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We began married life in a 1930s Craftsman bungalow with three small bedrooms. Each bedroom had a closet the size of a telephone booth. Everything fit.

We added a baby to the mix. Everything fit.

We added a second and third baby. Everything fit.

Today, we live in a four-bedroom house with double-wide closets in every bedroom and a small walk-in closet in the master bedroom.

The three babies grew up and left home years ago. It is just the two of us.

Nothing fits.

Something is wrong with the math. We decreased the number of people in the house, increased the amount of available closet space, but are out of room.

Critical thinking and analysis are required every time we switch out cold-weather clothes for warm-weather clothes and vice versa in the semi-annual Changing of the Closets.

No article of clothing escapes rigorous scrutiny.

Take the black velvet jacket with a tucked waist and shoulder pads. I last wore it when Bush was President—41 not 43. Does this fit me anymore? It might if I could stop breathing. Are NFL-size shoulder pads in style? They might be tomorrow. The jacket stays.

Does the dress with the smocked top and free-flowing skirt make me look like someone from Little House on the Prairie? Yes. Is the dress flattering? Only in a funhouse mirror that elongates. Is the dress comfortable? Yes. The dress stays.

Off-season clothes rotate to one of the kid’s old closets and in-season clothes return to our closet.

There is a place for everything and everything is in its place. If I could just keep track of all the things and places.

Assorted jeans that vary in fit, depending on my salt-intake and water retention, and my husband’s worn jeans, suitable only for yardwork after dark, stay in a bedroom closet that also holds office supplies. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to remind my him, “Your work jeans are under the padded mailing envelopes and next to the toner cartridge!”

Clothes of dubious status move to the closet filled with board games, Legos, Lincoln logs, puzzles and three bridal gowns.

Why we have three bridal gowns when I have only been married once, I am not sure. I suspect closet squatters.

The last closet is crammed with suitcases, computer bags, backpacks, tote bags and four towers of boxes of classroom supplies from when our youngest taught first grade. This is also where we keep all the things I plan to donate and treasures for the neighborhood garage sale.

It is the final resting place of closets.

After going through the Changing of Closets again this spring, I finally understand why pictures of those enormous high-end designer closets the size of our first house all have an upholstered chair in them. All the sorting and rotating is simply exhausting.

 

 

One of our sons-in-law, a combat veteran who works out on a rowing machine and treadmill, lifts weights, runs five miles in scorching heat and freezing cold for fun, and often grabs a protein shake to tie him over until dinner since he works from home and rarely has time for lunch.

Because we have so much in common—the part about working from home—I decided to try protein shakes as well. Sure, I could scrape together some leftovers for lunch, but our leftovers have spawned so many aging leftovers, they could chart themselves on ancestry.com.

When I turn to the ‘fridge for lunch, I usually come away with salad. Lettuce, carrots and cucumbers do not have protein.

I need protein. I know this because I hear this and see this all the time in pop-up ads, and commercials and messages from extremely fit and well-paid health experts. You know what has protein? Things that moo, oink and cluck have protein. My taste for meat has developed an inverse correlation to age. The older I get, the less it appeals to me.

So I bought some of those little chocolate protein shakes, the brand with a picture of a wide-eyed cow on the label. One protein shake has 60 grams of protein. I am basically drinking two chicken breasts for lunch. Chocolate chicken. Yum.

Over the course of a week, I probably consume all the protein you would get from an entire side of beef. Consequently, I feel taller, stronger, younger and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I am sailing along, feeling good about life and protein, when some of the grands drop by and swing open the door to the ‘fridge to see what we have to eat.

A voice says, “Grandma, when did you start buying chocolate milk?”

“That’s not chocolate milk, girls. That’s my protein shake,” I say, exuding an air of confidence that says I am in the know and on top of things.

Silence.

“It’s not a protein shake, Grandma. It’s chocolate milk.”

They hand me the bottle with the wide-eyed cow on the label and point to type at the bottom that says, “Chocolate Reduced-Fat Ultra-Filtered Milk” and drop to the floor laughing. I have been drinking chocolate milk for lunch.

I have since switched to the real protein shake, which fortunately gives me strength to endure the ribbing that keeps coming my way.

I wonder if the kid in me knew I was drinking chocolate milk all along.

 

 

 

 

I often walk a trail a short drive from where we live, mostly for exercise, but partly for the quiet to see if I can still hear myself think. Once you pass through the tunnel under the interstate, and beyond the roar of trucks and traffic, you are engulfed beneath a canopy of maple, elm and yellowwood.

