Milestones

I just celebrated my 13th consecutive birthday in France.
I've had the same job for 7 years and was called an "old pillar" last week.
My daughter turns 4 in a week.
Leon's been gone for a year and a half; Lola just turned 1.
I met my husband 10 years ago.
I ran my first (and possibly last) marathon 10 years and 1 month ago.
We moved into the house 2 years ago.
Max has 2 teeth and is almost crawling.

I feel old.

Boppa Anne

Boppa Anne wasn't my favorite grandmother growing up. She didn't spoil us; she was pushy; she was nosey; she was openly racist. Basically, she was a pain in the butt and I only liked going to see her Florida because we could catch lizards, swim in the pool and use the sauna (with our naked grandmother). But she was special. When my snowbird grandparents came "North" for visits, we would crawl into bed with Boppa Anne in the morning (even though she slept naked). when we went to Florida to visit her, we'd play rummy cube, she'd paint our fingers nails and we'd try not to look at her naked body (you get the point, my grandmother liked parading around in the buck).

In my teenage years, my grandmother's feistiness, conceit and opinionated nature rubbed me the wrong way. I remember going to visit my grandparents one year and being horrified of what she'd say if she noticed I was wearing my first bra. But it ended up being worse than I could imagine because she tried to engage me in a discussion about my period. And that same night, she made some racist statements about my sister's best friend who was African-American, "well, if that's what she considers a best friend."

As I grew up, we all began taking her statements with a grain of salt and began to really understand what kind of woman, what kind of person she was. Giving (even if she needed to know you knew she was generous) and strong. I learned how in her late teens she forced her mother and younger sister to leave their abusive father; I learned about her cross-country trip with her best friend in the 1940's - we looked at her photo albums late into the night and she told me about riding a donkey down the Grand Canyon and wanting to settle in California but having to go home because her younger brother died in the war. I learned how people thought she was crazy to marry my grandfather with his two adolescent sons in tow and then adopting them. We discussed happiness, love and how she lived with no regrets. I realized that what annoyed us so much about Boppa Anne when we were kids was that she didn't treat us like kids - she always treated us like people.

Since I've been living in France, I've tried to keep in touch. I didn't call as much as I should have. I stopped writing because she couldn't see anymore. I've visited her as often as possible. I could hear how happy she was when I called, even if it took her a minute to figure out who I was and even if she asked me the same thing 10 times? Once she even said to me, "oh, you live in France? you should meet my grand-daughter Rebecca who lives there too." It didn't matter, as long as I was happy. Over the past couple years, her mind had started to go, but her body held out. She attributed her good health to an hour swim every morning (she learned to swim in her 40's) and a daily glass of buttermilk (which she made us all drink the morning of my wedding).

The last time I saw her was two years ago when I went to Florida to introduce her to her first great-grandchild. By this point, she was blind in one eye - having fallen a few months earlier and catching her eye on the edge of a table- she was also wearing diapers. But she was still wearing her gold bangles and she still managed to get down on the floor to play with Suzanne, something she mentioned often during her last year. She couldn't quite place who any of us were, except my father, but she knew she was confused and waved it off by saying, "it doesn't matter who she is, as long as I'm someone's mother".

I should be sadder than I am that she died in hospice last night, but I keep thinking about what a full life she lived and how positive and strong she was. I was lucky to have had her in my life and glad she died the way she lived: with no regrets at the age of 95.

The inner Leon

If you were an animal, what would you be?

But have you ever asked your animal what kind of person they’d be? I’m sure I’m not the only one who has imagined what a beloved pet would be like and look like in human form.
When I was a kid, I was scared to get undressed in front of my dog Brownie because I believed there was a little man inside her operating her like a marionette. I got over that, but still think of my pets as people…but different.
So when Leon’s human form came to me in a dream the other night, I was happy to be able to talk to him. I was happy to know his human form. But I was surprised because never would I have thought that my beautiful, tall, black cat with thick dark fur was a middle aged balding man who liked to play soccer because I imagined Leon’s human form to be more a dark-silent type. Tall, thick head of hair, nice shoulders, athletic build. Kind of like Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles. Now, you might believe that this is my subconscious telling me the obvious and preparing me to put him to sleep or you might believe that this is indeed Leon’s human form that came to me as Leon’s days come to an end. Whatever you believe about life, death and all the rest of it, I do think that Leon and I have a very special connection and no matter what form “he appeared” to me, it was a way for me to say goodbye to him.