A picture to remember

From a few days ago:

Joe is kneeling on the living room rug, showing Marija how to solve tangrams. Jānītis, a week old now, is falling asleep in my lap. Dinner is done; dishes are undone. The Innocence Mission album Joe got me for a pre-birth present is playing. "Where does the time go?" He is the man I met when we were 18 and climbing trees at night.

Marija is going out and Joe says she needs some shorts on, pulls a skirt off the drying rack and gives it to her to wear instead. They are playing ball on the grass and Joe is inviting me outside under the vaulted blue...

The very last thing before I go

We are a week past our second baby's due date. I have cleaned my desk, packed my bag and told my friends I won't be coming to see them for awhile. This waiting time has been quiet -- except for the storm that sent me to Marija's cribside and down the stairs when the wind hit our house at 60 miles an hour. Things were not bad for us... we got power back within half a day and didn't have to invite ourselves over to our friends' for their air conditioning.

At times today I found myself with nothing I had to do. Joe and Marija made biscuits for dinner.

Ardievu, Vecmamma

My Vecmamma died last Friday. I was by her side, singing a folk song with my sister. If we had known we would be accompanying her last breaths, maybe we would not have chosen Āvu, āvu baltas kājas. But it was a fine-enough song to sing her then, an old story of a girl dressing her feet in white and weaving herself a wreath of roses that would be taken by the wind into the sea. It is the song my mother sang to me when I was a babe and cried.

My Vecmamma had been in the hospital just over a week, asleep most of the time and unable to really talk even when she was awake. I did what I have often done in recent months, as her memory faded and conversations grew shorter. I sang the songs she knew from childhood, the words she would remember even after she said she'd forgotten. I sang the lullaby prayer I grew up singing, but the version that mentioned Jesus' blood... I had learned those words from her. I sang her favorite folk songs, the sad ones and the silly. I sang every song I thought she knew, because I had time enough to sing them again and again.

After Marija was born, the nurses eventually took her from me to weigh her, and I told Joe to follow and comfort her, and he sang her Lovesong by The Cure. By my grandmother's bed, I often wonder what songs met her as she came into this world... whether her mother and father sang her the same ones on the way in as I was singing her on the way out.

We had thought Vecmamma might recover, and she was awake and nodding her head at happy news we had been longing to share with her. But her body started to fail in the night, and by the time I was back at the hospital, her medicine was the only thing keeping her alive, and there was almost no hope of healing. The nurses stopped the medicine around lunch time, told us there was no way of knowing when the end would come but it would be a couple days at most, and I thought I would stay with her and sing when she was awake and rest as she slept. But she did not sleep that afternoon. I think, now, that her heart began to race, as the nurses said it would. But then, I was surprised to find myself with hours to fill with nothing but prayer and song. I stroked her forehead, and from the way she moved her face, I could tell she knew I was there.

I got cramped from bending over her bedside, so I lay back in a chair. I wondered if it really would be days I would fill with her. I ate snacks and longed for my sister to join me so I could leave and get some dinner. I read the newspaper a little, even though I might regret it later. I sang a little less often so I would still have voice in the night, but I was still singing. When it got dark, I turned on a few lamps.

When Anita came, Vecmamma looked at her, but I thought it was too bad she wasn't responding as much as she had earlier in the afternoon. We showed her pictures of Marija on Anita's phone, though it was hard to tell if she liked them. Anita and I talked to the side a little while, and then Anita suggested we start to sing together.

It was almost eight thirty. Our first song was one of her favorites, about a rooster, Kur Tu teci, gailīti mans? Anita and I messed up a verse, said Vecmamma would no doubt know the right words. And as we started Āvu, Āvu, Vecmamma's breathing began to slow, then stop. I looked at her face to see if she looked distressed, and was suddenly aware of the skull beneath her fragile skin. Her body looked like a machine that was winding down... there was a pause, and then a last few breaths.

Vecmamma had lived with my family since I was a year old. When I was little, her bedroom was a fun place to hide away, a place I could eat Skittles out of her little candy dish and try to get her to rub my legs while she watched Wheel of Fortune. When I was in college, she'd invite me to lie on that big bed with her when I was tired, and I often fell asleep there on visits home. But though she always appreciated us there, it was only in the last months of her life that she protested when we said goodnight and went our own way. On nights my parents were away and I was bringing her to her bedroom, she'd ask me "Can't I sleep with you instead?"

