Month: May 2024

I broke my own rule and took my husband to Costco to do some heavy lifting. It was a big package trip: toilet paper, paper towels, coffee in cannisters the size of bank vaults and chicken breasts requiring a forklift.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I calmly said, “When you throw cookies into a grocery cart at Kroger, it’s maybe $4. When you throw cookies into a cart at Costco, it’s more like $40. That’s how people rack up $500 tabs.

He looked at me with an understanding nod.

Maybe he had reformed. Maybe he was no longer an impulse-driven (“Yes! A 12-pack of croissants!”) shopper (“Yes! Industrial size bags of potato chips!”).

He grabs a cart, I flash my ID and we enter the store. I take 10 steps and realize he is not with me. I look over my shoulder. He is behind me, gesturing wildly, both arms flailing and yelling, “Look up! Look up!”

An enormous bright yellow 30-foot inflatable waterslide is dangling from the ceiling.

“We need this!” he shouts.

“You and I do not need a waterslide,” I say.

“The grandkids need it. The old waterslide is shot. This is great!”

“It’s $200,” I gasp.

“Can you think of a better way to spend $200?”

Actually, I couldn’t. And it did look fun. And they’re all growing so fast.

Maybe when they’re all grown up and scattered to parts unknown, he and I can inflate the waterslide and play “Remember When.”

Then he let loose with the closer: “It’s cheaper than golf!”

I’ve been hearing the golf line a lot lately.

We were going out for lunch on our anniversary, and he suggested a high-end steak house. I wasn’t sure about dropping that kind of money on an anniversary that didn’t end with a five or a zero.

“It cheaper than golf!” he said.

We had steak.

I was looking at vacuums online and mentioned they are expensive. He looked over my shoulder and said, “They’re cheaper than golf.”

He doesn’t play golf. I don’t play golf. The few times we tried golf, neither of us was any good at it—and it was clear we’d never get good at it. I can’t even do well at putt-putt golf.

Neither of us has the faintest idea what golf costs. So, I looked it up.

One answer said, “Golf costs one-third of your discretionary income.”

Another answer said, “Take what you have in the bank down to zero and that’s what it costs to golf.”

Maybe everything is cheaper than golf.

Another answer said if you bought used starter clubs at Goodwill, paid a sunset rate for time on a crummy putting green in a sketchy part of town, found an old golf bag, wore old golf shirts and found golf balls for 50 cents a pop, you could get started for a couple hundred dollars.

Guess who has a $200 razzle dazzle big-time wow factor waterslide for the backyard?

The man was right. A 30-foot inflatable waterslide is cheaper than golf.

Too bad we’re both over the weight limit for the waterslide (ages 5-12).

 

 

The bugle call known as taps is 24 hallowed notes long. My dad was a World War II Army veteran. At the close of his funeral service, a soldier stood on the crest of a small nearby hill and played taps. Each note rang with a piercing sorrow.

When taps is sounded, military members salute, civilians place their hands over their hearts, and loved ones of the deceased bite their lips, hold their breath and try not to cry.

Taps first gained a foothold during the Civil War. It signaled “lights out” as another day drew to a close.

Today if you are on a military installation, you may hear taps sounded in the evening, broadcast over speakers. If you are driving, you pull your car over and wait until taps is finished.

Taps is sounded every evening at 11 p.m. in Arlington National Cemetery. Notes linger above perfectly lined rows of gravestones that stretch as far as the eye can see, then ascend into the heavens.

Those interred in Arlington, and in every other large and small cemetery dotting the country, span time and history. Beneath the sod rest the remains of Union and Confederate soldiers, Doughboys of World War I, service members of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Shield, Desert Storm and the Gulf wars fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. They were men and women of all ages, all races, and all different backgrounds and stories.

A few years ago, it came to light that 14 women from the legendary Six Triple-Eight (6888), a multi-ethnic, primarily all-black, female military unit from World War II, are buried at Arlington. Stationed in Europe, they tackled an entire warehouse full of undelivered letters and packages. The unit’s motto was “no mail, low morale.” These women, eager to serve their country, fought sexism, racism and the Nazis. What courage. What a legacy.

Loved ones of those who have died in military service hold on any way they can: dog tags, Purple Hearts, an old telegram, handwritten letters and maybe a folded flag presented at a funeral.