Squirrels chatter, barred owls call to one another, and on one occasion I caught a opossum napping in a tree. Or maybe the opossum was playing ‘possum. I saw a deer last spring, not more than 10 feet away, just standing, watching, taking it in, enjoying the view. Tulip trees, redbuds, lilacs and serviceberries.

The trail is popular with walkers, runners, moms and dads pushing strollers, dog walkers, couples strolling, cyclists and even cross country teams. There are no giant TV screens or enormous speakers anywhere, only the chirping of birds, an occasional dog barking or a fellow traveler saying hello.

Finished with the trail and headed home the other day, I reached into my pocket to pull out my driver’s license and credit card, which I always carry. One is for identification, the other for a grocery store I pass on the way home. My driver’s license was there, but the credit card was missing.

I had a sudden knot in my stomach. Maybe I had left the credit card at home.

The sick feeling continued growing on the drive home. It was a mix of worry and dread sandwiched between two very thick slices of “I can’t believe I did that.” The credit card was not at home.

I headed back to look for it, even though I was reasonably confident someone had probably already found it and was on a shopping spree. I began wondering what I was buying when my cell phone rang. It was the credit card company. Someone found my card.

“Was it on a trail?” I asked.

“Yep. A woman walking her dog. She called to report it and asked for your address so she could drop it off. We don’t do that for privacy reasons.”

Naturally, I asked for the contact info of the woman who found it so I could thank her, make her dinner, make her dog dinner, paint her house and anything else she wanted.

She couldn’t give out that info either, but she sounded as excited as I was to connect a lost card with the owner.

I wonder if I passed the woman who saved the day. I wonder if we said hello. We may not always know who or when or where, or even have a chance to say thank you, but there are still good people doing good things.

 

It is a seismic jolt when kids fly the coop. I know from experience that it’s sad. And may I say it is sadder when girls leave home than boys, because by age 18 boys have so much testosterone coursing through their bodies that it is simply time for them to go.

“We love you, but go. Just Go. Take your truck and your drums with you. We’ll call. Our people will be in touch with your people.”

If your children are leaving the nest and you are struggling to adjust, you can now hire an empty-nest life coach. There was no such thing when our kids left home; there was only chocolate. An empty-nest life coach may charge $250 an hour to help parents work through this next stage of life, but why let that stop you?

One empty-nester I read about paid an empty-nest life coach $2,000 a week for 12 weeks of coaching—otherwise known as $24,000.

I am not judging. Not at all. The truth is, I am here to help. I remember the shock of it all, which is why I am offering my four-step plan for coping with the empty nest.

Step 1: Cry. When you set the table for dinner and set one too many placemats—just cry. Let it out. When you go into that empty bedroom—cry.

When you open the closet door in that empty bedroom and old sports equipment tumbles out, when you see all the clothes hanging out of dresser drawers and all the junk stuffed under the bed, cry some more—because you will be the one bringing order to chaos.

Step 2: Get real. Your kid left home. Do you know how many parents would love to be in your shoes? In today’s world, kids leaving home is growing increasingly uncommon. If your kid flew the nest, do a little victory dance. You can go back to crying later.

Step 3: Figure it out. That’s what your kid is doing—figuring out this next season of life. Embrace it and make it work. Get a date on the calendar when you’ll be together again. Have something on the horizon to look forward to, then get busy, stay busy and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right.

Step 4: Start cooking. Why? Because your kid is not gone forever; your kid will be back. And when your kid does come back, the kid will eat you out of house and home. You will be all misty-eyed waiting at the door, the kid will arrive, blow right past you, race to the kitchen, fling open the door to the ‘fridge and yell, “Is there anything good to eat?”

Know this: Your kid loves you, but the two primary reasons kids come home are to do laundry and to eat. Keep laundry detergent well stocked, the lint trap to the dryer clean and start cooking.

There you have it: Cry, get real, figure it out, start cooking.

You’ve got this.

That will be $1,000, please.

The doorbell rings, I open the door and nobody is there. As scripted, I exclaim in surprise that the doorbell rang but nobody is here.

On cue, a 5-year-old in a puffy pink coat barrels around from the side of the porch squealing with laughter. She runs into the house, throws her coat toward the hall tree (but not exactly on it) and races to the front room carrying a stuffed white puppy dog in one arm and dragging a tote bag filled with books with the other arm.

She will be hanging out with us for a few hours today and has brought some early-reader books to read to Grandma.

