Good morning!
When I was a child, we moved a lot. From the beginning I loved "houses," the arranging of them, the living in them, the imagining of the ones in books (and I had no frame of reference here so put all my girl-characters into houses where we lived or had lived previously), and I liked the idea of having "another house," so I had the second home idea way before the nouveaux riches of the late 1990's and 2000's!
When I was small, the "other house" could be that of my grandparents who always lived close enough for easy visits. In the last years, I have wanted another house in Iowa, or south Texas, or both. And would like a house in Colorado or the Sierras here in California. Not a big one; a cabin would do. In the meantime, I have moved from fairly spacious homes to a very small one that is holding--I finally came to realize-- all the accoutrements of these alternate houses in its cramped space. Not a comfortable way to live.
I've harped about my clothes and how I need to cut them down. But I don't do much about it aside from giving to charity a bag of clothes every week or so. Now, yesterday, talking to the doctor at Kaiser about my husband's condition, I realize (in the words, "You are not going anywhere right now, ") that this is IT. No mountain cabin, no little house or condo at a beach on Padre Island, no air-conditioned house with tree-shaded patio and swimming pool in south Texas, no pied-a-terre in the Bay Area--just here. Here on Fairway Court with a too-small house and a too-large yard ("You are not to be doing any yard work," said the doctor to Theodore ) and I must deal with it.
Nobody's coming to deal with my stuff. I must do it. I must start the Great Winnowing and make it happen, now. Antiques I have been cherishing "for the kids," really must be sold if I can sell them. Ditto all those sets of sterling. Yes, I have sets. My French stove (Thonet) must be sold . My giant piano should go and be replaced with a small one. Some of my too-many dressers should go. Dressers are out now, anyway, did you know? If you do your closets right, you do not need a dresser. And as for dishes--Lordy! Out, damned spots of beauty! Go!
Will any of this be accomplished? Yes, in time of course it will. And if not by me, who? And I will be left like my mother's mother, who lost her whole household goods in a big fire before I was born, with very little on this earth when I pass. I guess that is the best way to go. And my air castles (which I'll still be building on wakeful nights) can be furnished with the things that once I did own, on this earth. That'll be okay. YAZZYBEL
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
My third son,Benjamin
Good noon!
Yesterday was the birthday of my third son. He is forty five years old and is still a pride and joy to me.
When he was born, I was in excellent health, and everyone said to me, "Oh, my third was the easiest birth I had. You'll have an easy time!"
The night before he came, my sister no. 4 was in town with us. My husband took us for a ride and pitched down Henry St. Hill at a rapid clip, braking hard at the bottom and tossing me about a bit. We had a beautiful twilight ride and rode out by UCSD, by those eucalyptus trees off Gilman Drive where several white owls rose up and took off just as we went by.
I often wondered what those owls portended, but they were definitely distinctive and beautiful as they flew into the opal colored air.
We went home and to bed, but at about 11:00 that night my water broke and I knew the baby was going to come. The first two had been quite fast, so I expected to see him pretty soon. We were cautioned by the hospital not to go until the pains were so and so apart. My sister had a taxi to the airport on schedule for that early morning, so could not baby sit the other boys. I called the baby sitter, Burchard, and as soon as she arrived we were off.
My gynecologist was vacationing in Silver City, CO, so they called his partner, who was occupied elsewhere but would come over when he could. Oh dear. Throughout the early morning things got worse. The nurse finally came in and said,"He's on his way." (Meaning, I am sure, that he'd finished with his other baby and at home having a shower and leisurely breakfast.) My pains were excruciating and the nurses were running around like chickens. One mean nurse kept coming over when I had a pain and it felt like she was pushing the baby back in. I finally begged her,
"PLEASE call another floor of the hospital and have any other MD come over and deliver this baby. And PLEASE stop pushing the baby back in. Just let him come." She replied, "I am not pushing him in; I am just widening your cervix." Sure, nurse. I'm dumb enough to buy that.
