Cards

Black Jack on red queen
Diamonds on spades
endless hours of mixing and matching
on an endless canvas of a day

I sit at the computer
Getting a stiff neck
and isn't my sore shoulder
Telling me something?

Red 10 on black jack
move the pile to the end of the line
oooh, an ace to place at the top
Of the screen

the cars rumble in the background
the leaves turn to brown
the wind howls and
the ground begins to harden

move this pile to the left
And this red 8 to the black 9
And auto play sends the cards scurrying
into their endless ranks of finished play

What happens now?
Where do I go from here?
What matters now?
Let's not go there.

Another hand, another hour
of endless play
Black 6 on red 7
on into the night.

The First Word

    No this isn't a post about biblical references, although I guess I could wax eloquent about who knew what the first words were and what inflection and tone were used in the process. No, we received a Face Time with our daughter and her husband last night that the granddaughter spoke her first word, which to my son-in-law's delight was Dada. The Face Time was a bust though as the granddaughter was more interested in her toes and looking concerned about that weird face on Mommy's face which kept talking to her, than in actually speaking. But of course, being of the digital age, they had a video of the event. And they sent it along right after the "no proof" call. Of course, I didn't need proof. I believe that our granddaughter can speak in several languages (some of course not invented yet) and is the next Rhodes Scholar at the age of 3. But they wanted to make sure we were aware of their child's ability so we humored them by watching.
    Now, I wear hearing aids, so sometimes the sounds coming through the phone and over the various mechanical devices is not reliable. Knowing this, however, they sent the video. I can hear our daughter cooing and encouraging. I can hear the delightful giggle of the 6 month old and the Dad chuckling in the background, but it was a strain to hear the child utter the magic word. I listened and listened to it and I guess I finally heard what they wanted me to hear. But I sighed mightily in the process. I will always hear her better in person. And what happens when she begins the babbling stage and there are some real words mixed in and it won't matter since I won't be able to decipher them in any way even in person.
    But this was a monumental moment in our granddaughter's growing. So we laughed and applauded and smiled indulgently. Because that's what grandparents do when their children's children reach a milestone. And hope that the next time she speaks, I'm standing right there to fully appreciate the moment. Heavy sigh.

You’re My Best Girl

Growing up, I loved to hear those handsome crooners sing romantic songs. I mean rock-n-roll was good when you wanted to hang out with friends, but in the wee, small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world is fast asleep, only Frank or Tony or Jack would do. The Jack I refer to is Jack Jones. He himself, the son of a singer, Jack sang some of the most romantic songs I had ever heard. 

But as the years rolled on, he was sort of forgotten by me. Streisand, Manilow (oh, no! Not Barry Manilow!), and anything composed by Sondheim replaced listening to those guys. But I knew the lyrics by heart by then, and just one phrase could bring me back to hearing their voices.

Fast forward to the most recent event in my life. That of becoming a grandparent to a small but adorable little girl. And she is adorable with the possible exception of twice. Once while my own adorable grown up girl was having major contractions to birth her and the other was when she would not settle down to sleep. We tried rubbing her back. We rocked her. We walked her. We patted her little behind gently (don’t know why that calmed her down sometimes?). But one morning about 2:30 when the new mom and dad were cross-eyed from lack of sleep; I waved them off to their beds and figured I would just keep rocking her until she settled down. When my own children were very small I remember singing softly to them, so I figured, why not? Now my voice is not soothing, as anyone who stands next to me in church will attest, but nothing ventured, nothing gained I thought. But what to sing? Something from Sondheim? Streisand? And then it just popped into my head. There was Jack Jones singing “You’re My Best Girl.” I only knew one verse (and the second one refers to a guy anyway) and so I began to sing:

You’re my best girl

And nothing you do is wrong.

I’m glad you belong to me.

And if the day is rough for me,

Having you there’s enough for me.

And if some day, another girl comes along,

It won’t take her long to see,

That I’ll still be proud,

Just hanging around

My best girl.

My best girl.

And it did the trick. She’s sleeping now. Thanks Jack!