Debra Darvick

 When I became a grandmother, I longed to share the experience with my own grandmother. Did she remember holding me for the first time? What were her thoughts in that moment? Her hopes? What did she imagine us doing together one day?  She embodied utter love. She, and my grandfather, were my haven. My grandmother kept her nails perfectly manicured despite the fact that she did all her own housekeeping, proudly and energetically. (Her two fave colors were Revlon’s Love That Red and Cherries in the Snow.)

I don’t remember her reading to me or singing me nursery rhymes. Instead, mornings always started with the Jumble, torn from the newspaper and left beside my breakfast plate for me to solve. She would have already solved it on a scratch pad. Her blintzes were legendary, as were her eclairs, egg custard, sponge and pound cakes. I don’t rembember her getting down on the floor to play with me but we played hands and hands of gin rummy. She fed me body and soul. She crooned Frank Sinatra songs to me. Billie Holiday’s I’ll Be Seeing You was a favorite. I have a beautiful memory of her and my grandfather dancing to it late in their lives. 

It’s taken me time to grow into my own version of who I am as a grandmother. Olivia and I, and now Leah, are playmates. We dance to rock music. We play rounds and rounds of Mancala and Guess Who? When there are rain puddles we splash in them. (Oivia once called the reflections “rain shadows.”) During the nearly three years they lived in Michigan, I read hundreds of books to Olivia, teaching her zillions of words in English and dozens in Hebrew. Now we text our Wordle answers back and forth.  Leah doesn’t lean toward books. Instead we invent improv pantomines, dress up her Barbies and play grocery store alternating the roles of shopper, cashier and bagger. Where Olivia and I meld over mind challenges, Leah and I wander the world of imagination.

Each of us finds our way on the path called grandmothering. I am so grateful to be a pilgrim on this journey and hope that from some corner of heaven my own grandmother is gazing down with delight.

With some of her saved up allowance, my granddaughter, Olivia, recently bought a journal and special pen.  Once home, she asked her mom to write the name ‘Brenda Myers’ on a small piece of paper and  tape the paper to her pen.  When Elizabeth asked why, Olivia replied something about learning that writers have pen names.  And so she had chosen the name Brenda Myers for her new pen.

Yes.  That’s right. A pen name.  I just might have to give one of my pens a name too.  Stay tuned.

It was a dream come true to have Olivia stay with us for a spell last month. The plan was for her to attend day camp for the coming week, after which her mom would return with baby sister Leah and stay a few days before heading back. A mother with whom Elizabeth remained friends from their years here in Michigan also signed her daughter for the camp session. The two girls took to each other as if they’d never been apart.

How sweet it was to return to childhood routine: readying Olivia’s backpack the night before; settling into our morning tasks which included making our beds, eating breakfast and putting on sunscreen before she and Grandpa watched music videos. They revisited favorites from The Magic Flute and Swan Lake and enjoyed a new crop which included selections from Frozen and of course Encanto‘s hit We Don’t Talk About Bruno. Martin usually dropped her off  mornings and I took the afternoon shift. It was a new/old experience becoming part of the milling crowd of parents waiting for the kids to be brought out.

When the heat relented, we took walks, found bird feathers and watched a platoon of ants carry their finds to their subterranean home. Olivia read book after book while I made dinner. We tie dyed T-shirts and made a mooncake, inspired by the eponymous book by Frank Asch.  We had loved reading the book together and had made a mooncake once or twice before.

One morning Olivia refused to let me apply sunscreen. “You’re not the boss of me!” she said. “Mom is the boss of the family!”

Undeterred and uninterested in arguing, I simply agreed. “You’re right. Mom is the boss. And your mom is the boss of me, too.” Olivia’s eyes widened to mooncake circumference. “See,” I continued, “Mom told me that you have to put on sunscreen before camp. If Mom says it, I have to do it.”  End of story.

Being a grandmother means certain rules can go by the wayside.  Ice cream for dinner? Sure. Ten extra minutes in the tub. Yep. Making one more soap bubble? Let’s do it. We played rounds of SET and some Ravensberger board games she was ready for. The intense heat nixed plans to go berry picking and an afternoon at the zoo, but there was also something quite lovely about staying close to home and making our own fun.

The morning we went to synagogue, I played a certain song I had played in the early years. Dodi li, v’ani lo (my beloved is mine and I am my beloved’s) is taken from the love poetry of Song of Songs. This version is sung in the call and response form of kirtan music. Back then Olivia had just learned the words.  They all came back to her and we sang our way to synagogue. Although she didn’t remember as many people as those who remembered her,  she found her place again, playing with the same friends she’d played with nearly three years before. Now a big girl, she sought out one of the little ones, a not-yet toddler and kept her entertained for a bit.

Before we knew it, Elizabeth arrived with Leah. She and Elliot had a great time having some alone time with Leah.  It was a win-win all around. Thanking us profusely for keeping Olivia for the week, Elizabeth asked as they left, “Can we do this for two weeks next year?”

“Of course,” I replied. “Let’s see what the year brings.”

I’m already planning.

Portrait of Olivia and me by Miss O herself!

Seems to be a collector’s item now.

My dear friend Audrey never got to meet her grandson, Max. Max’s mom Jessie and my daughter met in first grade; their friendship led to Audrey’s and mine. Audrey became Emma’s second mom and likewise, Jessie became my second daughter. Audrey died months before Jessie married. It is a sacred, cherished, and bittersweet role to be there for Jessie at milestones large and small. Whenever I visit,  in my mind and my heart, I take Audrey with me.

Last week our synagogue’s green team sponsored a plant exchange and all sorts of kids’ activities focussed on bees and butterflies.  By happenstance, Max had found a coccoon the week before and the morning of the event, his butterfly — a Monarch, no less! — emerged. There was quite a bit of fanfare when Max opened the jar and eased out his butterfly. During a lull, Jessie and I took Max into the sanctuary.  We brought him to the ark, the enclosure where the Torah scrolls are kept. Its smooth wooden doors are carved into the shapes of animals and Jewish symbols. Jessie, Max and I spent a good few minutes finding rams, birds, and a lion or two.

Next we went stood at the bima, the platform where the Torah is read. We opened the prayerbook and Jessie handed Max a yad, a slender silver pointer, and explained to him that we never touch the Torah with our hands, but use the yad instead to keep the place as the Torah is read.  As Max pointed to words in the prayerbook, Jessie recited them to him. He pointed to a prayer that happened to be one his parents sing to him at bedtime. Oseh Shalom asks God to spread peace over us, over all the people Israel, and over the entire world.  Jessie and I sang Oseh Shalom to Max. He laughed and giggled with joy. I imagined Audrey joining in, her voice audible across time and longing.