My Grandma Clancy aka Bridget Rogers-Clancy

I couldn't find any photos of my grandma with her fox stole but it was so fun looking through the old family photos and re-seeing my grandma. She died in 1980 (I think), right after I had left Michigan to live in Santa Cruz, California. We are a very large, unsentimental family and I didn't go back for her funeral. That was the way we did things but now that I am my own person with a larger view of the world, I would definitely go and I know that I should have gone.

I loved and respected my grandma. I knew she was cranky sometimes and I knew she was a little bit comical with her blue-grey hair and her terrible baking skills (she would give us muffins that we would use as ammunition in play wars), and the way she would stay in the kitchen long after a meal, eating the leftovers while she cleaned up. But I felt very close to her and intrigued by her.

The grandchildren would get to stay over in sets of two or three for weeks sometimes. I stayed with my cousins Maureen and Kathleen who were twins. We stayed in the backroom in a big bed with a white chenille bedspread. My grandma taught me the proper way to puff a pillow and make a bed. There was a crucifix over the bed that opened up and there was a small "relic" inside a little compartment and some "holy water". We were not supposed to touch it but we could not resist. At bedtime my grandpa would come in and tell us a story about leprechauns. he would say not to get out of bed or they would bite our feet. We were terrified but thrilled by the magic.

They gave us oatmeal or cornflakes every morning and my grandpa would always try to trick us into drinking butter milk - we never fell for it because we could smell it a mile away. They always had coffee percolating in a stainless coffee pot on the table and we had orange juice. The sun would shine in on the little kitchen table and onto the little shelves filled with my grandma's extremely cool salt and pepper shaker collection. It seemed like a little piece of heaven. To this day, I only like oatmeal the way my grandpa prepared it - thick but unstirred, a little salty, a dab of butter in the middle, a sprinkle of brown sugar, and milk floating on top.

My grandma taught me how to knit. We played with her button box, and her fox. She washed our hair in her sink in the basement. We visited the two bachelor brothers and their poodles who lived next door. We walked to the Kresge's dime store and she would let us each pick out some little thing. I would find some toy for literally about a dime. We were always well behaved but we had so much fun in what seemed to us an adventure away from our parents.

As I look at these pictures, I realize how much I am like my grandma, how much I was influenced by her. She was an individual, a strong woman, with dreams and aspirations. She left her home in Ireland to start a life in "the New World". She always cared about her appearance even when she was old. She had taste and style even if we didn't always understand or appreciate it. She loved her family. She loved to have a crowd together to eat and talk and laugh.

I miss her. Time and distance give one perspective but it is important to think about the whole story even when you are in the drudgery of some of the immediate moments.

Dreaming in Metaphors

I have been drinking coffee lately to try to get myself more reved up. It is working a little but I feel yucky and I can't get to sleep at night. So, I guess I will call that a failed experiment.

Last night I was lying in bed with my mental sound track going on and on, droning towards sleep but not quite getting there. I had lots of ideas but didn't want to turn on the light to right them down. I remember one idea for a bag that I will try to do today. It seemed like a good idea in my sleepy mind but we will see if it can translate to the light of day.

Anyway, I don't know if it is the coffee or just my life right now, but I have been having dreams that are like little messages to myself and I am really not quite sure what they mean.

"Calling Dr. Freud or Dr. Jung"...

First I had a dream that I was visiting with an old childhood friend of mine in her house in Michigan. It was completely empty and the walls were covered with plexiglass. We were sitting on the floor and she was being nice to me but then I noticed that she had 2 heads. I didn't want to say anything because I didn't want to be mean, and I was a little scared.

Next, I had a dream that I was teaching a textile arts class and a friend asked me to watch her pet monkey. So, while I was trying to do all this messy stuff I, literally, had a monkey on my back! When I tried to put it in its box, it bit my finger.

Last night, I dreamed that I was an exchange student in Japan but I was living in the house of a Chinese woman. I had to sleep in the living room and share with another student. I was trying to make a phone call on an old push button phone but I couldn't figure out how to do it. I was trying to figure out if I should go home.

I know that the symbolism is obvious but my friend Patty was never really two faced. She was always thoughtful and honest. But maybe she was hiding something.

I do feel like I have a lot of responsibilities, but I can't say any particular thing that feels like a monkey on my back. Maybe it is something in me that I have to work out.

I am obviously stressed about my Japanese class and my daughter is going to China for one week at spring break. Maybe I am worried about that.

I think all these things together make my life seem like some kind of surreal movie script. Well, I'm off to shower and go out into the real action.

The picture at the top is of (part of) my family at a summer picnic. I am in the red sweater. Everyone looks happy except my dad who is probably chewing on something and my little sister Peggy who looks a little pissed off about something. I look very concerned. I would have been about 6 there.

The Middle Age

I am middle aged. That means that I am (hopefully) in the middle of my life! It is strange to think that I could live almost another entire life - especially when we think of middle age as a bad thing, like the end of youth.

Lately, I am realizing that middle aged also means that you are in the middle of generations. On the one side I have my children or the young and up-and-coming wave of the future. On the other side, I have my parents, aunts, uncles, in-laws, aging politicians and civic leaders, people on the decline in many ways. After caring for small children and seeing them reach teen years, I realize that the older people in my life are now at a point where they need help or even just moral support. They might be struggling with understanding new technologies like cell phones, bureaucracies like medicare, or even new ways of shopping, eating, living. The young people are old enough that they probably have most of the answers to the above questions but they are entering the world of independence and they don't have the experience, the wisdom, or the necessary cynicism.

The roles in this situation are different and I am not sure how I am supposed to behave. I can't be the omnipotent authority to my kids, and I can't be the deferent youth to the seniors. In some ways, we are all on a par. We are able to have lively conversations, share ideas and set our own agendas. Hopefully, there is mutual respect. But, what is being driven home to me, more and more, these days, is that there are three separate spheres. The people in the middle (like me) are supposed to be the strongest, most reliable, most stable, most responsible, and most giving. At the same time, the younger ones are rebelling and the older ones are digging in their heels.

I hope I can be strong enough to do my bit for others while maintaining and figuring out my own identity. I hope I can be like the bird flying up and seeing the big picture then swooping down and managing the details. I hope I can show my kids how to treat me when I am old and remember how they will want to be treated when they are in the middle.