Category: Gratitude

Posted in Aging, Family, Grandmother, Gratitude

BABY IN THE MIRROR

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Besides reading to and dancing with my four-month old grandson, I adore showing  him the baby in the mirror. I take him to our bathroom mirror, the full length mirror in the office, and the mirror on my antique dresser and say, “Who’s that baby in the mirror?” 

Winslow’s bobble head goes from looking downwards to straight ahead where he sees his own fat-faced image. There’s a second of surprise when he first notices the baby in the mirror before he gives himself an open-mouthed smile. I embellish the moment with, “Who’s that baby in the mirror? He looks a lot like you!” My high pitched tones make my grandson’s head shake as he gives his reflection a bigger smile and he moves his chubby arms. 

“Hey there, Baby in the Mirror!” I add. “That’s a cute Baby in the Mirror!” Winslow’s eyes widen and the mirror baby keeps smiling. “Why don’t you tell that Baby in the Mirror hello?” Then Winslow wobbles his head as he furrows his brow and starts “talking.” His ohhs, ahhs, and squeals grab the attention of his reflected self.

I urge both babies on with, “Look at that Baby in the Mirror talk! Isn’t he the best?” Winslow raises the octave and duration of his long A vowel screams, so I hold him tighter because his talking requires involuntary kicks and arm movements. I lean in closer to the mirror and mimic an impressed sports announcer, “Listen to that smart Baby in the Mirror! He is amazing!”

Last week I heard about a superstition that showing a baby his mirrored reflection will make teething worse! Winslow has been drooling and sucking his fingers for a couple of weeks now. Should I apologize to him and his parents for increased teething misery? 

From the “evil eye” to “don’t let a cat near the crib; it will suck out the baby’s breath,” there are so many old wives tales about babies. (https://www.huffpost.com/entry/baby-superstitions_n_610874fde4b0497e67026d74)

The “don’t tickle the bottom of your baby’s feet – it will make him stutter” might make sense, but the “baby in the mirror” warnings don’t bother me.

Scientific studies recommend quality baby mirror time. https://pathways.org/mirrors-good-baby/  They’ve also tested when a baby actually recognizes himself in the mirror.  (Probably not until he’s almost two years old). Put a dot of ketchup on a baby’s nose, and show him a mirror. When he touches his own nose instead of his reflection, he realizes he’s looking at himself.

We babysit two days a week. Gary helps heat up bottles and distract Winslow with a cross between yodeling, humming, and what sounds like someone herding animals while I take a shower. 

Since we don’t have a backyard or an abundance of baby toys, I’ll continue hanging out with that Baby in the Mirror. Winslow’s beyond the soul-sucking period, and teething is already a problem we’re tackling with cold soft plastic toys filled with purified water and our thumb knuckles while our grandson drools and shoves both fists into his mouth. Our biggest worry now is Winslow gagging himself.

We’re so lucky that Casey and Catherine do not scold us for our rusty baby skills or blame us for a tiny scratch on Winslow’s perfect nose or his dimpled wrist. They’re amazing parents – full of gratitude and patience and love! 

And Winslow, well, he’s a joyful miracle. He doesn’t mind our grey hair or stained clothes. He is oblivious to a dusty bookshelf or dirty dishes in the sink. He greets us with open-mouthed smiles and kicks his chunky legs when Casey hands him off. He also widens his eyes and gives the Baby in the Mirror the same welcome multiple times a day. Winslow makes me forget my crooked left side, my flabby wrinkled body, and my cluttered apartment. Even my complaining old cat loses her ability to annoy me when Winslow is around. My grandson’s  ability to ignore his aching gums or a wet diaper when he sees his double-chinned best buddy – that Baby in the Mirror – reminds me of the Zen masters. Live in the now and embrace the happiness right in front of you!

