# 5 We Dare To Drive in Sicily!

Driving! Mama mia! After three days in Palermo we rented a car to drive through the middle of Sicily from the north coast to the south coast. First nerve racking task – leaving Palermo. The roads have lanes but no lines. Motorcycles, and there are plenty of them, seem to be exempt  from all rules of the road, and where in Canada other vehicle drivers might catch your eye with a look, or even a nod, here it seems like the attitude  is to avoid indicating intent, rather it’s “I’m just going where I’m going. You watch out!” 

Mama Mía!

Finally we’re on the open (skinny) road winding through the Sicilian hills. Unlike on a trip through the Canadian Rockies, we rarely lose sight of farms, villas and orchards. Amongst the greenery, the houses in the fairytale hillsides are exclusively shades of yellow or gold. And the magnificent vistas! – layers of hills, farm land, and then the Ionian Sea.

  Looking for a pizzeria in the city of Caltagirone, we found the streets quiet and shuttered.  Settling for a Italian McDonalds (no Big Macs or Quarter Pounders) we learned that Monday is the only day of the week that Caltagirone’s businesses ‘take a rest’. 

Back on the highway to Noto, our next destination , the landscape levels somewhat to an impressive variety of vegetation: palm and cypress trees, whole groves of prickly pear cacti, orchards of olive and lemon trees. M got used to me gasping at each hairpin turn, with drivers passing us to head straight for oncoming traffic, like why wouldn’t they? 

    For a distance we followed a giant semi and worried what impatient Italian might try to pass us both. On a hairpin turn it wasn’t a vehicle slowing traffic but rather  a horse and buggy. Mama Mía! 

Semi and horses

At last we were inside Noto,  where I thought we’d be stuck to this day! The cobblestone roads, shrunk in width as we drove. Back at home we might call them sidewalks. The strident voice of Google maps, demanded we turn left in between two ancient buildings a few feet apart. Seriously!? Behind us three drivers were waiting for us to get on with it. The walls of the buildings on each side of our rented KIA’s supposed path were scrapped with paint from non-Italian drivers who’d passed this way before. 

Seriously?

M now insists it wasn’t so big a deal. (What?!) My solution,  cried out between bad language, was to just let the Italian guy in the car behind us take the wheel in our car and get us out of the jam. M is far too much of a red blooded male to have considered that – and he persevered, manoeuvring by inches until our car could move forward. With adrenaline still rushing through my Canadian veins we made it through Noto to where the Google maps lady said, ‘Your destination is on the right.’ And Prego! A giant double door opened to a courtyard with parking for our hotel. Be still my heart. It was time for an afternoon cappuccino and an Aperol Spritz! 

#4 Take the Cannoli

My husband, a guy not always crazy about organized tours suggested one dull winter day, as we planned our month long Italian adventure, “Oh go ahead, book us a few tours.” Prego. I picked one I’d love. And one he’d love. Mine was for our second day in Palermo, Sicily  and was fantástico! Discover Sicily has been an exotic, sometimes scary adventure. It has a rich history marked by centuries of conquest and influence from Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans. Our tour was called Ten Tastings of Palermo and went beyond our expectations in culinary delights!

Mercato di Ballaro

The aromas! Oh the tantalizing aroma’s! And the vivid colours! Michelangelo, our guide with a company called WithLocals, was too good to be true. It sounds corny but it was as if we’d met an old friend – an Italian history foodie-type old friend – our kid’s age,  but stay with me! 

   He described Palermo as being layered like a lasagna. It’s Sicilian cuisine has been influenced by Arab countries, the French, Spain, Greece, and North Africa and to explore this Michelangelo took us to the historic Mercato di Ballarò. Located in the Albergheria district.

Our first delight was a piece of fluffy Arabian style salted bread hot off the grill. Our taste buds were awakened. From their we let him deliver us through milling customers to a booths selling tuna crouquettes, and lightly battered asparagus, mushroom, and artichoke where described the artichokes as as being as big as a baby’s head. Michelangelo then insisted we’d never tasted egg plant parmigiana if we had eaten it in Sicily. So true – it was an alluring mouthwatering mix of the ‘aubergene’, tomato sauce and gooey cheese.

