As you know, I went back home to Denver for a few days this weekend, giving me the opportunity to receive hugs and kisses from the grandkids who live there.

I know all grandparents say this, but I have remarkable grandchildren. Astounding, really. Every one of them is unique and precious and beautiful and smart. I’m not bragging; I’m simply stating a fact. Aren’t I lucky?

Out of our nine existing grandchildren, four are boys. Two of the boys live far away in Vermont. One of the boys is not really a boy any longer – growing into a man. So 9-year-old Alastair often feels surrounded by girls. We talked this weekend about our upcoming 10^th grandchild, and he was thrilled when I reminded him that it was going to be a boy. I didn’t remind him that it would be a long time before he would be able to actually play with the child….

Alastair is a very interesting child. He is often in motion, and his parents have to work with him a great deal to teach him to stay in his own space. But when he puts his mind to something, he is quiet, persistent and patient. Seeing this transformation always amazes me.

This weekend I gave the kids some paper. My sister Jen has a new job at Wells Fargo, and the stationery with her old job title was useless and good only for scratch paper. The stationery has the Wells Fargo stagecoach logo as a watermark. When I arrived at their house at 7 o’clock in the morning the next day, he greeted me with this drawing….

He had used a red Sharpie to trace the intricate lines that make up the Wells Fargo stagecoach. I asked him how long it took, and he said, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe an hour.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, who has that kind of patience?

Oh, I know. Alastair.

Have a good weekend.

As a cradle Catholic, I have commemorated Lent my entire life. As kids, every year, we spent considerable time deciding what we were going to “give up” as part of our Lenten sacrifice. It had to be just right. Something you liked, but something not too difficult to do without for 40 days. I’m not sure how focused we were on the “sacrifice” part of it all.

As an aside, one year my son Court announced he was going to give up chicken for Lent. Seeings as it was – and remains to this day – one of his least favorite foods, I designated it a no-go. Not a great deal of sacrifice for anyone but me who would have had to figure out chickenless meals for 40 days and 40 nights.

In addition, Catholics over the age of 14 are supposed to abstain from eating meat on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and all Fridays during Lent. This is never a sacrifice for me, since I love all kinds of fish, and often order meatless pasta dishes. However, for Bill, this really is a sacrifice.

Bill is not a cradle Catholic. He was brought up and baptized in the Baptist Church. He converted to Catholicism somewhere around a year after we were married. He didn’t convert at my request, but felt the calling on his own. He is a very devout Catholic. I always love his fresh perspective because he sees things differently than I, a Catholic since birth and a child of Catholic schools from kindergarten through high school.

Bill loves almost everything about the Catholic Church, and agrees with most of the teachings. Save one. He simply can’t get his head around abstaining from meat. A man-made rule, he says.

He, of course, is right about that. The bible never says a thing about not eating meat on Fridays. It does, however, talk a great deal about penance, prayer, and sacrifice. Not eating meat, at least for many, is a sacrifice, and hopefully a prayerful sacrifice. I remind him that there are many man-made rules within the Catholic Church. All are designed, I believe, to help us know God better and to praise him more faithfully.

But I always assure him that I believe if he does, indeed, end up in hell, it certainly isn’t going to be because he ate a hamburger on Ash Wednesday.

My niece Maggie invited us to their house last night for a hamburger fry for her husband’s birthday. I accepted, but inwardly groaned. Lent has barely gotten underway and I am already faced with a quandary – meat or no meat?

The gospel on Ash Wednesday is one of my favorites. Jesus tells his friends to pray, fast, and give alms, but to do so in silence. Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing. Don’t be like the hypocrites who pray but then make sure everyone knows they’re praying. If I turn down the invitation because I can’t eat meat, was I being like the hypocrites?

Initially I thought I would simply abstain from meat today instead of yesterday. After all, it’s just a day, right? But then I began thinking that on DAY ONE of Lent, I was already making sure my so-called sacrifice fit into my schedule. That seemed, well, not much of a sacrifice.

In the end, here’s what I chose to do. I made up a salmon burger for myself and my sister Bec and asked the grill master to cook that for us instead. I didn’t make a big deal out of why I was eating salmon instead of ground beef.

