Tapestry of Your Life

I once heard someone describe our lives as a beautiful tapestry. He went on to say each thread is interwoven and may circle back with a purpose and each is put in by design

creating a colorful legacy. I rather like this imagery description of our existence here on earth.  Are we not each a master of all the images we are creating of our lives?

So what kind of tapestry are you creating?  I think the colors should be vast and variegated. Life should not be mundane or there is no growth.  A picture is captivating in black and white but a tapestry draws no attention without color. Your live should be colorful and eye-appealing if reviewed in full.

Draw outside of the lines. Conformity is entirely too overrated. Why make the picture of you look like everyone else?  I always told my children dare to be different. Be the one that stands out in a crowd. We all have a destiny. Discover yours and fill it. You can’t if you do nothing but always walk rank and file.

Dare yourself to take risks.  This is when new threads begin in the tapestry of your life.  These are the ah-ha moments that give your existence a new dimension.  It doesn’t matter if it is a new career,  a new sport, or a challenge but sometimes do the things no one things you are capable of.  Believe in you. Life is only one shot so give yourself that chance if you think it is worth taking. Passion is a hunger that should be quenched!

Don’t close the door to the past simply because it is over.  That fabric is part of your make up; it is in your tapestry and is part of your beauty with its joys and sorrows.  It is to be celebrated because it has made you part of who you are and the life you are now living.   The threads are critical to the image!

God sees our lives as a beautiful tapestry from above that we weave of our own freewill. Our choices are the ebb and flow of the wave of colors and the overall look and feel of the final image.  Additions in your life may very well be thread changes so don’t settle for staying idle, never moving forward or outward at all.

 As you move through your life, ask yourself, is there color in your life? Do you allow change and growth opportunities or do you run from a challenge that forces you to grow or become more passionate?  Do you allow any new threads to intertwine?  Do you smother the flames of any sort of passion outside your comfort zone?  

Live your life to the fullest but, define it with your own definition of greatness, not someone else’s.  Most importantly, make your tapestry a masterpiece.  It should reflect the legacy of a life fully embraced with  your passion that shows the world you alone could only create this wonderful tapestry! Get to work!  

Savor Your Loves

Wistful week, reflective moments. While sitting outside with Charley last night, a neighbor walked by with her little dog. She wanted to greet him and he began barking his head off. As she pulled back on the lead, backing off from him in fear, her doggie lurched forward fearless of the dog outweighing him by well over 90 lbs.  Thus began our conversation and the fears we face in life.

Maria was her name. Her husband was diagnosed with dementia 5 years ago. It was not that gut wrenching to her and the family at first as she had lived a rich full life with him and thought it would be a slow long progression downhill. She was fully committed to taking care of him herself, as so many are.  Over the years, the dementia progressed and went somewhere over the line into Alzheimer’s and many thought she was nuts for taking care of him herself.

Maria had baby gates put up so he would not leave the house in the middle of the night. Living in a gated community surrounded by concerned neighbors helped.  She slept on one side of a barricade to keep a constant vigil on him the last two years incase he awakened and needed her. Those years were full of late night walks when he felt he was called to duty by the police force and needed to patrol the streets again.  When driving her car, to him everyone looked like a potential criminal and should be arrested. She would have to have him sit on his hands so he would not grab the steering wheel and pull over to make an arrest like he had for some 30+ years on the police force.  

The day finally came, when diapers, speech and body functions were making it impossible to care for her beloved husband any longer so she was forced to put him in an assisted living center. Within days, he suffered 3 strokes, and within 2 weeks he was dead. She said, perhaps the way he wanted it. He preferred being at home with her. So now, he is waiting in heaven for her return, this time to greet her with his faculties all back in check.

Bob died May 17^th, 18 days ago. Here we were, standing in the street, just beyond my driveway, talking at the sun was going down as if it was any other day. And yet, the conversation was heavy in some ways. I listened as she shared. When she learned I have a great deal of experience being around folks dying of cancer, she asked me questions. We discussed these together as it is more important she come to her own conclusions than mine.

