Life with Small

July 5

I always gain little insights into my wee self, past and present, when I’m back in the land of my birth. For example, did you know I am stubborn? I can’t count the times Small has told me so, as she did today. It seems, however, that our respective definitions of the word have little overlap.

Ginna’s perspective: “Stubborn” is when your mother has a painful and unstable ankle that rolls inward, a problem that supportive shoes would help, but she has endless excuses about why she won’t get any, including “Shoes never fit me” and “I rarely put on shoes anyway” and, as her 99-year-old grandfather said at the prospect of buying a new coat, “At my age, I wouldn’t get the wear out of it.”

Mom’s perspective: “Stubborn” is when you (or someone else in the room) makes a passing suggestion to your daughter—in this case let’s say it’s an idea for an addition to an in-progress blog post—and your daughter politely declines to pursue it, in part because the draft is mostly finished already.

And so the two of us stubbornly continue to accuse the other of being the standard-bearer for stubbornness. 

Today’s big adventure was shopping for a few essentials (thin-sliced Emmentaler, nonpareils…) at the upscale grocery store down the road, after which we came back to the apartment in time for a lovely Zoom with faraway Eleni, whom we wish was here. Our conversation careened through a variety of subjects. One of them: my face. I’ve long known that it broadcasts my every emotion, no matter how I try to hide. Sadness, confusion, anger, aggravation: right there for anyone to read at a glance. I can’t even tell a good lie because my expression gives me away. Apparently there’s a particular glower I occasionally display, and have done since I was small. Ma, Eleni and Lulu all know it. It radiates profound displeasure, and it warns, “Don’t cross me right now.” I know the feeling that goes with it. When it happens I can feel my face harden into that rictus. I try to force my narrowed eyes to soften and my tight mouth to relax, but nope. If looks could kill, this one would surely need a license. 

This topic led Ma to another: spankings, the go-to method of behavior modification when I was growing up. All my life I was taught to be stoic, so during the punishments I would assume that same hardened face, setting my jaw and refusing to cry. Today she explained that she always interpreted my sullen response as one of defiance, and would sometimes add a couple thwacks to make sure I got her point. But lately she’s come to realize that, because I was so tremendously sensitive, all she needed to get me to straighten up and fly right was to fix me with that disapproving, green-snake-eyed stare of hers: that paralyzing superpower. All these years later she looks back and feels awful about the spankings. No, Ma! Don’t! I’m touched by your thoughtful apology, but being a mother is bloody hard and we do the best we can under the circumstances, so don’t agonize over it, okay?! I wouldn’t trade mommies for all the dark chocolate in South America.

I do understand how Ma feels. I have infinite guilt and regret about my own well-intentioned but occasionally misguided interactions with my own kids. I always loved them beyond all else and I tried so hard to be perfect, but oops.

One other discussion involved certain of my youthful traits (high-strung, hard to calm when upset) in comparison with the way I am now (unable to sit still, easily annoyed). Ma wondered if perhaps these days experts might have diagnosed me with ADHD or something. I doubt it, but we sure didn’t know much about kids and brains back then, did we? 

Throughout the day we waited eagerly for the predicted thunderstorms—100% chance—but nary a rumble. The good thing is that rain didn’t end up canceling our outdoor dinner plans at Ma’s country club. [Editor’s note: As I told you in the last post, country clubs are nearly as common here as cockroaches in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I speak from experience.] This one was founded in the early 1960s by my parents and a heap of their friends, as a non-golfy, non-snooty place for young families. Sixty years later, she knows practically no one there any more (only one of her old friends, now 102, is still alive), but the place is familiar and the food is good, so off we went.

We ate our tasty meal, Ma’s treat, on a patio overlooking a couple hundred misty acres of northern Delaware’s gently rolling green hills, right over the border from Pennsylvania. After dessert we went inside to find Dad. He hangs on a wall adjacent to a mezzanine that looks down onto an expansive front hall. He was the club’s first president.

The clubhouse—a 1915 Tudor Revival (I looked it up) that was once the home of a local member of the duPont family—has lots of spacious rooms, some with high ceilings, chandeliers, hand-hewn dark wood paneling, and all manner of ornate features. I grew up wandering around such big, fancy places on account of most people we knew were vastly wealthy. (Not us, but we were thoroughly comfortable.) I never noticed how grand these places were. I took them for granted. Strangely, when I visit Delaware these days I go kind of numb when I walk into such opulence. It’s so entirely disconnected from my adult life that it’s like seeing it for the first time. The oversized scale and obvious cost are stunning, as is the contrast between lives like this and those who struggle to survive. Now, I like nice things as much as the next person. Just look at my motion lamp and John Henry statuette collections. And like my mother, I never stop acknowledging my good fortune in being born to advantage and relative economic ease. But when I visit a place like this, I can’t help but wonder: how much does one person need?

Back at home I had the rare pleasure of a phone call with my sister, while Ma and Lulu listened to every word and followed me with their eyes as I paced. “A cat may look at a king.” Ma might have chided when I complained. Soon I noticed a third set of eyes tracking my every move.

Remember that mean face I told you I have? Here’s a version.

After I got off the phone I laid out an outfit for KT.

