On a Clear Night

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  Finally, having gathered enough boards for the project and having built up a serious hunger, we traipse across the road to a delicious meal that Bernice has been preparing.

  I worry about our dust- and dirt-covered clothes, but Bernice does not. This is a working farm, she reminds us, and she’s used to it. We simply take off our shoes, wash up, and settle down at the table, where the red barn forms a backdrop through her lovely lace-curtained windows.

  This is a real midday farmer’s meal: fork-tender beef roast, hot mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade coleslaw, warm buttermilk biscuits, and a steaming bowl of corn that is as sweet as the day it was picked on the farm.

  Before we begin, however, we say the family’s traditional grace. Bernice extends her strong, capable hands, and we form a circle around the bountiful table: “God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for His food. By His hand we all are fed; give us Lord our daily bread.”

  It is definitely a farmer’s prayer. And one day soon, we will gather around my son and daughter-in-law’s recycled barn-board table, admire its lovely grain burnished to a fine patina, and say that prayer once again. I will think of the long history of the cow barn, the day we shared in the spring snowstorm, and all the farm families that nurture the earth to feed the world.

  For that, we give great thanks.

  In Waiting

  We are in a heightened state of waiting. Perched on the edge of two of life’s great milestones, we anticipate the birth of our first grandchild and wrestle with the approaching loss of my husband’s eighty-nine-year-old mother, Muriel. Both could happen at any time, perhaps even on the same day.

  Although the book of Ecclesiastes says for everything there is a season, a time to be born and a time to die, it is difficult handling the two at the same time. Our emotions are on a seesaw: up one moment and down the next. We bounce between hope and sorrow, joy and sadness. Yet, despite these disparities, it is clearly a time for love.

  When I visit my soon-to-be granddaughter’s nursery, I see touches of love everywhere. Delightful gifts from family and friends sit in readiness. There are adorable hand-knit sweaters and booties, a row of little pink sleepers hanging neatly in the closet, a basketful of creative toys and stuffed animals, a bookcase filled with stimulating books, drawers of itsy-bitsy diapers, and an array of lotions and tonics for her every need.

  Keeping watch over all is a lovely antique doll, a welcoming gift from her great-grandmother.

  And when I visit my mother-in-law’s apartment, I see signs of love everywhere as well: colorful flower arrangements and plants, cozy robes lined up in the closet, thoughtful gifts of books and music, a basket brimming with notes and cards filled with good wishes, plus lotions and supplies that resemble the baby’s to meet her every need.

  Keeping watch over all is her beautiful collection of antique dolls, carefully placed on the shelves of a vintage pine hutch where she can see them. They keep her company with happy memories. She has collected these dolls from antique shows and flea markets for over forty years, and they have given her much pleasure. She has meticulously named and catalogued each doll’s history: the year it was made and by whom, the date and price of purchase, whether the clothes are original or not, the doll’s materials, such as bisque, porcelain, or cloth. They have been her pride and joy and a great source of comfort and focus, especially after she was widowed twenty years ago.

  She had never parted with a single doll until a few weeks ago. Having learned of her terminal illness around the first of November, my mother-in-law was bound and determined to make the most of the time left. And so when one daughter-in-law hosted a baby shower for my other daughter-in-law, Muriel set her sights on attending.

  On a frosty sun-sparkled afternoon, she labored up a set of outdoor steps with the help of my sister-in-law, myself, and her walker in order to attend the party. She was clearly out of breath and fatigued from the effort. We settled her in a comfy chair where she could watch all the festivities and chat with family and friends. A short time later, when I asked how she was doing, she said, “Well, it has taken me about thirty minutes to regain my breath, but I’m here!”

  There was great fun and laughter when my daughter-in-law unwrapped all her pretty gifts, but when she opened my mother-in-law’s present, a burst of oohs and aahs filled the room. Out from careful wrappings came a tall, beautiful antique doll from my mother-in-law’s collection.