During this season of Lent, my hope is that I can be more prayerful and generous. My plan is to try to live a more simple life – eat out less, perhaps put down my IPAD a bit more, maybe not sit and read but instead, spend more time with God.

Oh, and I’m giving up desserts. All sweets. Yikes. Now that will be a sacrifice.

And, for the record, my salmon burger was delicious. So was Bill’s hamburger.

Nana’s Notes: The photo above is a piece of art located in the church of San Croce in Gerusalemme in Rome. The church purports to contain many relics of the true cross. This particular crucifix was made using the image on the Shroud of Turin. It alledgedly duplicates the way in which Jesus was crucified. The body is twisted and the arms are clearly broken. That piece of art had the most profound impact on me and I think of it often. Jesus’ real sacrifice for us.

Back when I was gainfully employed, I used to travel fairly often, four or five times a year to interesting cities all around the United States. I enjoyed it, particularly after my son was old enough to take care of himself. I was lucky enough to see almost all of the major US cities (except Philadelphia; for some reason, my travels never took me there).

Since I’ve retired, I travel by plane very infrequently. Even less frequently as of late, as we mostly travel to Arizona and back by car. Even when we visit Chicago, we usually drive so that we have use of a car while we’re there. I have always found road trips fun as well.

After flying this past weekend from Phoenix to Denver and back again, I have decided that travel by plane is no longer ANY FUN AT ALL. It seems to get worse every time I fly.

I don’t doubt that any of these inconveniences are all for my safety, and I try to be patient. But it really does get so tedious.

For one thing, every airport is different. At some airports you only have to have your photo I.D. out when you go through initial security; for some, you need it all the way through the security process. In some airports, having a tissue in your pocket isn’t cause for alarm; in others, a tissue can bring the entire security process to a grinding halt.

The TSA officers at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix seem very chipper. Perhaps it’s the warm weather or the sunshine. The TSA officers in Denver – at least the ones I encountered in yesterday’s travel – are decidedly crankier. Hence, the near meltdown because I made the mistake of not taking the tissue out of my pants pocket. She actually seemed to take it personally. And it was even clean.

But I know they are all just trying to keep me safe, so I grin and bear it, even if it means nearly disrobing.

My sister Jen, by the way, almost always has to go through a manual pat down when she flies – something about the animal appliques on her dangerous-looking sweaters and the shifty look in her eyes. Last time the TSA officers discarded a $20 jar of cream she was bringing for her daughter because it was 4.2 oz. instead of 4 oz. Sigh.

But I enjoyed my $18 breakfast at the airport restaurant and had fun watching moms and dads trying to keep their toddlers from escaping their parentage. Travel with kids is never easy.

And speaking of that, as I stood in line to give the agent my ticket with all the rest of the passengers, I began trying to decide who I would rather sit next to: the woman with the cough that never ceased, the couple with the screaming baby, or the woman traveling with her Chihuahua in her carry-on bag? After careful consideration, I gave it to the baby. At least he was cute, unlike either the hacking woman or the Chihuahua.

As it turned out, I ended up by none of the above, and had a fairly pleasant flight.

Three things: 1) I enjoyed my time in Denver immensely, and will certainly do it every year when in Arizona; 2) I’m glad to be back home with Bill; and 3) the photo of the crying baby above is an actual picture of my almost-always-cheerful grandbaby Micah, who will be very unhappy about this photo when it is shown at his wedding in 25 years. It was not taken during a plane ride, though my understanding is that the last time they flew from Vermont to Denver, this was pretty much how he looked!

I’m convinced houses take on the energy of those living in it. Or not living in it, as the case may be.

Every fall when we return to Arizona to open up the house following the long summer, we walk into a house that has absolutely no energy. It isn’t just that it’s quiet because the air conditioner isn’t running or dark because all of the blinds are closed. It has no energy because it has had no life in it for almost five months.

I mentioned my observation to my sister this weekend, and she agreed, pointing out that human beings consist of energy. The absence of human life equals the absence of energy, she opined. Not surprising that a house felt dead when there has been no life in it for months.

But here’s what else I have noted. For the entire time that we have been in Arizona, our son Allen has been living in our Denver house. When I walked into the house this weekend for my visit, the house felt different, foreign, unfamiliar. Oh, our furniture was still there. Allen hadn’t painted the walls a different color. The same old carpeting was on the floor. But the house felt different. It smelled different. The energy felt different. I was a visitor in my own house.

