too - mostly so I can take all the classes for free and scoop the commission. It is a good job, and they respect my opinions and experience there, which is very nice. I also am working with the new Fitness Director at the YMCA on youth programs and community relations. I have been doing it for a while, but without the Fitness Director - because there wasn't one - which was horrible. I am still teaching toddler gymanstics and dance there. Ethan, as you can imagine, is an expert tumbler now, and Michael has mastered the art of man-handstand. Go, Dad!

I also wrote a ridiculous children's book for Ethan about the power of making choices. I am about to start working on illustrations...someday.

Which brings me to the babies:

Ethan is such a gentleman. He has very good manners, and he loves his grandparents. He, of course, is a video game fanatic, and loves playing "mens" just like his Uncle David did when he was Ethan's age. The night before last, he and I took all his "mens" and hung them, propped them and staged them all around his "Spiderman hideout." Let me just say - he has a lot of "mens." He is fabulous with sounding out words - reading with me with relative ease at bedtime now. We are trying to make it to the library once-a-week for new material to practice on.

Stella is into books - way into books - and animal noises. (Sheep say baaaa!) Michael and I read the same books over and over and over to her - in a five minute period. Sometimes she reads to her "babies," and sometimes her brother reads to her, but when she comes up, book in hand, and turns her back, ready to be lifted onto my lap, there is no doubt that I am going to read Winne the Pooh a dozen times. She loves swimming, and much to her parents' dismay, has NO fear of jumping head-first into much-to-deep water. Loves it.

Michael is well, but you will have to check out his blog for the nitty-gritty details...

Much love!
J

Graham Family Easter

When I was seven, the "Graham Clan" went to the Texas beach together for Easter. We all ended up with the stomach flu, but it was something - aside from spending all my time in the bathroom - I will never forget. I remember hunting for eggs by the pool and jumping waves with Don, who hardly ever took family vacations with us.

I hope my children, as young as they are, will remember the moon over the beach, wearing a sweater over their swimsuits in the sun and picking up sea shells with Grandmother with such fondness.

Happy Easter, Graham Clan.

and more...

Photos, photos, photos