Sicilian Artichokes

From there we stepped through a bottleneck of people, to an open area with American music blasting, and all ages of folks dancing and laughing in a square crowed with food booths, and plastic tables and chairs. Michelangelo called out an order to a  woman behind another grill and soon presented us with our last plate of hot delights.

Since our arrival in Palermo we’d noticed people everywhere, seriously everywhere – sipping on bright orange drinks, resembling orange Fanta – but not. It’s an apéritif known as an Aperol Spritz, a mix of Aperol, prosecco, and soda water. On that sunny afternoon we discovered its refreshing appeal to accompany our thinly battered, crispy fried sardines and the best ever lightly spiced potato croquettes. 

With our bellies bursting Michelangelo suggested we stroll to a wide seaside boulevard when we walked amongst local parents and grandparents pushing little bambino’s in fancy Italian strollers, kids on scooters, cruise ship passengers, and dog walkers of decidedly Italian dogs. 

In the afternoon sunshine, we were treated to creamy Sicilian gelato and the popular cannoli. Prego.

The tour I booked with M’s heart in mind won’t be for a few days, but here’s a hint – ‘leave the guns take the cannoli.’ Ciao for now.

# 3 Three Coins In The Fountain

 Third day in Rome, but on this day we have a concrete plan. Prego! (We’ve learned that  ‘Prego’ – is a word for – well, everything – You’re welcome. Please. Go ahead. Prego. Prego Prego.) 

So finally we were setting out with a set of destinations. It’s a jubilee year in Rome, something that the Pope declares every 25 years and Catholics from around the world make pilgrimages to Rome, filling the streets with tourists, as well as groups of travelling nuns and priests. 

Traveling nuns in Rome’s airport

In a day ripe with sunshine we grab an Uber through the city to stand before the iconic Spanish Steps. The Spanish Steps are a grand staircase connecting Piazza di Spagna to the Trinità dei Monti church, and the 1953 film “Roman Holiday,” starring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, made them famous as a romantic backdrop. M and I take a zillion photos but don’t traverse the steps. Some trivia: there are 135 steps, dedicated to the Holy Trinity, represented  by three tiers, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. 

Iconic Spanish Steps

From there we wander amongst the high end shops, stopping for a glass of vino to watch the folks stroll by, then with dreams of tossing a coin in the fountain a la Audrey Hepburn, we head off to the Fontana di Trevi. The younger crowd will know the song as the one Steve Martin, not John Candy, sings in the movie Trains, Planes and Automobiles – “Three coins in the fountain,

Each one seeking happiness

Thrown by three hopeful lovers

Which one will the fountain bless”

It’s so Jubilee-busy that there is a controlled line a block long to get anywhere close enough to toss a coin. Now, if we had tossed our three coins what would be our reward? One coin ensures a trip back to Rome, two coins and we will find love, and three coins guarantees we’d marry the person we found love with in Italy. Thank goodness we have each other because M and I settle for a selfie of us grinning before the crowd, the swirling fountain water behind us.

No coins in the fountain

Our next patio stop is for an Italian beer, and a cappuccino, ignoring ChatGPT telling me Italians never drink milk in their coffee after 11 am. Finally, we traverse the cobblestones, again following the mix of worldwide tourists to the colosseum. We face it, where it rises above the crowd, the world’s largest amphitheatre, almost 2000 years old. Perhaps, it’s the jet lag coming back, but honestly I sit in awe even of the marble bench we rest on  that feels worn so smooth I imagine Romans who have sat right there, through the centuries. A busker begins to play something classical on his violin  – ah Prego!

2000 years old

Another wonderful day traversing Rome. Tomorrow it’s off to discover Sicily, another world entirely. First stop Palermo – remember, “In Sicily, women are more dangerous than shotguns.” (The Godfather).

