You’re part of the Sandwich Generation if you are actively involved in the lives/interests/activities/care of your children and elderly parents. Like… sandwiched in the middle. In a good way.

You’re part of the Club Sandwich Generation if you’re involved in the lives/interests/activities/care of aging parents, adult children and grandchildren. Kind of like adding delectable bacon to the luncheon meat.

Well, I’m going one step further with the Saratoga Club-House Sandwich Generation. This is the veritable country club of generations. This is the exclusive club… with aging parents, adult children, grandchildren and grandpets. Think tons of mayo and some interesting veggies.

Take Barry and me, for example. We used to be members of the Sandwich Generation. We even used to be members of the regular Club Sandwich Generation. But now we are card-holding members of the Saratoga Club-House Sandwich Generation… (Saratoga Country Club being credited where the world renowned club sandwich originated.) On any particular day, we can be found anywhere with anyone from our club… and often with multiple members. On weekends, we can be found squished between our bedsheets with a visiting grandpet or two… and up at the breaking of breakfast bread with prancing grandpets who just happen to think know that grandparents live for early morning duty calls.

Ah. Just like a sandwich, life is better the more and more interesting things are added. We’ll take the meat, the bacon, the cheese, the lettuce, the vine-ripened tomato, the avocado, the sprouts… with extra mayo… all between whatever bread comes our way!

My Mom is home from her extended health vacation. She is happy to be home, but with being home comes all the things about being home. You know… cooking, laundry, housekeeping, organizing.

I am happily helping with the first three. I cook up lots of things, like American Chop Suey (with ground turkey) or baked chicken or fish with rice or potatoes and nice vegetables (my Nana always called vegetables “nice”… like, “Have some nice peas.” I still love this memory of my Nana!). I bring my Mom meals every day, and I’ve been delivering Coffee Cabinets from our local Newport Creamery. My Mom is not a huge dessert eater, but oh! has she been enjoying those Coffee Cabinets (for you non-Rhode Islanders, a Coffee Cabinet is heaps of coffee ice cream, coffee syrup and milk. Yum. And enough calories to get my Mom up and plumped a little!).

I’ve been the laundry lassie, too (remember the specific directions for washing delicates? Yep. My Mom gives the best laundry directions!). And my Mom is the master (or mistress?) of cleaning, but I help, and she has an agency helping, until she is feeling better. The same agency is also sending nursing care, which is very important to her physical and emotional recovery after such an extended health issue.

So on to the organizing. We all have our little organizing tricks that make our lives easier, and one person’s organization is unlike anyone else’s. Yes? My Mom is Mrs. Organization. My Mom does not like anything out that does not belong out… like mail or dishes or random bags of stuff. And it is a seemingly random bag of stuff that got us both in a big bag-’o-difficulty with a misplaced hearing aid.

Since my Mom has been ill, I have been changing her hearing aid batteries and filters. No small task, by the way. The batteries are the size of microscopic organisms and the filters are smaller still. To make this easier for me, I have been keeping all of my Mom’s hearing aid things in the box they came in, and I keep this box in the sturdy white bag that the box of things came in. Follow me? Well, that sturdy bag finally ripped from all the carrying around the hospital and rehab center and back home. So I told my Mom that I was putting the box in another bag… a sturdy plastic bag… and that we would keep that bag next to her kitchen table… where I would always know where it is.

On Thursday morning, I called my Mom and she could hardly hear me over the phone. She was saying, “I lost my hearing aid.” Well that, folks, is alarming. Her hearing aids are her window to the world… and she needs both of them for optimum proficiency. She was saying, “I looked everywhere. I was on my knees under my bed…” I’m thinking, “OH, NO!” She is supposed to be resting and recuperating…

I immediately headed to her apartment. She had all but taken the sheets from her bed. Her pocketbook was emptied on her kitchen table. She had gone through her waste basket and every shred of paper. She was visibly nervous and upset. I looked around. I was calm on the outside but not so on the inside. I know she has insurance for these hearing aids, but the process of getting new ones is lengthy. I stayed positive and methodical. OK. Where did you last have it? Where have you looked (other than the obvious)? “OH, MOM… WHERE IS THE BAG WITH THE BOX OF HEARING AID THINGS?”

