Hooked

I was brought up with lots of reading material around. Books and magazines were readily available to me. This may account for a couple of things: I love to read and discuss what books we’re reading with my friends; and I am apparently hooked on magazines.

It started out as an innocent thing, a gift subscription to Sunset soon after we were married. I loved all the articles about gardening, home décor, and scenic locations in California. In the eighties, I was caught up with country design. Enter Country Living and Country Home. Those two were easy to read and toss out when the next one arrived. But only after I had torn out all the pages that inspired me. It took me far longer to toss those select pages, even though I seldom acted on those inspirations.

We also “needed” a news magazine to keep up with world events, even though we watched the nightly news and subscribed to at least one newspaper, and Time made its weekly entrance in our home. Later on, Newsweek found out where we lived. It wanted to compete for my time with Time, and I let it. Now, a number of years later, we’re still trying to send one out the door, but we can’t decide which one. Besides that, we still have a couple of years’ worth of subscription remaining.

I blame my Granny for getting me started on Redbook, particularly in the early days when the pages were filled more with short stories than fashion. She didn’t subscribe to it, but a friend gave her old copies. I used to go through the piles she had stacked up in her sewing room, taking them home to read. Later, I subscribed on my own, looking forward to Judith Viorst’s columns on her husband and three boys. When the content changed and Judith left, my interest waned, but I found others to fill the gap. Good Housekeeping and Better Homes and Gardens began to come to our mailbox. At some point, I let them both lapse, but one of them kept pushing me, making me an irresistible offer, luring me back with low rates. I gave in.

When our boys were young, I was sure we needed National Geographic. After all, they’d have reports to write and would like the pictures. That was followed by Smithsonian. These marketers know how to keep you in their fold: if you like this magazine, you’ll love this other one, too! When we moved a few years ago, I had a hard time unloading those pristine yellow-covered, faux-leather boxed, almost never-read magazines.

When one of those boys grew up and had a serious girlfriend who worked for O Magazine and even had her name on the masthead, I subscribed. When she moved to O at Home, I subscribed. I was almost relieved when O at Home folded. When she wanted a subscription to National Geographic Traveler, I ordered it for her – and one for myself, since it was such a good deal. Mr. New York still has the girlfriend/now fiancée, and I’m still reading Traveler. I’m also reading The New Yorker, thanks to same son, only now I buy my own.

Twenty years ago, before I knew about online sites like epicurious, we joined a gourmet group. I read Gourmet, followed by Bon Appétit. And, perhaps it was all those butter-infused, cream-sauced recipes that led me to subscribing to Cooking Light, followed by Weightwatchers  and Prevention magazine. I meant to cancel at least one of them; I really did. Maybe when the next renewal notice comes, I’ll just throw it away. Really.

Dear Diary

This is my third foray into the blogosphere. My son, Mr. New York, advised me that good bloggers post at least twice a week. I thought I could do that easily enough. Except. Except, that is, unless you conisder my record.
As a kid, I was given a five-year diary. It closed with a clasp and tiny lock. It never occurred to me to actually use the key to lock it. I also didn’t have much to say and seldom on the five allotted lines. My penciled scrawl, a shaky cursive, likely recorded that I had a pretty good day or – more likely – that nothing happened at all.

Since then, I’ve made sporadic attempts at keeping a record of happenings. I occasionally kept a journal through high school and college. I’ve been spurred to write at critical moments, particularly in the days immediately following September 11, 2001 and the subsequent war with Iraq.

Several months ago, as I celebrated my 60th birthday, I bought a green, leather bound journal, intending to chronicle only those events that held some significance for our family. I haven’t written since February. Since then, my husband has had (successful) surgery, our future daughter-in-law has bought her wedding dress, and No.1 Son and daughter-in-law have had their first child, our precious Michela, all journal-worthy events.

One kind of journal I have been somewhat successful at making consistent entries are my travel journals. I still have the one I kept thirty-eight years ago when we had a 5-week honeymoon in Italy. Fifteen years later, on another trip to Italy, I again made my daily reports. Even though this trip was shorter and involved small children, a brother-in-law and his fiancée, I found my voice and tone curiously similar. In the last three years we’ve had the opportunity to travel extensively. Thank goodness for my journal-keeping; otherwise I would never remember all the walks we took, cool neighborhoods we investigated, or wonderful meals we consumed. Even then, I sometimes find myself “catching up” on two or three days’ worth of entries, which inevitably results in He Who Never Forgets Anything questioning why I didn’t mention the amazing restaurant, the streetcar we took, or whatever else I omitted.

