Red, white and blue

And now a little more on my recent parenthetical reference to growing more patriotic with age... I sing (or shall I say "sing") with local group called the Decatur Civic Chorus (I know we have a website, but for the life of me I can't locate it right now). We just held our annual Spring Concert this past Sunday, which included various anthems to spring, a few spirituals, and then a lengthy section of patriotic music accompanied by a slide presentation. In addition to the slides of beautiful scenes from America and photos of military veterans who are in or somehow connected to the chorus, we had representatives from each branch of the military, a police officer (the fireman had a death in the family and could not attend) and a first-rate color guard composed of high school students.

Now, we've been practicing this music since January, and some of it has been in our repertoire for longer than I've been a chorus member. We've had several smaller performances this spring, including the opening ceremony for the moving Vietnam Wall exhibit at the GA International Horse Park in Conyers. However, nothing could have prepared me for what happened on Sunday. Honestly, I wasn't too crazy about singing all the patriotic stuff -- somehow it seems a little schmaltzy. Besides, the songs are driving me crazy because I wake up in the middle of the night with them running through my head ("Over hill, over dale....", "You're a grand old flag, you're a high-flying flag...", "And I'm proud to be an American..."). But when those servicemen and women began filing down the aisle to stand proudly before an audience of 300+ people from all walks of life, I flat lost it. Have you ever tried to sing when you're fighting back tears??? To make things worse, all the people around me in the chorus were doing the same thing. I think the sniffling from the choir loft was at least as loud as the singing. Schmaltzy or not, when you get smacked in the face with the fact that thousands of men and women have sacrificed time with their families, the comforts of home, their bodies, and often their very lives, you cannot help but be utterly humbled with gratitude and at the same time filled with the most amazing sense of pride imaginable. To quote one of the more annoying songs we sang, "If this is flag-waving, do you know of a better flag to wave?" God bless America.

My kid is a sports fanatic

Yes, at the age of 2 years and 3 months, my precious little Gabe is a raving lunatic about anything involving a ball and/or a helmet. Gloves are good too. Last weekend we bought him a t-ball helmet that fairly swallows his little head, and he hardly ever takes it off -- including to sleep! After spectating at a high school spring football game last night, the most common two words out of his mouth are "football helmet". A couple of the players were kind enough to let Gabe try on their helmets, only to have him throw absolute fits when he had to return them. My husband, Van, has been so conscientious about not pushing his own sports fantasies onto our child, but I think it's is crystal clear at this point that Gabe is a fanatic unto himself. What's really amazing is that he actually has some talent. Ok, I know you're thinking, "Of course you'd say that; he's your kid!" But I'm serious. He can lob a football like a bullet, and he's getting pretty good at catching one from short distances too -- as long as he remembers to make a "w" with his hands like daddy showed him. He can hit a whiffle ball across the yard and kick a soccer ball with an impressive degree of accuracy. After he finally finished throwing a fit in the car as we left the football game last night, he said, "I like play football." And his first words this morning were, "Where football sta-num go?" Having grown up with three fairly unathletic sisters -- with occasional exceptions in track, tennis and basketball -- this sports thing is a whole new experience for me. I wonder if it'll be this cute when he's a sweaty teenager dumping a grass- and mud-stained uniform on the laundry room floor for me to wash? Probably so.

A visit to Grandma's

OK, so I don't know if this would be considered a "wild hair" or if I'm just caving to peer pressure (thank you, Matt Elliott), but I am finally breaking my month-long silence to re-enter the blog world. The question is: what do I have to say? One thing I've noticed about writing is that the less you do it, the less you feel that you have to write. And conversely, the more you write, the more that bubbles up to the surface desperate for expression. I suppose that is why writing can be so therapeutic.

Anywho, I don't mean to wax poetic about writing. I want to talk about my recent visit to my only living grandparent. My grandmother, Gladys Lavera Wiggins Gatz (no, I won't be naming my next child after her should she turn out to be a girl) will turn 92 at the end of this month. I hope it is not ugly to admit that she has always been my favorite grandparent, and I feel very blessed that she has enjoyed such a long and healthy life. Although she has become feeble in recent years and struggles with her hearing, her mind is still sharp, and her hair is almost as dark as mine. I took Gabe to see her in Jan 2004 when he was not quite one, and then we retuned last month with my parents. The trip is not fun -- she lives just outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, a good 850+ miles from suburban Atlanta. Two days on the road with a two-year old and a week in a hotel room with my parents (despite how much I love them) is not exactly a picnic. Not to mention 9 days away from my sweet husband -- but that's another story.

On last year's visit, I had every intention of sitting down with Grandma and videotaping a conversation between us about all the family stories that I've never heard -- how she and Grandpa met, what my dad was like as a kid, what her childhood was like, what the war years were like, and so on. Well, that conversation never happened, and I feared I would never get another chance. Fortunately, I was wrong, and on this visit, my sweet parents took Gabe for a day to my uncle's house so I could have Grandma alone to myself. The videotape still doesn't exist, but we had the most memorable day together. We started by going through a box of photos -- she had recently moved from one assisted living home to another, so she wasn't sure what was in this box. The stories that came through those pictures were amazing. I could have spent days listening to Grandma talk. She told me about her great-grandmother who left her home for a forbidden marriage to a Choctaw Indian; he was later killed in the Civil War. She showed me pictures of my incredibly dapper Grandpa as a young man. She told me all about her wonderful father, Winston America Wiggins, who died when she was 13 and he was my age, 34. His was about the 4th known case of Hodgkin's Disease in the country. My great-grandmother, Jane Wiggins, then sold everything and moved her 4 children (all age 13 and under) to town where she took in laundry to provide for her family. Grandma later went to work as a switchboard operator for "the phone company" (don't we miss those good old Ma Bell days?) at the ripe old age of 15, a job she would have her entire life. We talked a little about what it was like to give birth to two boys in the same calendar year -- yes, my dad was born on Jan. 1 and his brother Joe came along in Dec. of 1934 -- and to raise them and then a younger son during the Depression years.

I could go on with the stories she shared, but you get the picture. I was never really much of a history buff in school, but I find that as I grow older, I become more fascinated by the past. I am amazed and inspired at the fortitude and faith of those who came before us, and I often look in the mirror with guilt at the general laziness and self-centeredness of my generation. I wonder how we would fare in the face of a catastrophic depression, the rise of a maniacal and murderous tyrant, or any other threat to our life, liberty and pursuit of happiness (yes, I've gotten more patriotic with age, as well). Obviously, I can't answer that question, nor can I fail to recognize the ever-strengthening undercurrent of resolve in our nation for a return to common sense, strong values, and decency. I am a firm believer that the past -- both personal and universal -- shapes who we are. So, I'll go on my way living stories that I can someday share with my grandchild, God willing.