My Mom had been organizing. She can’t help it. This is what she does. But she is not feeling 100%, and she forgot that the plastic bag with the box that I wanted near the kitchen table is the bag with her hearing aid things. She saw it as a random bag… but only after she had, quite efficiently, taken out one of her hearing aids and put it inside the hearing aid box inside the bag.

“AH. MOM… WHERE DID YOU PUT THE BAG OF HEARING AID THINGS?”

“In my bedroom. Out of the way,” she answered. Of course. My Mom is the organizer. She can’t help it.

OK. I found the bag. With the box. With her “lost” hearing aid inside the box.

Celebration!

Moral of this story: Always look for something where the most organized person would put it.

While Audrey (aka Mommy) is attending the BlissDom ‘10 Conference, I’ve been helping out with the kids.

And you know what happens while the cat’s away and the kiddies come to Grandma’s to play…

Let’s just say the kittens and I have been having a little bliss of our own. We’ll call it WhipDom ‘10 and leave it at that!

From my “computer window” I look down at a fairly busy main street.  Mornings are especially busy.  This morning, it seemed to be the morning of school buses. Dozens of them. They just kept rolling along… on the morning journeys that school buses take.

I remember way back when I was a school bus rider, in junior high school, traveling that very same road on that very same journey each morning.  I hated the bus.  Hated.  Hated.  Hated.  I hated the huge steps.  I hated the narrow aisles.  I hated the the boys who sat at the back of the bus and taunted the girls they perceived as undesirable and the boys they perceived as weaker than them.  I hated the school bus driver who never intervened when some kid was being picked on… abused, really.  I hated the spit balls and gum and wads of paper.  I hated how she just sat there in her seat, staring ahead, glancing in that big old rear-view school bus mirror just long enough to not see anything.  I remember the small green vinyl seats where one person and one book bag hardly fit and that same bus driver yelling, “All the way back and 3 in every seat.” Impossible.  I remember the agonizing exhaust fumes and the bitter cold or rain from the windows opened by those same boys… and still the bus driver said nothing. I remember the smoke from the cigarettes from these same boys, smoke circling the bus like sickening vines.  My ride to school was a long one.  Often, in traffic, it took 45 minutes to get to school.

I hated the junior high school bus.

I hated it so much.

It’s funny how I had pretty much forgotten about those morning journeys until I saw all of those buses this morning.  I had put those memories into a little box and stored them all the way back in my mind.

But it’s interesting that those school bus memories did shape the person I would become.  As a teacher, I was always aware of the kid who was picked on.  I was always aware of the bullies.  This dynamic is apparent just about everywhere we go.  School.  Work.  Families.  Maybe that school bus ride was just preparation for life…

Because there is always, too, that person in authority who does nothing.  The school bus driver who sees all in that big old mirror, but sees nothing.

I thought about this today.  I thought about the kids on those buses.  I thought about life…

Yesterday morning, I stopped in at Audrey’s house before heading to visit my Mom at her rehab center.  (She is supposed to come home today… fingers crossed!)

What I didn’t expect, though, was… if all bets are on grandparents, the Comment Trifecta of Grandmotherhood.

First, while I helped 2-year old Benjamin spread cream cheese on his bagel, he poked his finger into my neck and said, “I like the squishy in there.”

OK.

Next, 4-year old Alex said, as I removed my glasses to clean them after being sprayed by a flying cup of milk, “You look better with your glasses on, Grandma.”

OK.

Then, 5-year old William said, “You know, Grandma, people get shorter when they get old.  I think this is happening to you.”

OK.

I had a feeling that 19-month old Henry might have a thing or two to say about me… if he could actually say them.

Hmmmmm.

I’m thinking this old horse is still ahead, but I’m wondering if there’s such thing as a quadfecta… for, you know, when Henry has a thing or two to actually say.

