I am Worried About the Property Values in Gotham City

I gotta believe that property values in Gotham City are worse than the national average considering the high crime rate. I’m also curious as to who writes Batman’s first party liability insurance coverage for the bat mobile and how many maids it takes to clean all the bathrooms in Wayne Manor. I guess I have a hard time suspending the bounds of reality when I watch superhero cartoons with my kids. My children, on the other hand can enter the world of imagination at a drop of a hat.

Even at the tender age of twenty four months, Beth understands the world of pretend. I love watching her hold her little yellow ducky toy and make quacking noises as it splashes across the tub looking for adventure. Its also fun to see her lift a tiny pink tea cup to the mouth of her stuffed bear and make imaginary sipping noises. We both see the same stuffed bear and the same pink teacup. The difference is, her minds eye also sees a sweet nectar in the cup and appreciates how much the bear is enjoying it. And she isn’t even worried about the fact that the cup spent the last two weeks under a pile of socks and probably carries a thousand unidentified germs.

Emily’s imagination is even bigger. I often find her having intimate conversations with her dolls and animals. This week, she is helping them learn good manners. Last week, she taught them to sing Happy Birthday. She doesn’t find it odd that the stuffed pink whale sleeping in her bed never swims in the ocean. Or that the lamb and the lion are literally lying next to each other.

When Eric was a baby, I use to sing to him about the “House at Pooh Corner.” It’s a Kenny Loggins song about a boy who wanders too far from fantasy land and can’t find his way back. Eventually the boy grows up and, on becoming a father, partakes again in the beautiful, wonderful, magical world that belongs only to children and their best friend toys. It goes like this:

So, help me if you can
I've got to get back to the house at Pooh corner by one
You'd be surprised there's so much to be done,
Count all the bees in the hive,
Chase all the clouds from the sky
Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.

The difficult part for me when I hear this song is not the understanding that I left Pooh corner; it’s the realization that one day Eric, Emily and Beth will probably journey forth as well. I want them to experience the joys of imagination for as long as possible. My only hope is that they can hold a small whisper in their hearts as they go along.

To be honest, we all probably hold a bit of Pooh corner inside. Its that part of us that enjoys the first rays of the early morning sunrise. It’s the little voice inside that persuades use to hop through a puddle as we dart among the rain drops trying to catch the bus. It’s the way we suspend reality, and think no one can see us, as we belt out the nonsensical words to Bohemian Rhaposdy while maneuvering the car through rush hour traffic. It’s how we won’t admit it
but we secretly love watching “Spiderman” and the “Wonder Pets” and sometimes will even watch a few minutes of the most bizarre cartoons while the kids are napping.

So, yes, I am worried about the property values in Gotham City. And I continue to fret over whether Superman tosses his cape in the laundry or sends it out to the dry cleaners. But every once in a while, if you sneak up on me when I least expect it, you might catch me playing a game of tea party with Emily’s doll when I am suppose to be cleaning her room.

If You Don't Like the Weather, Stick Around...

As the weather turns a bit cooler on the prairie, the talk amongst the natives turns to which of the five seasons we enjoy the least. Yes, I said five seasons. It’s a little known fact that while much of the earth celebrates four seasons, the heartland experiences five. They are: Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall and Wind. But even our normal seasons are not quiet as normal.

In most of the northern hemisphere, Winter officially begins on December 22. In the Midwest, Winter bursts into town a month and a half earlier when the temperatures begin to plummet from a balmy fifty degrees to a very tepid thirty. Even the sun migrates south to enjoy warmer climates and the sky clouds to a permanent shade of grey. At this point, conventional wisdom recommends burrowing into the ground and hibernating until the thaw.

Pretty soon an uninvited guest, the Winter white snow, settles into the neighborhood and proceeds to wear out its welcome. Under cover of darkness Jack Frost puffs white flakes into barren fields. Then, as the night wears thin, the snow wafts into the roadways and gathers in great heaping mounds. Like disorderly sentries after a night on the town, the mounds collect here and there, disrupting the morning commute.

For those who persist in venturing forth, by January the mercury in the thermometers has frozen solid and the weather is so frigid that the snot in your nose will turn to icicles. In Illinois, we blow right past Groundhogs day as every sane marmot understands it dares not expose itself to the arctic chill.

