The Void

I beheld the earth, and, lo, [it was] without form, and void; and the heavens, and they [had] no light.          ~Jeremiah 4:23 

It has been 2 days since my computer died. The news from the doc is not good. He is trying to retrieve data from my hard drive so that whether we fix the old one or buy a new one, I will have all my old data. Stuff like photos taken, in TIFF format in case I want to enlarge them, of our trip to Italy. Videos of my grandchildren. Old photos scanned from photo albums my mom and dad had. The last email my father ever sent me. Stuff like that...

Of course it isn't really that big a deal, but I am finding I don't know what to do with my mornings. I used to sit with the computer on the bed and read emails, Facebook, and write-- a lot of times this blog. I can access my email and Facebook from my new smart phone, and Lanny is gracious and lets me use his computer if I need to (that's where I am writing this blog...) But recreational computer use has come to a halt...

My world feels empty. Without light. I don't feel as connected. How crazy is it that this old grandma has become so accustomed to new technology (well, the stuff I have learned to use-- I am well aware that there is a whole world of gaming and music and such that has passed me by...) that she feels disconnected without it? I can only imagine how my grandchildren will feel as they grow up using it all and being so tech savvy they can't imagine life without it.

Perhaps, just maybe, this is a blessing in disguise. It has reminded me of how life can be when you have to get up off your bed and get out there and live for real, not virtually. I'll try harder to do that-- let me know if you'd like to have lunch so we can reconnect for real!

Now... where'd my knitting go?
                 

Do you remember, Grandma?

My sons and their first-borns

The time is ripe for looking back over the day, the week, the year, and trying to figure out where we have come from and where we are going to, for sifting through the things we have done and the things we have left undone for a clue to who we are and who, for better or worse, we are becoming. But again and again we avoid the long thoughts….We cling to the present out of wariness of the past. And why not, after all? We get confused. We need such escape as we can find. But there is a deeper need yet, I think, and that is the need—not all the time, surely, but from time to time—to enter that still room within us all where the past lives on as a part of the present, where the dead are alive again, where we are most alive ourselves to turnings and to where our journeys have brought us. The name of the room is Remember—the room where with patience, with charity, with quietness of heart, we remember consciously to remember the lives we have lived.
          ~Frederick Buechner, A Room Called Remember: Uncollected Pieces

My 3 year old grandson Sam is at that point in his young life where he can remember things that have happened to him in the past and can bring them up for discussion. He is a verbal child as well, and chatters happily away pretty much most of the time. To spend any time with him is to be engaged in conversation with him. When we visited him and his family in February to celebrate his brother's birthday, I was greeted at the door by a shy boy, but one who quickly warmed up to me. My grandmother's heart was warmed when he took me by the hand for a tour of his house, pausing often to show me things and ask "Do you remember, Grandma Barb? Do you remember this _____ (book, toy, the dog, etc.)"  He was telling me, in his 3 year old way, that he remembered them and remembered me. I was thoroughly charmed.

Sam's father, my son Matt, had a birthday this week. As is custom, I called him to wish him a Happy Birthday. Things have changed a bit, though, with the use of the smart phone. First, I texted Matt to make sure he was home and at a place where we could have a good conversation. Then, when I placed the call, I used the Face Time feature, which provides a real-time streaming picture to the other person's smart phone. This meant I could talk and see Matt, and of course, see the two little ones crawling all over his lap anxious for a chance to see and talk to Grandma Barb. And of course, Grandma was eager to see their little faces as well. And say hi to their mother!

Sam was there all right, and dominated the conversation as much as he could. His father asked him if he could tell me something or other about an event in his day, and he paused as if to think for a moment. "Do you know?" he asked his father. "Sam, don't you remember? You did____" his father replied. "Do you remember?" Sam asked again. His dad clarified and then Sam described the event to me. I was reminded that often, when Sam can't remember something he has been asked about he will answer by asking again "Do you remember?"