My mother-in-law loved necklaces.  Long, short, bold, elegant, colorful, interesting, subdued.  Flo loved them all and could wear them with wonderful confidence.  When Flo died, Barry and I carefully removed her necklace holder from behind her bedroom door and we took it to our home… necklaces and all.  Barry carefully attached it with its two little brass screws to the back of our hallway door, right outside our upstairs bathroom.  This way, I just nudge the door to see which necklace I choose to honor Flo with on any particular day or occasion.

Last New Year’s Day, 2009, Barry and I had just finished the coldest Polar Plunge in the history of the world… and once home and dry and warm and changed, I picked out one of Flo’s favorite necklaces to wear that day.  It is a long strand of shells and faux pearls, and it just made me think of Flo and the ocean, and how she would have so enjoyed our little plunge.  It made me feel wonderful.  During the course of the day, both Audrey and Jane, my Mom, and several other people commented on my beautiful necklace… and I told them it had belonged to Flo…

… and on many occasions since, I have found it missing, only to find it on either Audrey or Jane.  I love that they love this necklace so much.  I feel it gave New Year’s Day 2009 such a wonderful beginning and continuation.

Well, as many of you know, 2010 began with Barry and me and a Polar Plunge… but we’ve had some medical set-backs this month, prompting me to officially begin my New Year today, February 1st.  As luck would have it, the day began with a trip to New York City for Barry, Audrey and me.  Audrey had a meeting to attend, so Barry and I walked and walked and walked and had lunch and walked and walked and walked some more.  We did lots of window shopping… but something called me into one store.  One store only.  It was the only store in the wholesale jewelry district that didn’t have a sign that read:  WHOLESALE ONLY.

We went in.  There was jewelry everywhere.  High.  Low.  In-between.  Shiny.  Colorful.  Bold.  Simple.  Elegant.  I asked the salesperson who immediately handed me a little basket if we needed a wholesalers license to be there.  She said, “No, but you must spend at least $20.00.”

I thought, “OK.  I can do that.”

At that moment, my eyes landed on a beautiful necklace among the thousands of others… a necklace with shells and shiny beads that was an almost perfect replica of Flo’s necklace.  It was the only one like it.  I delicately removed it from the rack and brought it to Barry… and reminded him of the story of the 2009 New Year Necklace.  It was mesmerizing to me, especially since today is my New Year 2010…

Flo knew all along.  She knows that I’ve been caring for my Mom (who comes home this Wednesday!) and for Barry… and she knew that today is my New Year’s Day.  We bought the necklace and I put it around my neck the second we left the store.  I couldn’t wait to tell Audrey and Jane…

… and when we got home just now, I got Flo’s necklace from her jewelry holder behind my hallway door.  It was Flo all right.  It was Flo telling me that all’s well… all’s well with 2010.

So everyone… HAPPY NEW YEAR 2010!  I have it on good authority from heaven that it’s gonna be a good one!

January came and went.  It came and went so fast that I haven’t had a moment to breathe.  My Mom was either in a hospital or rehab since January 4th.  Then Barry had a little run-in with a colonoscopy scope and January was further reduced in terms of TIME.

I blinked and January was gone.

And this is why tomorrow, February 1st, is my new New Year’s Day.  I need to recapture that sense of newness and freshness and resolution that is the essence of a New Year.

So… I hereby pronounce February 1st as New Year’s Day 2010 to anyone who just needed a little more TIME to kick in the energy of 2010.

I’m through.

My little grandson Benjamin, who is turning 3 in April, is the sweetest little guy imaginable.  He can be described as pure joy.  Through genetics, birth order (he’s the 3rd of 4 brothers) or sheer necessity, Benjamin sees the wonder in everything.  Benjamin often asks his Mommy to call me just so he can say, “I love you, Grandma.”  He loves to pick up his older brothers at pre-school and talks about going to school himself.  “Soon,” he says, “when I turn 3.”  He loves his younger brother Henry and calls Henry “Baby”… even though 19-month old Henry is a formidable presence in Benjamin’s life.

And Benjamin loves, loves, loves his Pop-up.

It’s Pop-up who came to mind when Benjamin got this little wind-up toy in a fast food bag.  After studying it for a moment or two, Benjamin announced, “It looks like Pop-up.” Well, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as loud and hard in my entire life!

