My granddaughter was named after my cousin Robin, who also died from breast cancer when she was much too young. She lived long enough to know she had a namesake, but like the Robin in Yoffe’s story, she had no children of her own. We were 14 years apart in age; she lived in California, I in Minnesota, so we weren’t close in any sense. However, I knew her well enough to recognize her beauty in both body and spirit. I’m sure she would have been a wise and nurturing mother.

On the fifth anniversary of my cousin’s death, my daughter brought my granddaughter from Fort Worth, Texas, to Santa Cruz, California, to meet friends and family. They all assured us little Robin was doing the name proud with her effervescent personality and joie de vivre.

The article also reminded me of another beautiful woman whose life was cut short. And, there’s a name connection also.

When I first started dating the man I’ve been married to for over 25 years, I knew his first wife had been killed in a car accident, leaving behind three young children who were being raised by their grandparents. I was amazed when they revealed we had not only the same first name (Mary), but also the same middle name (Elaine), highly unusual coupled with my husband’s extremely rare last name.

My step-daughter has been posting photos of her mother on Facebook for Mother’s Day, and this tall woman with the long, dark hair looks like she enjoyed life to the fullest. I know she would be delighted with how her children turned out, would have cherished her grandchildren, and would be anticipating becoming a great-grandmother soon.

The length of our allotted time on this earth remains a mystery, so make the most of every moment. And, make sure you have shared at least a little of your life story with those you love so your memory will live on once you’re gone.

All eyes were on our father as our mother placed a bowl containing half a grapefruit in front of him. Dad reached over, scooped up a heaping spoonful from the sugar bowl in front of him, and with exaggerated motion, liberally sprinkled his grapefruit with the granules. Using the special spoon with tiny teeth at the point, he dug out a large section of the citrus, and while we all held our breath, brought the grapefruit to his mouth.

“Who put salt in the sugar bowl?” Dad roared, jumping up from the table, the spoon clattering to the floor. My brothers both shrieked with laughter, John pounding the table with his fists, and Mark rocking so hard the back of his booster chair banged against the window ledge behind him. I merely smiled and marveled at my father’s terrible memory. How could he forget we did exactly the same thing on April 1st the year before?

We repeated that April Fool’s Day ritual for many years, my father gamely playing the fool. But the year I was 15, my brothers were laughing at me instead of my father.

Our tiny community had an elementary school, but from seventh grade on, we had to catch a bus to junior and senior high school in a nearby town. Accepting the consequences of our actions was a big deal with my father, so I knew if I didn’t get on that bus, he would not allow my mother to drive me the seven miles. I was paranoid about missing the bus.

On the first day of April my sophomore year in high school, I woke to my mother calling up the stairs, “Mary, it’s almost 7:30!” I threw the covers aside and grabbed a skirt and sweater from my closet. (In 1961, we weren’t allowed to wear pants to school.) Pulling on white tennis shoes over bare feet, I hopped down the stairs and staggered into our only bathroom. A splash of water on my face, a comb through my short brown hair, a perfunctory brush of my teeth, and I was out the door, determined to be there when the bus arrived at 7:40.

I had crossed the railroad tracks and was approaching the bus stop at the elementary school by the time I realized it was Saturday. My brothers greeted me at the door when I returned home, shamefaced and truly feeling the fool. I still think they enjoyed that April Fool’s Day entirely too much.

Autumn arrived here on Sunday with a bang — the bang of windows slamming shut and lawn chairs hurled against the side of the garage. James Lileks tweeted: “Huge angry wind. Why, we call it “trouble wind” ’round these parts. Fall got tired of waiting and decided to shove summer out of the way.”

Weather changes are always aburpt here in Minnesota, but this year we didn’t even get a chance to mourn the passage of summer. The umbrella and chair cushions on the deck haven’t been put away, and my closet is still full of tank tops and flipflops. Even the squirrels seem to have been caught off guard, having left at least half of the walnuts on the tree in our front yard.

I feel the same about my passage from middle age to senior citizen status. It happened too quickly, and I wasn’t prepared. My oldest daughter turned 40 this spring, and in a few months, my oldest grandchild will no longer be a teenager. When an online friend announced the birth of her second great-grandchild, I realized we’re about the same age. How did all this happen? Haven’t I been paying attention?

I’ve always had the mindset, “it’s never too late,” but I’m wondering if enough grains of sand still remain in my hourglass. My mental bucket list has so few checkmarks, and I still have so many unfulfilled dreams.

Like my friend Sharon, autumn for me has always been a time of new beginnings. Perhaps it’s the memories of the start of the school year with the smell of freshly-sharpened pencils, the sight of thick notebooks with unblemished pages, and the sound of chattering children waiting on the corner for the middle-school bus.

Is it too late for me to enjoy new beginnings?

February was a very stressful month, both personally and professionally, which is why my 27th Day posts are several days late. When I’m stressed, I’m anxious, resulting in extreme reactions to trivial matters, such as the shoes my husband left in the middle of the living room floor for me to trip over.

When reviewing specific incidences of annoyance over the past month, I discovered most fell within just a handful of categories. So, I’ve listed the top five things that bug me.

