Slán abhaile.

 I have been thinking about Sinead O'Connor quite a lot the last couple of days, as many people no doubt have.  Full disclosure:  I was not her biggest music fan, for a variety of reasons.  And yet... I was a true fan of her, Sinead, the person, and it is that which I have been thinking about.

Of course, I recognized she had the voice of an angel.  Haunting, emotional, tearing you this way and that.  She had a power like very few ever have to move the listener.  She did not need autotune and lots of special effects to do it.  Her voice, alone, was enough.  Sometimes it was too much, really.  She was almost too real to bear.

On being a grandmother....

 Every year at this time, I contemplate what it means to me to be a grandmother.  My two grandsons have their birthdays two days apart, and it always shocks me, each year, how quickly the years are flying by.  This year it is even more so, as they are both in school and they are so clearly growing up.  Their faces are no longer the faces of babies or toddlers - they are boys, growing and thinking and in possession of their own personalities and thoughts and plans.

I did not grow up with grandparents.  I always knew I was missing out on something, because my friends would talk about how great it was to go to their grandparents' homes, but mine all died before I was born, or when I was so young I don't remember them at all.  I didn't really spend time with friends at their grandparents' homes, either.  The only real example I had was my own mother as a grandparent to my kids, and while she did so much right, I thought about ways I would do it differently, also.  

So when I was approaching grandparenting myself, I felt like I finally had a clean slate to make the role my own.  I don't have to live up to anyone else's memory.  I don't have to follow anyone else's example.  I don't have guidelines or expectations to meet.  I get to be the grandparent I want to be, just the way I want to do it, and no one else is involved except the kids, who don't know any better.  Perfect!  What freedom!

The Worth of a Man

 I have been thinking about my dad a lot lately, especially this month.  He would have been 100 years old on January 4, and as of today, he has been gone 50 years, the same amount of time that he lived in this world.  It is sort of a weird milestone, one that most people don't have to ponder, and it has caused me to think about my dad maybe more than I normally would.

I wonder what he would think of this world of ours, if he could come back today and see it.  When he left us, we were in the midst of wrapping up the Vietnam War (that was the day before the peace accords were signed,) the Watergate hearings were in the news, Richard Nixon (remember him? Shady presidents are not a new thing) was inaugurated for the second time but already on shaking ground, and we were in the midst of the early 70's with free love, drugs and rock and roll.  I wonder what would he make of computers and a cell phone in every hand, big screen televisions, video games and the much fancier cars and trucks we drive?  And what about all the other changes in the lives of the people he loved the most?

Choosing Joy

 January is a gloomy month in Minnesota.  Well, really, I think its gloomy everywhere, but especially in Minnesota.  The holiday season is over, with nothing really fun on the horizon for months.  The weather is cold and frequently overcast.  I tend to get depressed from the confluence of several things at this time of year, and I am not that fun to be around.

In November, I decided to start each day thinking of something for which I am grateful.  It improved my attitude, and made my day better.  I shared my thoughts on my facebook page, and heard from a number of friends that they enjoyed my thoughts, and they actually looked forward to reading what I wrote each day.  (And I do thank you for that encouragement!  You have no idea what it means to a writer to hear that someone enjoyed what they wrote.)

Gratitude and hope

On January 2, 1962, I met my family for the first time.  I came fully dressed, with my own silverware (a Christmas gift from my foster grandmother, apparently!  We still have it, of course,) and already potty trained (a serious bonus if ever there was one!)  My social worker, who was bringing me to the meeting, was running late, and ran for the elevator my family had just stepped into.  My mother looked at me, and leaned over to whisper to my dad, "That's her!"  Our hearts met in that moment, and somehow, in this wide world, I was already theirs, and they were already mine.  

It strikes me as funny that they had to go "home" for the night, which for that night was actually my aunt and uncle's home, to think about whether or not they actually wanted to take me for keeps.  (Yes, the similarily to adopting a pet is not lost on me!  Haha!)  Mom spent the entire night sick with anxiety that something would go wrong, and somehow, I wouldn't be theirs after all.