What to be Called?

Whoopi Goldberg became a grandmother at 34 and is now a great-grandmother. Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of “Vogue” magazine, has three grandchildren. Meryl Streep became a grandmother in 2019 (Insider). And, yes, now I am one too. What an extraordinary club! But what to be called? Vanity suggests something cute and sassy like Mimi or Yaya or Gigi, but Grandma, oh that has so many connotations that might suggest baking or needlepoint, or at least level-headedness, right? Might I still be in a nightclub at midnight or be dashing around the south of France or even, dare I say, unsure about my future with a moniker like Nana? Didn’t we all think those matriarchs, a bit round in the middle, coiffed grey hair into a bun, always in an apron, knew their way around a kitchen, and knew for certain what their tomorrow would bring? Seriously, those names and every association with them is weighty. How can I step into those shoes and feel they fit while there is so much I am still learning about life? Grandmother? Feels tight.

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It’s August, a perfect time to give myself a real vacation from thinking too hard about sticky stuff. Of course special thanks to Kansas voters who voiced the opinion of most Americans, and who have started my mind-cation off in the right direction. Added thank you to all who are still working to keep our Democracy out of the hands of those bent on destroying every last truth. You people deserve golden metals and shiny honors.

Today, as I watched the sun rise from high in the sky, I was reminded once again, that each day brings possibilities and choices for all of us. Mine is to take a needed long mental break and relax into the stretch of sunshine and family and joy ahead.

My Dad drove a Convertible

My Dad drove a convertible. Once he turned onto our crab tree lined lane, the volume of his Beethoven’s Fifth rattling everyone’s windows, a harbinger of his arrival sending us out to greet him. Top down, music soaring, he was beaming in the sunshine and wind, after a long day of doctoring. After dinner rides to the Dairy Queen, a pile of neighborhood kids squashing into his back seat, quarters held tight in our palms, eager for one of those delicious dipped cones. My hair whipping around my face yet seriously nothing felt better on a hot night than those rides in his red convertible. Every summer I find myself, windows down, radio up, driving a bit too fast for the curves ahead, thinking of his love of all things summer, chasing those carefree snippets of youth.

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