What we did last summer - 2010

What we did last summer - 2010

 

Summer 2010 involved four cross-country treks, beginning 6/28 on US Airways with granddaughter Emma, age 8, at my side. We were headed for Los Angeles to visit daughter Brett, husband Kevin and California cousins, my grandchildren, Mike (9) and Anna (7).

               Hermosa Beach, CA July 2010

We were in the LA suburb, Hermosa Beach, for seven days. Weather was chilly, 60 degrees (NJ was reportedly boiling). Daily CA activities included numerous visits to Target and the grocery store, kids’ ice hockey practice (yes, in July), strolls downtown, gazing at the ocean, drinking coffee and talking, reading newspapers and watching kids eat doughnuts. At home, children played a video game, something called guitar hero, which, from my perception,  involved singing along - incessantly, the same song, named Mercy. Never heard of it, the song or the game. 

 

Other highlights - kickball games, hide the flag (also new to me), bike riding, plus board games which youngsters loved – adults not that much. 

Postcard home said, “Having great fun.”    

       Amtrak Southwest Chief - LA to Chicago to NY

On 7/5 we boarded the Amtrak Southwest Chief train, LA to Chicago. We had two rooms, one small, called a roomette, grandpa's sleeping quarters and a larger room for everyone else - daughter Brett and three children. The kids seemed delighted with their room, especially with the challenge of inventing different methods to hoist themselves onto the top bunk, around which they draped blankets, thus constructing their own private “forts.” 

Outside of our room, the highlight was mealtime in the dining car, good food plus a great view of the countryside sliding by (AZ, NM, CO, KA, and IL). Another plus was the dark starlit quiet late-nights in my roomette.  

We changed trains in Chicago - a pleasant four hour overlay, that always involved lunch at Berghoff's a Chicago landmark that was just a short walk from Union Station. Berghoff's was suggested to us on a previous trip by a fellow traveler, named Ed Ryan, a sprightly lad, age 95, who, at the time, said he was en-route to Mexico to buy vanilla for a "lady friend. 

Ed was from Pennsylvania, where, he explained, vanilla didn't grow on trees.

Seeing my puzzled look, Ed explained that the best vanilla in the world came from Mexico. 

OK, that was something I had not known.

The Lake Shore Limited left Chicago on schedule. The overnight took us through Indiana, Ohio and Pennsylvania, The next day, after Buffalo, we crawled behind a freight train (an Amtrak specialty) across NY state which made us two hours late into Albany and then to Croton, NY where we met son-in-law Tom and Emma’s brothers, Ed (age 6) and John (4). Watching the cousins race to hug each other was the highlight of the trip.

                             Jersey Kids

We had three weeks in NJ, many days at the local pool, also there was a hockey camp (4 days, for Mike, Ann, and Ed, all future NHLers), two day-trips to NJ shore, two to NYC, and one memorable night when the girls modeled vintage prom dresses once worn by their now fortyish mothers - back in the 1980s, and saved by Grandma for just such a day. 

1980s? Wasn’t that just yesterday? 

                    Heading West Again

Time went fast. Before we knew it Brett and I (plus her two) were rolling west on Interstate 80 in a Hertz Camry pointing for overnight in Bowling Green, Ohio. Next day was a quick visit to the BGSU campus for hockey tee-shirts, then it was off to Madison, WI via Notre Dame University campus (more tee-shirts), and finally heading north veering by Chicago, we stalled in rush hour traffic. Bad route choice here. My thinking was a change of scenery, “anything but more cornfields,” and besides, “how bad can it be?”  Result was a three hour view of Chicago’s skyline.  See the 2011 version - Day 2 – Ann Arbor to Chicago Yacht Club posted 8/9/2011.

                       Madison, WI

We reached friends Mel and Sally Rosen’s Wisconsin home at 10 PM. We stayed two nights in Madison, a delightful college-town city, dominated by U of WI and surrounded by lakes and farm country. Mel gave us a tour of the city and surrounding countryside that rivaled a National Geographic Special. 

After Madison, it was off to the Minneapolis-St Paul to meet son-in-law Kevin at Twin-Cities airport.

Next morning was a 2 hour drive to northern MN, Deerwood, the idyllic home of Heartland Hockey Camp for NHLers, Mike and Annie. We dropped off Kevin and kids at the camp, then Brett and I backtracked to St. Paul to meet Amtrak. We had a pleasant dinner and short tour of the U of M campus, just before dark.