Finally the doctor hastened in, they put my legs in the position, he sat down, and out came baby. In just the time it took for me to write it. Widening my cervix, my aunt Fanny.
Anyway, recovery was sweet. They brought in my baby after a time, and he was beautiful. "Here is your leetle Preence," said the nurse as she brought him in. She said that everyone in the nursery was exclaiming at his beauty. He was unusually perfect for a newborn, I must say.
As time went by he became my right hand at home. The only bad thing he ever did was break off all the chimneys on my tiny chinaware English cottages, which I had left within the reach of him in his cage.
It was not really a cage; it was a small bed with a high rail and tall off the ground, and served as a playpen when I was in the kitchen within sight.
He could find anything in the house and knew where everything was, unlike his mama. Once I had to leave in a hurry and could not find my keys. "Keys," he said and went over to the dresser and found my keys where he'd undoubtedly stashed them some time before. This is when he was barely old enough to walk.
When he could hardly sit up and toddle about, I watched one day when he took up the three parts of a very complicated adult-level three dimensional puzzle, and as I stood amazed, he put it together once, took it apart, put it together again, and then again. All in silence and secret. He knew something the rest of us did not know.
When he was two and a half or so, at church, he followed his brother Alexander up the aisle when Alex was singing with the choristers. When the boys took their seats facing each other across the chancel, Benjamin stood in front of Alex, and smiled, pointing him out to all of us out there in the congregation. I hastily went up and removed him.
Since those days, there have been plenty of times when, in great need, we depended on his steady presence and his presence of mind. When his older brother, Gregory, was so ill, Ben was a mainstay for his dad and me. Thank God he was there.
Now he is a bachelor living on a hard-pan garden in Concord,CA, oh so far away. And we miss him. But I do have photographs and I do look at them and remember that little angel of long time gone. YAZZYBEL
Yesterday was the birthday of my third son. He is forty five years old and is still a pride and joy to me.
When he was born, I was in excellent health, and everyone said to me, "Oh, my third was the easiest birth I had. You'll have an easy time!"
The night before he came, my sister no. 4 was in town with us. My husband took us for a ride and pitched down Henry St. Hill at a rapid clip, braking hard at the bottom and tossing me about a bit. We had a beautiful twilight ride and rode out by UCSD, by those eucalyptus trees off Gilman Drive where several white owls rose up and took off just as we went by.
I often wondered what those owls portended, but they were definitely distinctive and beautiful as they flew into the opal colored air.
We went home and to bed, but at about 11:00 that night my water broke and I knew the baby was going to come. The first two had been quite fast, so I expected to see him pretty soon. We were cautioned by the hospital not to go until the pains were so and so apart. My sister had a taxi to the airport on schedule for that early morning, so could not baby sit the other boys. I called the baby sitter, Burchard, and as soon as she arrived we were off.
My gynecologist was vacationing in Silver City, CO, so they called his partner, who was occupied elsewhere but would come over when he could. Oh dear. Throughout the early morning things got worse. The nurse finally came in and said,"He's on his way." (Meaning, I am sure, that he'd finished with his other baby and at home having a shower and leisurely breakfast.) My pains were excruciating and the nurses were running around like chickens. One mean nurse kept coming over when I had a pain and it felt like she was pushing the baby back in. I finally begged her,
"PLEASE call another floor of the hospital and have any other MD come over and deliver this baby. And PLEASE stop pushing the baby back in. Just let him come." She replied, "I am not pushing him in; I am just widening your cervix." Sure, nurse. I'm dumb enough to buy that.
Finally the doctor hastened in, they put my legs in the position, he sat down, and out came baby. In just the time it took for me to write it. Widening my cervix, my aunt Fanny.
Anyway, recovery was sweet. They brought in my baby after a time, and he was beautiful. "Here is your leetle Preence," said the nurse as she brought him in. She said that everyone in the nursery was exclaiming at his beauty. He was unusually perfect for a newborn, I must say.
As time went by he became my right hand at home. The only bad thing he ever did was break off all the chimneys on my tiny chinaware English cottages, which I had left within the reach of him in his cage.