My sons birthdays always are a time when I stop to remember them as children and my own life as a young mother. Both sons' birthdays fall within a week of one another in April, and it is a time I pause to remember most fondly. So many happy, happy memories of their growing up... I loved being a mother, and I love my boys as much as any parent anywhere could love any child. I have photo albums to pour over any time I want to remember an event, but I have found that often the most touching moments aren't in the photo albums. They live inside my mother's heart and memory.

With age, those little boys of mine grew up... but I have found that, happily, I have a new generation of children to love and to create memories with. Along with Sam there is my grand daughter Addie and Sam's brother Will. I love them as much as any grandmother can love a grandchild... But sometimes, at least one week in April, I look back and remember the memories created by a previous generation of little ones.

Yes, Sam. Grandma remembers!

My new little memory makers...

Saying goodbye to an old friend...

Driving a hot car is a lot like sex to me, or a lot like I keep thinking sex should be: A total body experience, overwhelming, to all the senses, taking you places you've never been, packing a punch that leaves you breathless and touches your soul. The Viper was way more satisfying then my last boyfriend.

          ~Karen Marie Moning, Faefever

13 years ago I was suffering from an empty nest and a bad marriage. The car I was driving had some mechanical issues, and since I was working full time in a well-paying job, I wanted a new car. Perhaps the most telling thing of all was that for the first time in my married life I went car shopping alone. I wanted a Mustang convertible and I knew my then-husband would not approve. 


My love of the Mustang went way back. I had a very fond memory of driving around Everett, Washington in my older cousin Steve's beautiful little Mustang. It was one of the earliest models, the ones I still find myself drooling over. Later, when I was in college, my father (who worked for Ford) was given a souped up fast-back Mustang to test drive. He took me out late one evening on a local divided highway-- late enough it was almost devoid of cars -- looked at me and said, "Don't tell your mother about this..." and hit the accelerator. Floored it. The engine roared, the tires squeeled just a little and we were off-- zooming down the road faster than I'd ever gone in a car in my life. I closed my eyes when we passed 100 mph and felt both fear and exhilaration... Dad slowed the car down, and we drove at a sensible speed the rest of the way home. I don't recall saying anything at all to one another-- we just enjoyed the mutual experience of speed and POWER. That was when I developed my "lead foot" and I must confess, I still have it. 


Anyway, knowing full well I was not going to get approval from my husband, I shopped and found the car of my dreams. A sleek, white Mustang convertible with of all things, a black racing stripe. The car had a smaller engine and an automatic transmission, which I hoped would temper my innate desire for speed a little bit. It still had quite a bit of pickup and the engine had a hint of a growl that I loved. When I announced my plans, my husband reacted with little fuss and went with me to the dealer. He seemed to enjoy driving the car as much as I did, so I had high hopes it would be a thing of pleasure for us.


That wasn't to be... and a few years later when I found myself in a divorce, I used to periodically take the car for drives in the country. Out on the dirt roads of Johnson County I would "open her up" and hurl myself down the road, feeling the exhilaration of the speed and the wind in my hair. With the radio cranked way up I am sure I was a sight to the farmers I passed... aging redhead driving a flashy convertible like an idiot. 


I was driving the car when I met Lanny. He is a "car guy" and got a kick out of the car almost as much as I did. It wasn't a muscle car, but it was cute. It was not, however, practical in the winter. I ended up getting a second car that had 4 wheel drive, to drive in bad weather. Over time, the Mustang became a fair-weather car that we drove only on warm, sunny days. We used to drive country roads here in Hendricks County, on weekends when I needed a little break from stress. Driving together in a convertible on a sunny day became something we did as often as we could (and it usually involved a stop at The Frost Bite for ice cream cones!)


Last summer we attended the Studebaker International Meet in Southbend, Indiana and much to our surprise, ended up buying a 1950 Champion convertible. I loved this car so much I told Lanny I'd sell the Mustang to help defray the cost. 


There were a few delays in the sale of the car so we could lend it to a family member in need, and then Lanny wanted to "work on her" a little to get maximum value for the car. Finally, the car was ready last Thursday. I took some photos and Lanny posted them on Craig's list. The phone started ringing immediately and by mid afternoon on Friday Lanny had sold the car. We got more than what we had thought we would. 