Rome: Awe-Struck Jet-lagged Wonder

April 2025. We’re here in Rome, Italy! I’ll skip past the actual travel days, with sleepy boredom in an airport lounge and then almost missing our connecting flight having miscalculated the distance to the gate in Frankfurt’s insanely enormous airport. And I won’t go on about my vow against airplane breakfasts (icky icky eggs) or the usual circadian rhythm mess of a 30 hour day. All the same, the triumph of Rome is so alluring that its wonders were magnified by the state of our stunned jet lagged brains. Jumping ahead eights hours with only poor sleep and a bunch of niggly naps, heightened the marvel of that first mixed-up day of sleep deprived sight seeing.

With clearer  heads we could have performed speedy searches on our phones to name the monuments, to pin point the cathedrals,  and understand the streets direction,  but that would have subtracted from our awe struck confusion. 

The coliseum

From the fresh squeezed morning orange juice to the midnight cocktail on a six story rooftop, the day unraveled in a winding, blur of awe. We tread over cobblestones trying to follow that blue dot on google maps, stood stunned  before ornate fountains, magnificent cathedrals, and ancient (like really, really ancient) statues of the likes of Neptune and Caesar.

And why so many leather goods shops I pondered, buying a cute little purse I didn’t need, (though who couldn’t use one more cute little purse) while trying not to be run over by scooters and motorbikes, ubers and taxis. Like sheep we followed a crowd to St Peter’s Basilica mesmerized by a single guitarist serenading us with the Beatle’s tune ‘Here Comes the Sun’. Lingered before  midcity  architectural digs, pizzerias, and pubs all the while listening to the  sing song-y Italian spoken around us. 

Time travel archeological sight

There was an afternoon nap, before our dinner of fat olives, rich gnocchi with ragú sauce and then chocolate topped  basil gelato. Fantástica. But the highlight was the nighttime stroll home.  Rome is amazingly lit from the ground up, cathedral windows, marble fountains, and tall cypress trees glow in the black night.

We walked slowly, well satiated, our feet tired, staring up at seagulls flying in and out of the light. It was ten pm as we lined up for pistachio gelato, then relied on Google maps blue dot to end our circular route through narrow alley ways with curious closed shops. In bed with closed eyes,  I still viewed marble angels, Roman gods, and the wide rolling Tiber River. Tomorrow we’d set more exact goals of  historic sights. And throw coins in that fountain. 

30 Days in Italy – (but first prune the apple tree)

A burst of energy happens the morning of a big trip. There I am rushing to have an extra key made for our mailbox, because I’m certain my adult kids will lose mine checking the mail in our absence. I’m slurping a cold latte while buying mini toothpastes and tiny deodorants at the drugstore, then back home pruning our apples trees – chopped branches falling into the snow. Crazy I know, but the jobs been on my pre-trip to-do list forever, and our return will be past the date that pruning is advised if I want to come home to dreamy blossoms.

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Life’s Funny

Life’s funny – that was something my dad said. And he’s right – life is funny. In later years he ‘d always tell us, “Thanks for the call,” after a phone conversation, making sure we knew how appreciative he was. And when we were saying goodbye after a visit, he liked to tell us, “The latch key is always out,” reminding us how welcome we were.  I can picture him saying those things while sitting in the big comfy chair that he’d made room for in their kitchen, toothpicks in his pocket, the newspaper on his lap, a cup of coffee if it was morning, tea if it was midday, at his elbow. In this image my mom is at the table counting their daily pills and vitamins into a days-of-the-week container. 

My dad has been gone three years. I wish ‘gone’ met he’d left home, maybe ran away before they had to move into a senior’s residence. But no, my dad has died. I worry my kids or grandkids will forget him if I fail to verbalize all his dad-isms, so I repeat them frequently and pray that they are listening and remembering. 

And life is funny, isn’t it? What, I wonder will they say about me – those kids and grandkids of mine? Will it be my too familiar – love the ones you’re with? (Meaning stop staring at your phone.) Mostly, I hope I’m passing on what my dad passed on, imagining I hold counsel  with much of what he believed in. He was a man of strong family values, maybe old-fashioned (he was born in 1928) but here’s hoping everything is new again. 