It was not really a cage; it was a small bed with a high rail and tall off the ground, and served as a playpen when I was in the kitchen within sight.
He could find anything in the house and knew where everything was, unlike his mama. Once I had to leave in a hurry and could not find my keys. "Keys," he said and went over to the dresser and found my keys where he'd undoubtedly stashed them some time before. This is when he was barely old enough to walk.
When he could hardly sit up and toddle about, I watched one day when he took up the three parts of a very complicated adult-level three dimensional puzzle, and as I stood amazed, he put it together once, took it apart, put it together again, and then again. All in silence and secret. He knew something the rest of us did not know.
When he was two and a half or so, at church, he followed his brother Alexander up the aisle when Alex was singing with the choristers. When the boys took their seats facing each other across the chancel, Benjamin stood in front of Alex, and smiled, pointing him out to all of us out there in the congregation. I hastily went up and removed him.
Since those days, there have been plenty of times when, in great need, we depended on his steady presence and his presence of mind. When his older brother, Gregory, was so ill, Ben was a mainstay for his dad and me. Thank God he was there.
Now he is a bachelor living on a hard-pan garden in Concord,CA, oh so far away. And we miss him. But I do have photographs and I do look at them and remember that little angel of long time gone. YAZZYBEL
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Hail, Period
Bon jour!
Here we are on a strange new planet, (with a strange new typeface, I see)...
And we are not going on any trip. My dear husband presented himself as pretty sick yesterday evening, so after much denial and wrestling I got him to go to the ER at Scripps here in Chula Vista where we remained until 11:30 pm, receiving assurances that he was indeed pretty ill and that we were not to go on any trip. He got a huge antibiotic shot and a prescription for more.
So, we are not to go. That's what I get for being gloomy yesterday. Reminder to self: Lighten up.
Back, then, to The Ghost Writer, directed by Roman Polanski. Since writing my blog yesterday I have visited some websites about that fascinating picture, and have no review to make. David Denby of the New Yorker, said it all on March 08, 2010 in his review.
One thing he did not say, to my recollection, is the contribution that music makes to a film. The composer, Alexandre Desplay, has scored a number of other important pictures. His remarks about his choices of instrumentation and other facets of the piece are very interesting. He used three flutes as the ghostly voice. There is no real ghost in the movie, of course (spoiler?), but it is certainly eerie. The real events displayed (espionage, rendition, torture, government control), while not depicted onscreen , are the really harrowing ghosts of our time. Desplay's music perfectly depicts, supports, creates, carries,the fright and tension carried by the ghost writer as he flounders his way into a terrible international secret. Superficial folk like myself will enjoy seeing some of the major political figures of our recent past convincingly reproduced onscreen. I know that Mr Polanski is reputed a sleazebag of the worst order. I hate all his goings-on. But he has a mind, an imagination, and lots of determination to have made this "American" movie in a northern European location. I really thought this was an interesting film. YAZZYBEL
Here we are on a strange new planet, (with a strange new typeface, I see)...
And we are not going on any trip. My dear husband presented himself as pretty sick yesterday evening, so after much denial and wrestling I got him to go to the ER at Scripps here in Chula Vista where we remained until 11:30 pm, receiving assurances that he was indeed pretty ill and that we were not to go on any trip. He got a huge antibiotic shot and a prescription for more.
So, we are not to go. That's what I get for being gloomy yesterday. Reminder to self: Lighten up.
Back, then, to The Ghost Writer, directed by Roman Polanski. Since writing my blog yesterday I have visited some websites about that fascinating picture, and have no review to make. David Denby of the New Yorker, said it all on March 08, 2010 in his review.