Oh, Vecmamma. How I longed to climb into your bed with you and hold you in those last days. How aware I was of so many times I could have loved you better. Thanks to God for your 99 years, your two years knowing my daughter, for our precious hours together at the end. My prayer to be with you at the last was answered indeed.

Happy St. Joe Day

To celebrate the name day and saint day of my favorite Joe, I made some naan for dinner and some honey-glazed pumpkin scones for dessert. The food took me some time, especially the naan: making dough, rolling it out, putting it in the pan, flipping it over... I am apparently no longer afraid of recipes requiring a spatula.

Lately I've been more conscious of the way I can use food to show my love. I think Joe did feel loved, and we are both glad to have lots of naan left over. But because I was busy making flatbread, I didn't get to the playground with Marija, though she got out briefly in the morning and enjoyed a stroller ride in the afternoon. And there are a hundred other things I could have done but didn't, because I was busy cooking.

I realized it when Marija was born... I never reach the evening and think I have loved her enough. I may have loved her well, but I never stop loving because she could always use some more. So could my grandmother. So could Joe. So could the lonelier ladies at the nursing home.

I am thinking this is one of the problems of this world, the days that end before our loving is finished.

But all we can do this side of heaven is keep pressing on, praying for help along the way, yes?

If I were a real blogger, I'd have a picture of the naan here. Instead I'm off to bed. You will have to imagine them -- soft wheaty ovals with toasted brown spots, mmm.

Today's grandmother letter

Dear Vecmamma,

I hope you are doing well! Pak pak pak -- it is raining today! I can't go on a walk outside with my little girl -- we'll have to put on some music and dance around the house!

I love you!

Kisses,

Daina

When we were visiting yesterday, my baby tried to give my Vecmamma some kisses. She doesn't know how to make the kissing sound, but she put her face up to Vecmamma's face, mouth open -- and, thankfully, did not bite her. Hooray for warmed hearts and the sparing use of teeth.

Happy Independence

After a visit to see my parents and Vecmamma and Selin, Joe and I drove back down to see the fireworks in Waldorf.

We got there early, so we parked in the perfect spot, on the side of the road between two scenic little lakes. Joe stayed in the car with the sleeping baby while I walked to see the ducks. Later we sat in the grass and read about how to build your own log cabin on the cheap. The family near us had two cute little children. Someone offered us free popsicles, but we were full.

The fireworks were beautiful -- and Marija slept through the whole thing! Joe was disappointed because he wanted to see how she'd like them, but I enjoyed the peace.

TGIF

When I arrived at my parent's house with the baby yesterday afternoon, I was greeted by a smiling dad who said he was just getting ready for TGIF. Soon, the coffee table was draped in a white table cloth, set with wine glasses stuffed with pretty napkins.

I've never been home for a TGIF before, a tradition that started sometime after I got married. My dad, now retired, spends part of the week researching recipes to test on my family, and sometimes I hear how lovely the tapas were or get to enjoy some really delicious leftovers if I visit on a Saturday.

My dad placed a fancy candlestick on the coffee table and positioned two poinsettias left over from Christmas. The he left for an hour while I spent time with Vecmamma and my baby. He came back with a bunch of daffodils he set in a vase.

Then he got my mother from the bus stop, and there were hellos and kisses and time to change into comfy clothes. Then my dad went into the kitchen, and though I stepped in to get some banana to feed the baby, I didn't stay long because it was clear he was concentrating. He was still there as my mother and I sat around the coffee table later, by candlelight -- he was preparing our mulled wine.

The tapas looked delicious, but I wondered if they would be enough -- cheese in special sauce, marinaded olives, tomatoes with mozzarella and pears. But this was just the first course, my parents explained. We shared, and then my dad disappeared into the kitchen to bring paninis with soft cheese and mushrooms. There was one left over if I wanted it, but one with hot potato salad was enough before dessert. I left to get the baby for bed and then came back to more extra-sweet wine and a fluffy custard torte.

Vecmamma was on the couch near us, eating too and feeding the dog as always. She even gave Zemmy some of her coffee in a bowl, but no one called for her to stop, as we sometimes do when we are willing to raise our voices. This time we rolled our eyes and laughed a bit and called the dog closer, and she came wagging and sniffing the baby's pajamas, and the baby smiled and played with a couch cushion, and everyone was smiling.