Around mid-April Old Man Winter departs and Spring sproings. It’s welcomed in by the traditional gathering of the family to huddle in the basement to treasure the soothing sounds of the tornado sirens as they make their Spring migration to their nesting grounds. In Spring, almost all residents can enjoy a lake front view from their own back porches as great pools collect from the twenty two consecutive days of rain. By the end of Spring, even the ducks are weary or water.

June one marks the arrival of Summer, which is more often called by it’s common name – Drought. One year during Drought our lawn was so crisp I dreaded crossing it for fear that static electricity would ignite a spark and create an inferno. But please don’t get the idea that the prairie climate is devoid of dampness in Summer as I am certain that if we could harvest the humidity, with the same efficiency that we applied to corn and soy beans, we’d collect enough moisture to fill Lake Michigan.

When you are out here in the corn crib, Autumn arrives around the third Saturday in September and lasts for exactly twenty four hours. That is the day when the leaf drops off the tree. Admittedly, the colors of a Midwest Autumn don’t compare to what you might see in the Great Smokey Mountains. On the other hand, what could possibly beat the site of a New Holland Combine puffing through the fields, knocking down corn stalks and turning over the sod?

That brings us to our fifth, and most unique, season – Wind. Wind normally consumes most of the month of October. If you have ever stood on a run way and felt the power that bursts out of a jet engine just before take-off, you might (almost) begin to have a very slight appreciation for the force of Wind. Indeed, the landscape is littered with acres and acres of farms that attempt to tame and harvest the power of Wind. Taller than a house, the turbines can be seen for miles.

Wind starts gusting in Wyoming, picking up steam as it roars through the west. When it reaches the flat lands, it bellows and blasts and bites. Wind arrives with a howl and spends its time wrenching shingles off of rooftops and uprooting trees. In comparison to Wind, a New England Nor’easter might be described as a blustery day. Sometimes before Wind’s season is over, it invites Winter over for a late night party and they lash about together in the darkness rattling the windows and pelting the house with ice.

During my first year in Illinois, nobody warned me to be careful of Wind. So it came as a great surprise to me when I innocently stepped outside for a brisk walk on an October afternoon and was immediately accosted by Wind. After being tossed about like a rag doll, I turned tail and rushed for sanctuary. It was then that I learned what every sensible corn belter knows – it’s best to go to bed in October and stay there till April.

Our Midwest weather this year has been a bit out of character. Spring was not as wet as normal but Summer was twice as moist. Winter was comparatively mild and summer not too hot. Autumn has agreed to extend its visit and Wind has stayed away thus far. But there’s a common saying out here shared among the huskers that seems to apply – “If you don’t like the current weather, stick around a couple of hours as its bound to change.”

An Apple a Day

Its a blustery autumn afternoon and my family is huddling together in the back of a hay wagon. A sputtering old John Deere is towing us through the apple grove after an exhausting day of plucking the red, green and yellow fruits from low hanging limbs. Eric leans his head of my shoulder and softly hums “On Top of Spaghetti.” Beth perches on my lap proudly clutching her treasure – a shiny red Jonagold that she pulled from the tree all by herself. Ken balances Emily on one knee and a sack full of Golden Delicious on the other. They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. By the size of the bag, our family should be healthy for weeks to come.

Each year Ken and I take the family on an autumn quest to pick apples. We drive fifty miles north west to a small family owned farm in the country. Eric and Emily chatter with glee. “Are we there yet?! Are we there yet?!” Beth babbles along just because. The trip has become one of their favorite traditions and they can hardly contain themselves.

When I grew up, we didn’t pick apples in autumn. But we did pick wild blueberries in summer. I remember one time when Dad and Mom loaded us into the car and we bumped up a mountain trail to the summit. After Theresa, Tina and I tumbled out of the car, Mom passed out shiny silver pails and we set off on a hike that would take us a bit deeper into the woods.

Our perch from the top of the mountain provided a panoramic view of the tiny coal mining villages below. We saw red and brown cars puttering through the towns along cracked gray streets. Tiny houses were clustered here and there, dotting the landscape. If we were lucky, Mom said, we might spy a hawk circling overhead. I don’t remember any hawks but I do remember rabbits and squirrels and hoof prints from a deer that had passed through before we arrived. At one point, Dad cornered a small striped garden snake and coaxed us over to see it. Theresa crouched down to examine it as it slithered into the weeds. But Tina and I shrieked and ran away. Dad laughed before rejoining the trek.