July 6

I’ve had little sleep over the past few days, going to bed late to yack with Lulu, with whom I’m sharing a room, and getting up before 7:00 so I can spend as much time as possible with Ma. My early rising has become a tradition when I’m here and Ma now expects to see me staggering into her bedroom heavy-lidded while the day is in its infancy. Today, though, I overslept, and wandered in about 7:15. She glanced up from her computer. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. ”I thought you were dead.”

I can’t even remember what we did today, besides a trip to the gas station so I could oversee Ma relearning to pump her own gas (she nailed it), and then on to the carwash. 

Back at the apartment, once again Molly slaughtered her elders at Triple Canfield, despite Ma’s supremacy in the game.

We sat outside in the garden again during cocktail hour. Afterwards, Molly and I discovered a whole new clothes closet and played dress-up one last time. The Jack Daniels is a prop to suggest we’re at an elegant cocktail party. 

We tucked Ma into bed at 8:30 and went out to lightning-bug-watch one last time. 

July 7

Waking up to my 4:45 alarm, I feared what lay ahead. One of the things I can’t stand about myself is the way I am when I’m exceptionally tired: hair-trigger grumpy. For a long day of travel, that’s not ideal. 

Ten Things That Aggravate Me

1. On learning that our flight is 1.25 hours late, trying to arrange a later shuttle pickup, but the driver shows up early anyway, before we’re ready.
2. Racing downstairs with our luggage and running around in heavy rain trying to find him.
3. While climbing into the shuttle, having my brand-new glasses, which should fit perfectly, fly off my face and onto the ground while I try to hug my small mother goodbye.
4. On I-95 North, listening to the driver rant on about himself, when all I want is quiet so Molly and I can adjust to the sad thought of leaving Small for who-knows-how-long.
5. While boarding the plane, feeling some tall dude, traveling solo, start to push me from behind as we funnel into the jetway, and eventually shove me aside so he gets in front of me. [Editor’s note: I’m not one for direct confrontations. Instead, I muttered behind his back as we moved onto the plane: “It’s amazing that some people are so rude. Imagine just pushing someone aside to get ahead. And what for?” I think I said it softly enough so he couldn’t hear, but maybe not.]
6. Hearing the pilot make the usual announcement about people having the right to wear masks or not, and ask us to respect each other’s decisions. [Editor’s note: But I don’t, and I can’t. I’m appalled and confused by why maybe 90 percent of today’s travelers are barefaced in a close crowd at a time like this. Stupidity? Politics?]
7. Discovering that my favorite handkerchief that Ma gave me has fallen out of my pocket and vanished, to meet its cruel fate of being swept into an industrial trashcan somewhere. I want it back.
8. Feeling my glasses shoot off my face twice more, once almost dropping into the airplane toilet. 
9. When we reach the gate in San Francisco, standing up in the aisle only to feel immediate pressure at my back as the tall dude starts to edge me out of the way again. [Editor’s note: Yes, I realize that things like this are unimportant and not worth worrying about. But really: everyone knows how to exit a plane, man. There was no way he was gonna get away with this twice. I threw a body block, turning crossways in the aisle and jutting my right hip to the side to block his intended exit route.]
10. In the SF airport, watching my glasses rocket off my face and nearly into the SFO toilet.

As we waited at baggage claim I apologized to Molly for being a cranky, reactive dick, but it’s all I can do just to keep a loose lid on myself when I’m this exhausted.

Joshua was kind enough to pick us up at SFO, appearing minutes after we got to the curb, and to deposit us in Alameda. After transferring my luggage from Lulu’s car to mine, I bade her a reluctant farewell and aimed myself toward Oakland for block ice for my camping trip next week, and on to Richmond Costco to fill up the tank, and then finally home. 

I’m glad I live alone, so no one but me has to tolerate me when I’m this crabby: to hear me swear when I clumsily thwack my hand onto a sharp corner or squawk as my glasses spring off my face when my arms are full of luggage, or to watch as, in one motion, I scoop them up off the floor, lob them across the kitchen, and listen for the satisfying clunk as they land on the opposite counter and slide like an Olympic skater into the wall.

Only sleep will make things better now.

July 8

Yup, sleep did the trick. I’m no longer possessed by a pissy little demon. But waking up to news of yet more gun violence—Abe assassinated with a handmade weapon, in the wake of the Illinois mass-murder four days ago—is bad.

What a wonderful time we had with you, Small. We miss you already, and I’ll do everything I can to try to get back there again as soon as life permits.

As always, you spoiled us and took wonderful care of us, with great meals and great company. ‘Twas a perfect visit: relaxing and fun. I’m amazed at your ever-sharp intellect and sense of humor, and amused, if a little surprised, at how feisty you’ve become in recent years. The only thing we lacked was Eleni. I wish we could have stayed longer, but there’s much to be done before I leave for Lassen in three days, like taking my car to the mechanic today to make sure it’s ready for all the driving. $1200 later, it is.

Now it’s time to pack. I’ll be out of cellphone reach while I’m gone but you’ll see me here soon, with pictures and more. Bye.

July 9

I meant to post this yesterday.

So long for real this time.