My dad believed in taking the family on a summer camping holiday every year. He believed in Sunday dinner and especially Sunday drives. Until he gave up his license at age eighty-six, he would help my mom into the car and together they’d do a thirty-mile circle from their city through the town he grew up in, stopping for egg rolls or ice cream as they drove through the rolling foothills.

He believed in a seafood feast on Christmas Eve and buying gifts, never gift certificates, though he’d cajole my sisters and I into shopping for our mom, on his behalf. He believed in going out for coffee in coffee shops, if not with our mom, then with his brothers. He had strong feelings about how kids should learn to skate and ride bikes, and as a frustrated non-swimmer he made sure all of his five kids were at least semi-accomplished aquanauts.

He believed in a beer with cheese and crackers before dinner, and tea and dessert afterwards. I remember that even on those camping trips in the woods, while mom prepared dinner on a coalman stove, he’d serve up our appetizers of sharp cheddar and crackers. Their after dinner campsite tea would be accompanied by a tin of something sweet from home. He always said chocolate cake should be served with red jello and a bit of whipped cream. 

My dad believed in picnics in the mountains as a weekend treat. We started the same tradition when our kids were babies. It never failed that they would fall sound asleep on the way and be left to dream, while my husband and I enjoyed the peace and our packed lunch. My dad believed you cover a sleeping person with a blanket, even in warm weather. It’s hard for me to resist copying that bit of coziness. 

Have I adopted all of his tenets to pass along? He believed in real cloth handkerchiefs and always had one in his pocket (yuk), and also carried wooden toothpicks. I prefer the plastic variety. He believed in connecting with the person serving you a coffee with a sampling of his wry humor. I’m not nearly as funny as he was, but I do try to get a smile. Who could argue with his stanch believe that family should come home for Christmas. We gathered around a table laden with baked salmon, a still icy shrimp ring, and fried oysters. My mom’s background was Ukrainian and so we dined on perogies, cabbage rolls and garlic sausage at Easter time, but on Christmas Eve my dad crushed crackers with a big glass rolling pin and us kids helped roll the oysters in the crumbs for her to crispy fry for our feast. 

Oddly, my kids don’t care for oysters, at least not cracker coated and fried, but I do them up every December 24thanyway, and talk about my dad and how the family feast meant the world to him.

It’s impossible to celebrate without invoking my dad’s memory and sharing his beliefs with those gathered around. My mom was his north star and his biggest belief was in his love for her. She gifted me with another set of values – the wonders of what she held to be true. Let me tell you about those in my next blog. And remember – do love the ones you’re with. 

It’s Hard Not to Sigh

How to grind the coffee beans quietly as to not to wake my husband who is still sleeping upstairs in our cottage bedroom? We’ve haven’t been here since summer so I decide to explore the property first and sit with my java afterwards. It’s been a damp fall, unlike the dry summer – a geranium along the driveway is still a brilliant red, matching the Virginia creeper winding over the deck rail, framing my view of the quiet lake. Alongside that a glorious yellow dahlia has bowed its heavy blossom to the ground. I snip it from the stem to shelter it’s perfect beauty from the changing weather.

            My husband comes out to start the heavy work of pulling in the dock, a job that always brings me back to summertime memories. It was a full season. We celebrated forty years of married bliss (and almost bliss) at a surprise party hosted by his parents in their Vancouver Island home. Afterwards we revelled in family lake time. We had a crew of family members lounging on the dock, watching out for our granddaughters barreling past us to dive into the lake splashing and calling out. I wander down to the shoreline, and remember the saddest part of our summer – how we lost our next door neighbour to illness and then sat vigil in the evenings trying to offer some comfort to his mourning wife. He was a good man full of adventure, with an easy laugh. His spirit is with me as I look across at the opposite shore, at its golden yellows and greens reflected in the smooth water. His memory will always be part of lake life.