How do those of us who have never served, let alone come close to giving all, honor those who died in service to country?

We honor them by honoring the legacy. Ask your kids and grandkids if they know why we have a holiday called Memorial Day. If they don’t know, don’t lecture them, just help them connect the dots.

Help them understand that an incredibly long line of people stretching from the Revolutionary War to the present paid the ultimate price for the freedoms we enjoy.

They were ordinary people with hopes and dreams, just like yours and mine. They were sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives.

Memorial Day is a day of remembrance. So let’s do that. Remember.

 

We just found out one of our granddaughters is planning her wedding. We were as surprised as anyone. She is 8.

Naturally, her mother was the first to know—as it should be. She became suspicious when Little Miss began wearing her best cardigan to school, the white one with pearl trim around the collar, over her best dressy dress, the one with the large floral print and billowing skirt.

“Why are you dressing up every day?” her mother asked on the way to school.

Giggle, giggle. “Because there might be a kiss at recess.”

“A KISS?” her mother cried, nearly veering off the road. (You can still see the skid marks.)

“And a wedding!”

Who’s getting married?” her mother asked.

“Me, my friend and the groom.”

Now her mother veered to the other side of the road.

It turned out the wedding wouldn’t be for all three—and don’t you know her mother sighed a great sigh of relief on that point—the wedding would be between the groom and whichever girl he chose.

The plot thickens and the competition stiffens.

Fortunately, the groom-to-be is the son of one of our daughter’s good friends.

For those who do not believe history repeats itself, our daughter was in kindergarten when she came home and announced she had spent free time in the kissing center.

I asked where the kissing center was. She said it was in the corner of the classroom, in the treehouse, and there was a curtain you could pull closed. I didn’t believe it, so I called another mother who confirmed there was no kissing center in either kindergarten classroom.

In essence, our daughter tossed the bouquet and her daughter caught it.

When our daughter texted the groom-to-be’s mother, asking if she knew anything about a wedding at recess, she said yes, her son told her that two girls had been chasing him at recess. He said when one of them asked who he liked best, he screamed “NEITHER!” and began running as fast as he could.

That was one week ago. The intended groom could be at the Florida state line by now.

The girls have been sternly warned there is never, ever, ever to be kissing or weddings or chasing boys at school.

They were fine with that and announced they have moved on to imaginary boys.

I imagine they will be easier to catch.

The physical changes of impending motherhood are stunning. Though new curves and nausea can be dramatic, physical changes are only the beginning. The changes that create the deepest imprints happen in the heart.

The first change you notice is a depth of love you never knew existed. You cradle that newborn in your arms and a deep swell of wonder encompasses your entire being. That tiny nose, those perfect little lips, those delicate eyelids. Are you floating in a third dimension or is this real?

Your senses blossom into fuller measure.

A faint rustling or soft whimper awakens you from a deep sleep.

You go with your gut when it tells you something is wrong.

Even your vision changes. As your child grows, so does your ability to see around corners and behind your back.

One day, you find you have grown tiger claws—and instead of trimming them, you sharpen them.

Your level of patience changes. You run short. You sometimes snap, bark, growl, grow impatient and ask yourself, “Who is this crank?”

Some days it feels like you absolutely cannot do one more 24-hour shift. But you do. “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night . . .  nor colic, nor teething, nor lost pacifiers . . . nor adolescence, nor a driver’s license . . .”

Over the years, your heart and emotions silently intertwine with your child’s. Your child succeeds, you enjoy the accomplishment. Your child suffers, you suffer. You even wish it was you suffering instead of your child.

God have mercy if you are a mother whose child dies before you do. Yet not even death can sever the tie between mother and child. A mother’s body is a child’s first home. A mother never forgets the life that once beat and grew within her.

I recently asked a friend about his wife, a mother of four, grandmother to nine and brand new great-grandma to one, the woman with snow white hair, an easy smile and clear blue eyes. She has Alzheimer’s and resides in a memory care unit now.

He said the deterioration is progressing. She was restless the other day, so a staff member gave her a baby doll to hold. They sent him a picture of his wife, calmed and at peace, holding the doll. Then they sent a second picture—she was giving the doll a kiss.

He shared the picture with one of their daughters who said, “Once a mom, always a mom.”