Amazing how, in one conversation, you both can get a renewed faith in God, yourself and human resilience from others you barely know.  Bonds are formed that quickly, by a human connection. We can change each other’s life that quickly and leave an indelible mark on each other in life.  And life is short-lived.  Life is a cycle and there is no denying part of life is dying. And then returning home.

Today, I was in a melancholy mood. As we sat waiting for the vet to see our dog, a man pulled out front with his car, right outside the front door. He came around to the passenger side and gently lifted his dog, a golden retriever mix out of the front seat gently laying her, on her front legs on the pavement. Someone opened the door and he picked his dog back up placing it inside and holding her.

Everyone watched and yet did not watch. The room was silent, the dog was silent, the man was motionless, his face was expressionless yet it was clear what was to come. The dog was in bad shape. No one said a word, not any of the dogs, or the office staff. We all sat there praying he was called back first, praying our dog wouldn’t ever be in that spot and yet knowing surely they all would, one day.

He was called back, and just as gently lifted his dog up and went into the room. You could have heard a pin drop. When he left, the door slowly opened. I caught a glimpse of his beloved pet lying on the soft blanket the vet had laying on a cushion to help make the floor softer. How thoughtful for the last bed the doggie would lay on. I couldn’t bear to give the doggie but a glance because I wanted to think in my mind of that gorgeous dog, jumping, barking, licking kids’ faces and such, as dogs are meant to do. 

The man’s eyes caught mine, just for a split second, and then we both looked away from each other. He had been crying. He quickly wiped away a tear. And walked out of there ever so quickly, back to his car and then just sat there. I know a piece of his heart was breaking just as Maria was at the loss of her husband. 

The cycle of life is hard to comprehend at times but teaches all of us about the mysteries of faith. Why it is important to savor the times we have with loved ones and not take them for granted. He started up his car and pulled away. He will start a new chapter.  Maria said to me she is redoing parts of her house as she must rebuild her life, alone. We are given another day to live. Until we aren’t, embrace your life and those you love, fully and completely. 

Every Step is a Seed that Can be Sown

I read a story the other day. A woman was very sad and felt despondent. A small boy came up to her

and asked her what was wrong. She said she had a pressing large problem on her mind that had no real solution. He gave her a spyglass and asked her to look through it. She put it up to her eye looking through the proper lens. He yelled at her and said “No, look through the other end.” She said “Why, that makes everything look small?” He said, “Because, that is how God sees our problems.”

When I married my children’s father I was seventeen, just one month shy of turning eighteen. He was twenty-three, a factory worker.  We had next to nothing, moving into a low rent apartment in North College Hill in Cincinnati, Ohio so we were close to his family. All the furniture we had was from his parents and mine. Most of what we had in our kitchen was hand-me downs and yet we got by. 

I was pregnant with my first child and times were quite tough. Another baby followed in 2 ½ years.  Many a nights I looked at my babies in those late night feedings at 2 a.m. talking to them and to God to let them grow up to be rich and successful. I wanted them to have it easier and not have to struggle as hard as their dad and I were and to have more fulfilling lives than we were leading. Making ends meet is a continual stress that wears heavily on every area of your life.

I eventually set my sights on returning to college to get my degree when my daughter was around 4-5 years old, something I had always planned.  In mid-stream, I got divorced, which added additional strain in our world when I sought full custody of my children. Grateful to have been awarded it, I still aspired to be top-notch academically in college, do all I could to help my children reach their full potential in school, and make certain they were not deprived of any opportunities in their childhood, the best I could. Thus, they were to be able to participate in outside activities.  Their life was never to be sacrificed for mine. Thus, my life, their lives too, were chaotic at times. 

Eating out was Taco Bell, getting extras was trips to Big Lots, study time for me was done at soccer practices and after they were bathed and in bed. Many a night I fell asleep downstairs on the floor calling it a night at midnight with my head literally on a textbook.  The alarm went off at 6:00 am. or so to begin the routine all over again.