  We know from my sister-in-law who had helped her with the preparations that Muriel put great thought into selecting just the right doll for this first great-grandchild. We can only surmise how hard it must have been for her to break up the doll collection that had given her so much delight. She was accepting that her days were numbered. Yet, right from the time she learned of her diagnosis in the doctor’s office, she had said, “Well, I’ve had a wonderful, healthy eighty-nine-years.”

  And so, in a gesture of grace, a charming vintage doll is passed from the end of a great-grandmother’s long, well-lived life to the joyful beginning of her great-granddaughter’s. Whether the two will meet on this earth or not, the doll symbolizes the unbroken bond of love that has already connected them.

  In recent days, I have placed my hands into my mother-in-law’s and sadly felt life ebbing from them. Yet, I have also shared in a miraculous moment when my daughter-in-law placed my hands on her rounded belly, and I felt the joyous roll and kick of new life from the baby within.

  Both give me pause to ponder this amazing gift of life. One dearly loved person is exiting and one already dearly loved little person is soon to enter. As we wait in deepening sorrow for one and heightening anticipation for the other, we search for individual ways to express a tender goodbye and a welcoming hello.

  My constant prayer is that God give them each a peaceful passage. May one go in serenity, and may the other enter safely and in good health. At this point, we can only trust and wait.

  And although these events are at opposite ends of the great life cycle, we will rejoice as each occurs: one life’s conclusion and one life’s precious start.

  Under our Christmas tree sits my mother-in-law’s yellow wicker doll buggy that she pushed around the blocks of her home in Eldora, Iowa, more than eighty-five years ago. One day in the not-too-distant future, her great-granddaughter will perhaps pursue the same pleasure, happily (and very carefully) pushing her great-grandmother’s vintage doll around her own block.

  The life cycle continues. As the book of Ecclesiastes concludes, there is a time to mourn and a time to dance. And although we may weep awhile both in mourning and in joy, in honor of both lives, we will also surely dance. And in doing so, we will remember that “He has made everything beautiful in its time.”

  DECEMBER 17, 2006

  Muriel Louise Mamminga, lovingly mourned

  DECEMBER 22, 2006

  Lily Clara Mamminga, joyously welcomed

  Becoming a Grandmother

  She smiled at me. She was only a couple of hours old, but she smiled at me. I know this because I am her grandmother.

  The experts, of course, say that babies don’t smile until they are at least a month old, but what do the experts know? They attribute any earlier smiling to gas or reflexive action or any number of physical quirks. But they are wrong.

  She smiles at me every time I hold her. This is the truth. And if you don’t believe me, you can ask Grandpa. She smiles at him, too. She also smiles at her other grandma and grandpa, so there you have it. A full-fledged 100 percent-accurate scientific poll.

  It is wonderful entering the world of grandparenthood. When our son sent a text message to us four new grandparents in the hospital waiting room (ah, the world of electronics!) announcing that our granddaughter had been born, my husband and I hugged each other with a newfound amazement.

  How had we gone from teenage sweethearts to parents to grandparents so swiftly? But, oh, what a sweet milestone to share together. We looked at each other in disbelief. Grandpa and grandma? Awesome!

&nbs
p; I have been listening to our friends go on and on about their grandchildren for years. Now, they are about to get payback in a gargantuan grandma way.

  You want pictures? I got ’em. You want descriptions? Let me count the ways. You want me to change the subject? Not going to happen.

  I am a goo-goo ga-ga grandma, and there’s no stopping me now.

  One of the first delightful choices we grandparents had to make was what names we would like to be called. Even though our granddaughter won’t start speaking for about a year (though, as we already know, the experts can be wrong), we have to set the groundwork early. After all, this name thing is a monumental decision—one that will last a lifetime.