                            Amtrak again

Pulling into the Amtrak station around 9:30, we dropped off the Hertz car, and the two of us sat on a bench on the platform watching freight trains pass - my cup of tea. Our train was on time from Chicago and at daybreak we were well into ND, and later MT. Surprisingly boring here (endless wheat fields, flat as rugs, albeit beautiful - at first). The topography changed at the very western part of Montana and Glacier Park, which we reached, unfortunately, after dark. Thus we missed what Amtrak says are Glacier Park’s 50 “living” glaciers and 9,000-10,466 ft. mountains, trestles, impressive timbered lodges etc. - which sounded more like the Montana I expected.

We rolled into Spokane at daybreak and the subsequent ride to Portland, along the picturesque Columbia River, was beautiful scenery throughout. 

We stayed one overnight in Portland, a nice city - clean and scenic, plus very pedestrian friendly. Great dinner at an outside table on the river promenade.     

                      Amtrak’s Coast Starlight

The next day’s departure was on Amtrak’s Coast Starlight train through Oregon and down the CA coast, all very scenic, especially the mountain passes, but by the time we reached the ocean views we’d had enough of roomette living and were anxious for home. At the LA station at 9 PM we fetched our checked bags (a miracle because we had shipped them on a prior day’s train from Portland) and trekked - lugging all - across three dark LA blocks to LAPD heliport parking lot, where we met up with son-in-law’s Ford pick-up. We heaved our bags onto the truck-bed and barreled our way home on freeway roads referred to by Brett as “the 110” and “the 5,” my hands shaking on the wheel. We pulled into the home driveway at 10 PM, unscathed - another miracle.

The kids, and dad. returned from MN hockey camp, at 8 PM Saturday, into LAX, safe and sound. I gave a sigh of relief. 

                                Flight to Philly

I still had a flight to Philadelphia, four days hence. I opted out of the connecting flight to Newark (fear of flying) and caught a SEPTA train (very easy) from Philly airport to 30th Street Station and then climbed aboard  Amtrak’s Pennsylvanian (2 stops, 50 minutes, $44) to Newark, and eventually home on NJ Transit to Madison.

I waited fourteen days for Amtrak to mail me my driver’s license, which, apparently, I had decided to leave on the counter in Philadelphia when I bought my last train ticket. Why not? 

Finally I gave up waiting, and drove  west on NJ Rout 10 to the Randolph, NJ DMV for a duplicate license. I saluted my former employer, CCM (County College of Morris), as I passed. I was happy that I brought my laptop to the DMV because it gave me something to do as I waited for the "new license" line to wind down. 

When I returned home there was a phone message from the DMV. Hmmm, what could that be?

The message was, “I believe that you left your computer here; you may pick it up at window #9.” 

I drove back to Randolph, gave CCM a second salute.

In a couple of days school would start, both for the kids and daughter Ashley, who teaches Special Ed. in Summit, NJ. When she starts, my "retirement" job, pick-up/delivery/babysitting etc., begins as well. That "family" job has hours that are equivalent to my former college teaching work at CCM, just that there is no overload pay ... or any pay for that matter. But there is a monetary reward (significant money saved, not paid out to babysitters). It is truly "extra money", just not something that is reflected in the GDP. 

Regardless, it's a labor of love.
 

NJ-CA Phone Conversation

NJ-CA Phone Conversation

 

I’m in California, visiting oldest daughter Brett and family. Brett is dialing the phone, calling New Jersey to talk with her sister Ashley. I’m reading the newspaper, drinking coffee. It is Saturday, 6:30 AM on the west coast, 9:30 in New Jersey.  

Emma, age 10 answers - Hello. FYI, Emma has two siblings: Johnny (age 5) and Eddie (age 7)

Brett, Emma’s aunt, enthusiastically  - Hi Emma, how’s it going?

Emma - Good I guess.

Brett, still enthused - What’s happening?

Emma - Well - Johnny was playing with tic-tacs. And I thought they were mine.

              So I went upstairs and saw that they weren’t mine.

            

* Here I suspect there is a possible gap in the description of the actual events. i.e. something else happened between “And I thought they were mine” and “So I went upstairs …” … but to continue with Emma’s version:

             Then when I came back down Johnny didn’t understand me so he started beating me up. (read - Johnny's fault) So I started beating him up. (read - totally justified)

            Then Eddie started beating me up. (read not justified)

       ** So daddy started wrestling with Eddie holding him down.

Brett - So, ....  that’s what’s happening?

Emma - Uh-huh.

All in good fun, I’m sure.