Hmmmmm.  I just don’t see it.

I was up early this morning, just early enough to see the first rays of sunshine shimmering over the tops of the trees down the hill, across the railroad tracks and on the far side of our little harbor.  It was very still… this new morning.  I had decided to get up early to attempt to get my house in better order.  With my Mom still in the rehab facility (yes, for one more week)… I’ve been out and about so much during the past 5 weeks that my house is begging for attention.

The sun drew me right into my living room.  My mother-in-law called this room our front parlor.  I love this term. At some point in my home’s 250-year history, it may have been used as an afternoon tea room for the lady of the home or even as a place for the man of the home to bring his guests to smoke their pipes and sip a bit of brandy in the warmth of the room’s fireplace.  I often think about the people who have passed through my front door and walked on the wide pine planks that feel so powerful under my feet.

In my family, this room has become the place where our grandchildren and our granddogs love to be.  The couch is  a window to the world.  Little fingerprints and little nose prints dance on the glass of the windows… remnants of their fascination with people and pets and trucks and snowplows and mailmen and joggers and mommies and daddies pushing strollers.  Life outside these windows.  Lifetimes outside these windows…

As I stood in our front parlor this sunny morning, armed with paper towels and my trusty spray-bottle cleanser, I smiled at the little finger and nose prints all the more magnified against the sunshine… and decided to keep them there.  All the squiggly, smushy, streaky glorious remnants of life and lifetimes inside these windows to our world.

At least, for now!

My mother-in-law’s greatest gifts were gifts from her kitchen.  She cooked with joy.  She baked with joy.  She gave with joy.  These were pure gifts, from both her hands and her heart… and now from heaven.

Last Saturday evening, I was skyping with my granddaughter Taylor and she asked if Grandpa and I could help her with a school project that involved a “cultural” recipe.  (Hey, wait a minute. Me? Skyping? It was more like I was peeking over Jane’s shoulder as she was skyping. But anyway…)  Taylor remembers Nana-Flo and her famous love and her famous recipes.  Some of Nana-Flo’s wonderful Portuguese recipes were passed down from her own mother… and Portuguese Rice Pudding is one of them.  After Nana-Flo died, Barry and I found, among her vast kitchen items, an old binder with all of Nana-Flo’s famous recipes, all beautifully hand-written.  This little booklet has become one of our most cherished possessions.

Taylor, Barry and I had decided on making Nana-Flo’s Portuguese Rice Pudding.  It’s a bit complicated with all the the right timing elements with the rice… but we knew it was a special recipe for special occasions. We knew the Portuguese Rice Pudding is delicious, but who knew it was magical?

Barry wore his Portugal hat.  Keith wore his Portugal shirt.  I wore Nana-Flo’s red earrings and a pin that says FLORENCE… and we brought one of Nana-Flo’s pins for Taylor to wear.  Nicole and Andrew were also excited to get in on the action. We all set about the measuring and mixing and blending and stirring and smiling and laughing and waiting.  Waiting for the rice to reach perfection.  Just the way Nana-Flo would have done it.  Taylor and Andrew even had time to change into their pajamas while the rice was reaching perfection.  (Well, Andrew had time to morph into Hugh Hefner, if you check out his red robe… !  Nana-Flo would have loved his baking attire!)

Then we all set about blending and stirring a bit more (Nana-Flo would also have loved Andrew’s facial expression when the egg mixture was blended into the rice!)… and sprinkling with cinnamon.  Nana-Flo loved cinnamon.  Whenever I smell cinnamon, I think of Flo.  I think it’s her heavenly essence.

So what is the Magic in the Portuguese Rice Pudding?  Nana-Flo was right in that kitchen with us.  She was smiling and laughing and even holding our hands while we read her words and measured and mixed and blended and stirred.  She was touching her great-grandchildren, Taylor and Andrew, with the most magnificent cultural gifts of all… love of family and love of food.  That’s the joy.  That’s the purity.  That’s the magic in the Portuguese Rice Pudding.