It was a hot dry August and half way through it we left the lake for one of our happiest times – our eldest son married his sweetheart in a small town in Portugal. There was a stop in Paris on the way to Portugal. (I watch a sparrow flit from a tall evergreen to the cherry tree and decide I need to write about the magic of Paris separately – about how I’d promised my young granddaughters I’d take them there when the oldest turned twelve, and with the wedding in Europe I kept my promise a year late.)

 We travelled from the wonders of Paris to Povoa de Varzim, Portugal and along with family and friends celebrated in ways familiar and new – walking on cobblestone paths to an ancient church where the singing in Portuguese was acoustically brilliant. We were fed piles of savory fare through the early morning preparations right until the music and dancing stopped at two am. It was touching to be surrounded by the love and goodwill emanating from the bride and groom while joining our family with another. From the lavender fields and olive trees, to the incredible soft sand beaches, to the pretty tiled homes, and the dreamy delicious pasteis de nata (custards tarts), we were entranced by Portugal.

Folks often ask if we ‘close’ the cottage for winter. We do occasionally come up for cozy winter weekends – so we don’t close up as much as we prepare for another season and the long wait until spring. The two of us lean the table against a wall so it’s protected from where the winter snow will drift and pile up. And I think of how we’ve sat with company long into summer nights after BQ dinners. I bring in the hummingbird feeders – the tiny birds we liked to watch dart about have retreated now. We pull the canoe and kayak high up on shore in anticipation of the high waters of late spring and the return of days of swimming and waterplay on floaties shaped like serpents and unicorns. 

  A breeze stirs the trees and I watch leaves flutter to the ground through the golden trees. It’s hard not to sigh. There will be many months of winter before it is warm enough to swim again, but the autumn colours marking the changing seasons hold the promise of that.

The Dang Mother of the Groom Dress

You’ve probably heard of Say Yes To The Dress – the reality show where the bride chooses her wedding dress at a fancy high end shop, and once she’s made her dramatic decision, the small crowd she’s invited to be her witnesses, all cheer wildly. Well, I’m here to tell you there is no such TV show for the mother’s of the bride or groom. Those moms do some lonely shopping as fraught older women mumbling to themselves with a dressed pulled down tightly, “Probably not.” Or it makes me look too wide. Or too prim, or like I’m trying too dang hard, or even more alarming – how many dresses did I order on-line at four am waiting for my night time Benadryl to kick in?

            My son is marrying his lovely fiancé in a few months. I am excited (like really excited) for this gig. I believe I’m a person who knows how to shop, can look reasonably put together in her clothes, and most importantly – I’m capable of decision making like a grown up. Alas – all false when it comes to the mother of the groom dress. It’s as if I’m a neanderthal who’s never worn clothes before, making outlandish mistakes on what might look best. 

            Let’s see – first there was the slip dress. I know. I know. What was I thinking? But the wedding is in Portugal in August. The bride’s family is from there and we’re thrilled to be visiting but everyone talked about how hot it would be – thus the on-line ordering of the light weight pretty slip dress. It arrived when I was pasty white from our northern winter and to put it simply – it was a tragic mistake. The next was its replacement – the company didn’t do returns, only exchanges. Postage required to return it. Postage required to receive the next. I’d ordered a bigger size and went from revealing every bump and bulge to something too large, creating an amazon-woman effect. Rather than pay more postage to the US I had it altered to be smaller which helped me realize that it wasn’t just the fit I didn’t like. I hated everything about the stupid dress except how it had looked on the decades younger model. 

   In-between waiting for mail order (that expression shows my mother-of-the-groom age) I was browsing in-person in big shops, little shops, shops in other cities and finding …. nothing. The salespeople who were always sure to congratulate me on my son getting hitched, said things like “how exciting” and of course, “Portugal in August, that will be warm.” And then showed me too heavy prim gowns, with some notion of mother of the groom written all over them; solid colours, lots of draping with accompanying jackets meant to cover everything that I suppose I’m intended to cover. At least three of the saleswomen said, “You’ll wear spanx, right?” And tried to convince me that the magical modern girdle is what all the well-dressed ladies are sporting these days. In Portugal? In August?