One thing he did not say, to my recollection, is the contribution that music makes to a film. The composer, Alexandre Desplay, has scored a number of other important pictures. His remarks about his choices of instrumentation and other facets of the piece are very interesting. He used three flutes as the ghostly voice. There is no real ghost in the movie, of course (spoiler?), but it is certainly eerie. The real events displayed (espionage, rendition, torture, government control), while not depicted onscreen , are the really harrowing ghosts of our time. Desplay's music perfectly depicts, supports, creates, carries,the fright and tension carried by the ghost writer as he flounders his way into a terrible international secret. Superficial folk like myself will enjoy seeing some of the major political figures of our recent past convincingly reproduced onscreen. I know that Mr Polanski is reputed a sleazebag of the worst order. I hate all his goings-on. But he has a mind, an imagination, and lots of determination to have made this "American" movie in a northern European location. I really thought this was an interesting film. YAZZYBEL
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Hail and Farewell
Good morning!
We are leaving tomorrow for yet another automobile jaunt, this time towards the mountains, through the mountains and over towards Iowa.
There in Iowa we hope to see our grandchildren. They are off to camps, to work, to school...but we hope for a glimpse of each this summer on what may be our last car trip over there.
I often think of our grandchildren and wonder what we are to them. In most ways, they will perceive us as ghosts to whom they are granted a glimpse every year, via our endeavors, before their reality closes down and school begins and their lives go on without us. I guess that is OK.
I think a lot now about the mechanics of families, the value of presence and co-habiting, the significance of an absent parent and how the absent one continues on down the years with almost as much strength (though negative strength) as the ones who are there. None of the grandkids will ever consciously miss the time they did not spend with us, I guess. But the holes will remain and endure into their next generation. I know that because I and my sisters 2 and 3 all married men who lost a father or mother at an early age. Absence is a black hole of unfulfilled presence. Men or women who remarry hoping to fill it for themselves or their children are, in my opinion, valiant. They are affirming life if nothing else.
Absent grandparents could only have been missed by people who had grandparents. The values of knowing their grandparents are literally incalculable by kids who have not known theirs. I myself had two sets of living grandparents, one set of whom we were not permitted to know intimately, one set of whom we knew very well. When I was in my later forties or early fifties, those missing grandparents obtruded themselves into my consciousness with a shock. A trip off the narrow path of my life, a different job, new friends, and particularly one new friend jolted my un-lived life and my unknown grandparents into reality for me. A whole new part of myself began to develop. For that is the reality of a missing parent or grandparent...a part of one's inner self that never gets a chance to grow and produce. Because one doesn't miss what one has not known. Interesting.
Well, this is off the track of the farewell note. I hasten to tell my panting readers that I'll be posting whenever I can. I wanted to do a review of the film, The Ghost Writer, by Roman Polanski, but unless I can come on tonight and throw it in, it will have to wait. Hasta la vista, readers, and love from YAZZYBEL
We are leaving tomorrow for yet another automobile jaunt, this time towards the mountains, through the mountains and over towards Iowa.
There in Iowa we hope to see our grandchildren. They are off to camps, to work, to school...but we hope for a glimpse of each this summer on what may be our last car trip over there.
I often think of our grandchildren and wonder what we are to them. In most ways, they will perceive us as ghosts to whom they are granted a glimpse every year, via our endeavors, before their reality closes down and school begins and their lives go on without us. I guess that is OK.
I think a lot now about the mechanics of families, the value of presence and co-habiting, the significance of an absent parent and how the absent one continues on down the years with almost as much strength (though negative strength) as the ones who are there. None of the grandkids will ever consciously miss the time they did not spend with us, I guess. But the holes will remain and endure into their next generation. I know that because I and my sisters 2 and 3 all married men who lost a father or mother at an early age. Absence is a black hole of unfulfilled presence. Men or women who remarry hoping to fill it for themselves or their children are, in my opinion, valiant. They are affirming life if nothing else.
Absent grandparents could only have been missed by people who had grandparents. The values of knowing their grandparents are literally incalculable by kids who have not known theirs. I myself had two sets of living grandparents, one set of whom we were not permitted to know intimately, one set of whom we knew very well. When I was in my later forties or early fifties, those missing grandparents obtruded themselves into my consciousness with a shock. A trip off the narrow path of my life, a different job, new friends, and particularly one new friend jolted my un-lived life and my unknown grandparents into reality for me. A whole new part of myself began to develop. For that is the reality of a missing parent or grandparent...a part of one's inner self that never gets a chance to grow and produce. Because one doesn't miss what one has not known. Interesting.