I had to pick up a part-time job to help with our budget.  We had to give up our beloved dog because there was not enough money to feed him any longer. My kids qualified for the free-lunch program but refused to get it because they were embarrassed so I had to come up with lunch money or pack it so they could eat. 

Unknown to them, I was going without eating many days and dropping weight. It was a hard life, empty cupboards and a refrigerator that was bare more often than not. But we made it, we stretched our food and were resourceful, even they were. My son started learning how to cook to help me out as time was in short supply trying to keep  a house in order, a job, school work and get everyone where they needed to go. All through this, my prayer was that one day, life would get easier for us all.  I hoped that my kids would lead an easier path for their adulthood and their families would have a more prosperous life. 

They both attended a private Catholic high school after being in public schools up to eighth grade.  I remarried, at one point, a  blue-collar worker who made a far greater income than I.  It helped  immensely but when he moved in, there were red flags going off that should have been clear enough this was not a match made in heaven. I foolishly ignored them. 

My income went to all of my kids’ needs and his helped out in so many other respects. The payback for that was huge, he made our lives a living hell. Food was in the cupboard and we went out to eat much more.  For the first time, my son was told he could order anything he wanted off a menu. His eyes lit up like he was dreaming.  Our home though was no longer, when he was in a bad mood, a very calm relaxing nest. 

We had a huge new custom home built that was beautiful. It was unfortunate that none of us cleaned good enough, decorated the way he liked, walked right, talked quietly enough, etc…  So thus began a life full of some good times, cherished moments, great laughs interspersed with the worst memories possible.  Those out-weighed anything pleasant.

I think my children thought his paycheck was paying for everything they had, thus a part of them was grateful to him. The reality was my check was paying for anything to do with them pretty much.   Behind closed doors was many an argument over my ‘indulging’ them, as he saw it.  He would even get their family to chime in and sorta gang up with him. I was repeated accused of spoiling them by giving in to them too much, doting on them too much, and spending too much on them in his eyes.  He grew up with little and saw my spending on them uncalled for and unappreciated.  My take on it was they were my children and I was simply allowing them to keep face with their peers.  Going to a private school, everyone wants to fit in, to some extent. There is a pecking order and my kids deserved to not be on the bottom.  Also, having lived a life with so little, I thought these last few years underfoot in high school I wanted them to have more.  So when I could, I did.

It was a struggle for me to afford it.  My children had to work part-time jobs at a school when most kids didn't.  My children drove cars that most kids only saw at used car lots.  I know that was hard on them but it was the best I could do. I won't ever forget the day I said something about going to Big Lots when one of my son's friends was in the car.    My son told me later to not ever  mention that store again with any of his friends. He was embarrassed if they knew I shopped there. 

When my daughter would pick out clothes, e.g. prom dresses, I had to have her look at prices closely. I couldn't afford any dress on the rack. It was only my paycheck and a small child support check that never went up in amount on either of the children for adjustment from the year of the divorce.  She just thought I was being mean to her because, if over a certain amount, she would have to pay the difference if she wanted it.   She didn't like me not being like the other mothers. She was right. I was not, the money just wasn’t there. I did the best I could but sometimes I could sense they were not thrilled that it wasn't enough. 

I had always wanted to pursue a doctorate in college and continue on. If I had, my career would have gone on the path I dreamed of and our income would have been much more elevated. However, reality bites,  I had two children who needed to be fed and cared for.  I am not complaining but I lived my life doing everything on my own, no massive hand-outs, just like thousands of other single-mothers or remarried women who have children from a previous marriage that their new husbands don't want to fully support. 

 My mother had left my life when I was younger. I was raised by my father and step-mother. I knew, from day one, I was not her child and she never let me forget it.   I did not want to be absent for my children and neglect their needs. I felt continuing education beyond four years in college was too much of a compromise.  So I left school with more of a liberal arts degree moving into jobs with low pay but employed.