Finally, we arrived at the rows of squat bushes freckled with plump, ripe blueberries. “Don’t eat too many”, Mom chided. But before the day ended our finger tips, lips, cheeks and tongues were stained purple. Pails overflowing we started lugging ourselves back to the car with sore bellies and tired feet. We crawled into the back seat and cuddled up like a pile of puppies. And before Dad turned the key in the ignition we had drifted off to sleep. The next day, Nana transformed the berries into sweet pies, jellies and jams. We feasted on treats for weeks to come and talked about our adventure for months.

Back in the hay wagon, Emily’s eyes are starting to droop. Eric is yawning and Beth appears ready to drift off to sleep. Tomorrow we will clean our apples. Some will be chopped and baked in a pie. Some will be sent to school to sit on the teacher’s desk. Others will be bitten and chewed for an afternoon snack. As Emily, Beth and Eric enjoy the fruit of their labor, they’ll talk animatedly about the apple farm and all the fun we had together. Then, after our bellies are full and we are crawling into our beds, I’ll tell them about the time I went picking blueberries in the mountains when I was a little girl.

Mommy, Why Did You Eat a Frog?

A few weeks ago I lost my voice. When Emily noticed that I had been reduced to speaking in a whisper or barking in raspy tones she asked me what was wrong. I told her “I have a frog in my throat, Honey.” She crawled into my lap, pulled my chin down to open my mouth and peered into the dark recesses of my esophagus. “Mommy, why did you eat a frog?” she giggled. I'm glad I didn't tell her I was feeling a bit hoarse.

For a mom of three, the loss of one’s verbal communication skills can be daunting. To appreciate the seriousness of this tragedy, consider the plight of the concert pianist with ten broken fingers or the Olympic decathlete in a body cast. As I realized the gravity of my predicament, I began to plot how I would administer discipline and sage parental advice without the aid of my most precious instrument.

At first I thought I would need to learn to yell at the kids in sign language. I felt I had some experience in this respect from my days of living in Philly and driving on the Schuylkill. But I was pretty sure the hand gestures I used then were not sanctioned by the International Sign Language Association and definitely inappropriate for the under twenty one set.

My friend Julie suggested I practice my evil stares instead. I tried that with Beth (almost 2) when she threw her yogurt cup on the floor so hard that it bounced up and left a pink blot on the kitchen ceiling. (Not even exaggerating there.) Apparently my stare wasn’t evil enough because Beth just laughed and continued to lick pink glops of yogurt off the legs of the kitchen chair.

When I considered it more I realized I should have planned for this. If I had been better prepared, I would already have a tape recorder prerecorded with some key phrases that I use in everyday parenting. It could have included things like “Stop poking your sister”, “Eat your carrots or you don’t get dessert”, "Go to your room", “If you keep making that face it will stay that way” and “Clean up this mess right now or I am going to pack up everything I see on the floor and ship it to China.” It didn’t take me long to realize that, while the old standards may have worked for my parents, I’d need to get much more specific with my family.

Instead, I found myself jotting down a handful of key phrases which I suspect I could not live without. They included:

· Why are you naked?
· Please don’t lick the cat’s butt!
· Why is there a Ninja under my bed?!

Let me explain.

Phrase 1: Why are you naked? I always feared that I would utter these words at least once as a parent. However, I led myself to believe that it would not be needed until the kids were in college and one of them had returned with his or her spring break photos from New Orleans. But alas, I have already dragged this expression out two times in the past five years. The first involved Eric (age 2 at the time) in the neighbor’s sandbox and ended with us washing sand out of recesses that beforehand had never seen the sun. The second involved three year old Emily this past summer at the splash park. She apparently decided that her wet bathing suit was uncomfortable and that she would enjoy splashing in the sprinklers more in her birthday suit. I shudder when I think about how Beth will attempt to cajole me into using this phrase in her childhood. I did notice her eying the baptismal font last time we were at church.

Phrase 2: Please don’t lick the cat’s butt! This may sound a bit unusual to most people. Unfortunately, I have used it more than I care to remember. In my defense, there is a simple explanation - Beth isn’t quite two years old. Enough said.