Well, this is off the track of the farewell note. I hasten to tell my panting readers that I'll be posting whenever I can. I wanted to do a review of the film, The Ghost Writer, by Roman Polanski, but unless I can come on tonight and throw it in, it will have to wait. Hasta la vista, readers, and love from YAZZYBEL
Monday, July 25, 2011
Moody Monday
Good morning!
I made it.
I have to write something because we are going to Costco or somewhere to waste a lot of money. But perhaps we won't. We are traveling again soon so I hope we don't buy any jereboams of food.
I have been thinking of Laredo the last couple of days. It's funny, that romantic border town comes into mind every now and then, and lingers for a while...then it evenesces back into childhood memory.
Did I ever write about the Mercy Hospital in Laredo? I visited there a few times in the year we lived in Laredo, or on trips. The hospital was a rectangle of a few stories (two?) that was in the midst of downtown Laredo. It was owned by the Sisters of Mercy, who ran a tight ship there at the hospital.
The hospital was surrounded by a plaza full of large leafy trees full of little birds (who were probably full of little germs), and at twilight their twittering was something to hear as they finished up their housekeeping for the day, and settled down to their sleep . All the windows of the hospital were wide open, there being no A/c of course. The life of the trees and the life of the hospital were one in regularity and peace.After the hustle and bustle of the border and downtown Laredo, this place was an island of quiet and tranquility and music.
There is a place on the web where you can read the comments of the locals, now in 2011, as they remark on the Old Hospital which is now thought to be haunted. If it is, I am sure that some of the ghosts at least are very small and that they fly around looking for their nests before they settle down for the night. YAZZYBEL
I made it.
I have to write something because we are going to Costco or somewhere to waste a lot of money. But perhaps we won't. We are traveling again soon so I hope we don't buy any jereboams of food.
I have been thinking of Laredo the last couple of days. It's funny, that romantic border town comes into mind every now and then, and lingers for a while...then it evenesces back into childhood memory.
Did I ever write about the Mercy Hospital in Laredo? I visited there a few times in the year we lived in Laredo, or on trips. The hospital was a rectangle of a few stories (two?) that was in the midst of downtown Laredo. It was owned by the Sisters of Mercy, who ran a tight ship there at the hospital.
The hospital was surrounded by a plaza full of large leafy trees full of little birds (who were probably full of little germs), and at twilight their twittering was something to hear as they finished up their housekeeping for the day, and settled down to their sleep . All the windows of the hospital were wide open, there being no A/c of course. The life of the trees and the life of the hospital were one in regularity and peace.After the hustle and bustle of the border and downtown Laredo, this place was an island of quiet and tranquility and music.
There is a place on the web where you can read the comments of the locals, now in 2011, as they remark on the Old Hospital which is now thought to be haunted. If it is, I am sure that some of the ghosts at least are very small and that they fly around looking for their nests before they settle down for the night. YAZZYBEL
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Sunday and more Negative Comments about The Witch
Good afternoon.
It's one of those quiet Sunday afternoons in San Diego area, with an overcast sky that pulses white against your eyes, no real shade and no rain. I finished reading The Witch of Hebron by James Howard Kunstler two days ago.
There's so much good writing in that book that I hate to be carping about a huge error made by the author. There are about three or four long complete descriptions of male masturbatory activity in that rather short novel. They are as trite and disgusting as cheap pornography. Why did Mr Kunstler bother? Why, WHY does he think that kind of stuff fits into a piece of writing meant to be read by the general public and purporting to be an elegaic vision of our emininent and mutual apocalyptic future? Is he trying to say that when the lights go out, men will still be masturbating? Duh. Who knew? More important, who asked? The best I can say of those exposes is that at least he left the women alone and stuck to what he knows about.