     I have three friends whose thirty-something kids are getting married this summer and all of them seem to agree that us moms of the groom and moms of the bride are tossed into some sort of fashion box assumption. Most of us probably didn’t imagine we’d be this old when our kids tied the knot, but it feels like the fashion industry imagined we’d be even older. 

    When my daughter got married twelve years ago, I wanted to look like Kate Middleton’s mom at that spectacular royal wedding – she wore a simple but elegant shift with a slim fitting jacket. I doubt she ordered it on-line at four am in a sleepy stupor. I didn’t quite pull off the princess look Kate’s mom had but I kinda, sorta did. That wedding of our daughter’s was on an island on Canada’s west coast in the fall. I guess I’m hung up on the European guests at my son’s summer nuptials and how they will exude style. 

I bought dress number three at Nordstroms and now I’m worried it’s too fancy, too floral, and here’s the kicker – maybe even too shapely. It can’t be returned because Nordstroms closed shop in Canada (though all I got was a lousy five per cent off.) Oh, did I mention in all this grumbling that the right dress must be able to be cleverly rolled up and travel in my carry-on because we all fear lost baggage. This fancy floral will roll up, but is it – I don’t know – silly? Not staid enough?

Perhaps I’m just worried that it doesn’t fit mother of the groom status and calls for the dreaded annoying spanx in the Portugal heat? I think … but I’m not positive, that in the wee hours last night I ordered a backup dress off one of those sites with beautiful dresses styled for mature women (with young models) and too good to believe prices.

    All this insane shopping aside, in a quiet moments when I forget the search, I’m able to focus on the overseas celebration; on meeting the bride’s far away family, on being nurtured by the feast that they promise is central to the whole affair, on how thrilled our granddaughters will be to finally be flower girls, and on our loved ones who have been able to orchestrate the long trip with much anticipation of the affair. The truth for us mothers of brides and grooms is that we will look just fine, and all eyes will be on the couple, who will be stunning – and what will make us most attractive will be our splendid beaming grins.

I Like Where We Live

Here’s a thing to think about – because we are at a certain age and stage – friends and family ask me, where do you think you’ll retire? I feel as if I’m supposed to have a dream location – a little casita in a safe Mexican town with a red tile roof and a balcony overlooking the Bay of Banderas, or somewhere familiar and loved, such as our family

cottage in the Shuswaps – with its copper roof, and wide patio overlooking the blue-green lake. New or familiar, it’s the process of getting to this vision that has me flummoxed. 

            I like where we live. Plain and simple. My parents bought this property on the edge of the city, in 1966 when I was seven years old. The house was brand new and had lots of room for our family of seven. They’d purchased it, but because my dad was employed far out of town, they had to wait to move. My mom, a person who never drove, was anxious to begin the transformation of the big yard from unadorned soil to a landscape both pretty and useful, and so had some of us kids help carry spades and shovels from the old house, a long walk away. Not having transportation wasn’t going to prevent her from getting started on constructing flowerbeds and a wide vegetable garden and preparing places for shrubs and flowering plum trees. 

         My husband and I bought this home and garden from my parents when I was thirty years-old and our four little kids, age one, three, five and six, needed more space then available in our small rental.  It wasn’t until the year 2000 when our youngest was ten, that we felt ready to renovate, and update the home no longer anywhere near the city’s edge. The house had good bones and my parents understood updating, still my mom was practical and penny wise, and must have looked on aghast as we expanded into the yard and added granite and tile, gas fireplaces and two more big bathrooms. 

        Oddly, both my parents were more at ease than I was when the giant evergreen out front had to go. They said they might have also added the big deck if they were staying. Their new smaller home had one. In the twenty-six years they lived in that new house my mom grew splendid roses, lined her deck with pots of geraniums and nourished her own raspberry patch.  A year before she died, she helped us dig up her prize English rose bush and transplant it to this yard. I pause beside it some evenings to feel her spirit. It isn’t just that conveyor of soft pink ruffled blossoms that grounds me here. What makes me like where I live is what remains from those early days of my mom creating the garden we love – the tall over-reaching lilacs with the first fragrant blooms of summer, the dainty bleeding-heart blossoming in the shade, the nan king cherry bushes she made tart jelly with, the mass of lily of the valley on the shady north side.