Phrase 3: Why is there a Ninja under my bed?! In truth, I have only uttered this phrase once - so far. The event occurred one morning about two weeks ago. A few snooze buttons after my alarm croaked at me, I rolled my feet out of bed and onto the floor only to discover I had stepped on a red ninja action figure that was protruding from under my bed. Naturally I crouched on my hands and knees to explore further. That’s when I discovered the following treasures under my bed (in addition to said red ninja):

1. One pink ballet slipper, right foot, for a preschool girl, size 5.
2. Two cats, one grey and one brown (Smokey and Trixie).
3. Last month’s grocery list, apparently we needed milk, bread and band aids.
4. One children’s book, titled Good Night Moon.
5. 17 Cheerios, moderately soggy.
6. A sticky brown blob which at best was two week old moldy chocolate pudding and at worst was cat puke and which I discovered by inadvertently placing my hand in the gooey mess.

I am putting the Ninja phrase on reserve because, for some reason, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won’t be the last time I need it.

Eventually my voice returned and I never had to make my recording. But later, I did remember one more phrase that I use all the time and that I forgot to put on my list. It happens to be the most important one. And if I could prerecord only one thing to use for my kids, this would be it: “I love you.” The Ninja one, however, is a close second.

If you hold my hand, Daddy, I'll be Happy.

"If you hold my hand, Daddy, I'll be happy.", three year old Emily whispers. We have just entered a long staircase with dim lighting. Emily is feeling a bit spooked. I watch her Daddy engulf her tiny fingers with his big paws. A few moments later she is snuggling in his arms and he is taking her burden as his own as we all negotiate our way to the ground floor.

A few days later Ken and Eric are knocking a soccer ball around the yard. For a moment, Ken is seven again as they kick the ball under the swingset. I can hear them laughing and shouting like best friends. Later that same night I watch Beth scale the couch to plop next to her Daddy. She pushes a book at him, "Read Elmo." Ken imitates a squeeky orange monster voice as he tells her about the ABCs.

Ken's greatest joy is the time he spends with his chidren. He helps them into their jammies at bedtime and summons them to breakfast in the morning. He knows how to gently comb tangles out of little girls hair. He will tell you that Tasha and Uniqua are Backyardigans and that Picachu evolves into Raichu in Pokemon. And he can sing the entire Wonder Pets theme song in an imitation squeaky ducky voice.

Being so committed to his role as Dad did not come to Ken right away. While he never minded changing diapers or reading bedtime stories, he balked at wriggling on the ground after a rousing game of ring around the rosy. And he preferred reading The Rolling Stone to The Mouse on the Motorcycle. All in all, there were too many more important, grown up things to do, like go to work and watching college football games. Fortunately for Ken, he found himself suddenly unemployed and forced to take the role of full time Dad and house husband. The story behind Ken's change in vocation belongs to him. But its funny how something that starts out looking like the worst experience of your life can end up being the best.

Ken has been a stay at home parent for over two years now. We both love it. He gets to welcome Eric when he comes home from school each day and sing to Beth at afternoon nap time. And he gets to play on the swings with Emily. He has an abundance of time to devote to helping with spelling homework, jumping in the pool for swim lessons, baking chocolate chip cookies and practicing animal noises. He is also the only first grade room mom with a beard.

Having a full time Dad in the house has been a great experience for me too. For one thing, Ken does all of the laundry and grocery shopping. And he cleans the bathrooms, vacuums the rugs and scrubs the kitchen floor. He has also learned how to cook. The days of frozen dinners are behind us. It turns out Ken is an excellent cook. A few weeks ago he made bacon cheeseburger meatloaf with pepper jack cheese maccaroni. The following week he made fish and chips. Later that same week he grilled sword fish steaks. Tonight we enjoyed stuffed pork chops.

From my end, I've learned a couple of important things too. First, I learned to let go and let someone else take over "my kingdom." I've discovered that I don't have to be everything all the time and that I have to let Ken parent in his way. Second I learned how important it is to have a partner who is devoted to his family. I'm glad that we share that as a common value. Finally, I learned what people mean when they say "when life closes a door, God opens a window." Our window, it turns out, came with a beautiful view.