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude, Nature

Routines by Ginger Keller Gannaway   

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway

Routines fool me into believing all is right with my world. When I follow my morning ritual, the day has the promised sweetness of a crisp, polished apple or a nectarine begging me to enjoy its juiciness. I get up with fresh brewed coffee and read, pray, think, and write while I “sit ugly.” Next, I go on a two-mile walk by myself and catch the sun winking at me through trees both bald and full. This by-myself walk lets ideas bounce around my brain while my feet do heel/toe steps, and I observe the natural world coexisting with the city. Birds perch in branches and on electrical power lines. Squirrels race through crunchy fallen leaves and greasy discarded food wrappers. The grass grows confidently in lush wooded areas and between uneven sidewalk cracks. Dogs’ barks mix with cars’ revving engines. And sweet flower fragrances swirl around the aroma of onions and potatoes frying on a stove.

I get tricked into believing life is balanced.

Millie Biscuit

I carry pepper spray in my front pants pocket, and the thumb of my right hand rubs the gadget’s activation button at the same time I give familiar fellow walkers a head nod.

Wake. Pray. Sip. Think. Write. Walk alone. Observe. Think. Connect. Walk. Think some more.

I need my five to seven a.m. time to myself. And when Millie pants too loud or J.T. meows incessantly, I curse the interruptions. I want morning rituals to calm the fears that hide just below the surface of my even breaths and soulful stares outside my office window. My nasty thoughts, like zombies, push through the dirt of their graves. Their thin, bloodless hands come out first followed by rotting faces with hanging eyeballs and slack-jawed mouths. Uneven groans and weak cries accompany their struggle to enter the world of the living. Some horror flicks claim they want to eat our brains. Sounds right. They’re after my wise thoughts, my positive vibes, and my fragile faith. So to avoid the zombies, I head out the door and let nature clear my head.

I enjoy the predictable moments of my walk, and I give strangers complimentary nicknames. On the spooky street, I see “The Other Aunt Toni,” a tall slim woman in her eighties who lives alone and sweeps her front porch or takes in the garbage bin with her walker nearby. Her solid independence and short, stylish white hair remind me of my dad’s younger sister who just turned 93. Further down the street, I wave to “John Goodman’s Brother,” a large retired guy with a spunky dog. His smooth voice, long, full face, and cool demeanor (he was once a part of a local rock band) evoke the essence of the actor who graced both The Big Lebowski and the Treme series. Sometimes I spot “Minari Grandma” – an energetic Asian woman in a large front yard with a wild-looking garden that she tends with a determined, don’t-mess-with-me-attitude. The flowers, vegetables, and ferns all vie for her attention as she tends to the wildness wearing a floppy wide-brimmed hat and bringing to mind the untraditional grandma in the movie Minari.  Seeing the same houses, yards, cats and people each morning gives me comfort. Predictability clears my head of predatory thoughts.

Until something makes me raise both eyebrows. A for-real dead opossum next to an overwhelmed garbage bin. A slumped over person sleeping in his parked car. A loose dog giving me the eye. 

Then I’m sure the zombies are hiding around the corner of the next house. And my mind remembers that life’s surprises are not always good. And the whatifs get more convincing. What if that person in the car was not just asleep? Could he have overdosed? Should I go back and knock on the car window? Do I need to call 9-1-1?

But I keep walking and a large beige and orange window cat looks at me, and I realize the zombies are not in that yard. And I turn down a wider street with fewer cracked segments of sidewalk. I see Walking Lady coming my way, and I know we will smile, wave, and comment on the weather when we get closer to each other. Soon I’ll get back to my condo where Millie will be pacing and Gary is sipping his first cup of coffee and working a Sudoko. I’ll eat a banana and in twenty minutes Gary and I will take Millie for a long walk. We may take a route similar to my by-myself walk

Sam & June

We will share our day’s agendas and comment on the a hot news topic or mention the emotional and physical states of our three grown sons. And we’ll stay aware of Millie’s poops. More routines to follow. 