Both of my children went on to college after high school with me unable to pay for their college tuition.  I had to pay college loans for ten years, post college. Their father and I had agreed, at our divorce, on a set amount of money to be put aside for college.  When the time came to draw from it, the money was gone, he had drawn from it and used it up.  

They were in the position I was, no parents to pay for their education.  At the last minute some relative did step up and give some assistance, though, which was wonderful! I helped when I could, my son more so,  because I was able to do more, at that time.  My daughter, I did various things, e.g.when her car died, I gave her mine. When her boyfriend broke up and left her with a huge debt,I  helped out. 

No surprise to me, both of my children went on to accomplish their goals! Even with setbacks, they dug in deep and finished.  Past the undergraduate degrees, they went on and pursued graduate degrees and be the ‘somebody’ I wanted them to be and knew they were capable of being.

My son earned his doctorate in Dentistry and my daughter became a Nurse Practioner. Even though their biological father was not involved in their upbringing post-divorce, I instigated a reconnection and they began the bonding process. It was wonderful to see it materialize and even he and I began a new-founded friendship. I was thrilled he was able to reconnect and share in the pride of both their graduations and celebrate their success. 

Both children have formed their families and are able to travel, buy designer label clothes and provide in ways I never could for their families financially.  Often times, before their father died, he and I  have talked about the stark differences in their lives verses ours.  We wonder if they knew just how hard it was for us to truly get by. It is so easy to get caught up when you have so much and not see how much of a sacrifice people made to get you where you are.He remembers, many times, during my other marriage, getting calls from me when things were not going well with either the husband or the children and one or the other wanting something I couldn't afford. He wouldn't help me because he felt if it was beyond my reach, they didn't need it. He felt I overstretched my limits for them. I suppose he is right but I thought it was the right thing to do, give them as much as I could. I sometimes still felt it wasn't enough. 

I wonder what their lives would have been like if I had been married to someone like them, with that occupation, so there wouldn't have been so many nos. Or, if I had not remarried and had been forced to say no most of the time, would that have increased their drive to succeed or have made them more resentful of me and what I couldn't provide?  But I have discovered, as I have aged, things in life happen for a reason. Their drive was probably grounded to some extent in the fact that they too endured the struggle. They saw me sit at the kitchen table studying. They knew I valued education. They heard me sweat over grades, nervous over bills and worry over jobs. There were nights when my son literally quizzed me for tests I had in college on material he had no idea what the material was  about.  Perhaps it helped him in later years in school, one never knows.  In the dark recesses of their mind, they know I worked hard.  

I have heard them make jokes about how little they had growing up or cheap things they had as if it wasn’t enough.  It may be said in jest but like any mom, it hurts.  We put our heart and soul into our job and for some of us, it doesn't come easy, for me it did not come naturally either.  I feel like if it weren't for me, they would not be here, have had the chance to pursue their dreams or possibly have the drive.  I had a mother who left me, there wasn’t really a great role model to pattern my behavior off of.  I was somewhat winging it as a biological mother to her children doing the best I could do raising my children with a step-parent/father most of the time or alone.

I live at peace now as my grandchildren get taken far better places and live in loving homes.  I remember my grandmother saying if sacrifice means your children have it better and your grandchildren can prosper, it is all worth it. Grandma was right.

My grandmother never lost the respect of her children for being poor. Her grandchildren never lost it either for her or grandpa being poor either. With my children, it is hard to say, it is a different time and place.  I miss the richness and closeness we had when we were poor . Ironic, isn’t it, that now that they have so much richness, the relationship feels poorer.  Perhaps with the divide in our wealth and their success, they see me differently and yet I am still the same. I am the one constant in their live whether in it central or not.

 I have the peace and knowledge in my heart that I, like my grandmother provided the love, the education and the strength of character to help get them where they are and to help get them where they are going and that, simply said, is enough. Their success is my joy and my peace. That is my legacy.

I challenge you, in 2016, if you never thought about it before, create yours. Now is the time as tomorrow may never come. Be sure you are leaving your mark on the world. Those around you may not appreciate it but God, planting a seed is important. One never knows when or where it will grow. 

