My new (and first) grandchild is August Theodore Holden, born April 16, 2014, to Maggie Gardner and Jeff Holden in Cambridge, MA. These pictures are courtesy of Jeff.
This is all so wonderful. I don’t know what else to say.
Just a day old
It has been my observation that most American kitchens do not contain sharp knives. In my kitchen, all the knives are well-honed and I use them all the time to cut, chop, and slice.
In winter, I boil, steam, mash, or roast root vegetables almost daily. You need a sharp knife to cut a tough root vegetable. Carrots take a moderate amount of effort; turnips are soft; potatoes very in hardness; but beets and rutabagas resist the knife and are difficult to cut.
So when I awoke this morning with the image of one of my Gerber knives slicing through a freshly peeled rutabaga, I knew it meant something significant. I took it to mean that my strength is returning. I knew, at a cellular level, that I would write again.
I have walked a steep, rocky, and twisting path these last months. I gave up writing entirely; life intervened. My focus moved—I became more involved with friends, quilts, cooking, knitting, and playing bluegrass violin. A new grandchild was born.
As my function decreases, it takes longer and longer every morning just to get the day started: get out of bed, wash, dress, fix breakfast, make coffee, open the blinds, and get the newspaper (the one I still subscribe to) off the front porch. I whine about this a lot, but really, this set of tasks that used to take only a few minutes now consumes an hour or more, shaving minutes from early morning, my prime writing time.
There have been steps backward: reduced walking ability, worsening balance, weight gain, fatigue, and sleep issues. But there have also been undeniable gains. An incredibly gifted body therapist, Valerie Lyon, taught me how to stand up straight and access the energy my body already possesses. I find great joy in making music and piecing quilt tops. I discover new friends, and strengthen ties with old ones. I deepen my religious faith or my ties to the Universe, however you wish to look at it.
And the whole time, even when the boulders were the biggest, I’ve held despair at bay. Not by denying, but by accepting.
Finally, the packed ice broke, and floes began to break off and float into consciousness. Sleep is easier, I’ve been able to lose a few pounds, and every day I count many accomplishments, even though I am frequently tired. One of the blessings of sleeping longer and more consistently was that I began to dream again. And thus, the vision of the sharp knife easily slicing into that rutabaga, tough as it was.
And here I am, writing again.
Yesterday, April 23, 2014, would have been my mother’s 100th birthday. She died in 2011 at the age of 97. My first grandchild, who would have been her second great-grandchild, was born just a week earlier, on April 16. His name is August Theodore Holden.
Among the items I discovered when I went looking for the baby clothes I had set aside after my girls outgrew them was a sweet little circular blanket knitted with pastel yarn and topped with a yellow pompom. Who made that? I wondered, then saw the tag: “Made especially for you by Judy Weinsoft”.
I met Judy when I was a student at Berkeley. At that time of my life, I didn’t have a clue how to relate to other people, and I was entirely wrapped up in the man who would become my first husband and the father of my children. But Judy saw something in me and made a special effort to become my friend, and when I moved to Portland, where she had grown up and to where she returned after receiving her librarianship degree, we rekindled our friendship.
Judy’s father was engaged in a business that seems quaint to us now; he sold and repaired small appliances. Of course, today we never repair small appliances, we just toss them and buy new ones. Anyway, Judy’s father was able to order some Gerber knives for us wholesale, which was important as they were quite expensive. I still remember poring over the various knives in the catalog with their evocative names like Excalibur and Pixie.
Nearly 40 years later, I am still using those knives. The handles, which are also metal, show signs of wear, but the blades are as sharp as ever.
This Gerber knife’s name is, simply, “Franch.”
Judy died early, tragically, of breast cancer while she was still in her thirties. She was such a good woman, cheerful and caring, doing volunteer work when I, even before I had children, couldn’t seem to find the time.
I miss her to this day. I’m not going to give that baby blanket to Maggie, the new mother. I’m going to keep it.