No place like it

I have a kitchen full of unwashed dishes. Some have been in their piles since Thursday.

But Joe is working today, so we won't be able to wash them side by side this morning or afternoon, one handling the soap and the other wiping down counters, or making faces at the baby, or sweeping, or putting on good songs. And though the neighbor kids came over yesterday and filled the house with paper airplanes (I taught them how to make good ones), and though I know there are friends who might be able to talk on the phone, the thought of staying in today is a quiet one, and I realize I have no real, close friends here.

So I am putting the baby in the car and going to Cloverly, where my grandmother is full of old stories and my parents are happy to listen on a shady deck. It's still home, though this is too, and I'm always welcome both places, I and my daughter both.

I will be back to make dinner. And then the pile of dishes will be so big, well, we will figure something out, or maybe we will just leave them 'til Monday, hah, and dance a dance to celebrate. (But we almost certainly won't, because that might drive us a bit too crazy.)

Still here

People who are really looking forward to meeting the baby are becoming disappointed when I actually make it to previously scheduled social engagements. This has happened to me twice in the last two days.

"Darn it!" they say. "You're not in labor!"

"That's okay with me," I say. "I can wait."

"I know, but I'm impatient!"

I smile because it is funny and comes from love.

Hello, Vecmamma

At the age of ninety-seven, my grandmother is starting to get confused about who I am sometimes. She still knows her granddaughter Daina, though sometimes she forgets that Daina has already left college and even married that boy my grandmother likes so much... it's just that she doesn't always realize that I'm that granddaughter. A few times now, she's mistaken me for my mother, especially if I visit when she's groggy from a nap.

I try to greet her, "Hello, Vecmamma! It's Daina!" but sometimes she forgets or doesn't hear. And we'll talk awhile and it becomes clear that she's saying "your husband" when she should be saying "your father," and I try to gently correct her... but I usually can't bear to say outright, "No, Vecmamma, you're confused. I'm Daina, your granddaughter." And eventually she'll get it right on her own.

I have been expecting something like this for years now, and it is not so hard to take. The part I find strange is how nice a visit we can have still. I used to think that what made us so close were all those hours when I was little, playing dominoes and walking to the pond and watching Wheel of Fortune while I tried to subtly convince her to scratch my back. And those things still tie us together in a way. But even when she thinks I am someone other than the girl she spent so much time with, it still feels so natural to sit close to each other in her bed or on the couch, flipping through old photo albums or telling stories and just enjoying our time together.

Father's day

This time of year, the orange daylilies bloom in clumps along the side of the road. You can find them in Maryland -- some right here in La Plata, even -- but it was in Michigan, I think, when the long swaths of bloom caught my dad's attention some years ago.

My dad is an enthusiastic gardener, and maybe he appreciated how the lilies can grow even under the shady fringes of woods along the back roads. It was there, anyway, that he pulled over the pickup and got out with his shovel, dug up a clump of lilies and tossed them into the back.

I don't really remember why my dad and I were there -- maybe he was bringing me to summer camp? But in any case, I think I was probably by myself as I cringed in embarrassment, thinking something like, "Most people would just go visit a garden nursery!"

My dad is not like most people, and I am grateful for that. He has taught me many lessons in life, showing me that beauty is something worth cultivating and the way everyone does it is not necessarily the best way and many other things that have made me wiser along the way. And I'm excited because Joe is starting that same kind of lifework this year, though I know he won't do it quite like my dad did.

I think the lilies are still blooming every summer along the edge of my parents' backyard, bright orange under the shade of the fringe of woods.

Parenting II

We had ... (counting on my fingers) ... 17 people over at our house on Sunday for one of Joe's family potlucks. Everyone brought too much good food and the house was full of conversation. Nieces and nephews ran around our yard and played in a raucous game of Go Fish! in the living room. Just about every dish in our house was dirty by the end of the night, in addition to a small stack of paper plates, and the compost bin was full of corn cobs and watermelon rinds. It was good. 

After we waved our goodbyes and finished up the first phase of cleanup in the kitchen, though, Joe said he's getting a better idea of what it will be like to have our own children. 