Some of his characters are fully wrought and interesting. The most fully wrought is the bad young man Billy Bones; you feel as if you got a pretty complete picture of him. Jasper, the runaway boy, pretty good. Brother Jobe, a well imagined and truly fascinating character--a true American type.The best are the three average guys who are, together, probably a picture of the author himself, parcelled out into thirds. So he know's what he's like (at his best.) The women--well, they're odd. The Witch herself is interesting. All of these women seem to be like something conjured up on a cold night by some lonely man. The mother/teacher types are rapidly run through and rejected into their dull roles, but the Witch is really kind of good. I think she's been prepped up for a bigger role later on in this saga. Interesting.
Both the Witch and Brother Jobe seem to possess magical powers, and to influence the outcome of the story by their dabblings. I liked that, as I like magical things in nature (where I do believe they exist) and I felt that that line of thinking added to the interest of the book.
If number of words given to a sub-topic is any hint, I think the next book by Mr Kunstler will be The Union Grove Cookbook. Never have I read so many menus and recipes and mouth-watering descriptions of meals in one somber tome as in this one. I was wondering how they come up with so many cakes, pies and cookies until I realized that (1) there are all those maple trees, (2) the honey bees may make it into the near future, and (3) most of the populace will have died of the Mexican flu and there won't be so many people around to eat too many sweets. So there will be cakes for all, I am happy to say.
Off topic, it reminds me of Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here, a novel from the 40's with a similar futuristic thrust, where all are starving but the cook keeps coming up with coconut cakes. Not honey cakes nor maple cakes, but coconut cakes...interesting. I gather that both these gentlemen do their writing on lonely nights when they need their midnight snacks.
Mr Kunstler is a good painter, but he's not a good novelist, yet. His descriptive writing is okay, some of his narrative was surprising and good. A long description of an appendectomy performed by the runaway boy, a doctor's son with good powers of observation and memory, reminded me of Thomas Costain. Anybody remember him? He was a doctor turned historical novel writer. Every novel he wrote contained at least one operation described at great length with painstaking detail. We should hang onto the book in case we have to do the same thing, a little later into The Long Emergency. YAZZYBEL
It's one of those quiet Sunday afternoons in San Diego area, with an overcast sky that pulses white against your eyes, no real shade and no rain. I finished reading The Witch of Hebron by James Howard Kunstler two days ago.
There's so much good writing in that book that I hate to be carping about a huge error made by the author. There are about three or four long complete descriptions of male masturbatory activity in that rather short novel. They are as trite and disgusting as cheap pornography. Why did Mr Kunstler bother? Why, WHY does he think that kind of stuff fits into a piece of writing meant to be read by the general public and purporting to be an elegaic vision of our emininent and mutual apocalyptic future? Is he trying to say that when the lights go out, men will still be masturbating? Duh. Who knew? More important, who asked? The best I can say of those exposes is that at least he left the women alone and stuck to what he knows about.
Some of his characters are fully wrought and interesting. The most fully wrought is the bad young man Billy Bones; you feel as if you got a pretty complete picture of him. Jasper, the runaway boy, pretty good. Brother Jobe, a well imagined and truly fascinating character--a true American type.The best are the three average guys who are, together, probably a picture of the author himself, parcelled out into thirds. So he know's what he's like (at his best.) The women--well, they're odd. The Witch herself is interesting. All of these women seem to be like something conjured up on a cold night by some lonely man. The mother/teacher types are rapidly run through and rejected into their dull roles, but the Witch is really kind of good. I think she's been prepped up for a bigger role later on in this saga. Interesting.
Both the Witch and Brother Jobe seem to possess magical powers, and to influence the outcome of the story by their dabblings. I liked that, as I like magical things in nature (where I do believe they exist) and I felt that that line of thinking added to the interest of the book.