  I’ve decided on Nana because that is what my son called me as a toddler before he could pronounce Mama. I always found it endearing and hope my granddaughter will, too. One grandfather wants to be called Papa, and because the four of us are of a certain generation, we’ve joked about becoming the Nanas and the Papas. We certainly ooh and coo harmoniously together whenever we are around our grandbaby, but two of us grandparents are opting for the tried and true Grandma and Grandpa, saving her from one of what are sure to be many embarrassing grandparent moments.

  At least, those are the names we’ve chosen for ourselves. Our granddaughter may have other ideas. We might be Moomoo or Poopoo for all we know. We’ll let her decide. All four of us have surmised, however, that at four weeks old she’s already recognized us as meshuga mishpacha, the Hebrew words for “crazy family.”

  As the Bears scrambled down a snowy field in search of a Super Bowl play-off slot, most adults in all Chicagoland were glued to the television. But as the game played in the background, we four grandparents were glued to the real star: our granddaughter. Talking baby talk to her from behind the couch as her mother held her, we oohed and cooed and generally made babbling fools of ourselves.

  She stared at us in wide-eyed wonder, moving her bright eyes from one goofy grandparent to the other. As she kicked the little blue-and-orange Bear booties that her daddy had placed over her tiny pink outfit, she looked up at the four of us with a puzzled expression that seemed to say, “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Each one of us four grandparents has commented to another that we cannot believe such a tiny baby can be so fascinating. Who would have guessed that we can be entertained for hours just holding and staring at her—her long slender fingers, the intricate shape of her ears, her tiny mouth, and her expressive eyebrows. When she yawns or stretches, you’d think it was the Fourth of July by our amazed expressions.

  There is a limit to our expertise, however. Even we have to admit that when she gets fussy or starts to cry or has a poopy diaper, only her parents have the right touch. And back she goes.

  But the best part of becoming grandparents is the anticipation of being able to play with a child again. Even when our son called to say our daughter-in-law was in labor and the baby was expected to be born in a couple of hours, my husband and I felt an urgent need to put the dolls from her great-grandmother in order before she was born.

  “Hurry!” I shouted to my husband, as if she was coming to play any minute. “We’ve got to get the dolls ready!”

  And so we did. The two of us scrambled around in a panic, placing the dolls neatly in a cabinet where she could reach them if she were a toddler. Satisfied, we drove off to the hospital to await her birth.

  Not only are the dolls ready, but Grandpa has a new set of blocks waiting in the wings and Nana has teacups and saucers, and out in the garage is a vintage scooter that we found at the flea market. Of course, at four weeks old, it will be awhile before she can use them, (If, by chance, you stop by and see Grandpa building a tower with his blocks or Nana having tea at a tiny table with miniature cups and saucers, know that we are just practicing.)

  One of the most profound and daunting aspects of becoming a grandparent is this newfound sense of the future. Before our granddaughter’s birth, the future seemed a vague and distant thing. But now, two generations removed from us, she makes the future seem much more tangible and real.

  And with this realization comes a whole new sense of responsibility, not only for her well-being but also for the world she’ll live in. Issues such as world peace, the environment, relationships, faith, and learning opportunities, which were always important, suddenly take on a more intimate meaning. More than ever before, we want the wars to end, the glaciers to stop melting, the religious faiths to respect each other, and the smog to clear so that the stars can shine, not only for her future but for the future of all the little grandchildren of the world.

  Perhaps becoming a grandparent is God’s way of giving us one last nudge to make the world a better place before we leave it. And what could make that nudge more convincing than knowing the footsteps that follow yours are your grandchild’s?

  Just the other day, I held my granddaughter on my chest for over an hour. She snuggled dreamily against me in a cozy nap. Resting her head on my shoulder, she tucked her little hand under her chin and curled her tiny knees up under her bottom. I could feel her small heart beating against mine, the two hearts together like a valentine of love.

  I’m sure she was smiling, and so was I.

  Learning Curves

  I am always ready to learn, although I do not always like being taught.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  Rip Van Winkle Returns to School

  It was a long maternity leave. Twenty years, in fact, since I walked out of my third-floor classroom with its view of the river, waved goodbye to my cheerful class of seventh-graders, and at seven months pregnant went home to await the birth of my first child.