A pint-sized greasy handprint left on the wall

I guess it seems different when it's our own carpet that the toddlers toss their food on, when it's our yard where they're sitting down onto my catsup-covered plate and tracking Play-Doh into the grass (even though that's a pretty good place to track the Play-Doh, in the general scheme of things). Joe gave the older kids oil pastels to color with, and now we can't seem to get all the pastel off our tablecloth. This is okay, Joe said, since we can just make that table our coloring spot. And we love the kids so much. But we do have the sense that once our home is inhabited by little ones, it will be a very different kind of home. And I imagine that might take some adjusting.

Neither card nor flowers

I guess it is a good thing the gardens I wanted to take my mom to for an early Mother's Day trip were closed for renovations. I planned a fun afternoon at the Baltimore Art Museum and it ended up being well-suited for yesterday's cold and rainy weather. Joe came, too! Now he is suggesting we take my mom to museums for Mother's Day every year, hee. We'll see.

The destination was a surprise from my mom... which meant that I didn't find out until we got there that she had actually been there before. But she and my dad had mostly taken in a special exhibit last time, which meant we could explore the permanent galleries. I appreciate whoever curated the European Art section, where we spent most of our time. There were the usual things -- religious art, portraits, landscapes -- but they were almost all fascinating, especially the portraits, which are usually a lowlight for me.

There were also nice, long descriptions with extra details accompanying the works, which meant I had interesting things to read and made it through the exhibit in about the usual time, instead of zipping through ahead of Joe, who studies things for longer. We also got to see old mosaics, elaborate quilts, and fancy furniture next to a chair made out of a few hundred number two pencils. No Sitting Allowed.

We scrapped my original plan of going out for ice cream afterwards and instead found a nice cafe where my mom got a coffee with whipped cream and biscotti, Joe got hot chocolate, and I had really great lentil soup that came (a surprise!) with bread and herby dipping-oil. We made it back to our parking meter with just five minutes to spare and then drove through the city's Druid Hill Park, which has a big lake and a nifty tower that looks like a castle. My mom and I talked so much on the way home that I missed my exit to get off of I-95 and we had to take a detour.

Do YOU love any turtles?

"Do you like this card with the turtle?" I asked my grandmother yesterday as I picked the card up off of her bedside table. 

I'd sent it to her earlier in the week. She studied it for a moment. 

"It is a nice card," she finally concluded. "But who can really love a turtle?"

I guess it went over better than the owl cards. I'd sent her two or three of those before she told me she thinks owls are creepy. 

Even better was the moment my grandmother looked at the dog lying on the carpet and solemnly declared, "The dog is dead." 

"It is not dead," I told her. "It is sleeping."

"But I don't see it breathing!"

"I can. See that tuft of fur there, rising and falling?" 

She really does love the dog, and she watched it carefully for a few minutes, just to make sure it was still alive. 

But best of all was the moment, as I was leaving, when my grandmother held my hand and told me to have many children and a full life. I love her, and I know she loves me even more than she loves the dog (though only the dog is allowed to lap up the last of her sweet coffee straight from the cup).

Young one

Sundays after Latvian school and church church, I sometimes help my great aunt negotiate the coffee table, where we load up on sandwiches and other snacks. She can get by without me, but things go easier if I move her chair and walker. Then I see her back to her apartment in the retiree home behind the church.

On the way back today, we stopped in at the church's weekly books-and-things sale so she could buy some cards. Another woman wanted to buy a vase, but all the vases were on the top top shelf, almost touching the ceiling.

"I could get it standing on a chair," said the cashier. "But I am past standing on chairs."

Other people said they, too, were not about to go climbing. I looked around the room and saw it was full of lovely ladies with gray hair. No, I couldn't imagine them standing on chairs, either.

Someone said to fetch the tallest man in church, but then someone else said he might have left.

"I can stand on chairs!" I said.

Everyone looked at me as if just noticing me and agreed. We pulled out a chair and I got up, boots and all, and took down the vase with everyone watching.

I have been realizing what it can mean to get old.

On our way out of the sale to the elevator, we passed another woman leaving the coffee table. There had been an exhibit of a Latvian artist's paintings, with many people in church contributing pieces they owned. Now that the display was over, this woman was carrying a couple paintings in her walker, and I asked her if she could manage.

She said she was fine, and I admired the painting that had struck me earlier. On the one side was a warm and misty tableau, a table full of food and family. The vision faded into the painting's darker half, where and old woman sat in a thick shawl and empty kitchen, smiling at her daydream.