If number of words given to a sub-topic is any hint, I think the next book by Mr Kunstler will be The Union Grove Cookbook. Never have I read so many menus and recipes and mouth-watering descriptions of meals in one somber tome as in this one. I was wondering how they come up with so many cakes, pies and cookies until I realized that (1) there are all those maple trees, (2) the honey bees may make it into the near future, and (3) most of the populace will have died of the Mexican flu and there won't be so many people around to eat too many sweets. So there will be cakes for all, I am happy to say.
Off topic, it reminds me of Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here, a novel from the 40's with a similar futuristic thrust, where all are starving but the cook keeps coming up with coconut cakes. Not honey cakes nor maple cakes, but coconut cakes...interesting. I gather that both these gentlemen do their writing on lonely nights when they need their midnight snacks.
Mr Kunstler is a good painter, but he's not a good novelist, yet. His descriptive writing is okay, some of his narrative was surprising and good. A long description of an appendectomy performed by the runaway boy, a doctor's son with good powers of observation and memory, reminded me of Thomas Costain. Anybody remember him? He was a doctor turned historical novel writer. Every novel he wrote contained at least one operation described at great length with painstaking detail. We should hang onto the book in case we have to do the same thing, a little later into The Long Emergency. YAZZYBEL
Saturday, July 23, 2011
July 23
Good evening!
This is a hard one to write. It's my eldest son's birthday. He is fifty-one years old, or will be at some time between nine o clock and ten thirty tonight. I believe he was born just before ten but I could be wrong. I was too busy to look at the clock. My husband was there beside us, swathed and garbed. I remember looking up at a pair of such KIND eyes..it was a shock to realize that they were my husband's.
After my baby was born, they took him away and did a lot of cleaning up. Then I was stowed away into a room at the Alameda County Hospital (could that possibly be correct?) and after a time, a nurse came into the twilit room with a little bundle and laid it down beside me. My baby and I had a nice little love-fest of communing for a time, before the nurse came to take him away "so you can get your sleep." I did not feel that was necessary, but I trusted the hospital to care for him till morning.
After a few days, Alexander and I went home with Theodore to our rented digs on Arch Street in Berkeley. That house is still there, and I have driven by to see it within the last few years. Benjamin took me. I had a great pediatrician, Dr Grossman,who was as new at doctoring as I was at mothering, but together we made a success of my breastfeeding my skinny little baby and he was plump and rosy in no time. It is harder to realize that it's fifty one years since Dr Grossman started his practice than to believe that Alexander is fifty one years old.
Motherhood is still my greatest accomplishment, though I was not very good at it. But it brought me so much happiness that I'd never be able to tell it all. I will never forget the absolutely exhalted feeling I had after Alexander was born. I was very very happy. YAZZYBEL
This is a hard one to write. It's my eldest son's birthday. He is fifty-one years old, or will be at some time between nine o clock and ten thirty tonight. I believe he was born just before ten but I could be wrong. I was too busy to look at the clock. My husband was there beside us, swathed and garbed. I remember looking up at a pair of such KIND eyes..it was a shock to realize that they were my husband's.
After my baby was born, they took him away and did a lot of cleaning up. Then I was stowed away into a room at the Alameda County Hospital (could that possibly be correct?) and after a time, a nurse came into the twilit room with a little bundle and laid it down beside me. My baby and I had a nice little love-fest of communing for a time, before the nurse came to take him away "so you can get your sleep." I did not feel that was necessary, but I trusted the hospital to care for him till morning.
After a few days, Alexander and I went home with Theodore to our rented digs on Arch Street in Berkeley. That house is still there, and I have driven by to see it within the last few years. Benjamin took me. I had a great pediatrician, Dr Grossman,who was as new at doctoring as I was at mothering, but together we made a success of my breastfeeding my skinny little baby and he was plump and rosy in no time. It is harder to realize that it's fifty one years since Dr Grossman started his practice than to believe that Alexander is fifty one years old.
Motherhood is still my greatest accomplishment, though I was not very good at it. But it brought me so much happiness that I'd never be able to tell it all. I will never forget the absolutely exhalted feeling I had after Alexander was born. I was very very happy. YAZZYBEL
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