REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

Indulging This Grandma: My Youngest Grandsons

My daughter-in-law Laura has posted some new photos of Zach, 2 1/2 and 2-week-old Arlo at Lake Dawn blog and this particular photo floods me with memories. Zach looks so much like his dad; can't tell about Arlo yet. She reports that they are all well and that Arlo is a pleasant guy and big brother is mostly doing well with his new bro. And I get to see them on Aug. 5; I can hardly wait. 

Symbolism of Lost Keys

Occasionally I misplace my keys, but not very often. I'm pretty consistent with where I put my keys at home and office--and I have a special place I keep them at home when I am traveling. Imagine my surprise when I returned from Denver a few weeks ago and I could not locate my work and volunteer keys. For the first few days I looked diligently, but then slacked off trusting they would turn up. They were on an "Evil Eye" key ring that I had purchased in Turkey which should keep them safe, wouldn't you think?

But, the keys stayed lost and I began to grow cranky and worried about them. In fact, I frankly became obsessed with finding them. That's partly why I've written less here. After all, these are not my own keys but ones entrusted to me. For the past several days I have searched every conceivable place I could have left them as I felt positive I had not lost them. This resulted in every drawer in the house being cleaned out, as well as the garage and the car. Not bad, huh? I believe mightily in the meaning behind something as archetypal as keys, but my continuing analysis did not help in finding them. I wrote a prayer to St. Anthony in my journal and continued to pray for a small miracle--knowing how unimportant this was in comparison to "big things" going on in the world.

A few days ago I realized I had exhausted my hunt and I resorted to calling the woman who had house and dog sat for me while I was gone--and I called my grandson Anthony. Carol was in Tahoe and assured me that she hadn't seen any keys, but suggested I invoke the Discovery Goddess. Oh, what the hell. St. Anthony might need some help. Then Anthony called and said he had the keys. "Don't you remember, grandma? You couldn't get the car key off your key ring at the airport and you handed me all your keys. Only, I took your car key off the ring and threw the rest on my dresser. Then I forgot whose keys these were." 

So, thanks Anthony, my grandson, St. Anthony, the Discovery Goddess--and my own inability to give up. 

I couldn't find any symbolism on lost keys on Google except for the Lost Keys of Freemasonry, but I'm sure there is. I do know that in my SoulCollage and art work I often use keys. Any symbolism you know of that you could share with me? 

Images of Arlo

Yesterday I reported the birth of Arlo Anthony on July 1 and now I have a few photos of him:

Is there anything more sweet than a newborn baby's lips?

And here is Arlo's mom Laura.

Daddy Joe looks mighty proud of his boys--Zach and Arlo. How I knew what was going on in Zach's head as he held his brother.

Arlo Anthony is Born on July 1

I know I've been going on and on about my the imminent birth of my sixth grandchild, but I'm happy to announce on behalf of my son Joe, daughter-in-law Laura, and brother Zach that Arlo Anthony arrived last night. Mom and baby are doing great, but grandma hasn't seen a photo of him yet. The delight of it all was that Joe called me from the delivery room near midnight and I could hear Arlo screaming his indignation about entering the world. They had just weighed him--8 lbs. 1 oz. and tonight when my son called he said the baby was 21" long and had dark hair instead of red like Zach's. And, I learned that his middle name is Anthony which is my youngest son's name and my eldest grandson's name. Zach was actually in his mom's room tonight visiting and told me his baby's name was Arlo. My heart melted. 

Tomorrow they all come home. Joe said the baby seems pretty mellow and is nursing well.

Thanks to all of you who listened to my angst when Laura had to be down those months during the pregnancy. My kids tell me that this is the last grandchild; they are all done with reproducing. But, I think six is a great number of grandkids, don't you? 

What are little boys made of?

This afternoon I went to play with my 3 1/2 year-old grandson Fritz while his mom took Henry, his brother, for his ice skating lesson. This is Fritz. We were busy together for about 2 1/2 hours first playing throw the newspapers in the air, then having a photography session, and finally switching to a major building project with his pieces to Plan City. When I am with one of the boys one-on-one, tears and anger are rare. But, competitiveness rears its ugly head sometimes when they are together.

But, then Henry, 5,  came home and at first there was competition over Fritz's Plan City. I asked Henry if he'd like to play alone with me for a while in his room and he said yes. He decided to get out his Legos and build an angler fish which his mom came and helped with. I have crappy spatial ability. By then my son had come home and he became the observer of Fritz's Plan City project. 

Having raised both boys and girls, I am always amazed at little boys--or at least all the little boys in my own family. They are so doggoned active, mischievious, and natural-born builders. In the 1970s, when the feminist movement was active and I began to have my consciousness raised, I bought into androgyny--thinking if we just raised kids with exactly the same values et al, boys and girls would be more alike than different. Damn, was I wrong!  

What are Little Boys Made Of? 

What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails

That's what little boys are made of !"

What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice and all things nice

That's what little girls are made of.