Ken is upstairs right now coaxing Beth and Emily into the tubby. Its princess bubble bath night. I'd better get going or I'll miss my turn to make pony tails out of the soap suds.

Our Cat Is Crazy(er)

Our Cat, Trixie, is crazy. Or should I say, that as cats go, she is crazier than most. In this case the diagnosis of feline mental illness has been clinically proven. Trixie is on kitty Prozac. I am not making this up.

Apparently Trixie suffers from acute anxiety. I am not sure whether her mental state was generated from waiting an extra ten minutes for her breakfast that one time my alarm didn't go off or from the two hours she spent in solitary last year when I accidentally locked her in the closet. Whatever, the cause, her condition began to manifest itself when she decided to take her "morning constitutional" on our brand new living room rugs. After a few weeks of cleaning up her "morning sunshine" we visited the vet.

Our first vet suggested a number of techniques to alter her behavior. They included extra litter boxes, her own bathroom and bringing back the old rugs which she apparently preferred given that they stayed poop free for almost six years. When these techniques failed we sought a second opinion. Our new vet did a thorough exam, drew blood, and ran some tests. One hundred dollars later she informed us that there were no physical ailments. Trixie, she said, was stressed.

Stressed. I am not making this up.

All I need to know is what could possibly cause stress to an indoor house cat? Last time I checked, Trixie did not have a job - unless you count trying to trip me while I am lumbering down the stairs half asleep every morning. She's very good at that. I'm also relatively sure that she is debt free. Even if she did have student loans, I suspect they have been paid off long ago. And we rarely ask her to contribute to the house hold chores. She is not required to go grocery shopping, do laundry, or shine the kitchen sink. She doesn't even have to clean the litter box - we do that for her.

Trixie's most pressing responsibility involves capturing any flies that breach the perimeter and infiltrate our household. She takes on this task with the efficiency of a special ops agent on a top secret assignment. After stealthily stalking her prey, she leaps and kills. She has no remorse. And what happens next, we try not to think about. We only ask that she dispose of the body completely and not regurgitate it on our bed later that night.

When we couldn't figure the source of Trixie's stress, Ken spoke to the vet about it. The conversation went something like this:

Vet: Have you noted anything unusual about her behavior.
Ken: Yes, she's crapping on the new rugs.
Vet: Well, other than that, has she been acting unusual.
Ken: She's a cat. Can you define "unusual?"
Vet: Well, has she been sleeping more than normal?
Ken: Can you define "normal?"
Vet: Let me get you some Prozac.
Ken: Is that for me or the cat?

For anyone who has ever had the terrifying experience of pilling a cat, you know what's coming next. And it ain't pretty. While we did our best to prepare for the confrontation ahead, we never anticipated the fierceness by which our enemy would resist. Before embarking on the potentially life threatening mission, Ken and I sat in the war room and discussed tactics and strategy. Due to a dearth of body armour in our house, our only protection would be an extra thick comforter wrapped tightly around Trixie. My job would be to entangle her daggers (a.k.a. claws) tightly and pry open her mouth to expose her knife like teeth. Ken would make the attack and try to shove the pill down her throat while keeping all ten digits on his hands intact. A first aid kit and the phone would be positioned nearby (with 9-1 pre-pressed), just in case.

Soon, the battle was on and the fight was fierce. Ken took the offense but Trixie was sharp. Each time he placed the little white pill in her mouth, she would shoot it back at him. Finally, after about of half hour of "spit out the pill", interspersed with a few rounds of scratch Mom and bite Dad, we were all feeling a bit battle weary, as well as battle scarred. "There has to be an easier way!", I moaned. That's when Ken told me about the "pill stick."

Him: It's like a blow dart. It just shoots the pill right down their throat.
Me: And you didn't get one?
Him: No.
Me: Why not?
Him: It cost four dollars.
Me: You mean we spent one hundred dollars on vet visits, twenty dollars on blood work and thirty dollars on kitty Prozac and you drew the line at a four dollar cat pill dart?
Him: Next time, you take the cat to the vet.

Luckily, the pills are working. Trixie's potty issues appear resolved. (Knock on wood that contains deep gashes from cat claws). Still, I question whether she is experiencing more or less stress from the treatment. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because according to the vet, our next step is a cat psychiatrist. (Again, not making this up). For some reason I am having a hard time picturing Trixie laying on a leather couch unburdening her emotional baggage while a white haired man with spectacles says "and how did that make you feel?" But I suspect if she does, the subject of pills will take up most of the hour.