Grandma’s Recipe

And the balance I first felt with my first cup of coffee may not be as steady, but I do know I am very fortunate. I keep on believing the world is more like eating a just-right banana than stepping in dog shit. The zombies in my brain will stay below the earth for now because I have three wonderful sons living nearby. Each has someone he loves above all others. I have a stereo system from the 1970s with a turntable that only sometimes goes backwards. I’m making my grandma’s “Madame Queen Cornbread Dressing” today (and a shrimp and mushroom dressing for my youngest son) in preparation for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. And my momma’s version of turkey and sausage gumbo will be made on Friday.

Mama’s Gumbo

So Turkey Day’s routines will happen, and I feel mostly sure “all shall be well” and if things veer off course (like someone brings extra-powerful magic cookies) and the hosts become incapacitated for awhile, that will be a family story to tell one day. All will still be mostly ok. Wabi-Sabi, y’all!

Turkey Bob
Posted in Confessions, Dreams, Gratitude

Funny Girl Fanatic by Ginger Keller Gannaway

Posted on by gingerkellergannaway
“I’d Rather Be Blue” song

I grew up a faithful patron of the Liberty Theater and the Queen Cinema in Eunice, Louisiana where I saw almost every movie shown from 1960 through 1972 (beginning of ratings system).  But I did not become an obsessive film fan until I saw Funny Girl in 1968.

Barbra Streisand’s unique voice and dramatic delivery made me want to stay for the 8:30 feature that followed the 6:00 p.m. one I’d just seen. At first “The Greatest Star” and “Don’t Rain on my Parade” were my favorite songs. My sisters and I pantomimed these tunes at home while Momma’s hi-fi in the den blasted through the ceiling speakers in the living room. After fourteen viewings, “My Man” (the one song filmed before a live audience) became my favorite. Barbra’s cool short haircut that framed her anguished face and her long drop pearl earrings were spotlit. All but her fabulous face, sleek hands and long fingernails seemed to disappear into the blackness of the stage. She began the torch song fighting back tears with a halting delivery. But her strength grew as her voice got steadier and louder until she threw out both arms and belted the last line with a power that made me hold my breath while my thirteen-year-old heart ached for reasons it could not yet comprehend.

The movie earned eight Oscar nominations and Barbra got the film’s one Best Actress win for her portrayal of the incredible Fanny Brice. Her self-deprecating humor and durable-as-rubber-tubing ambition spoke to my wallflower teen angst, and her rise to stardom despite her nontraditional beauty gave me hope. 

I was an extra shy girl with a limping left leg and a skinny, spastic left arm. I hid my mild cerebral palsy from most folks until a situation required the use of two healthy limbs. In my mind, I clapped with a hand and a claw. If I had to hold two paper cups at the same time, I’d touch the sides together in hopes my steady right hand could keep my shaky left from spilling the cups’ contents. Yet even if luck shone on me and very little water splashed over the rim, my CP hand could involuntarily squeeze the stupid flimsy cup and dump half its contents onto the floor.

Watching Funny Girl gave me hope of reaching my life goal of being the first big movie star to emerge from Eunice, Louisiana or become Barbra Streisand’s new best friend – two equally worthy aspirations.

So I spent nights at Grandma’s house where I could walk to the Queen Cinema three blocks away, and no adult needed to drop me off or pick me up. In the dark theater with my long-lasting Toostsie Roll, I could watch Barbra sing and roller skate her way to fame and later have Omar Sharif kiss her neck while he seduced her with dinner and song.

My naive self believed that I (like my movie idol) could conquer all challenges. My small Cajun existence could tell me I was weak and awkward and invisible to the boys I had crushes on. But in my mind I’d be wearing a red and black sailor top with black bloomers and stockings, and I’d have two long graceful arms of the same length extended while I threw my head back and twirled on an empty stage and sang, “Have you guessed yet/ Who’s the best yet/ If you ain’t I’ll tell you one more time/ you bet your last dime./ I am the greatest, the greatest star!”