            I feel rooted to this spot on the earth when I picture my seven-year-old self climbing the hill from our old neighborhood. I remember sitting on the steps, eating our brown bag lunch of ham sandwiches and home baked cookies, drinking from the hose she’d set up and watching while she watered her new seeds and skinny raspberry plants that still line the fence. A new family could move into the house, I suppose, but I don’t want anyone else to mess with what grows here. And so, I imagine, we’ll stay.

September Nostalgia – No Judgement

It happens so quickly. The day is hot, you’re in your lightest t-shirt, sweating with an icy refreshment, smelling like sunscreen and summertime. The evening brings a big breeze – the winds of change – the temperature drops, leaves turn golden overnight and suddenly it’s a sweater day. A friend said to me once that the new year should start in September – as that is the time of new beginnings, holidays end, work life accelerates, kids start playschool and grade school or even leave home for fresh adventures.  It’s been a decade since our family was knocked off its feet as one by one, yet all so quickly, our four kids were launched from home.

Before that there was a familiar rhythm to getting back to packing lunches and supervising homework and meeting new teachers.  And then suddenly the tune changed – we were helping our kids (young adults really) pack suitcases, buy dorm or apartment supplies – Ikea dishes and clothes hampers, maybe a tea kettle. Possibly you know that drill – or perhaps instead you’ve got a traveler on your hands, causing you some trepidation as they shop for backpacks and the perfect tiny tent. The world’s opened up again and they’re going to navigate the furthers corners of it. It should be exciting, right? So, what’s with this quaking you feel? And sleepless nights rivalling when you had wee babies in the house?  

     That was me – times four. Those autumns of our kids flying the coop were full of chaos and apprehension.  How would our comfortably close family readjust? As we were just adapting to our oldest daughter leaving for university and not coming through the gate at the end of a school day, pausing sometimes to lie on the lawn and gaze at the clouds, the others started to flee, also -one to be a liftie on a far-away ski hill, another for university on an island, the last to travel Europe solo. 

Those times are behind us. Now I’m calling my young granddaughters up to ask what they’ve decided to wear for the first day back to grade school and hearing mostly about their eagerness to hang with friends again. The next morning their mom, my daughter Zoë, tells me that in all their excitement and rush after those lazier summer mornings, she forgot to tell the oldest where she would meet her when her new school gets out. Oh no, I say, but then we’re both consoled in an odd way that for the first time this granddaughter is taking a cell phone to school and so finding her when the bell goes won’t really be a problem in 2022. (As the kids say, “No judgement.” She’s twelve and getting about on her own.)

I tell Zoë that September brings me back to the panic of those under rehearsed autumn mornings when she and her three siblings were young, and then I think about the days when in quick succession they left home. It was Zoë first, packing up her paints and fantasy novels, then Cole with his snowboard and video camera, two years later Hudson with his dry wit and philosophy books, and finally Lily kissed us and flew to Europe – though somewhere before all that she kissed us and ran away. 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

   From our too quiet house I wrote a book about the change from bubbling wrapping to letting go, titled, Text Me, Love Mom; Two Girls, Two Boys, One Empty Nest. It wasn’t easy for this mom of four to adjust to late night anxious calls, to hear from a daughter looking for a place to cry out loud, the way she liked to cry, to adjust to the unease, angst and face it – sometimes new peace – over grilled cheese for dinner, because who cooks for two? The media and an older generation would have us believe that we have overindulged, overprotected and generally, now that parent is a verb, over-parented our kids. I was able to stay connected and endure their flights from home with the aid of satellite communications, during this anxious time of back and forth texting, calling, consoling, and applauding as everyone in our family got their bearings again. If you’re up for a bit of a wild ride – check it out – Text Me, Love Mom offers an opportunity to contemplate and laugh over the perpetual trial and error of another stage of parenting. Or stay in touch with my blog where I’m musing about other topics now – check out the list in the sidebar. And I still feel nostalgic in September….