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Four Generations

The past two weeks I have been wandering various portions of southeastern Wisconsin. My main purpose in traveling to the place of my birth was to meet and hold my grandson, Simon born to my oldest daughter, Beth and her husband Matthew four weeks ago today. From the moment we stepped in the door of their colonial three blocks from the shores of Lake Michigan, even before he was laid in my awaiting arms, while he slept—his preferred regiment throughout the day, ate—sometimes not providing the two to three hours interim needed to replenish the nutritional supply or shit—supposedly breast-fed babies fecal material tends toward less than solid form with little to no odor, he never lacked for love and attention. Eye contact is not his strong suit. When they were open they gravitated toward windows and shiny objects.

Who can resist the Simonster?

Our first home-away-from-home was my cousin’s lake cottage. Several whitetail deer bounded fifty yards in front of our rental car as we drove along the farmer’s road leading to the cottage. We watched in amazement as Simon’s attention span grew from seconds to minutes as he engaged the world around him. The thirty-minute drive from the cottage to the colonial breezed by those first few days.

Then, we drove north a hundred miles to spend the first week with my in-laws. Debbie has three sisters she left behind when we moved to California seventeen years ago. Our first night away from our grandson we took part in a Wisconsin tradition. We went to Tanner’s, a friendly dining establishment in Kimberly for Friday night fish fry. While cod was available, the lightly breaded lake perch (which bears no resemblance to ocean perch) was delicious.  Other highlights of the weekend included karaoke at a local tavern, a house warming for the new home my nephew bought and a visit with my old college roommate, Mike, in Black Creek. Before we parted company he assured me the country and world’s problems could be easily resolved: “Just exterminate the Democrats.”

Simon helped heal Debbie's broken ankle.

Our return to the Milwaukee area and the joys of grand parenting was punctuated by two unlikely events. I made a third and final visit to my daughter’s chiropractor to improve my back’s health after a sudden move of luggage in a car trunk while still in California had rendered it bent over and hurting. The second event occurred when Debbie went to capture a fabulous sunrise along the beach on the eighth of our sixteen-day trip.  She caught her foot on some seaweed and tripped fracturing her ankle. An ATV was used to convey her to the ambulance once the paramedics were able to properly splint the wound. The orthopedic surgeon explained she suffered a trimalleolar fracture and he set it with a number of plates and screws. The before and after x-rays proved quite remarkable.

We moved to a friend’s home about half the distance away from Simon and his parents. Beth brought Simon for a visit the next day, and by the following day I was picking up Friday night fish fry to share in the house. By Sunday morning Debbie was laying off the painkillers and she rode out to the town near the cottage to have brunch with my cousin and his family. She gained enough mobility by Tuesday we were able to travel thirty miles across the city to have dinner with a friend of mine from my days in graduate school in Madison.  Coincidentally, his son, who just graduated from St. Norbert College, is moving to Madison to start his career.  I think it’s a sign of what’s ahead for Simon.

You Asked For It…Not Really, But Here It Goes, Anyway

One of the great sages, symbols of an era, and arguably the finest singer of the twentieth century, Francis Albert Sinatra, came out of retirement on several occasions to treat his fans to another dose of his impeccable style.  During one of these lapses, I had the good fortune to obtain tickets to see one of those final performances. Though his range had contracted and his rasp was thicker with years of cigarette smoke coated vocal chords, the evening remains memorable nearly forty years later. The question remains, however, why would anyone give up even one day of retirement?

Authors Jane Porter, Suzanne Redfearn and Anita Hughes
at Canyon Hills Library in Anaheim.

I’m glad you asked that question. Since my retirement nearly two years ago in the spring of 2012, I spent a year substitute teaching, volunteered to lead along with my wife a reading club for adults with down syndrome, tutored a high school junior to improve his writing skills, served as a judge of youth writing at the county fair and am slated to be a board member of my synagogue for the coming year. A year ago I gave up the substitute teaching to focus on my writing.

I looked up from my book to snap this sunset.

Last month I had the privilege of attending the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at the University of Southern California campus. After one of the panel sessions, I introduced myself to one of the authors, James Magnuson, who in addition to being the director of the Michener Center for Writing at the University of Texas is a native of Wisconsin and fellow graduate of the university in Madison. His warmth and congenial discussion of the homeland and becoming grandparents was a treat, but he topped it off by having me send a copy of my manuscript to him.

Simon

Last Saturday, we attended an author’s forum at a local library. Three authors, who write mainly women’s romance and suspense, discussed the writing process, getting published, and their books.  While their genre is different from my own, the steps they took to become authors, their journeys to find a literary agent and getting their books published, as well as the motivation necessary to continue the craft were all the same as what I find myself mired in currently.  One thing they all stressed was the need to continue to write.  A goal I had heard before and was repeated several times that day is to write a thousand words a day.  That’s about twice the length of my usual post at this blog or between three and four double spaced pages.

Another important area they said writers need to focus their energies on is reading.  So, while Debbie snapped her photos of the sunset at Laguna that evening I read a portion of Magnuson’s latest novel, Famous Writers I Have Known. It also led me to the decision that while we are in Wisconsin I will focus my efforts on reading and relaxing, while getting to know our new grandson (see last week’s post).  When we return on May 29^th I will catch up on writing this blog.   

Everything You Always Wanted to Know and We’re Afraid to Ask

To find the meaning of life some people
say you must read between the lines.

Many people search for the meaning of life.  Some find it through religion, whether that’s a personal connection with a Deity or a spiritual awakening following rituals with or without clergy assisting. Others find it through nature, which could be a breathtaking sunset or an ant carrying a peanut shell ten times its size back to its home in the crack in the sidewalk.  Still others, like those of us who participate in the blogosphere, find it in the miracle of creation.  Stunned by the fact intelligent beings actually derive satisfaction from spending their time reading or viewing the dribble we blogafile pundits spew into the social mediated world, we discipline ourselves to tap away on our keyboards with determined inspiration.

Simon's parents
await his arrival.

So, since you found yourself here, either out of habit, because one of my three followers recommended you give us a look, or perhaps you accidentally clicked on a link your niece warned you not to go near, I am going to share with you the actual meaning of life. It’s birth. For some of you existentialists this answer probably seems quite ineffectual.  You’re saying, “But birth is just a point on the continuum of life; he could just have well said death or reincarnation.”  Sorry, I know we are all headed there, but even if, as some believe, our salvation can only be realized through death, or you plan to come back as an even greater being in the next life, these are but attributes and not the ah-hah moment. Birth is the ah-hah moment.

My grandson Simon.

Like most of you, well all of you if you’re being honest, I don’t recall my birth.  We search for it, or something like it, when we meditate in my yoga class.  My mother informs me my uncle took her to the hospital because my father could not get back from work on time. The weather was misty and my grandmother slipped on some black ice—not uncommon in Milwaukee in February.  The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck, but I understand that, too, is not that uncommon. However, the moment I slid down the birth canal or was pushed out is less than a blur—it’s lost.

As you might have guessed, there’s a reason for all this meaning and birth story.  While we don’t remember our own birth, we remember the birth of our children, even decades later.  Hopefully women only have a limited recollection of labor, because if men were required to be the sex giving birth world population would soon reach zero.  As the partner who stood around and played “coach” for the delivery of my three daughters, I marvel at the miracle.  A few hours ago, my oldest delivered a 7 pound 8 ounce 20 incher named Simon.  In due course we’ll discuss what he remembers about the experience. But, when the phone rang and his mother told me I had a grandson, and tears ran down the cheeks of his grandmother as we heard some of his first cries, I knew why I am alive.