At Rhymes/UK it is reported that the origin of the "What are little boys made of" poem can be traced to the early 19th century - the battle of the sexes was raging even then! The words of "What are little boys made of" obviously reflect this, but what is the meaning of 'snips and snails'? Several interpretations have been suggested but the one with the most credibility is that the original words were in fact 'snips of snails' - the origin of snips meaning 'little bits of'. No redemption there for describing what little boys are made of'! 

Let's hear it for grandkids--boys and girls. What a lucky grandma I am.

Me Draw My Baby: Zachary, Age 2

Those of you who read here regularly know that my sixth grandchild, and fifth grandson, is due any day now. This is two-year-old Zachary after creating "Me Draw My Baby" at his art station. 

My daughter-in-law Laura at her blog Lake Dawn says that Zach is dealing with the pregnancy more creatively than she is at this point. Since Laura was down flat on bed rest the last three months, we are delighted that Arlo has gone to term.

Yes, you heard right--Arlo. She tells about how they came to choose this name and my son Joe apparently saw Arlo Guthrie in concert years ago and loved this name. Arlo. Say it over and over and it becomes rather dear, don't you think? You can check out Laura's blog for details and to listen to Arlo Guthrie singing Alice's Restaurant. 

CELEBRATING FATHERS: SOME MEMORIES

That's Allyn Francis Streur on the right and his dad on the left, Egbert (Ed) Streur taken in the 1950s in our garden in Sunland. Allyn is my dad, even though he's been gone since 1979. 

My dad was born on April 2, 1898 in Holland, Michigan, Grace's only son. Ed, my dear grandfather, was her second husband who raised my dad since he was a small boy and legally adopted him. My dad had five daughters; I was the "baby" and both sets of grandparents lived in Michigan. 

Then a very sad thing happened. Grandma Grace's mental health began to seriously deteriorate and she was institutionalized in Pine Rest Christian Psychopathic Hospital in Cutlerville. My dad drove across country during WW II when gas rationing was on to assess the circumstances and my grandma was definitely not able to be at home anymore and grandpa's health was deteriorating, too. I have a series of letters my dad wrote to my mom; he wanted to move his parents to California to live with us while the family decided what the options were. Mom was not happy; she did not get along with her mother-in-law when she was well, and grandpa required a lot of looking after. Those letters are amazing, always with a P.S. just for little me. Telephones must have been too expensive to use, or the letters were in between phone calls. My dad convinced mom that they had to take care of his parents. A nurse was hired to accompany my grandma on the train while dad drove back in his car and grandpa drove back in the most beautiful car I had ever seen: a black Chrysler. One of the things grandpa brought was his old bike, which my dad fixed up for me. 

To begin with my grandparents lived in the house with us, but grandma was too ill to be there and was hospitalized locally at Rest Haven in Tujunga until my grandpa's funds were depleted. She was moved to Camarillo State Hospital where our family visited often. By then my grandpa had purchased a small trailer and he lived in our yard and he was the last person I saw before I went to school and when I returned. In short, he became more than a grandpa; he became a trusted friend and confidante. He smoked big stogies and always had candy and cookies squirreled away. There was no TV then, but grandpa loved to listen to the radio. Grandpa died at home after a series of strokes when I was twelve. When I look back in the years he lived with us, I remember so many wonderful memories--and though I took it for granted, he was an ever-present son to his dad. I'm sure this whole chapter in our lives had to be very hard on our family. I only met my maternal grandfather, Henry Huxtable, once--when I was three. 

So, today I've taken time to write  in my journal remembering my dad and grandpa--and actually my former husband, Ray, the father of our three kids, too.  I miss you, dad and grandpa and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for raising and loving me. 

This photo is a favorite of Ray, my ex, with our son Joe when he was only a few months old. Ray is also a good dad and granddad. Our parenthood was never among the problems we experienced. Joe, you see here as a baby, has one son, Zach, two, and his second son will be born within the next few weeks. My other son Tony and his wife have two sons--Henry, five, and Fritz, 3 1/2. Lorenzo, the dad of my two eldest grandkids, Whitney and Anthony, is another dad I celebrate today. 

Artist? Garage Sale Addict? Overgrown Kid?

Or maybe all of the above? This was a super Saturday that made my heart sing. There are garage sales everywhere because the weather is good and a lot of people must be moving. After I washed Cookie this morning (see her watching on the bottom left?), I had time for only one garage sale because a tech friend was coming to help me learn how to unscrew-up my mailbox settings. For a long time I have been wanting a mannikin to display my mom's wedding dress (1916) and/or whatever I felt like. I haven't found one I could comfortably afford and this one sale advertised that a store was closing and selling off the fixtures, including mannikins? It was 10:30 a.m. before I got started and usually there is little left by that time.