Grandpa Gliatti's Legacy

Whenever Jan. 1^st rolls around, I always recall celebrating my grandfather’s birthday on this day, the first day of the year. I was never quite sure if that was his actual birthday or if no one knew and that was just the day someone picked. I was betting if it was picked, it was by my grandma when I was a kid. Like most Italians, they had their share of sparring arguments and though I didn’t speak a word of Italian, I was pretty certain she got the last word in! Besides, she had the power of the kitchen on her side.

Grandma Gliatti, Jospephine D’Angelo Gliatti was the absolute best cook, hands down. Grandpa had it made in spades when he married her, as far as having meals prepared by the crème dela crème chef!   He, as far back as I can remember, was a smaller built man and I never really understood how. With all that yummy pasta around and her homemade Italian bread all us grand-kids would die for, it was astonishing!

In the far recesses of my mind, I have fond memories of my grandpa, Michael Gliatti, born in around 1900 and deceased in 1972.  When he was younger, the period I recall, he was a hard worker. As a little girl, I saw a man that was proud, engaging, laughed, drank, ate and shared.  It amazes me when I think back that as a household, my grandparents were not well-off and yet both were so compassionate towards others.  Within their Italian support group of friends, the bonds ran deep. I recall they even came to each other’s’ family get-together.  It was as if they were each other’s extended families.

When he aged, he became quite ill. The details are sketchy to me and for some reason, I am not all that interested in getting caught up in them anymore. I think, for far too many years, all I could remember were the images of him those last several years ill, not the grandpa I had come to know and love.  With time and prayer, I have realized that in my relationship with grandpa, he was a sweetheart with his granddaughters. He would not want me to remember that period at all, so I choose not to anymore.  Gone are the memories of looking at him in a chair and wishing the clock would turn back. Now the memories are all the happy times, as he would wish them to be.

Bovino

My grandpa was from a small town called Bovina. Bovina, Italy is a hilltop town at the foot of the Irpinia mountains in the province of Foggia, in the region of Apulia, in southern Italy. It's main economy is agrarian. It was recently voted in a national contest the country's fifth prettiest village.  

If you go on social media to try to meet folks from that town, you will quickly find out just how small a place it is and how out of the mainstream! It had to be imagine what is must have felt like to leave this

Chiesa di Sant"Antonio
Church of St. Anthony in Bovino

quaint area in Italy, travel to Naples, take a ship to go to Ellis Island in NYC and then on to Toledo, Ohio to make a home.  Keep in mind the timeframe, early 1900’s, no cellphones, no great transportation, safety guidelines not in existence, medical care poor, etc.  My grandparents had an inability to speak English well, the added stress of the culture shock and a lack of connections, besides a few folks. This was unduly hard on a young married couple who did not have much money from the start or employment. 

Many that know me well have heard me talk about my Grandma Gliatti often.  I didn’t realize, till lately, I have scarcely talked about Grandpa and he too was someone I looked up to as a child.  Though the images are harder to pull up and fewer, they are there and there are some wonderful memories worth recanting of his love and light in my life. He made a difference in this world.

They came to America in 1929  on the SS Augustus. Conducting research on the treatment of Italians during this time-frame is quite disturbing. Today’s focus is so heavy on “Black Lives Matter” or as others chant “All Lives Matter.”  Many felt Italians were second-rate citizens and thus, their lives did not matter near as much. Unions were not much in existence so my grandfather was resigned to work in sweatshops with unsafe standards. Grandma, I am told was a seamstress, by trade, and was also working in her field in unpleasant working conditions.

My grandfather was darker skinned which made it quite apparent he was European, native Italian. In addition, with a name like Gliatti, it is hard to hide the fact.  Nicknames like Whop are extremely racist. Grandma told how women chatted and laughed about her, not even behind her back as they knew she couldn’t understand their insults so literally did it right to her face.  In those days, she was treated more like a second-rate citizen and needed her job so had no real recourse.

