How It’s Been

We are still in the “feast” portion of the “feast-or-famine” pattern of our transatlantic relationship with our grandson and his parents, and unfortunately, I have allowed myself to succumb to an insidious tendency: even while the visit is happening, I’ve been contemplating its brevity, jumping into the anticipatory sadness of its ending. Now the dreaded trip to the airport is already only two days away, and I wish I could just lose myself in the moment and not obsess about the long, long-distance reality ahead.

To be fair, this has been a particularly short visit, with hardly enough time to absorb the fullness of their presence, particularly Felix’s, and adjust to the different rhythms of the day. Our own routines are in upheaval, and I’m feeling oddly off balance. Literally, in fact. A few days ago, while strolling around at the zoo, I suddenly fell to the ground. Various people came rushing to my aid, including my grandson. Nothing was bruised except my dignity and self-image; I still don’t know exactly why I fell down.

Yesterday I made the mistake of attempting what I assumed would be a quick trip into Buellton for a few groceries, then on the way back was confronted with a roadblock on the southbound 101 just before the turnoff to home, and after a long crawl to the junction in a clogged stream of traffic, a man in an orange vest directed me to turn around and head north. “But I want to go south,” I shouted. “I know what you want,” he said, although he clearly did not. “Go north and take the 154.” This represented quite a hefty backtrack and a detour that would eventually leave me in Santa Barbara, thirty-five miles south of my destination. I felt so confused and disconcerted, I called the CHP office and asked for some clarification. I could tell immediately that the guy on the phone perceived me as a clueless, self-absorbed biddy. He told me, in an almost accusatory tone, that there had been a fatality that morning. Had I not been checking social media about road closures?—and yes, just keep going north and get on 154. This fellow was too busy dealing with life and death issues to be bothered by befuddled old ladies. I felt chastised.

It's been like that lately. Sometimes I’m golden. Honestly. I shine. (Occasionally.) But lately all I do is misstep. An old friend scolded me in a text message for not being responsive to her needs. I had a flat tire and didn’t know how to open the compartment in the trunk to see if there was a drivable spare. I put peanut butter in a cookie batter, which offended sensibilities. I can’t remember if I took my blood pressure medicine today. (Skip it, or risk taking it twice? I chose to skip it.) I keep saying the wrong thing. And I can’t seem to write, which is a problem for me, although I am trying right now.

And I’m sorry, but all the awful news of world and nation is getting to me. It finds its way into my head at night, bleeds the joy from my heart and fills me with anxiety, despite my usual stance of granting myself happiness. “You’re getting that depressed way,” warns my husband, and advises me to change my attitude. Oh, I wish I had a closet full of attitudes, easy to change into. I would choose a sunny yellow one for sure. In fact, yesterday Felix came into my room in the morning, pointed out the stripes of sunlight on the floor, and mentioned that his favorite colors were yellow and green and orange. He noted that the color of his shirt was more of a “mustard” color, but he liked it anyway. (Oh, how I will miss these intrusive morning visits and cheerful announcements!) He also informed me that he’d had bacon for breakfast, and this house in California is a rainbow house, and, by the way, a rainbow is not a rainbow without indigo and violet. Also, he can help me choose which shoes to wear. And did I have my cawfee yet? He was eager to go outside and help Papa with some jobs.

The utter deliciousness of this child is part of the problem. How will I adjust to his absence when he is so real and present now? I will try to inscribe upon my heart the image of him awash in that golden morning light, right here in our house, or scrambling on the road beneath the trees, or running at the beach, his laughter trailing like music.

And just as I typed those words, there was a knock at the door, and there he was, newly returned from a project with Papa. He exuberantly described the building and dismantling of a boat-like structure from old wooden boards and requested a snack and some music. I had put together a little play list for him earlier, and when I hit “random shuffle” the song Ripple came on, and he seemed to enjoy it. Now I’ll always have a memory of sitting with my grandson listening to The Grateful Dead.

Felix has me completely under his spell and knows I can easily be manipulated. Sometimes he does impersonations of us, and it’s clear that he perceives me as a comical figure, but effusively affectionate, someone he can count on for snuggles, stories, and a bending of the rules. So in the long succession of selves I have been, this funny Nonna character is the one my grandson knows, and I’m just lucky to have met this Felix. Of course I must telescope far into the future in order to imagine who he will become, but I’m certain his enthusiasm, humor, and curiosity are traits that will endure. I love how vigorously he loves the world.

Meanwhile, he’s become very fond of California, and the Ranch has been pulling out all the stops. I have never seen the waves so big, the light so fine, the sky at night so vivid. I can only imagine the spell it must cast on his receptive heart. Even I am noticing things lately as though for the first time, knowing I will leave them soon: the well-trodden paths, the creekside sycamores, the hazy bluffs, all blurring into dream. It’s as the character Jim Burden says in My Antonia: “There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.” (Yes, I’ve been re-reading My Antonia, one of my favorite books, and so many of the descriptive passages about landscape are evocative. This ranch is my landscape, and my daughter’s, and I’m glad my grandson can know it on some level.)

So we stand at the start of a new year, with dismay and wonder, having come this far, our hopes, such as they are, (as Merwin put it) “invisible before us, untouched and still possible”.

Still possible, that’s my favorite part.