Teachers are all about plans. Lesson plans. Sub plans. EMERGENCY sub plans. The change in plans conceived in the shower , scribbled on a post it and stuck to the original plans. Sometimes this plan brain seeps into personal matters and I reminded to not use my teacher voice at home. Or that maybe MY plan isn’t THE plan. [But I have planned for this response, and I an emergency plan B ready to go.]
I haven’t always been this…focused. When I was about four years old, I wandered away from my grandfather in the grocery store. I prowled through produce and bakery aisles in vain. Finally I just stood frozen and alone in front of the courtesy counter. I didn’t move until my grandfather’s tremendous hand engulfed mine. Without looking up, I knew I was safe. His familiar, gentle calluses soothed all fears. More than a memory, that moment is in present tense; and like my grandfather, stepping in when I am most alone.
We are more alike than either one of us had realized. We both craved the average suburban anonymity that eludes children who are marked by the addictions, abuse, absence or other frailties of their parents. To satisfy this, Grandpa built a world of bologna sandwiches, lawn games and color TV. And I basked in it. I leaned into his round belly as he dozed in front of the boob tube, and thought that live couldn’t get much better.
Between our summers together, Grandpa’s visits were erratic. He would jump in the car, drive for twelve hours, pop in and take me for ice cream and then continue on his way. He would repeat this hit on run routine with my father, uncles, cousins and any other family member who happened to be home while Grandpa was on his latest east coast tour. I wonder if this quickie visit habit was a remnant of the escape plan instinct that damaged children harbor. We always identify the exits. We don’t go in unless we know the quickest way out.
That is, until time eliminates the exits. Grandpa couldn’t remember where he parked his car at the mall. He was scared to drive; the family notorious Grandpa visits were retired to lore. However, when my daughter, Lili Jean, was born, my father revived the legend by chauffeuring my grandfather thousands of miles in a few days to bring four generations of our family together.
Lili sat on her great-grandfather’s lap and carefully studied his watch, moving it up and down his freckled arm. It was loose on wrist, just as his clothes hung loose on his shrinking frame. This small, slow man scared me. My father had warned me that Grandpa had changed, but this didn’t seem to be him at all. Once again, it seemed my search for my grandfather was fruitless. My fear was creeping toward tears when my father brought the Scrabble board. I hoped for refuge in this family tradition – the tradition being that we played, and Grandpa won. On my second turn I played a word Grandpa didn’t recognize. He missed the bonus squares on most of his turns. I couldn’t take it. I needed him to win. I made the worst plays possible, holding back my high scoring letters. But his decades long example had taught me too well. My skill and strategy battled my heart and I felt no control as my score continued to grow. I tired adding up my points incorrectly – and got caught. Finally, it was over. I had won and I was miserable. Grandpa peered over at the score sheet. “I won,” I confessed; I couldn’t even look at him. “Good,” he said, satisfied and put his hand over mine as he pushed away from the table. And there was my grandfather, he had found me again. My strength, survival - my family -- is his victory. It was his plan all along.

Did you know that the REAL [fictional] Mary Poppins was mean? She was strict with the Banks children and didn't smile much. She would take the children on magical adventures and then she'd deny they ever happened! Cruel and hysterical. I read the whole series. And the Great Brain books, all the Anastasia books, Judy Blume, Narnia, Roald Dahl. Series after series, shelf after shelf in the library. I discoverd nonfiction and read about Hitler, Groucho Marx, Elvis, Olympic athletes, Vaudville performers -- anyone, anything. All of it nestled somwhere in my brain, my heart, my lungs. Sometimes when I speak It hear Owen or Janie or Ophelia in my words. I use their voices when I am too scared to hear my own. It was the Scout in me that survived the torment of grade school. And she called in Charlie Bucket to navigate us through poverty and indifference. Sometimes I think of myself as a plaid shirt - - all of those characters woven in -- the wide, bold red stripes meeting crossing with a single thread of green -- all of it essential in the fabric. But sadly, I can't name some of those threads. I can recall the strength of the girl caring for her dying mother and then traveling cross country on her own -- but the title and author elude me. The picture book about the house of mud -- I'll never see it again. I'll never meet up with the family that lived in the abandoned house in the grave yard. But no one can deny it happened -- it is woven in me.