She climbs onto the loveseat with the faded yellow floral print, courtesy of 20 years of sunshine streaming through the windows, and pulls out “Biscuit and the Great Fall Day.” Biscuit is a yellow puppy featured in simple-sentence adventures for early readers.

“Biscuit and the Great Fall Day,” she softly says, giving me ample time to study the cover.

“Can’t wait!” I say. But I must wait.

She slowly turns to page one, filled with fall pictures, which she gives me time to absorb; then slowly turns to page two, also filled with fall pictures, also giving me more time to absorb. Page three is blank, yet we pause and absorb. This is followed by the title page, then another picture page (is it time for lunch?) and finally the story begins.

“It is a great fall day, Biscuit,” she reads. “Woof, woof!”

She is not using her finger to follow the words, simply pausing, thinking and giving the synapses time to fire. She hesitates before “great.” That “g” with the tail hanging down is a memory prompt for the word “good,” a word more familiar to her.

“Great” is a set-up; it has two vowels side by side. It’s the old, “The first one does the walking and the second one does the talking.” This is a curve ball to our young batter. She holds the “g” in her throat, starts to unleash “goo-“ then abruptly skirts the “d” sound, slides into the “r” sound and finishes off with “great.”

She hits the ball out of the park!

Because reading is more inviting when it is enjoyable, I coach her on Biscuit’s dialog. “Read it with feeling,” I tell her. “Make it sound like a dog would say it—like your dog would say it.”

“Woof!” She emits a guttural woof, sounding like a two-pack-a-day smoker.

The next “woof” comes from deep in her throat and catches a gargling quality.

At the next “woof,” she pauses, squints her eyes ever so slightly, straightens her spine and finds a comfortable and convincing, “woof,” which is good—I mean great— because “woof” is the entirety of Biscuit’s vocabulary.

The next day on the phone with her mother, I mention that I taught her little one to read with color in her voice, whereupon you-know-who “woofs” in the background.

Our daughter, who taught early elementary, deadpanned, “They don’t teach that in school, Mother.”

Of course they don’t, which is why little ones should come to Grandma’s house.

 

We’ve had a lot of home repairs lately. Our house is a lot like we are, slowly aging and in need of occasional patchwork.

We are grateful that we are not aging alone, that we are accompanied on this journey by our unpredictable furnace, faltering air conditioner and 60-year-old pipes with lime and calcium buildup.

What’s ironic is that the service companies always want us to buy a “membership” that guarantees a service call without the gigantic service call fee for 12 months — all of which sounds remarkably like our Medicare Advantage plan.

In any case, we needed a plumber to rip out plumbing in a bathtub not long ago, and before he arrived I received a text saying, “Your technician is on the way. Mason is married, has two kids and enjoys the outdoors and hunting.”

That was nice they told us a bit about the plumber, but then I wondered if they sent the info so we could vet him. You know, make sure he was legit and not some unscrupulous imposter working his way into the house to see if we had any old VHS tapes or landline phones he could steal and sell online.

I contemplated how I could chit-chat with Mason, or whoever he was, to verify his identity. When a plumber comes to the door, puts on the paper footies and walks in, do you hit him with: “How is the wife? School going well for the kids? Did you get a deer this fall? What is your favorite state park?”

I can, will, and often do, talk to just about anybody, but even for me this seemed invasive.

But wait—would Mason expect personal info from me to verify my identity?

Did I need to go into my marital status?

If I started talking about our family—the kids, their spouses, all 11 immensely talented grandkids—Mason could be here for dinner. “We’re out of venison, but do you like smothered pork chops, Mason?”

It dawned on me that I wasn’t just getting a contractor, I was getting a relationship. I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted a plumber. One who would be quick, neat and know what he was doing.

Turns out Mason was just that. I was glad I had not probed the personal information the company sent in advance. Although, when he left I did yell out, “Give our best to the wife and kids, Mason!”

We will ask for him by name next time.

Let’s do this the easy way: Raise your hand if you haven’t had the crud this winter. You know, the coughing, hacking, sore throat, sudden onset of fatigue, runny nose, stuffy nose.

Everybody we know is in one of three groups: they are either currently sick, have recently been sick or are waiting to get sick.

Some people mix and match, others order a la carte – there’s something for everyone.

Some of the grands’ new pastime is getting tested for strep. They swap names of antibiotics like kids once swapped baseball cards.

One of their pediatricians said there used to be a wave of colds every September after school started, but now it is wave after wave after wave.

Welcome to the post-COVID new normal.