It felt and looked like Allen’s house.

Of course, Allen has done a few things to personalize it a bit while he lives here for four-and-a-half months. I wouldn’t expect anything else. He has, for example, removed nearly everything from my kitchen counters – my cookie jar, my garlic holder, my various and sundry tchotchkes.

I had to hunt down my garlic. The grandkids came by and looked for the cookie jar and it was missing in action. The whole house feels like a single man lives there instead of a nana and a papa.

Experience tells me one’s energy returns in about two to three days. I would say when we return to Arizona – even if it’s for a visit – it takes a couple of days for the house to feel like it is alive. Cooking a meal helps. The same will be true for us when we return to Denver. I will put things back as I had them, and in a couple of days it will feel like our home again.

In the meantime, I am glad that Allen is taking care of our house, and I have tried very hard not to disturb his energy very much. I did have various grandchildren visiting on and off, but for the most part, I tried to leave it as I found it.

Until May. Then it will be ours once again.

Gentlemen and Danica, START YOUR ENGINES

Whew. I am very tired.

I’ve mentioned before that this is only the second year that Bill and I have spent the bulk of winter in Arizona. We arrived here the day after Christmas and are planning on leaving at the end of April, where we hope to be back in Denver in time to see the birth of Grandchild #10.

What I discovered last year is that almost four-and-a-half months was just a bit too long for me to go without seeing any of my kids and grandkids. It’s bad enough that we have our family in Vermont that we only see a few times a year. (All I can say, once again, is thank goodness for Facetime. God bless Steve Jobs.) But I was – frankly – homesick.

So when we headed south after Christmas this year, I made it abundantly clear that I was going to make a trip to Denver sometime in February to visit. And here I am. And I repeat, I am very tired. I am packing a lot of hugs and kisses and dinners and lunches and cooking and coloring and Wii tennis matches into just a few days. And, I might add, loving every single minute.

I watched Kaiya perform acts of juggling in her Kindergarten Circus performance….

I ate crawfish and shrimp steamed and served in a delicious Cajun garlic butter sauce with Court and Alyx and the girls at the Yabby Hut in Lakewood. It was the first time I’ve ever eaten shrimp served heads still on.  I am determined to copy the scrumptious sauce….

I ate ice cream sundaes with Addie and Magnolia….

And scrubbed food coloring off of our hands after making play dough….

And believe me when I tell you that is just a snapshot of my activities!

But meanwhile back at the ranch, Bill wasn’t sitting at home twiddling his thumbs. He and my brother David spent yesterday at the Phoenix International Speedway watching NASCAR. I’m talking getting there before 8 and leaving after 5. Beer, cigars, gasoline fumes, and hot dogs in between. Tons of fun for them, but they were tired too.

Things will soon get back to normal, and we will have nothing to do but sleep, so we’re grateful for every minute of the past few days.

As they say, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Cactus League

This past Thursday Bill, Bec, and I went to the Cubs’ season opener at the new Cubs Park, financed by the citizens of Mesa after they (we?) were blackmailed by the Cubs organization (“build us a new ballpark or we will move to Florida”). I don’t begrudge the Cubbies’ ownership. The ballpark is gorgeous and the record-breaking crowd undoubtedly put some cashola into the hands of Mesa businesses. It was definitely a win-win.

The day was also gorgeous – a lovely blue sky and temperatures in the mid-70s. Everyone was in a good mood. The Chicago Cubs v. the Arizona Diamondbacks. Spring games are so much fun because no one really cares that much who wins and we all sit together, eat our hotdogs and drink our beer and get along. I think in part that is the nature of baseball. It’s a friendly sport. As my sister pointed out, when the Diamondbacks player hit a homerun, he ran the bases and was greeted in the dugout with handshakes and high fives by his fellow players. Not a single victory dance to be seen. No one stuck his face in an opponents’. Not a single finger pointing into the crowd.

There were a couple of 10- or 12-year-old boys, baseball mitts on their hands, watching two Cubbies players playing catch between innings, hoping against hope that one of them would toss them a ball (they didn’t). But the boys never gave up hope.