1. Adults who don’t pick up or clean up after themselves. When I go to bed at night, the counters are clean and clutter free. But, after my husband gets up, pours a cup of coffee and makes toast for breakfast, the counters are covered with coffee stains, empty packets of sweetener, an open loaf of bread, and a margarine container with a knife sticking out of it. That bugs me!
2. Individuals who inappropriately promote their personal agendas. I find this even more objectionable than commercial spam. An email, disguised as a joke, denigrates our president; a message on a hobby list urges participation in a letter-writing campaign on a politically-charged issue; a tech forum post calls for the boycott of a company because it’s owned by foreigners. The perpetrators think they can get away with this because they don’t profit monetarily, but this is spam, and it bugs me!
3. Bad grammar. I admit I’m a grammar snob. Any high school graduate who speaks English as a first language should  be able to speak and write correctly. The word “ain’t” is like fingernails scraping across a blackboard. “He don’t” and “there” when “their” is required are almost as annoying. Today is National Grammar Day, so why not make it a point to improve your speaking and writing? That won’t bug me!
4. People who practice and preach intolerance. Yes, I’m intolerant of intolerance. There are those so convinced of the superiority of their opinions and values they are not only prejudiced against those who differ, but actively promote discrimination against them. That, my friends, is bigotry. It bugs me, and it should bug you!
5. A day has only 24 hours and 8 are wasted sleeping. Don’t get me wrong, I love to sleep. I’d probably do it even more if I wasn’t so busy doing other things. I’ve been told we need less sleep as we age, but I didn’t nap until I hit 50. It annoys me that I can’t function without devoting a third of my life to slumber. I spend an hour every day dealing with email, so why can’t I spend only 60 minutes sleeping? That would bug me more if I weren’t so tired.

What bugs you?

He mentioned the rotary phone in his house when he was a kid. Ours didn’t have a dial. To place a call, you picked up the receiver and the operator at the other end said, “Number, please.” Our number was only four digits, and since we were on a party line, we had a distinctive ring — one long and two short.

The phone itself was as black and heavy as a bowling ball, with a straight, cloth-covered cord. It sat on top of the radio/phonograph console in the living room. I was instructed to answer, “Hewitt residence, Mary speaking.”

Our line was shared with my grandmother and my father’s insurance office, so we didn’t have anyone interesting to eavesdrop on. But, when I visited my grandmother, I would sit in the corner of the dining room at the little phone table nestled next to the china cabinet, listening to the interesting conversations of all the neighbors.  My grandmother scolded me only after I repeated everything I’d heard.

I was a teenager when we got our first dial phone, but since we still shared a line, I wasn’t allowed to spend any time gabbing with my girlfriends on the phone. In some ways, we missed the cheery voice of the operator when we picked up the receiver, and it took some time to get used to having to dial a number.

We didn’t have exchanges like they did in the city, so our number was still short. My cousin had a phone number that started with TU, which stood for Tuxedo. I still remember her number: TU1-4489. Bloomington still has the same exchange, but of course is now 881.

In 1965, I went to work for Northwestern Bell Telephone Company in Fargo, ND, back when it was referred to a Ma Bell. I worked as a dispatcher, sending the installers out to put princess phones in teenagers’ bedrooms across the area. How different those cute little phones were from the black behemoth that sat in our living room when I was a child.

Today my phone fits easily in my pocket, and I’m in contact daily with my children and grandchildren who live hundreds of miles away. I am amazed by the technology that allows me to communicate so easily with those I love, but I’m also grateful we once had exchanges that put letters, as well as numbers, on our phone dials. How else would we be able to text?

“I smell something,” he announced.

“What does it smell like,” I asked.

“It smells like oldness.”

We laughed about it for awhile, but then I began wondering, what does “oldness” smell like? Is it the musty odor of an antique book pulled from the shelf at an estate sale? The stale, starchy scent of heirloom linens unfolded from a trunk in the attic? The sharp, acidic aroma of a rusting watering can forgotten in the far corner of the garden?

A canine’s sense of smell could help diagnose disease, but can our age be determined by the way we smell? We color our hair to cover the grey, undergo facelifts to remove wrinkles, and exercise regularly to retain a youthful figure, so it’s discouraging to think our scent will give us away.

When I was in my twenties and early thirties, I wore the fragrance “Youth Dew” by Estee Lauder. Apparently this scent, despite its name, is suited to grandmothers, not adolescents. At least it’s a consolation that Madonna wears it. But wait, Madonna turned 50 last year! Somehow I doubt anyone ever tells her she smells of oldness.

My grandson was naturally upset when I forgot his birthday. I told him it was because my head was filled with so much stuff there wasn’t room for any more.

“Then vacuum it out, Gramma!” he told me.

Smart kid.

I’m not usually a “half-full” kind of gal until someone comes along with an empty glass. Why is it that I have so much trouble counting my blessings? Maybe it’s because I have so many. Here are three:

1. My home is warm even when the temperature here in Minnesota doesn’t get above zero for an entire week.
2. My son-in-law works for a company that provides great health insurance coverage for two of my grandkids who have health problems.
3. After my cataract surgery four years ago, I went from wearing inch-thick glasses to only reading glasses.