To mix things up, one wing of the family recently passed a stomach bug around. A 6-year-old said that her 8-year-old sister, who couldn’t hold anything down for two days, was “like a waterfall—it kept coming and coming!”

Soon after the stomach bug passed through, they all came down with colds. A new day, a new virus.

It’s been ages since the lot of us all tried to get together. We make plans, contingency plans, and contingency plans for our contingency plans. Then someone announces that someone picked up something and everyone freezes in place because nobody wants a third, fourth or twenty-fifth round of this stuff.

I am not sick and have not been sick, which puts me in the third group – waiting to get sick. It’s coming. I know it’s coming; I just don’t know when it’s coming.

“I was coughing last night,” I tell my husband. “Did you hear me coughing? I think I’m getting it.”

“You weren’t coughing.”

“Then I must have dreamed I was coughing and maybe the dream was a premonition.”

“You’re not coughing now.”

“Maybe not, but feel my head. Do I feel warm?”

“You just got home from the gym.”

“I think I should lie down on the sofa to be safe. I don’t feel sick, but I could be on the verge of being sick, so maybe I should take it easy for a while—you know, an ounce of prevention and all that.

“Say, how are we on Popsicles? Ice cream can be soothing, too. Could you make some homemade chicken noodle soup? I can tell you where the recipe is and step you through it.”

No response. I bet his throat is sore and he can’t talk.

My plan is to stay proactive, eat oranges and spinach salads, down vitamins, remember not to lick my fingers when attempting to open the plastic produce bags at the grocery and drink lots and lots of water.

I drink so much water that my Fitbit registered 2,000 steps last night from all my trips to the bathroom.

I may not sleep much, but at least I’m not sick—although I am feeling really, really t . . . i . . . r . . . e . .  .

I sometimes wonder how accurate childhood memories are. Experts are somewhat divided on the matter; but what aren’t experts divided on?

I tested some childhood memories when I came across the old blue diary with a tarnished lock that I kept in fourth grade. My memory was that fourth grade was routine and uneventful. Sure enough, every single entry said, “Went to school. Practiced piano.”

Sometimes I just wrote “ditto” for the day’s entry. There was no need to lock the diary.

Last fall I had a chance to return to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I was born, and our family lived until I was almost 9. I have often replayed the 13-block walk to school in my mind. Details seem vivid, but surely they have been embellished by imagination.

Retracing the old route to school, long-forgotten memories crystalized.

“Old Man Scott’s house,” I said, as we passed a tumble-down shotgun house. As a girl, I never saw Old Man Scott, but I knew he kept a goat and that grown-ups shook their heads over the state of his place. Old Man Scott may be gone but, from the looks of things, the goat may still be around.

On  a corner lot sat Green Chapel where I attended vacation Bible school one summer. One day, the church ladies asked if someone would play the piano while they collected an offering.

I took a seat at the rickety upright and played the only song I knew by heart – “Shortnin’ Bread.” “Get out the skillet, get out the lid, Mama’s gonna make a little shortnin’ bread.”

When I told my mother I had played “Shortnin’ Bread” during the offering, she did not seem pleased. I know for certain that I remember that one correctly.

The old neighborhood has not fared particularly well, but the house where we lived looks good. It has been cared for despite the half-dozen cars now parked in the side yard where a sprawling vegetable and flower garden once flourished. I could smell the purple iris and pink peonies in bouquets Mom would send with me to school with for my teacher. I could see Dad polishing his car on Saturdays in the gravel drive.

We retraced the route I used to travel to my three great-aunts’ house with garden produce strapped to the back of my red bike. Straight four blocks, turn right, turn left, another four to go. The final stretch was on the same route the city bus traveled. When that beast roared past belching black exhaust, I always wondered if I would be sucked into the engine. But each time, the lettuce, beans, radishes and I all lived to see another day.

When the whole family went to visit those three aunts, the second or third time my younger brother and I banged the porch swing into the porch rail, Mom would send us uptown to get my brother a haircut. It wasn’t until we moved away that his hair ever had a chance to grow longer than a quarter-inch. My brother’s recollection is that I never went with him to the barber shop, that he always went alone.

Funny what you remember, what you think you remember and how others remember differently.

Memories can be both friend and foe; hard ones spring to mind as easily and unexpectedly as the good ones. The hard ones land with a thud and often attempt to dig in and roost. Good memories whisper softly, linger briefly, then drift away on a gentle breeze.

If your good memories outnumber the not-so-good memories, and if you can summon a good memory to the forefront at will, you have been blessed. Remember that.