Close to the time my grandparents had immigrated to the United States, 5 million Italians had came here, 4/5's were from the Southern regions of Italy.  Interestingly, most were laborers, such as farmers with no intention of staying here. Their goal was to make money, not assimilate to America’s culture or language and return home in a few years.  They felt they could make more money here with our wages, at the time, go home and buy land. Most were unskilled farm laborers and were in poverty. And many did return.  My grandparents always chose to remain.

What Italian immigrants faced, upon trying to enter the workforce, was hostility. Italian workers were placed, in the pecking order with blacks, on the bottom. They were known as strike-breakers and wage-cutters, breaking picket lines as they needed work to eat.  They began being labeled “dagoes” and “guineas” and were the only workers permitted to work alongside blacks.  None were allowed to hold titles, political leadership or have a voice in any decision. 

But somehow, through it all, my grandparents persevered. Their story is full of hardships, tough choices and dire straights. My blog is not the time or the place to tell of all the sacrifices they made. That is a private intimate look into their lives, their story. Mine is a story of just a girl who became a woman who wants to pay homage at the start of a New Year to one of her heroes, gone but not forgotten.

So, the close of my grandfather’s life, as I like to remember it, is he opened his own upholstery shop. I think he bore his name, Mike’s Upholstery.  I was told his furniture, by my father, was the absolute best. My grandmother was the seamstress. Customers came in, looked at the furniture choices while us grand-kids played in the back of the store. Folks could look at the hundreds of swatches and pick out whatever they wanted, custom orders. The furniture never broke and they could just have it redone with new fabric when they wanted. This was true customer service, something you can’t find anywhere, the kind true Italians that have fought their way for everything that have can only give. They were compassionate about their customers and their customers must have known it. 

They had a home within walking distance of their shop. They loved each other and they loved everyone in their family, in-spite of their faults. They didn’t complain about their lot in life, being poor, working hard, being ostracized by a society simply because they were different, immigrants and wanting to migrate to be Americans.  They raised children to be more than they were and were successful at doing just that.  They prospered at all they set out to do. 

My  grandpa let me know he loved me. Those times I walked in the door and he pinched my cheeks and said something in Italian I don’t have the foggiest of what it was I miss now. It hurt when he pinched my cheeks but it hurts more now because he can’t do it anymore.

I miss hearing the arguing and then laughing between him and my grandma knowing, that in the end, they would be gathered at the table enjoying her wonderful cooking again as if nothing else mattered but being together in the kitchen. And in the end, they were right, nothing else did matter.

I miss seeing him down that horrible wine that my father always said burnt his throat going down. I admired Grandpa’s fortitude in swallowing it, showing me that the smallest of man can be the mightiest.

I miss seeing him hold all those nails in his mouth as he pounded in nails in furniture. This was accompanied by Grandma yelling at him to please stop doing that lest he swallow them and him ignoring her because he knew it was the fastest most efficient way to build furniture and he wanted always to be a good provider for his woman, the love of his life.

Most of all, I am proudest of his devotion to God, his country and to all of us, his family.  I know, in heaven, he surely must see his legacy lives on.  You did it, Happy New Year Grandpa! 

Love and miss you always, until I see you again, 

Ronni

Time Slips Away

The world is getting younger or I am getting older.  I think I like the former option better!  Of course that would mean that I haven’t lived long and I know that is not true. I have seen so many things come and go in my lifetime. 

I can still remember when TV’s had rabbit ears, antennas were on roof tops and families were limited to three channels and most of them had limited selections of shows. But all in all, that was good. It forced us as children to play outside verses watch television. 

Those were the days when playing outside did not mean watching for strangers lurking in the street. Nor were we, when I was growing up, forbidden to go to the park to play, infact we went there all the time.  Curfew meant being home in time for dinner or being within shouting distance of home when mom yelled your name and said “Come home now!” We did not have to necessarily be in visible site, just in the front yard at dusk.  And curfew was home by bedtime for school age kids, as homework was done right away so we could get outside to play!

