Books and other stuff I feel like discussing
By education and experience - Accountant with a specialty in taxation. Formerly a CPA (license has lapsed). Masters degree in law of taxation from University of Denver. Now retired. Part time work during baseball season as receptionist & switchboard operator for the Colorado Rockies. This gig feeds my soul in ways I have trouble articulating. One daughter, and four grandchildren. I share the house with two cats; a big goof of a cat called Grinch (named as a joke for his easy going "whatever" disposition); and Lady, a shelter adoptee with a regal bearing and sweet little soprano voice. I would be very bereft if it ever becomes necessary to keep house without a cat.
Mood:
Remembering
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Thumbs, DNA, and my grandmother
Once a week, I take an Ai Chi class at the local park district, where there is a warm water therapy pool. Ai Chi has it roots in Tai Chi, the slow, stylized exercise regimen first introduced to the US in the early 1970's, when TV cameras descended on China following Nixon around on his historic visit to Beijing.
One of the Ai Chi patterns has us turning to the left, moving our left arms to reach around behind our backs, slowly swinging to face forward again, and then turning to the right, swinging that arm around to the back, repeating over and over again until the instructor has us change the pattern. During this turning exercise, which reminds me of the Lakota "four corners" chant, the instructor's softly spoken guidance reminds us to "follow the moving hand" with our eyes.
And my eyes are drawn to my thumbs. They are short, stubby, about half again as wide as most human thumbs, with broad, wide nails. They are my grandmother's thumbs. She was one of only two among her five siblings to marry, and the only one to have children. Of her three children, only my father had kids. So her genetic path stops with me and my siblings.
One of her sisters had one thumb like my grandmother's and mine, and one "regular" thumb. My father's fingers were long, and slender, with squared off nails. Probably like his dad's, although my grandfather died long before I was born, and I never asked anyone what his hands looked like. Somehow the mutant gene from her ancestors showed up in my grandmother, skipped over my dad, and ended up in my hands. My one daughter is adopted, so I'll never know if any of my children or grandchildren would have thumbs like mine.
My grandmother, we called her "Nana," lived next door to me most of my childhood. She came to Illinois to stay with us while my parents waited out my oldest sister's arrival, who came nearly four weeks late, according to the doctor's estimate of the due date. During that long month, my grandmother shared my bedroom. And although I don't remember anything (I was less than two years old) some of the family stories she and my parents told me about that time make me certain that the closeness she and I seemed to share began then.
She hated any kind of non vegetable food that was green. So of course, my siblings and I constantly teased her with green gumdrops, green frosting, green Lifesavers, and so on. She did crosswords in ink, knew dozens of games of Solitaire, was a life long teetotaler, a good cook, and deeply spiritual, and never, ever preachy. Quite late in her life, a local reporter interviewed her - stressing that she still read daily, but had narrowed her reading choice to her Bible. I was surprised to read that, although it certainly fit. But it's a telling feature of her personality - that her faith was deeply important to her, but she evangelized by example only, never once that I can recall, ever attempting to convert or convince anyone else using the spoken word.
At age 85, she struggled to the top row of the bleachers in my high school gymnasium to watch me speak at my high school graduation from a seat where she could lean back and support her spine.
She taught me a very great deal about courtesy and good manners, and as with religion, teaching by example only. She had a marvelous sense of humor, like most of the family. And she could graciously endure a joke at her own expense. She and three friends had a regular bridge game, and one time when they were meeting at our house, they fell into a discussion about magazine ads for whiskey - "was it Four Roses and Three Feathers, or the other way around?" My father overheard the conversation in which Nana firmly corrected her friends, emphatically ending the controversy, by stating that it was "Four Roses," and not three. My father could not resist chiding her: Since she never drank alcohol, how did she know the difference? This recollection of the bridge table conversation endured for years and she would always smile and sometimes wink when reminded of it.
At age 94, she woke early one morning and on a trip to the bathroom, her heart stopped and she fell to the floor. Just weeks earlier, she held her first great grandchild on her lap and insisted we take photographs. She had evaded cameras for years before that day.