"I predicted my own future when I bought this painting in the sixties," said the woman with the walker. "Dreaming of better days."

What can one say to that?

My great aunt is a wonderful woman in her eighties. She invites me over for tea and shortbread cookies, and I often take her up on it, mostly to hear her wonderful stories about her life and thoughts and family.

While I was there today, I took the shrink-wrap off a literary magazine and helped her tape up a package. I fetched the dishes and cleaned up her kitchen a bit on my way out. She gives me mail to take out, since it is so much easier for me. Last time I was there, she had a fall. Though she was not really hurt, she couldn't get up herself, so I had to fetch some men from church to help lift her. It was scary for all of us, I think.

She acts as if I give her a lot and she can give me only a little, and that is not true at all. Each visit is like reading another chapter or two of a fascinating book -- which makes sense especially if you know my great aunt is a writer, still writing to this day. But it is harder for her to write now, since just living requires so much care and time.

It is good when great-aunts have their grand-nieces around, and when grandmothers have their sons and daughters and grandchildren, and when everyone has a chance to take cookies and tea together.

Simply living

When I started college, my plan was to take off some year to be a missionary, spreading love and help and perhaps even the peace of Christ someplace it was desperately needed. But my grandmother got sick, and I realized that I -- not just anyone, but I, Daina -- was needed at home. I stayed, taught Latvian school religion class, and looked for a job in the area instead. It was all much less of a leap, but perhaps a better fit for my God-given talents.

I thought that I might someday live in a commune, but instead God led me to marry Joe, who is not the commune type at all. So we live in our own house, though we hope to have all kinds of people in an out of it in time. (We are still working on this.)

I always thought that I would live in a house of mis-matching silverware, but Joe really likes the matching stuff, and we got a set for Christmas. It looks very nice. We gave away most of what I had before, though I kept a few of the most beautiful pieces, the old ones decorated with hearts or stars or curlicues, for when I have lunch by myself. Joe and I hope to get much use out of what we have.

I am trying to live the life God would have me live, one based on prayer and good works. I fail miserably sometimes, but in many ways things are going in the direction they should. But I never cease to be amazed at how different this life is than the lives I have at times envisioned.

This article in the Washington Post Magazine, A Not-So-Simple Life, was really interesting to me, and not just because the main subject once thought of becoming a nun but didn't.  She too wants to pour herself out, but has taken the route I once thought I  might, instead of the route I have taken now. 

The online chat that followed the article was perhaps even more interesting for me. The members of The Simple House talk there about something I first read about in the words of Mother Theresa. The lovely old woman who did so much for the poor of Calcutta and the world noted that in the United States, a rich country, the need for material things is often eclipsed by a need for love, especially among the loneliest of the elderly people, those who cannot leave their rooms and have few visitors. But this need is everywhere, in every neighborhood. It inspires me to read about people stepping out to address that poverty of love.

By the way, I've hung out with the nuns mentioned in the article -- on a Friday, pizza night. They're a lot of fun!

Delicious

I stopped by the Amish market in Burtonsville when I was visiting my parents today. We needed apples, and I haven't been able to get any at the farmer's market in La Plata.

I bought one bag of golden delicious, which were on special, and another of "scratch and dent" apples that looked really good for supposedly being bruised. Mmm, pink lady apples might be my favorite.

The sweet girl at the stand was picking out the nicest golden delicious she could find. I told her they didn't need to be perfect, but she said, "I want to give you some nice ones!"

On a whim, I stopped by the bulk foods section, where I found some savory, one of my favorite herbs. Now, this might not seem like a big deal to most people, but since my rummage-sale spice rack ran out of savory, I haven't been able to find any in the supermarkets. And this savory cost about the same per pound as most grocery-store herbs cost per ounce! I got a decent sized tub of it.

Then I got to spend time with my grandmother! What a great day.

End of autumn

I drove to my parent's home in Cloverly today, where I spent a long time with my grandmother. I did get to play the kokle, and she sang along to the folksongs in her high grandmother voice, as she does. "Kur tu teci, kur tu teci gailītis mans?"

I'm getting to know the road there and back pretty well. Over the last weeks, it's been nice to see the trees rusting over, but now the leaves are mostly brown and starting to fall. It only seems appropriate, then, that the fog came on them today. They were mysterious all over again.