The end of summer was sweetened by a visit from my six-month-old
granddaughter, Josephine. We’d not
seen each other since Memorial Day weekend, when we were together at our
Catskills home. Josephine took her
first ride on my garden tractor then, as we rode down to our lower meadow to
plant a weeping willow in memory of her uncle, William.
This recent visit was filled with firsts. There was, of course, Josephine’s
development in the interim to marvel at.
She was rolling over, sitting up, and chewing on anything and everything
available to her, with an uncanny and particular fondness for all those white
tags that either give washing instructions or threaten to bring the law down
upon you if you remove them. Josephine’s genius for locating and deriving pleasure
from those tags is unparalleled – certainly in this adoring grandfather’s
eyes.
The firsts included lots of “swimming”. Time spent in the water: standing while being held, or sitting in
her Crab, a floating device she can sit in with holes in the bottom which allow
her to kick her legs to her little heart’s content. And kick she did.
“Kick, kick, kick”, became a refrain from parents and grandparents
alike. Josephine’s firsts included
saltwater (Long Island Sound and Great Peconic Bay) and freshwater (The
Beaverkill River and a nearby pond).
She and the Crab were already veterans when it came to swimming pools.
Josephine is a water baby. From
her bath or shower to the cold of the river, she delights in all the sensation
water has to offer.
There were food firsts, “solids” to taste and smear: sweet potato, pear, carrots from
grandfather’s garden (happily prepared by grandfather himself). Then firsts from nature. She saw her first black bear and her
first bald eagle, both at relatively close range. Things adults forget to take in: bare feet in wet grass, the captivating magic of a breeze
moving leaves in the trees back and forth, the mystery of one’s feet
disappearing in sand as gentle waves wash up and fall back at water’s
edge.
The permanence of things had become an issue of some concern
to Josephine. Properly so in terms
of her development. She delighted
in peek-a-boo games. Wondered what
happened to a dropped toy. More to
the point was growing apprehension over the disappearance or absence of her
mother. We adults consulted Selma
Freiberg’s The Magic Years or other
resources on separation anxiety.
Josephine would fret or cry whenever her mother’s disappearance
compelled her. There were times
when all the snuggling, hugging and kissing by her grandfather simply wouldn’t
suffice.
On our last day in the country Grandfather’s company was
sufficient, however. At least for
a spell, while the rest of the adults packed for returns to New York City and
Chicago respectively. Josephine
and I took a walk outside, around the house. There was a slight breeze, just enough to move the trees and
flowers and make the fine hair that gives Josephine the appearance of having a
Mohawk stand up just a bit.
I held her while we circled the house together. We smelled the sweet clethra and the
spiky cleome. We crunched the
thyme, some of it still purple, on our rock steps. We stopped by the coreopsis,
looked at butterflies in the bee balm, made sure the deer hadn’t eaten Black-eyed-Susan’s
or daisies or silver mound. We put
our feet in the damp grass and looked at William’s willow. The goldenrod swayed as we came back to
the front of the house and plucked a small yellow flower from the potentilla to
put in Josephine’s hair. Balance
on her head is what we settled for, just long enough to share with her Mommy
and GranMarg.
A day later we were at JFK, Mommy Elizabeth strapping a baby
carrier in front of her, being helped into a backpack, grabbing a purse and a
suitcase. I held Josephine, the
last addition to Elizabeth’s load to carry into the terminal, while tears
streamed down below my sunglasses.
For two weeks I’d done my best to console Josephine when she felt
abandoned or fearful. Now it was
my turn. William is more than a
willow. He’s a dead son who
heightens my apprehension about the rest of my family. I told Josephine she had the best mommy
in the world, told Elizabeth Josephine was the best baby in the world, handed
off Josephine, hugged them both and cried as I watched them disappear into the
terminal. For Josephine separation
anxiety may be a “stage” she passes through. Who knows about grandfather?
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| Josephine with her Dad Johnny Anderes. Beaverkill Falls 8/31/14. Where she saw her first bald eagle. |