Yesterday afternoon, as I turned in the "four corners" pattern, tears began to stream down my face. I think the instructor noticed, but one of her continual themes is that "each exercise will be what you need, at that time, on that day" and she did not stop to question me. I'm sure that if she had, she would not have chided me. The warm water, the repetitive, almost hypnotic patterns, and my stubby little thumbs moving through the water prompted those tears. What I needed, at that time, yesterday.
One of the Ai Chi patterns has us turning to the left, moving our left arms to reach around behind our backs, slowly swinging to face forward again, and then turning to the right, swinging that arm around to the back, repeating over and over again until the instructor has us change the pattern. During this turning exercise, which reminds me of the Lakota "four corners" chant, the instructor's softly spoken guidance reminds us to "follow the moving hand" with our eyes.
And my eyes are drawn to my thumbs. They are short, stubby, about half again as wide as most human thumbs, with broad, wide nails. They are my grandmother's thumbs. She was one of only two among her five siblings to marry, and the only one to have children. Of her three children, only my father had kids. So her genetic path stops with me and my siblings.
One of her sisters had one thumb like my grandmother's and mine, and one "regular" thumb. My father's fingers were long, and slender, with squared off nails. Probably like his dad's, although my grandfather died long before I was born, and I never asked anyone what his hands looked like. Somehow the mutant gene from her ancestors showed up in my grandmother, skipped over my dad, and ended up in my hands. My one daughter is adopted, so I'll never know if any of my children or grandchildren would have thumbs like mine.
My grandmother, we called her "Nana," lived next door to me most of my childhood. She came to Illinois to stay with us while my parents waited out my oldest sister's arrival, who came nearly four weeks late, according to the doctor's estimate of the due date. During that long month, my grandmother shared my bedroom. And although I don't remember anything (I was less than two years old) some of the family stories she and my parents told me about that time make me certain that the closeness she and I seemed to share began then.
She hated any kind of non vegetable food that was green. So of course, my siblings and I constantly teased her with green gumdrops, green frosting, green Lifesavers, and so on. She did crosswords in ink, knew dozens of games of Solitaire, was a life long teetotaler, a good cook, and deeply spiritual, and never, ever preachy. Quite late in her life, a local reporter interviewed her - stressing that she still read daily, but had narrowed her reading choice to her Bible. I was surprised to read that, although it certainly fit. But it's a telling feature of her personality - that her faith was deeply important to her, but she evangelized by example only, never once that I can recall, ever attempting to convert or convince anyone else using the spoken word.
At age 85, she struggled to the top row of the bleachers in my high school gymnasium to watch me speak at my high school graduation from a seat where she could lean back and support her spine.
She taught me a very great deal about courtesy and good manners, and as with religion, teaching by example only. She had a marvelous sense of humor, like most of the family. And she could graciously endure a joke at her own expense. She and three friends had a regular bridge game, and one time when they were meeting at our house, they fell into a discussion about magazine ads for whiskey - "was it Four Roses and Three Feathers, or the other way around?" My father overheard the conversation in which Nana firmly corrected her friends, emphatically ending the controversy, by stating that it was "Four Roses," and not three. My father could not resist chiding her: Since she never drank alcohol, how did she know the difference? This recollection of the bridge table conversation endured for years and she would always smile and sometimes wink when reminded of it.
At age 94, she woke early one morning and on a trip to the bathroom, her heart stopped and she fell to the floor. Just weeks earlier, she held her first great grandchild on her lap and insisted we take photographs. She had evaded cameras for years before that day.
Yesterday afternoon, as I turned in the "four corners" pattern, tears began to stream down my face. I think the instructor noticed, but one of her continual themes is that "each exercise will be what you need, at that time, on that day" and she did not stop to question me. I'm sure that if she had, she would not have chided me. The warm water, the repetitive, almost hypnotic patterns, and my stubby little thumbs moving through the water prompted those tears. What I needed, at that time, yesterday.
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