  Three sons later, at the age of forty-eight, with a résumé that included Cub Scout leader, Sunday school teacher, room mother, and freelance writer, I walked back in.

  Hired at the last minute by my former school district as the fifth high school journalism/English instructor they’d been through in five years (they were desperate), I had just ten days to read the Odyssey, acclimate myself to block scheduling, and figure out new high-tech procedures, such as using a Dynacom system. Where to begin?

  My instincts ruled. I needed a makeover.

  As luck would have it, the beauty counter consultant was a recent high school grad.

  “What tips can you give me?” I implored the eighteen-year-old as she swathed my eyelids with plum-berry shadow.

  Stepping back to assess my face, she pondered the question with Einstein-like seriousness. “Just remember one thing,” she said as she moved in to adjust her purplish palette. “They don’t want to be there.”

  With this nugget of advice, plum-berry-shadowed eyes, and CliffsNotes for the Odyssey stuck in my briefcase, I strode back into the hallways of academia.

  Like Rip Van Winkle of yore, I was in for a rude awakening. Things had changed.

  First off, simple daily procedures like taking attendance and providing discipline had gone high tech. Back in the 1970s, we wrote absent kids’ names on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it on a nail outside the door. If a kid misbehaved, we simply invited him in for a little chat during after-school detention.

  Flash forward to the 1990s. I found myself scrambling to find the required No. 2 pencil to fill in little bubbles for the right day and week on a Scantron sheet next to absent students’ names, and then re-recording absentees in a separate record book.

  Misbehavior and truancy resulted in complicated paperwork involving a scaled system of consequences, parent notifications, loss of privileges, and zero hour detentions (i.e., before school). I needed a personal secretary to keep it all straight.

  Twenty years ago, Gertrude, the no-nonsense school secretary, shouted announcements into a raspy PA system. The 1990s version showcased student Jay Leno wannabes on each individual classroom’s thirty-inch TV screen, rendering creative readings of the week’s activities. I’m not sure which method is better. Either way, the kids don’t listen. Gossip from their friends is much more newsw
orthy.

  Instruction time was another shocker. I discovered classroom periods had changed from forty-two-minute sprints to ninety-minute marathons. The first had been short and to the point; the second was multi-activity driven. Both had their pros and cons. Despite the differences in instructional time, I found students still struggling with parts of speech.

  What had not changed was the bathroom dashes between classes. Students and teachers are still in the same boat on this one. You know someone has to go when you see him or her weaving wildly down crowded halls with a glazed but determined look on his or her face. That person was often me. It took most of a semester, but I finally got my plumbing to coincide with the five-minute passing schedule. Don’t even think about ringing a bell as a joke.

  Perhaps the most drastic and unsettling change I observed was the need for tighter security and safety. Twenty years ago, the school’s atmosphere was open, friendly, fun. Now it is tight, suspicious, serious. Teachers wear identification badges, receive latex gloves and warnings about blood-borne pathogens, and learn the protocol for handling strangers who enter the building and emergency procedures for locking our doors. A policeman (ironically, a former seventh-grade student of mine) patrols the halls.

  “I thought I came here to teach, not run security,” I sometimes mumbled to myself while standing at my appointed guard station between classes.

  I am frequently asked if students have changed much in twenty years. That’s a hard one. Problems at home seem more prevalent, or at least they’re discussed more openly. Swearing is common in the hallways, and a myriad of students appear extremely tired, many of them working after-school jobs with late hours.

  I experienced a few upsetting incidents when a kid lost it and became an aggressive bully. It took all I could muster intellectually and physically to hold those situations together. But there were a few moments when I went over the edge as well. One day I lost my cool over comma rules, of all things. Patience went out the window. As it often did for some of the students, fatigue and frustration had gotten the best of me.