This is a draft I suppose

One of my favorite things about being grown up is that I get a lot of mail now, though it is only sometimes the right kind of mail. I used to get the mail from the mailbox when I was younger, and as I brought down the hill and into the front door, my grandmother would ask me if there were any love letters. There mostly weren't, though, just bills for my parents and advertisements.

My grandmother used to work in the post office, back before World War II, back in Latvia, almost a story-land. I have never worked at the post office, and anyway, it is different now. I hear they have computers to help sort the mail, sending thousands of letters in all different directions.

But I don't think the computers can read my scribbly writing. I imagine people poring over my letters, somewhere in central processing -- I imagine them cursing my scribbles, being thankful that I am at least legible with the zip code, sending my letters off somewhere near Cloverly where they get sorted again and sent out on the truck, imagining that they know my handwriting soon, imagine that maybe they are familiar with it by now, awaiting them even, sorting them with familiarity now that there have been so many -- a trail from all my other places back to my grandmother, letters leading letters, letters leading to her.

The other day I called and my mother thanked me for something I had sent her, and also said, "And Vecmamma reads your letter every five minutes." When I am visiting her I sometimes clear away the old ones to make room for new ones. And when I am far from her I make new ones to send to her.

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.

Parenting I

Joe and I were at my parents' house on Saturday, taking care of the dog and my grandmother while everyone else was gone. Joe played his guitar while my grandmother listened and I played my kokle, and Vecmamma even played a little herself, just picking at the strings.

In the evening, we went to  Mass near there, like we used to. A tiny little baby was being baptized, and after it received the holy water and the holy oil and the priest was talking about how wonderful it all was, the baby broke out into the most radiant little grin! Those nearby let out little squeals of laughter.

But I think I paid more attention to the  young couple in front of us. Both their toddlers were pretty squirmy, and they kept handing them board books and snacks to try to keep them calm and quiet. The little girl piped up when everyone else was singing, but her "la la la!"s were not nearly on tune as the liturgy, and she kept going even after everyone else was quiet. The father's attempts to shush her were in vain. The mother told their boy to be "quiet as a mouse!" but he didn't really listen, either. Then the boy threw up in the pew and the parents made a hasty cleanup and exit. 

(Note to self: when we go to church with kids, we should bring along something to absorb bodily fluids so we don't have to catch them with our hands.)

I don't really remember the sermon. But I really had a lot to ponder about parenthood, and the baby was kicking besides.

Joe made me stand up with the other mothers to receive a special blessing for Mother's Day coming up. On the way out we got little flowers -- marigolds! Mine is so pretty. I already planted it in a pot outside.

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).

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.