But, I lucked out. The sale was tucked away in an industrial park where Ultra Betty was storing everything after she closed the store. There were five mannikins available and shown here is the one I bought for $25. She also had dozens of these half torso plastic bodies for $5 and I bought two to ultimately collage. These two really slutty bustiers were in the $1 pile and I couldn't resist them. The rubber grey torso is one I bought several months ago to collage. The rocking chair, the dog and everything else you see is also mine. The chair was my sister Donna's who died from Parkinson's complications in 1998. She sat in this chair 24 hours a day until she needed long-term care. By the way, the green loose blouse, hat and necklace are all mine. Tomorrow I'll get out mom's wedding dress--and maybe my own, for that matter. I even have my veil, but then I'll admit I save way too many things. My post from yesterday has opened up a floodgate of possibilities. 

All of a sudden Steve Martin's "Lonely Guy" flashes in my brain--all his cardboard people to keep him company. Lord, I hope this isn't happening to me. Maybe I should go back and get a few more mannikins. Damn, I'm excited about these finds. 

My friend spent four hours tweaking my two computers and they are in the process of synching to iDisk. I cannot believe how much he taught me in that time span. In regard to the earlier geek post, I am becoming more computer empowered. Who would have thunk? 

So, how did your day go? How's your weather, wherever you are, and what are you doing with spare time, if you have any? 

Releasing “Stuff” Creates Space For What Will Be Next

I’m a pack rat, but a pretty organized one. It’s genetic, I think, but I’m not as bad as either of my parents were, so I usually cut myself some slack. I have a hard time getting rid of possessions, especially ones that have come down to me from family, or that have symbolic meaning. I call it one of my character defects. I’m also an accumulator, particularly of craft supplies or objects that I think I might get around to artistically changing into something else--someday. Thrift shops, garage and estate sales is where I tend to pick up “stuff.”  I have very little interest in buying trendy stuff or top of the line clothing, or going into the malls. Almost every week I plan my two-hour route as soon as the local papers list the sales for the weekend.

I was born after the depression but my family had been eternally poor and frugality was drummed into all of us; that mentality stays a lifetime. The depression was a disaster for my folks and my mom actually hoarded after times got better. We didn’t even know that until clearing out her stuff after her death. But, it’s that time of life for me when it’s wise to begin to begin getting rid of stuff. Twice a year I purge and deliver stuff to the thrifts and I’ve become a regular user of Freecycle.org.

When I was younger, by the way, I’d host at least one garage sale a year, but now I don’t have the energy for that. The amount of work was never worth the amount of money earned. The past few weeks I have been boxing and bagging a LOT of stuff to donate to the garage sale committee of the Redondo Beach Art Group—and I’ve been brutal. My car is filled with stuff to deliver to the garage where the sorting will be done tomorrow.

What surprised me is that I was able to get rid of some really sentimental things I’ve saved. For instance, a beautiful white bed tray that was the last gift my ex-husband gave me; we were newly separated, 22 years ago, and that tray became symbolic of lost love. We were remarried on our 25th anniversary and had a huge reception where all kinds of silver gifts were given to us. We split up six months later and I’ve kept all of this silver stored, but it was the silver tea service (I never use) and the beautiful silver ice bucket (that I haven’t used for years) that until this weekend I wasn’t able to part with. I also got rid of a lot of nice clothing I no longer wear – and boxes of knick-knacks including some of the cobalt glass I collect. And then there were all the old frames and art that belonged to my step mom and I’ve had stored since 1997. When my sister died four years ago, I kept a lot of her things her sons didn't want, and they are packed. In the car are two Christmas reindeer I’m too tired to display anymore, a cherished wooden house advent calendar with 24 doors to put little things into. My hands are no longer able to easily fuss with little things. Bagged are two complete sets of sheets, comforters, blankets, etc. for a king size bed which I got rid of four years ago. (I always reason that what if I get remarried someday and want a big bed again?) And then there all the boxes of craft supplies I know I will never use again because I’ve begun to create entirely different things than I used to make.

I’m a believer that when we give away stuff, or let go of old thoughts and habits, the Universe comes to fill the void with new thoughts, new friends, new experiences. I’m ready for the new though admittedly there are some things that I hope I’ll be ready to get rid of by the next garage sale.

So, have you done your spring cleaning yet? 

 

 

Cookie: Great News!

Here's my baby looking pensive 'cause she doesn't like her picture taken, but she says to tell all of you who sent good thoughts and prayers for her that she appreciates it--woof!

Cookie was in the clinic all of yesterday where blood was drawn again at various intervals and when she came home, she was ecstatic and smelly. She completed her 14 day trial on the canine drug trilostane for the Cushing's disease. 

This morning Dr. Yao called and Cookie's cortisol blood levels are now under control which is very good news indeed. She is officially "a Cushings dog," but responding to treatment. 

It was a good day all the around, but this news had me doing a happy dance with her around the bedroom and saying "Yes." Cookie does like to dance, by the way. 

And I stimulated the economy with my stimulus check of $600. That's about what it cost to diagnose her. Hey, I'd rather spend it this way than at Macy's weekend sale.