** I must say, that I believe the image conveyed by Emma may be decidedly unfair to daddy, the “peacemaker” who was doubtless so very gently separating his two darling children. I mean “wrestling?” I don’t think so. 

A trip to Jenny Craig, 2/22/2010

A trip to Jenny Craig, 2/22/2010

 

Today I went to the Jenny Craig Weight Loss Center on Route 10, to purchase a gift certificate for my forty-year old daughter.

 I opened the door and walked in – a bit more briskly than normal. A thought flashed into my mind from a decade ago: me chuckling at my mom, at age ninety as she walked up to the door of her adult day care, straightening herself, throwing her shoulders back and then striding ahead, full of pep - not unlike me going in to Jenny Craig’s – wanting to look fit and spry - an obvious non-customer.

 There were three others in the Jenny Craig waiting room, all women, in various stages of weight loss I assumed. They looked good. They didn’t look like the needed weight-loss, I thought.  But the feeling as I entered was definitely that of a waiting room for a shrink - eye contact avoided at all costs.

 I strolled across the room and stepped up to the counter. 

 “Your name?” they said, which made me flinch. I sucked in my stomach. I would have liked an announcement, something on the order of, “This person is here on an errand for someone. He is not here for weight loss for himself, as is evident,” but understandably, no such words were forthcoming, so I explained my mission. I wanted a gift certificate for someone else.

 I noticed that the employees, unlike those waiting, seemed quite high spirited as they went about their business of fetching food packets from a bay of fridges, which I could see in the back, beyond the counter. They were filling food plan items, perhaps for a week or so, into white plastic bags. As they scurried about they called out the names of out of stock items with a barking tone like a chef at a NY Deli. A nice touch, I thought, but not sure exactly why, or who was listening.  

 With gift certificate in hand, I turned to leave. I wanted to tell the ladies waiting that they looked good or keep up the good work or something like that, but then thought better of it, you know, me being seventy, and all – and then again - not really being here for weight loss for myself.

Selling a Nine Year Old Car

Selling a Nine Year Old Car

 

It's early November, 2011.

 

I'm off to the used car lot to see the guy who, two weeks ago, said he’d give me $1300 for my 2002 Jetta. I doubt that the offer is still on. Too good to be true, I think. Regardless, I rehearse my lines: “Hi. Remember me? I’m the guy with the Jetta. You said you’d buy it for $1300.” 

I'm expecting the worst? Something like, “We don’t need it anymore. Plus your car's a wreck. We’ll give you $300.”

The car lot office is wood-shed size, two rooms. In the front room a man sits behind a desk, twirling a pencil. I greet him, tell him my business – see above - and ask for Sam. He gestures toward the far wall where three generations of an adorable family (they’re speaking Italian, I believe) are squeezed onto a bench.

“When they’re done,” he says, pointing the pencil.

"I’ll wait outside," I say. He nods.

I go to my car, read the newspaper. Thirty minutes go by. A car pulls in the lot behind me. A man gets out, rushes inside the shed. I decide to go back in.

The desk guy says, “I called Sam, he’ll be here in twenty minutes.” I go back to my car, somewhat doubtful about Sam. Who was that guy that raced in?

Minutes pass. Sam actually shows up. I go back inside. The family is shaking hands with Sam. “Larry needs to sign the check,” desk guy says to me, "He’s on his way.”

Who’s Larry? They're obviously stalling, I think.

I go back outside, Next to my car the Italian family is climbing into a tan Honda. “Good car,” I tell the mom. She smiles. Sam (?) watches as they drive off. 

 

I hope Sam appreciates my endorsement.    

I re-read my newspaper. Another car pulls in and another man races in. What’s the hurry? Maybe this is the real Sam. OK, truth, I forget what Sam looks like. I saunter back inside.

The desk guy asks for my car title. I sign my name, meant to verify the current mileage, but I forget to enter the mileage. Clueless, I hand over the title. I ask if he wants the registration. “No,” he says, then, “Yes, we better take it.” I hand that over also. He wants a copy of my insurance card. He Xeroxes it. Hands it back. Fine

Sam (or Larry) comes out of the back room, hands me a check. “We’ll give you a ride home,” he says. My mind races. Ride home? In my old car - the one I just sold to them? No way. I think breakdown for sure.

“No thanks,” I say, “I’m meeting someone up the street,” I lie.

I sprint out, check in hand, hotfooting it, like an escaped felon, the two blocks to the train station, ignoring my arthritic knees. The 12:31 train pulls in. I hop aboard and exhale. “Tickets,” the conductor says.