Now I see children are forced to come home from school, if their parents work, and make their homes look uninhabited. Windows have curtains closed, doors locked and the TV on low volume. The home phone is not to be answered.  Each child has a cell phone in their possession and that is the only phone that can be answered.  If fact, parents must be called immediately to ensure their children get home and aren't snatched by a stranger.  Wow, what stress!

Heck when we were kids, there was one phone in the house, for everybody.  It usually was on the desk or the counter, in the most central location, where the traffic was the heaviest. It always was the loudest too when anyone called you in the room where the phone was positioned.  And noone cared whether you were on it, the volume in the room just got all the louder! We were elated when phones could hang on the wall and instead of turning a dial, they had push buttons. Next they came out with the extra-long cord so we could stretch it and walk around the kitchen while talking! 

Sometimes I see the young parents and I wonder what it would be like to raise a child in today’s world. I certainly miss, after attending child events, like kids graduation, birthday parties, dance recitals, sporting events, and such, some of the camaraderie of the parents and kids.  That was always fun, sharing in the joy of our children’s accomplishments.  The sheer light in my kids’s faces when they had so much pride was wonderful.  It made me know they were going to grow up being someone special.  Their pride carried over to us, the parents, and fed our undying support of them and increased their support system too.  Now I am on the outer edge as a grandparent, as an Aunt or as a friend. Still a supporter, still joyful but it is different. I feel a step removed. I am. 

But then, reality check, when I see the stress, I stop and think hard. I hear about the time involved with carting kids back and forth to practice, extra time spent working on things and the balancing act with time, money and patience, I am suddenly feeling drained. It all comes flooding back to me.  In my younger years, it was two children, just me doing the running, the homework, the private high school, doctor appointments, physical therapy, soccer year round, etc…   

Not much reflection is needed and I realize I am, at this age, a far better grandmother than a mother! Oh, if I had to be a mother to my grandchildren I could do it and would.  But my new approach would be quite different than my old approach.  I certainly would be smarter and work less harder. I would worry less and love and accept more. 

Back then, there seemed less unpleasantries in the world to talk about to children.  Violence in the school, for example, is too commonplace. Bullying is becoming a norm. So many outside influences that are affecting education in the schools, issues that teachers cannot possibly completely control.  These variables also make it harder on parents of today in many ways.  And more importantly, they are unfair to the majority of our children.

Having my grand-daughter this past week reminded me what I do best, the ‘grand-mother thing’. I can love unconditionally, I can discipline when it threatens to be hurtful or damage her reputation, and I can be concerned about her safety and well-being. I can listen, be supportive of everything her parents are trying to instill and teach her.  Oh, and best of all, I can be a fun vacation away from everything!  But I also get a break.  I do not have to do the hard work part of parenting.  But I get the rewards....of seeing her grow, thrive, dream, succeed and mature into a beautiful young girl.

Reality check time, I am getting older.  I won’t be here forever, any day now I could be hit with that dreaded 'C' word again or something else could knock me out. She will age, my granddaughter,  and I will be gone. My daughter-in-law tells me often, I can be a happy memory of fun times at Grandma’s house.  I think that is the legacy I would like to leave behind. Yeah, perhaps that will be one of my favorite stamps on this world.  Smiles for Ava!

   Introduction to Small Video

Sitting with Ava this past week, we were reviewing songs on my cell phone while stuck on the expressway for 2 1/12 hours when a horrible accident caused a complete shut-down. It was interesting to learn some of the songs I loved she had heard and loved too, my adorable little 6 year old granddaughter.  During this time of emptiness on the road, she sat on my lap, off and on, as the car was off, and we grew tired of walking around outside, talking to other drivers nearby, playing games, etc.  She was giving me massive bear hugs telling me how much she loved me. When I would repeat I loved her too, her response was always “I know Grandma.”   I wanted to share some images of the past week spent with her to a song she and I shared that night on the roadside.  She told me I was young when I said I was old. This song seems quite fitting, given that….  Click here for Video Link