I found I had a bit more of an emotional attachment to the car than I thought. She had helped me weather some very bumpy roads in my life, had driven me to meet the man of my dreams. She had provided hours and hours of excellent driving pleasure. She had been here to help rescue someone who had needed a car. She had been a Good Car. 

The man who bought her plans on giving her to his young daughter. My hope is that she will get as much pleasure from her as I did... providing she drives safely, uses her seat belt, doesn't text or use her cell phone while driving, etc.


And yesterday, on the first glorious spring day of 2013, we took the 1950 Champion named Ruby Studebaker for a test drive. She had also been up on blocks all winter getting a new brake system and some other improvements, provided her owner with the pleasures of "tinkering". And she provided us with that same enjoyment of driving the country roads on a sunny day...

So, with a smile on my face I bid farewell to my little white Mustang and greet enthusiastically my new dream car!

Wrong number?

We all need to start making some changes to how our families eat. Now, everyone loves a good Sunday dinner. Me included. And there's nothing wrong with that. The problem is when we eat Sunday dinner Monday through Saturday.

          ~Michelle Obama

                            

                             Brooks Kraft / Corbis for TIME

I have written several blogs about our attempts here at the Bertram household to eat healthy.  We have been trying again to lose some weight, and in that endeavor to learn to eat healthier foods. I try to buy organic produce, and have even taken a stab at growing some of our own fruits and vegetables.

My success as a "farmer" has been pretty limited. The tomatoes were small and scarce last summer, which I blamed on the drought. But the cantaloupe vines were lush-- and only produced one melon the size of a small orange. Likewise the acorn squash.

I have been following the success of First Lady Michelle Obama's White House garden as she has worked publicly to improve the diets of the children in our country. Her endeavors with local school children's participation in growing the garden impressed me.

Meanwhile, in my retirement, I have taken occasionally to writing to my congressman and senators about issues that are important to me. I have received several gracious replies from them, indicating at the very least that my letters were read by somebody who worked for them... it was a nice feeling to know that was the case.

So, several months ago, I sent a letter to Mrs. Obama expressing my admiration for her White House garden project and her public efforts to improve the diets of children. I shared with her our own efforts at changing our diets to a healthier, more organic one. And I got a little bold and asked for some advice on growing produce-- how did they get such lush results? Did they use fertilizer? What kind?

The letter was sent awhile ago, and was forgotten. I mean, really forgotten. I totally forgot that I sent it. Two weeks ago I was home fixing dinner one afternoon when the phone rang.  I answered, "Hello?"  A woman's voice said, "Hello, may I speak with Barbara Bertram, please?" "This is she," I said. "Barbara, my name is Tina Tchen. I am Chief of Staff to Mrs. Michelle Obama, and am calling from the White House."  I was dumbfounded. The voice sounded a little familiar, and I became immediately suspicious. Was this a prank? I looked at the phone's display of what phone number the call was coming from. The display had been blocked. The voice said, "Mrs. Obama would like to speak with you." I was sure I recognized that voice. This wasn't Mrs. Obama's assistant, it was Lanny's daughter Krissy playing a joke on me! I tried to think fast, but all I said was, "Oh sure she does... who is this really??"

There was a pause and the voice said again, "This is Tina Tchen calling from the White House. Mrs. Obama would like to speak with you."  I said, "Nice try, Krissy!" and hung up.  Five minutes later the phone rang again. It was the same voice with the same message. "Stop it, Krissy!" I said, losing patience. "It isn't nice to impersonate somebody important like this!" and hung up again.  The phone didn't ring again-- I guess I made my point!



The mail came today, and in it was a letter with a rather official looking envelope from The East Wing of The White House... It contained a letter from Mrs. Obama expressing her regrets on not being able to speak with me personally about my garden. She thanked me for my letter. She sent her congratulations on my attempts to improve our health with a garden of our own, and encouraged me to continue our efforts.



Oh... and one more thing...















APRIL FOOLS!