“I’ll have to buy it here,” I say. I mention nothing about a felony.

“There’s a penalty,” he tells me. Don’t I know! The conductor opens a small book, checking fares. “Fifteen dollars,” he says.

“Steep,” I think, but then do the math: $1300 – $15 = $1285. Fine.

“Senior citizen,” I offer.

Again the book. “Two dollars,” he says. Wow! This makes my day. Me - convict and all.

I get off the train in Madison. My bank is a block away. As I walk I look at the check. The signature resembles a Nike logo swoop, drawn by a five year old. Definitely a forgery, I think.

In the bank I hand over the check to the clerk. She runs it through the machine and types what I assume is the following: It is 12:56, Monday November 7, 2011. A man matching the description of a recent escaped felon has just handed me a check signed with a scratch, like a Nike logo. I am not looking at him as I don't want to arouse suspicion, but would like police officers to come to the front door. I will try to delay him   .

I look up. The teller appears concerned. “Hmmmm,” she says.

“What?”

“There’s a problem with this check,” she says.

I knew it, I think, bracing for the handcuffs.

“The date says December 7^th,” she says, "today is 11/7 not 12/7." 

Exuding fake calm I say, “Oh sorry, I’ll take it back to the company. Get the date changed.”

Company, that was smart. How about shyster?

“Sorry,” she says.

I bolt the bank - walk the four blocks to my home where I find a pen with same color ink and change the 12 (December) to 11. Not easy, but for an experienced forger like me, no big deal.

Now I get in my car, the new car, and drive to the bank – a different branch of course. I consider the automatic teller machine, but settle on the real teller.

I hand over the check. The teller slides it through the machine. “Is there anything else I may help you with?” she says, handing me a deposit receipt. 

“No, thank you very much,” I say and slip out the front door.

I don't sleep well that night. Nightmares. I have no proof that they bought the car, but for the check which, I'm sure, is behaving like a child on a trampoline.

The next morning I am at the car lot. 

 

OK, one might ask, "Why go back to the car lot?"

 

My thinking: They really meant to date the check, December 7, because it's state law, used car policy, when paying for a used car. It protects the buyer should the car fall apart in a day or two.

 

Sounds reasonable, I think.

 

So I'm back at the scene of the crime. Not too smart, I think. 

 

"Just wanted to tell you," I say to Sam, or what's-his-name, "your check was dated December 7th, not November 7."

"Just change the date," Larry/Sam tells me.

"Yeah, I thought so. That's what I did," I confess, with a smile, "Many thanks."

 

As I leave, I scan the lot. 

 

No VW Jetta in sight. Oh well.

 

 

Where's the Title?

Where's the Title?

           

           OK I'll buy It

I decided to buy my son-in-law's 2008 VW Jetta for the lease buy-out price, approximately $9700. This led to the decision to sell my 2002 Jetta with 102,000 miles. For that I needed to find the title. OK, the car was nine years old. Same for the title. Actually, I hadn't seen it - the title - in a while. Nor, as it turned out, could I find it presently.

New titles, I learned, could be had at the nearest DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) site.

                    Off to the DMV

So, intent on procuring a new title for the 2002 Jetta, but feeling a dread much like a five-year old headed for a flu shot, at 7:30 AM on a recent overcast morning, I head for the agonizing NJDMV, 19 miles west on NJ Route 10.  I pack a full coffee mug, newspaper, requisite DMV papers (application for new title, car insurance card, registration for the 2002 Jetta) and laptop.  

It is my second DMV trip this month. The first, three weeks prior, was for the same purpose but ended in every DMV customer’s nightmare - i.e. get to the front of the line after an hour’s wait and be told, sorry but you have the wrong papers.

In my case, today, I had the papers, but still failed. What I heard at the end of the line was, “Sorry there is a lien on your car. You’ll need a release letter from VW credit.”

Now I actually owned my car – outright – so I thought – huh?

“I own the car,” I told the man, but I don't think it registered.

“You can have them fax it to me,” he said, unimpressed.

              I Knew This Would Happen

I grabbed my documents – registration, insurance card, title request form – did a military-like about face and marched away, breezing past several hundred poor souls in various stationary lines, out to the front vestibule and toward the door. I reached for the aluminum door handle. Oops – there was a sheet of paper, 8½ X 11, looking like it was ripped from a child's homework notebook and with hand scrawled words “Not an exit.” It was taped to the glass. OK, must be the other door I surmised and looked over my shoulder. “Exit here,” it said. Fine! Out I went, mumbling to myself, “I knew this would happen.” 