Last night as we were giving Trixie her pill (with the pill dart this time) I noted to Ken that she was a bit more odoriferous than normal. "Are you planning on giving her a bath?", he asked. "I don't think we can afford the therapy bills.", I replied. Ken didn't miss a beat, "Is that for you or the cat."

What I Learned from Kindergarten

Its Tuesday night and I am sitting in the kitchen with Eric as he works on his first grade math homework assignment. Tonight’s project involves adding pennies and nickels. The task is pleasant for Eric as it combines two of his favorite subjects – math and money. It seems like only yesterday that Eric was just embarking on his educational career.

I’ll never forget the first day that I walked with Eric to kindergarten, a little over a year ago. He squeezed my hand tightly and clung to my side. Together we explored his new class room and greeted new friends. “What’s that?” Eric asked, pointing to the reading corner. We sat together on the carpet and paged through the books. Some were familiar titles, like Curious George and The Cat in the Hat. Others were foreign to us. We found his desk, and Ken and I helped him print his name and arranged his supplies. We shook hands with his teacher. “I think I’ll like it here.”, he smiled as Ken and I left. “Me too.”, I agreed.

That night, I sat with Eric on his bed an he told me about his day. His teacher was young, pretty and bright. Eric adored her and secretly planned to marry her as soon as he was old enough. He told me about recess and how he ran and played tag with new friends in the school yard. He shared the names of the books the class read together and sang the songs he learned. He patiently explained that libraries are for quiet voices but that he would be permitted to borrow a new book to bring home each week.

Its hard to say who enjoyed kindergarten more, Eric or me and Ken. In October his class held a Halloween Party. Eric dressed as Spiderman and Ken and I helped serve witches brew to Cinderella, The Hulk and Batman. In November, Ken dropped by the class to share a Thanksgiving Feast. We brought Beth to the Holiday Celebration in December and shared pink and red cupcakes with the class on Valentine’s Day. And before we know it, the year had passed.

For his part, Eric learned three very important things in Kindergarten. First, he learned to read. He started with small words like “a”, “is” and “it.” Later, he conquered larger works like “friend” and “better.” Before the summer break arrived, he could read “One Fish, Two Fish” by himself. Second, Eric learned to tell funny jokes. “Mom, what’s the difference between roast beef and pea soup”, he asked with a smile. “I don’t know”, I responded. “You can roast beef but you can’t pee soup”, he giggled, “Get it?” “Yes, I get it.”

Finally, Eric learned to let go of my hand. On the last day of kindergarten, I planned to walk with Eric to school just as I had on the first. This time, just a few steps from our door, he darted away from me to catch up with his buddies. They discussed soccer and Pokémon and called each other "Dude." I lagged behind feeling a bit lonely and a bit proud at the same time. As we neared the school grounds Eric turned and looked back at me. He gave me a small wave and continued on. My heart sank as I waved back. Then, suddenly, he stopped, turned and rushed back to me. He threw his arms around my waist, squeezed, and ran off again. “I love you!”, he called over his shoulder as he raced to catch his friends. “I love you too, Scooter.”, I replied.

Eric is finished his homework now. “Good work, buddy”, I compliment as I check his work, “It looks like you got them all right. Now, its time to go upstairs and get your shower”. Eric starts towards the stairs and then stops. “Mom,” he says, “Do you think you can walk me to school tomorrow.” I smile, “Sure thing, buddy.”

Sunday Suppers and Monday Morning Gardens

“Who is she?”, three year old Emily inquires. She is thumbing through an old photo album that I recently rescued from the cold recesses of our basement. She is pointing to a faded poloroid photo of my grandmother. “That’s my Nana.”, I say. Emily studies the photo. “Who is she?”, she whispers. Like a bursting dam, a rush of memories flood into my brain and I grasp for just the right words to explain to Emily who the woman in the photo is.