Our granddog wears a hoodie. I can’t believe I just wrote that. The part about having a granddog. And the part about a hoodie.

Our daughter and family treat their new dog like family, which every family in the history of time has done and is also why the dog got a new hoodie for winter.

The hoodie is of pale pink sweatshirt material and even has a pocket on top. Probably for the dog’s gloves, lip gloss and cell phone.

The hoodie has sleeves. There’s something about a dog wearing sleeves that come halfway down the legs that make you wonder if the dog might be able to hold a fork and spoon.

It also makes you want to hand the dog a pen and say, “Here, write your name.”

For some reason, it all looks entirely doable.

Dog clothes are not foreign to me. I sewed a lot of my own clothes in high school and often made my dog a matching wardrobe piece, which was a basic rectangle that tied underneath.

He always wormed out of my creations. Apparently, the dog had something against navy blue windowpane plaid. Big patterns were hip back then. He didn’t like the red and green plaid I made for him either.

My brother and sister-in-law would never try to dress their dog. It is a huge German Shepherd that weighs 85 pounds. When the dog is in your face and smiles big, your first thought is always from Little Red Riding Hood, “Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have!” The dog is not amenable to cute, cuddly clothes. However, the XL dog will try to sit on my brother’s lap, but there is no chair big enough.

Different dogs, different choices.

Dogs that do accessorize often appear personable, the sort of dog you would enjoy chatting with in a slow-moving checkout line.

Still, I casually inquired as to why a dog would wear a sweatshirt inside the house. “I don’t wear a jacket inside,” I said.

Five people turned and yelled, “That’s because you’re cold-blooded!”

I might be.

I casually mention that the dog has a thick coat of fur and at one time dogs lived outside. I also mention seeing a picture of wolves in Yellowstone National Park that were burrowed into the snow and catching a few zzzz’s in the sun.

Later that day our daughter called and said, “Guess where the dog is?”

“In the kitchen making dinner?”

“No, she’s outside. Guess what she’s doing?”

“Going to Starbucks for a coffee?”

“No. She’s burrowed in the snow and is quite content. Just like the wolves.”

“You know what this means, right?” I ask.

“That our dog enjoys being outside,” she says.

“No. It means you’ll have to put the pink hoodie in the dryer when she comes inside.”

 

A text arrived saying a dress I ordered online had been delivered to our front porch. And so it had, in a large and heavy box.

I lugged it inside, heaved it onto the kitchen counter, opened the box and pulled out another box with a picture of a griddle on it. Inside was a large griddle, double burner—the griddle of a grandma’s dreams. The picture on the box indicated it could easily handle eight pancakes at a time.

Perhaps the text about the delivery of the dress had been in error. Perhaps one of the kids sent a griddle as a gift—you know, a gift that says, “Keep feeding us, keep standing at the stove, keep those pancakes coming and we’ll keep coming over.”

I texted each of them and the response was the same, “No, we didn’t send a griddle—but when will you be making pancakes?”

There was no gift card, no note, no invoice, no receipt or paperwork of any kind, just a griddle.

Next came an email saying the dress had been delivered. It included a picture of the box left on the porch and a picture of the dress that was theoretically inside the box. But there was no dress in the box, only a griddle.

I don’t have shoes to wear with a griddle.

Furthermore, a griddle does not provide adequate coverage. Oh sure, I could see some young starlet on the rise trying to wear a griddle. But it’s not me. Not my size, not my color, not my non-stick surface.

Yet, the griddle began growing on me. Literally. My metabolism is now so slow that I gain weight just thinking about food. Even leafing through cookbooks is high-risk. Pictures add pounds.

The griddle would be great for breakfast for a crowd . . . bacon . . . French toast.

Truthfully, the griddle had more possibilities than the dress . . . Philly cheesesteak sandwiches . . . quesadillas.

With all this thinking about food, should the dress ever arrive, it probably wouldn’t even fit.

I was now on the fence about trying to straighten out the mess. Initiating a return could mean a trip to the store without any paperwork and subsequently being charged, arrested and hauled away for theft. (Like that happens anymore.) My metabolism may have slowed, but my imagination remains in overdrive.

I checked the price of the griddle online. The dress had been more expensive. It would not be an even swap, even if they threw in rib-eyes, fresh-catch and pork chops to sizzle on the griddle.

I hauled the griddle to the store and explained the situation to a clerk. Without batting an eye, she said this happens frequently, credited me for the dress and asked if I wanted to reorder it.

I said no thanks.

“The griddle is on sale,” she said.

Mind reader.