The way I figured it was that since I bought my car and paid off VW Credit, they should no longer claim that there was a lien on my car. Wouldn’t you say? So why was I told, "there's a lien on your car?"

             You Won’t Have to Worry

A few days before, the used car lot man had offered me $1300 for the 2002. It appealed to me because the guy said, “Sell it to me and you don’t have to worry about what happens to it, if anything goes wrong.”

He knew me - knew that when I said I could sell it to a friend that I was the type of guy that would worry about future breakdowns – and that I’d put the sale money into savings, and when the breakdown occurred (inevitable) I'd refund the money.

I fretted over a possible breakdown on an interstate, at night. Fortunately it was the husband, I was told, who’d be driving the car and he appeared to be in NFL pre-season condition. Still!

Regardless of who bought the car I needed VW Credit to send a lien release. Then I’d take the release letter to DMV, hand over $60 and get a new title. This irritated me because I paid $19K cash for the car some nine years ago.

I have a vague memory from when I bought the car, of falling for a come-on from the sales person, “If you finance for a month you’ll save $200 off the price, or $100.” Something like that. He didn't mention adding $60 for the title.

            Did Anyone Send Me a Title?

So, did I ever get a title? Maybe, years ago, they actually sent me a lien release letter. If so I probably looked at it – said to myself, “That’s nice, especially since I just handed over $19K. Should I save this letter? Can’t see why. I’ve got a registration. What more do I need?”

License and Lien Release Letter Please

During the next nine years I was stopped by a cop twice. First, driving 3.5 mph turning right on red on an empty highway. Second, pulling over onto the shoulder too soon to turn right. Each offense was $350. The point is, I had all the necessary papers.  No patrolman asked for a lien release letter.

             A Second Visit to the DMV

So, now, here I am, again, off to the DMV. This time I am armed with the infamous lien release letter. I'm told it will cost $60 for the new title. I have cash, a checkbook, and a credit card. I'm wise to the DMV. It makes their day to bring someone to the front of the line and just when they're about to fork over cash, say, “We take only checks."

It's a private DMV employee game called "Front-of-the-line-turnback."  The employees keep a tally, crown champs, have a party at year-end, the whole nine yards. It makes the day go faster. 

Don't believe me? 

Next time you get turned back after getting to the front, pivot and walk away, but then do a quick turn-around. You'll catch the person smiling, probably marking his or her tally, and comparing scores with the guy at the window next door. You'll see.

To be continued … - 
Click for sale of the 9 year old car

Construction Project

Construction Project

 

Sleepover Pending

Eddie asked to sleep over one night recently and as usual with the overnight came a petition to tackle a major building project. His idea was to build a tree house. I suggested pushing that back until Spring, or Summer – plus I said, “I don’t think my yard has any trees that would hold a good tree house.”

“No!” he said, indicating that he thought otherwise.

I grimaced affectionately. “Can’t be helped,” I said, as if offering a lesson on the ways of the world.

“OK,” he said, “then we’ll have to build a fort in the bunk bed room that we can sleep in.”

Sensing something I could actually do, I immediately gave my support.

Off to Home Depot

“We need to go to Home Depot and get wood,” he said.

I nodded.

We returned from Home Depot with thirty dollars of wood, four six foot 2 x 4’s and an equal number of four foot 1 x 1s. Ed put on his gloves and safety goggles and we got down to the business of securing the 1 x 1s to the midpoint of the six foot 2 x 4s with metal brackets – something like two boards creating a “T” shaped bracket. This turned out to be more difficult then I imagined. The heads of the screws kept twisting off when I tried to tighten them.

When did they start making screws that were so fragile? Or was I doing something wrong?

I decided to use nails which I felt was a cop-out of sorts, (real carpenters wouldn't) but as there were no real carpenters present I went ahead with it. Strangely, the same thing happened to the nail heads. They popped off when I pounded them all the way in. Huh???

Construction Phase Complete

Finally (2 hours later) I managed to create the two Ts with the 2x4s as the base. All that was left was to drape a sheet over the upright sticks and voila – we’d have a tent. Pup tent, I believe would be the correct terminology. Anyway, that didn’t work because the upside-down Ts, situated approximately four feet apart, just collapsed into each other from the weight of the sheet. Guess I missed that in physics class.