So I had plenty to smile about that day. But here’s the thing that really brought a grin to my face….

Now, I’m not great with ages, but I think this woman must be in her late 70s, don’t you? She was decked out, from head to toe, in Cubbies’ colors. She had on a Cubs’ cap, Cubs’ earrings, a uniform shirt, and even had Cubs’ colors on her bracelet. And I really do mean head to toe…..

She and her husband are full-time residents of Arizona now, but she grew up loving the Cubs. She’s a Dbacks fan now too, she told Bec. And the woman is not just a fair-weather fan like many of the rest of us attending the game. In fact, every year for her birthday her husband gets her the MLB television package so that she can watch any games she wants.

Her baseball enthusiasm made me smile.

Have a great weekend.

Lest you think I’ve lost my mind, rest assured that I’m only a little mad. And Baby Boomers will know I’ve taken the quote in my title from the movie Network.

I recognize and understand that I’m no longer part of the target demographic for most forms of entertainment. The dream demographic is apparently 18 to 54, which I ain’t. But does that mean the only thing I have left to watch on television are Dick Van Dyke and Rhoda reruns? Is Fantasy Island the only place I’m welcome (where I’m forced to listen to Tattoo yell again and again “De plane, de plane?” Egad.

My television is inundated with reality shows showing swamp people babbling something I can’t understand or toddlers wearing make-up and tiaras that would make Barbie blush or housewives of somewhere or the other with plunging necklines and little else. That’s fine. I will not complain one little bit about reality shows if you will just give me a program or two that I can enjoy. I won’t complain about shows that are so graphically violent that I can’t believe they are on any time before 11 p.m. (i.e. The Blacklist and The Following) if you will just let me have a couple of programs that I can watch without covering my eyes.

The cause of all of my angst is that I just read that they are making big changes on Dancing with the Stars. (Communal groan – I hear you and I know who you are.) They have released Brooke Burke-Charvet, who at the beginning was so dumb that she literally made me cringe when she opened her mouth, but has completely grown on me. I spend so much of the time when she’s on the screen yelling, “Eat a hamburger for crying out loud!” She looks starved, but nevertheless, I was fond of her.

But perhaps even worse, they have fired Harold Wheeler and his 30-person band, and will reportedly replace it with recorded music and a smaller electronic band. All this to make the show more interesting to that sacred target demographic 18-54 year olds. Seriously? Folks, LISTEN TO ME. Those revered 30-somethings are not going to watch ballroom dancing. Spiffy music or no.

Just throw the Baby Boomers a bone! Let us have our Cloris Leachmans and Buzz Aldrens. We need them to make us feel better about ourselves, for heaven sakes. I need to watch overweight former child stars dance a waltz with a bare-chested hunk.  I don’t even mind if the so-called “stars” are completely unknown to me as long as they continue to dance the quick step.

Phew. I needed to get that off my chest.

But here’s a couple of other things I’ve been thinking about as long as we’re talking about television.

Am I the only one who thought the Olympics this year were kind of boring? Perhaps it’s because the skiers didn’t have any snow. Or maybe it was disconcerting that the most exciting gold medal won by the USA was in ice dancing. (And don’t get me wrong. I like ice dancing. See above.) I was completely disappointed in both the opening and closing ceremonies. Maybe if the closing ceremonies had featured Russian tanks driving into the Ukraine. Otherwise it felt a little too propaganda-ish to me. Russia. Go figure.

And what is up with Nashville? I really liked that show in the beginning. It has gotten to be so dumb that Bill and I do nothing but make wise cracks for the entire hour. Seriously, if I have to watch Scarlet wimper her way into drug oblivion, it will simply DO ME IN! And do the writers really expect us to believe that Juliette Barnes’ fans would be boycotting her because she had an affair with a married man? Seriously? They are shocked that a famous singer/movie star type person had an affair? With a married man? PULEEEZE.

But on a more positive note, wasn’t it so nice to have the Downton Abbey season finale end with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes holding hands in the ocean instead of having a beloved main character careen off the side of the road to his death hours after the birth of his son? And the costumes were splendid. Good job Julian Fellowes. Setting my alarm for next January. Can’t wait.

Now I have to go. I hear the theme song to Green Acres playing…..

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