Flights of fancy

I'm one of those people for whom air travel has been an occasional pleasure. A couple of business trips, a few vacations. I could count the number of round trips without taking off both shoes, which, in a life that's well into the sixth decade, isn't that many. I'm lucky that, unlike some friends, I don't get an upset stomach, and I am not terrified. The acceleration and little bounce as the plane takes off, and the drag of the wheels and sharp breaking as it lands are still exciting. I love to sit by the window and watch the landscape go by, although I never know for sure where we are. And, as far as fear is concerned, I figure that crashing would be terrifying for a moment, but would go fast and probably leave no pieces requiring medical intervention. Plus the family might get a nice settlement.

So, as everyone who knows anything about me is already aware, my daughter and son-in-law gifted the world with a child on August 11, providing, as a colleague says, a branch for the family tree. Although we had already decided that, due to the press of work commitments and the distance (and cost) of travel, we would wait to go visit in October, dearest husband decided that our daughter needed me just as much as I needed to see them. He had me arrange time off and put me on a plane for a week-long visit. I was lucky because I felt needed and useful, lucky because I was wanted by my daughter, and extremely lucky that my son-in-law is so welcoming and adaptable. And fortunate beyond measure that our new grandson is healthy and strong and beautiful. He eats enough to grow, sleeps enough to allow his parents some respite, and cries enough to keep his lungs clear. As he grows, he won't be perfect, but he will be loved enough to be secure and respectful.

My flight back on Sunday was a bit sad, two months is a long time in baby time. He will be older and more lively when I see him again, the cuddly newborn time past, but the active baby time to be anticipated. I got to thinking about my first airplane trip, to my grandmother's funeral when I was nine. She was the only grandparent I ever knew. I, along with one cousin, was at the tail end of 20 years of grandchildren. My cousin lived near her and knew her very well. I lived 600 miles away when I was small, and, at the time of her death, 1500+ miles distant. She had visited us for long blocks of time in my early years, often a month or more at a time, and I do have pleasant memories of her. She liked to walked our Chihuahua when I was small. She disapproved of litter-bugs. She let me play with her green eye-shade. But generally, I think she was bored with grandchildren, and perhaps worn down with a life she hadn't expected, so I didn't know her well and have no real personal memories of her. Mother was devastated by her death, and Daddy, much like dearest husband, knew that she needed to fly back for the funeral, and needed someone with her to distract her. He selected me. After all, I bore the same first name as both my mother and grandmother, and could ride on a child's fare. We flew out of Fresno two days later. After a few moments of panic at the start, I loved flying, and have ever since. But I always think of Grandmother when I fly, with a pang of regret that I couldn't mourn her as my cousin did. I really didn't know her. But this time it really hit me that I never really knew the only grandparent who was still living when I was born.

I don't want to be the type of grandmother that isn't known by my grandchild except as a vague memory. I want to see and hear him, even if it's over Skype. I want to know him through photos (thank you, dear son-in-law), texts and emails. I want to see him grow, know of his fears and joys, his small disappointments and great successes. Even if I can't always understand what he says, I want to listen, and even if I don't comprehend his activities, I want to watch him do them. I don't care about being fun (I won't be out playing touch football with him) or cool (certainly I'll be no competition on the computer games), although I wouldn't mind being the grandma who knows what treat he likes. And I'd like to be able to tell him about my parents and our trips across the country, about his mother as a child, how strong and beautiful and talented she was. And I want to tell the story of grandparents' first meeting with his dad and the forty questions. And when, I hope many years distant, he perhaps flies to my funeral, doesn't feel regret that we never knew each other.

Saving & Genetics

My Mom really knew how to use save and reuse things. I am sure this was due to her early life, part of which was spent on a small farm, and then her early adult years during the Great Depression and WWII. Among other things, she saved plastic plates, cups, spoons, forks, etc. She'd wash and reuse them. I am her daughter, and have the same genetic predisposition save junk for reuse. So, although I don't save the plates and seldom save the cups, the plastic forks and spoons get saved and resued. What else does one put in a lunch or dinner for work? Some people will carry metal ones, but not us! The loss of a plastic spoon won't bother us like losing another of our flatwear spoons will.

Mother was an early recycler, washing out and resuing the occasional glass jar (as I do now), and her biscuit/cookie cutter was a metal baking powder tin with the end cut off. When I was first married, I promptly bought and used some of the same brand baking powder so I could make my own biscuit and cookie cutter. (Good thing I did it then because now that brand comes in cardboard.) Margarine tubs are reused in my house just like they were in hers. I've even gone a step farther. I reuse the plastic tubs that frosting comes in. Since Mother NEVER used prepared frosting, she never had the opportunity to reuse these tubs. So, although we never wore flour sack clothes, she was sharp about getting another use from things, and passed that along to me.

Why am I thinking of this? Recently, my grocery has sold these nifty little tarts for a low price, each baked in a tiny aluminum pie pan. These aluminum pans look too nice to just throw away, so I have a little stack of them ready to use ... how? Dunno yet. William finally noticed my little stack and asked, "Are you saving those?" Yes, I said, because maybe I could reuse them someway. He then said, "Aunt Mary." and left the room.

This is a reference to my mother's older sister, Mary (born Narcissa Mary) Holt Cunningham. She had the remarkable ability to take anything that was a good idea just a little too far. She too saved and reused. To excess. When her house (in which she had lived for 40 years) was being cleaned out after she died at age 95, we found she had saved, pressed flat, folded and stored in boxes, dozens of foil and paper Arby's wrappers. We aren't sure what she planned to do with them, and I am sure rolled in her grave was as threw them away.

I'm not sure what I'll do with the aluminum pie pans, but I'll keep them for now. But keep an eye on me when I got to Arby's, OK?