Month: July 2026

When my husband was asked if he would help teach twin granddaughters how to parallel park, he immediately yelled, “Yes!” If there was a parallel parking competition, my husband could take first place—unless our son entered the competition, then he’d take first place.

Our son lived in Chicago for 10 years and none of his apartment buildings had a parking garage. In such cases, you either learn to parallel park or leave the city. That’s why all the suburbs keep mushrooming.

The twins’ first parallel parking lesson involved a tiny yellow passenger car, an itty bitty red truck and a miniature Batmobile on the sidewalk in front of the house. The instructor maneuvered the little yellow car, demonstrating how to pull forward, align rear bumpers with the little red truck, put the car in reverse, turn sharp as you back up, then turn sharp in the opposite direction, and back up again, careful not to hit the Batmobile.

The lesson went well until the little yellow car lost traction, toppled off the sidewalk and tumbled into the grass.

I learned to parallel park in a maroon ’69 Ford XL, a vehicle similar in size to an Army tank. The car didn’t have a backup camera, but it had an AM push-button radio, a parking brake, ashtray, cigarette lighter and windows you rolled down manually. It also had side view mirrors, but I was so short I could hardly see them.

I was more shocked than anyone when I parallel parked without hopping the curb or hitting the car behind me and got my driver’s license on the first try. It was an event just short of feeding the five thousand with only two fish and five loaves.

When the husband promoted the twins to parallel parking in a real vehicle that could seat humans and not just Lego people, everyone had their fingers crossed—for the girls and for the vehicles.

They were to parallel park their mother’s car behind their father’s car and in front of their grandparents’ car. More than $130,000 in vehicles were at risk in the interest of parallel parking.

As the student drivers, their instructor and onlookers took their places, there appeared to be more lengthy instruction sessions happening in the car, each followed by a not-so-successful parking attempt. More instructions, more attempts.

After considerable time, it looked like the girls were getting the hang of it, although the sun was now down, it was pitch dark and hard to see.

The important thing to remember is that practice makes perfect.

The second most important thing to remember is that when a parallel parking spot appears impossible, keep driving—eventually you’ll find a spot you can manage.

 

My philosophy concerning a garden is the same as my philosophy toward dessert—there’s always room for a little more.

It didn’t take long this spring before I realized I was sowing too many seeds in too little space. Then a lightbulb flashed and I thought, “Why not go vertical?” I could just coax everything to latch onto big swaths of chicken wire and reach for the sky.

Fee-fi-fo-fum. Pole beans, sugar peas and cucumber vines coiled and curled and now brush the heels and pinky toes of giants.

The plan worked, though now we can walk around the garden but not actually in the garden. It’s a jungle. No zebras or elephants (that I can see), but a jungle.

I recently guided one of the smaller grands through the jungle to pick cherry tomatoes. It was like an air traffic controller helping land a plane whose instrument panel had gone dark.

“Veer a little to your right, honey. Careful with your left foot; it’s about to smash a potato plant. That thing on your head is nothing but a big cucumber leaf. Don’t look up, just keep your eyes on the little red balls.”

She maneuvered according to directions. “Plant your left foot to the side of the sugar peas and pole beans, now lean in, stretch as far as you can and I think you can reach the tomatoes.”

She nabbed her first few when I yelled, “Basil! You’re trampling the basil!” Of course, this scared her and the day’s take flew into the air.

Word is she’s not coming back to Grandma’s until the fall harvest is over.

Some suggest I have gone off the deep end. And yes, what you heard is true, when someone asks for gift ideas, I now say worm castings.

I have homesteader envy. I’m mesmerized by people selling homes in the burbs, moving to the country and declaring they will live off the food they produce.

Were we to go off the grid tomorrow, we would be sustained solely by 75 cherry tomatoes, rosemary, thyme, oregano and an unending supply of basil.

You’d be able to smell us before you could see us.

“How does Italian sound for dinner?” I would ask the husband.

“You mean some version of tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

“We had that last night.”

“And we’re going to have it every night from here on out.”

Welcome to the new frontier.

Fortunately, I didn’t see the late-night text from our son until early the next morning. I wouldn’t have slept a wink if I had.

His two youngest girls spent the night with us. They live in the country, know all the plants and trees and animal tracks and can give wildlife a run for their money.

The 10-year-old, who slept over, is gentle as a dove, soft spoken and loves mice and chickens. The 8-year-old has bright blue eyes, a sweet smile and looks like an angel baby. Angel Baby knows how to play a room and work a crowd. Angel Baby could also pull a live animal out of her back pocket any day of the week.

The text from the night before said, “Hey, so one of the boys had a dead spider that he tied up to fishing line, but it is missing. Can you please ask the girls if they know where it is / if they have it? I told the kids explicitly NOT to take it to Grandma’s.”

I wonder if a lot of grandmas get these sort of text messages.

Our son would say, “Only the special ones.”

The reason the girls were told not to bring the dead spider is because they have a history. The 5-foot-long snakeskin episode still sends chills down my back. The snapping turtle that slept in one of the bedrooms wasn’t bad, although the squirrel tail in the freezer had me reciting the Greek alphabet backward for weeks.

I knew immediately that the spider in question must be a wolf spider.  Wolf spiders are so huge you could toss one into a skillet, serve dinner for five and still have leftovers for the next three days.

When the girls wandered into the kitchen half awake, I immediately cornered my chief suspect, Angel Baby.

“Did you bring a big spider to Grandma’s?”

With a strand of hair cascading down her face, she smiled sweetly, batted those big baby blues, and said, “No.”

“Are you telling the truth?” Grandma sounded louder than usual.

“Yes,” she said.

I stood quietly, waiting for her to break. She whispered, “I didn’t bring it, but I know where it is.”

“Where?” I asked.

“At home.”

“Where at home?”

“On the mixer.”

I texted their dad. He said Wolf was not on the mixer.

Well then, Wolf was probably in whatever was last made in the mixer and is now inside all of the people who ate that. Yum. Protein.

The important thing was that Wolf wasn’t at Grandma’s house.

When the girls’ two brothers and older sister came the next day, the spider on the fishing line magically reappeared—dangling from the basketball goal spinning in the breeze, looking totally alive and terrifying. They also had fun perching the now visibly-dehydrated Wolf on a wicker chair where an aunt was sitting and attaching it to their clothing.

After the crew left, I realized I forgot to make sure they took Wolf with them. I immediately checked the mixer. All clear.

It was nearly two weeks ago that Wolf was here, but I still take a deep breath each time I open a cabinet or a drawer, or crawl into bed. Basketball is completely out of the question

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Bird Bonus
Robins built a nest in the dogwood next to the house, which means we have taken bird-watching to dizzying heights–standing on the patio brick wall, a small step ladder and nearby patio chairs to catch a peek and a few snaps for the photo album I will be preparing.