The champ of journal-keeping in our family is Mom. She has maintained daily entries for more than fifty years. Her first journals were called Daily Aides, more appointment book than journal, but there was a page for each day which was all she needed. Those first journals cost less than a dollar. Now, with the advent of Day-Runners, followed by Palm Pilots, Outlook calendars and Blackberries and with the demise of the Daily Aides, Mom spends at least twenty dollars apiece on those pristine, bound and lined pages. At eighty-two, she still has beautifully legible printing, suitable for reading in years to come.

She is the Keeper of All Information, the arbiter of any disputes over who hosted Thanksgiving last or which year I broke my collarbone in Yosemite. With five children over a span of eighteen years, she had plenty of fodder for those pages. Her sons’ and daughters’ girlfriends and boyfriends were fair game, as were eventual marriages and, sometimes, divorces. She addressed her worries with aging parents and, I’m guessing, her concerns about her own health and Daddy’s as well. It’s all there in her journal.

As eldest daughter, I’ve asked Mom to leave me those journals when the time comes. She’s warned me already that I might not like everything I read, and to please not think badly of her.  I'm sure at the time she began writing, she never expected to be sharing her private toughts with her adult children or anyone else. I suspect when the time comes, I’ll just be pleased to have those carefully crafted pages of print, warts and all.

Oh, Baby

I got THE CALL yesterday from my son: Could I babysit Michela for a couple of hours? Michela is only six weeks old, the delight of her parents' hearts, and our first grandchild. And she hasn't been left with anyone yet. Could I? Of course, I could! It means breaking an appointment with my dad, making me feel guilty, but this is serious: I am entrusted with this precious child for a few hours while her parents are busy.

Since I am to be there for several hours, I pack my water bottle, a small lunch, crossword puzzles, a magazine to read while baby sleeps, cell phone and camera, figuring I'd want to document this day. I also bring my hat, just in case we go out for a walk. I pack everything in my Trader Joe's bag, along with a packet of Kleenex and a fine-tip pen for the crosswords.

I tell New Dad I'll be there in plenty of time to get instructions from him and New Mommy: what time and how much to feed her; how to mix the formula; how long to keep her up after she eats; how she'll let me know if she needs to be changed; whether or not she needs a blanket in her crib; keep the little mittens on so she doesn't scratch herself; socks are optional. I am ready. Mommy and Daddy leave, and we two are alone at last.

Baby and me. I won't have to share the holding time with anyone. We'll just sit and rock. Almost as soon as we are alone, she gives that little cry signaling a diaper change might be in order. Yup. There is that tell-tale green stripe on the Pamper. Back in the day, babies wore cloth diapers, covered by rubber pants. It was pretty easy to check for a wet diaper: wet or not wet. Now with the super-absorbent, soft disposables, one has to look for the yellow-turned-green stripe. If there is no stripe to check, the diaper still has to come off, just in case. Check for wetness and refasten if it's still dry. Michela seems to love the changing table. It signals to her that she'll be comforted and comfortable again. She lies there, cooing and smiling, completely content while I unsnap and resnap her pink, flowered onesie.

Soon, she's hungry. New Mom has left the first bottle ready for me. Michela happily slurps down half her bottle, acquiesces to some gentle burping, and finishes off the last couple of ounces. My instructions are to keep her awake for at least twenty minutes after she eats. Not to worry. She isn't interested in sleeping. We talk; we rock; we dance around a bit; I take pictures of her. We rock some more, as I sing to her. Suddenly, she is inconsolable, and that's when the phone rings. New Mom is checking to see how everything is going. Really, we're fine, I say. Don't worry about us. Stay as long as you need to, I say. I run through my routine again: diaper check, rocking, singing, and the second bottle. She finishes the bottle, coos and smiles but still doesn't doze off.

New Mom comes home, and I reluctantly hand over Michela who snuggles against her mommy. A quick diaper change, and Michela sleeps in her mother's arms.

New Mom thanks me for helping. I gather my undrunk water, unworked crosswords, and unread magazine and quietly close the door behind me. No thanks needed; the pleasure is all mine.

What's Next?

Years ago -- before motherhood, mother-in-law-hood, grandmother-hood -- I had a colleague who relished life. When she retired from teaching, she learned to snow ski and ride on the back of  a motorcycle. When she became a widow, she traveled the world. Now, at 93, she still plays bridge, drives her own car, and keeps up with her friends on email. That's who I want to be when I hit 93.

The Beatles once sang, "Will you still love me when I'm 64?" Of course, when I heard that song, I wasn't yet 20, and 64 sounded toothless, hopelessly out-of-date, possibly decrepit. Now I know better. Sixty is just on the cusp of life. There's plenty to do: travel with my husband; attempt to paint as well as my mother does; get (more) fit; learn to make pasta from my mother-in-law; finish War and Peace and read all those other books on my list; take (more) pictures of our first  granddaughter; and maybe learn French and Italian.  There's plenty of time...

In my way of thinking, if "50 is the new 30," then 90 will be what 60 used to be. I plan  to be ready when that time comes.