I scratched my head. I came up with the idea that I could slide one end of each 2x4 (the T base) under the legs of the bunk bed. Hoisting the metal bunk bed and kicking each 2x4 under a leg was a feat for which I expected little notoriety – but it was ingenious, if I must say. Regardless, you’ll have to take my word for it because there's no video. Ed, meanwhile, had left the work site some minutes ago in favor of the living room couch and the Noggin network.

Confident now, I fetched a larger sheet, and re-draped the tent roof. I stood back, surveyed the masterpiece.

Cool!    

I called Ed.

“Cool,” he agreed.

Honestly? It wasn’t that cool, not one of my better construction projects, but I slid a gym mat under the flimsy sheet roof and thought - yes, it could pass for cozy sleeping quarters.

I laid a second gym mat against the edge of the first and that was how we slept – L-shaped head to head.

When Ed went home the next day the “tent” was still up. I think I dismantled it about a week later. The parts have been dismantled as well. They’re in the cellar. I notice them when I go down to do laundry. Honestly the tent project barely rises to the level of low-grade amateur but in my book it’s a marker of one good night’s sleep and one of those bits of love that I share with my grandson.

Life at its best.

Life's Gifts, Early Spring 2011

Life's Gifts, Early Spring 2011

 

Daughter Ash called at 7 AM. The kids were sick, or one anyway. Emma, was coughing in the night. The others were claiming copy-cat-syndrome ailments and mom, in a weak moment,  offered a school reprieve for all, which meant that she had to call her personal assistant – me.

              “Is there any way you could come over?” was the way she put it. 

              

              I immediately went into accommodation mode, “Yeah, no problem,” I said, my voice hoarse from sleep.

                Tom- kids' dad - was going in to the office for an hour, Ash told me, then he would come back home and take over for the rest of the day.

Papa, Can We Play Football

I was there from 7:30 to 9:30. It was an easy shift. I sat in the living room, in an easy chair by the front window, reading my book in the sun while Ed and John watched TV. Emma was upstairs in her room with the laptop. Around 8:30 Johnnie approached me, “Papa, can we play football?”

“Now?” I said

“Yes.”

“Maybe this afternoon,” I said, “It’s freezing out now.” Last night’s low was near 20 degrees.

Eddie piped in from the TV room, “Not now Johnnie, we can play at 11 o’clock.”

“Two o’clock, Ed,” I corrected, “It’ll be warmer.”

Johnnie retreated to the TV room. He was back in a couple of minutes with a question. “Papa what is bigger, 11 o’clock or 2 o’clock?” I looked him. His patient eyes looked back at me, waiting for my answer. I felt a tug at my heart. I tried to explain time to Johnnie. 

“Time, in the morning, goes 8,9,10,11,12 then starts again, after 12, or noon, with 1, 2, 3 etc., so 2 o'clock comes after 11 o'clock every day. Get it?" I said. or something along those lines. He seemed to lose interest in this, looking away and flinging his arms through the air. I continued with further explanation ( AM, PM etc.) but he went back to the TV room.  

Tom arrived back home. I started to gather my things. John walked back into my room holding a small rubber dinosaur.  He looked at me as if to say, “I really wanted to play football now.”

Can I Give You a Hug and Kiss

“John,” I said, “Can I give you a hug and a kiss?”  He ran to me and wrapped his arms around me and lingered, leaning against my ribs. What is it that I felt? Is it Dopamine or Endorphins that the body releases as a signal that something is right or true? Whatever – the chemical message traveled through me as I squeezed my grandson.

With my book in hand and laptop case slung over my shoulder I walked in to say goodbye to Eddie who was wrapped in a down comforter on the couch. I rubbed his back, told him I loved him, that he was great at hockey practice last night because he was such a hustler, racing full speed every time they changed to a new drill. Ed leaned into the couch cushion, face down. He made a little grunt-like sound.  “Can I give you a hug and kiss?” I said and pressed my nose against his back. “Love you, Ed,” I said.

Once again, the chemicals stirred. 

 
A Nice Thing to Say

“You should go kiss Emma too,” Eddie said, not looking up. I told him that was such a nice thing to say. “Do you know that?” I said. 

 

He didn’t say anything.

I went upstairs to Emma’s room. I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “Eddie says I should hug you goodbye too. “  She leaned her head to my arms and I kissed her hair. “Love you baby,” I said. She made a sound of acknowledgment and I bid her goodbye walked down the stairs. “Goodbye beautiful boys,” I said to John and Ed.     

As I left, all I could think was how lucky I was and inside my head, there was a vague notion about life - and the many gifts that one has.