“The Greatest Star”

The Liberty and Queen were like my second home, and Funny Girl made that home a portal of possibilities. Barbra inspired me to be braver. Maybe I had a crooked left side and I wore uncool corrective shoes. Maybe my hair frizzed out and my pimples surprised me on the most inconvenient days. My parents misunderstood me, my sisters ganged up against me, and the boys at school made me wish I could crawfish my way into a mud home whenever they were near. But Barbra had not listened to critics or let rejection stop her from conquering Broadway and Hollywood in her early twenties. She faced off with anyone who tried to rain on her parade. Her talent astounded me, but more importantly her confidence and tenacity made the teenage me feel less like a loser. Barbra Streisand’s movies and albums made me believe I was one of those “luckiest people in the world.”

Posted in Contemplations, Gratitude

I Need Something Sweet by Nancy Malcolm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            There are days, we all have them, where it seems everyone and everything around us is sharp. Sharp tones or answers to our questions that feel snippy and harsh.    I call these tender days, a day when tears are close by and thoughts are deep.  On these days I feel alone in an alien world that thrives on being blunt or quick.  “I need something sweet, Lord,” I whisper in a quiet prayer.  “I need something sweet.”

            As I get older the tears fall more readily.  They often are on the brink, ready to fall and just as close is a smile open and ready to fill my face.  Maybe it’s because I realize I have less time to waste on foolishness, or hurtful people or things that don’t serve a loving purpose.  I appreciate more the answered prayers that are sent to me.  I feel the more I ask for sweetness in my life, the more is sent to me. 

            On one such tender day, two years ago, I was volunteering with my elderly Hospice patient.  She had wanted to go to the grocery store, just to look around.  I pushed her wheelchair up and down the aisles as she looked at make-up, smelled the candles, and marveled at the various types of crackers. We perused the Hallmark cards and bought some candy.  She just wanted to feel normal for a change and I wanted that for her too.  We had spent an hour wandering the aisles, when we got in line to check out.  The woman behind us kept staring and smiling at us and finally she said to me, “Is this your mother?”

            I smiled at my patient and said, “Oh, how I wish she was.  We’re just good friends.”

            The woman replied, “Well, you look beautiful enough to be mother and daughter.”

            And my patient said, “I wish we were.  She is the sweetest girl in the world to me.”

            I bent down to hug my little friend, and we both had tears in our eyes.  That was something sweet.

            I always find when I whisper my need for something sweet, God is waiting and willing to send it.  A smile from a stranger.  A love pat from my husband.  A phone call from my daughter.  A thank you from a friend.  There’s goodness on its way in many different forms if I am open to see it.

            My dear friend Mary, who has since passed away, always encouraged me in my photography.  She would call and ask if I wanted to walk the trails at the Wildflower Center, “Be sure to bring your camera,” she would say.  Then as we walked, she seemed happy for me as I found butterflies or dragonflies just begging to be photographed.  “Look over here!” she would say. “This butterfly is just waiting for you.”  She never failed to compliment me or brag to others about my talent.  She was something so precious that I can live on the memory of her sweetness for years to come.

            I feel the blessings when I encounter kind and generous souls inside my day.  The friendly cashier, gracious friends or a loving card in the mail.  I feel so lucky because my inner whisper, “I need something sweet,” seems to send my guardian angels into overdrive sending me all manner of beautiful expressions.  Even now as I sit at my desk, there is a gorgeous red cardinal outside my window especially for me to enjoy.

            I pray to be reminded that when I whisper, “I need something sweet,” there are others, too, who are whispering.  Perhaps it is within my power to be that source for someone else.  I want to be mindful of their whispers, too.  Take note of the whisper in your heart and the hearts of others. Ask God to let you hear the whisper and give you the courage to answer the call.

In loving memory of Eunice J.