For most of my life, Nana lived alone in the house on Fifth street where she raised her three children. But she was never lonely. She was constantly surrounded by a warm and loving family. Every Sunday afternoon since before I was born the family gathered together to share supper at Nana’s house. The radio in the kitchen sang a cheery polka. And the smell of pot roast and mashed potatoes embraced me when I entered the home into her cozy sitting room where she kept her favorite green wicker rocking chair. A steaming apple pie cooled on the windowsill, waiting its turn at the feast. The ample meal started with a prayer and a toast to good health. When all of the assembled finished filling their bellies, the children would wander outside to play tag while the grownups reminisced over a hot cup of coffee.

Sunday was Nana’s day of rest. She dedicated her day to cooking, crocheting and cheering the Phillies to squeak out a win over the Mets. But from Monday through Saturday, Nana was always busy and her hands were never idle. She had a special gift for sewing and made all of her own clothes as well as much of ours. Nana learned this handy skill at the age of thirteen when she was forced to drop out of the eighth grade and take a job at the factory in order to contribute to the upkeep of her household. Nana had to walk two miles to work at six in the morning each day in order to earn a mere fifty cents a week. Nana told us that story often, not to complain, but merely to relate how things were and how things came to be.

When Nana was 17 she married a coal miner named Anthony Kozlusky. His family lived near Nana’s in the Lithuanian corner of town. Nana was not ready for marriage at such a young age and put it off for as long as she could. But her father was ready for one less mouth to feed in his house and that was that. Together, Nana and Tony built a home, a family and a life with all the troubles, struggles and joy that go with it. I never met my grandfather. He left Nana a young widow when he succumbed to coal miner’s asthma – black lung. Nana would need to raise her daughter and two sons on her own. From time to time, Nana spoke about Grandpa Tony with wet eyes.

When I was a baby, Nana married again. For several years she shared her home with the man we called Grandpa Ed. He was the only grandfather I ever knew and he made Nana happy. They grew grapes in their garden and made wine in the basement. They tended their one room country store where they sold lunch meat, canned goods and bread and where the neighbors gathered to gossip. They traveled together and took photos of each other smiling in some far away garden bursting with roses. But a few years later, Ed passed away as well and Nana was on her own again.

Independent, resourceful and sage, Nana reigned as the matriarch of our family for almost eighty five years. Her off spring sought her counsel and promised to follow her example. One time I asked Nana what I should do with my future. Her advice to me was simple: study hard, work hard and do good. I only hope I have done her proud.

When Nana wasn’t working, her favorite hobby was puttering about her garden. From the first dew drops of spring until the last leaf dropped in autumn, Nana tended the soil from dusk to dawn. It was her masterpiece. On one side of the house, Nana planted a neatly kept rainbow bed of flowers – crowded with brightly blooming Azaleas, Black Eyed Susan, Zinnias and more. On the other side, along the fence, she grew vegetables – cucumbers, scallions, green beans, potatoes, and tomatoes. Thousands of sweet scents and hundreds of delicious flavors sprang from her small patch of earth.

Because we lived so near to Nana, we enjoyed every day the benefits of her garden and the benefits of her love. She baked us zucchini bread and shared jars of homemade stewed tomatoes. She taught us to roll dough, to make cookies, to bake cakes and to polka dance. She spoiled us with hot chocolate overflowing with mini marsh mellows in the winter and Banana Split Sundays in the summer. She attended our school plays, basketball games and ballet recitals. She hugged me the day I graduated from high school and beamed at me when I received my college diploma.

Nana died the way she lived, with pride, strength and courage. Her three children, their spouses, and a half dozen grand children stood at her bed side and surrounded her with their love. We held hands, kissed Nana, and prayed together as we watched her soul slip out of her body to join the life that is yet to come. That moment was the most beautiful, the most powerful and the most tragic event in my life.

Nana never saw me graduate from law school. She didn’t attend my wedding. And she never met my beautiful children or celebrated their baptisms. Today when I think of Nana I feel happy and sad. I am happy to relive in my heart so many wonderful moments with her. But at the same time I am sad from missing her so much. But its OK, because a piece of her lives inside of me still and I take it with me wherever I go. When I look into Emily’s eyes, I can see a bit of Nana smiling back at me. Like her Nana, Emily is fiercely independent and self sufficient. She is also joyful and loving and smart. And she loves to admire pretty flowers blooming in the garden.

As I recover from my recollections, Emily smiles up at me. “She looks nice”, Emily declares. “She is very nice.”, I sigh. I hug Emily and settle in to tell her a bit more about our Nana.