Headstones

Dear You,
I've been spending part of this morning on MapQuest, making maps for Memorial Day visits to cemeteries in Ohio. Years ago, the generation before me took to visiting Amanda, OH Dutch Hollow Cemetery (the Hartman side) and Lancaster, OH Forest Rose Cemetery (the Littrell side) to leave flowers and remember relatives.

Now most of them have joined their ancestors and those left are too old to travel much. Thanks to Cousin Mike, the weekend has become an annual Cousins Gathering. Mike, Paul, Marlin, David, Walt, and Suzie -- with "significant others" if any -- punctuate the day of visiting graves with lunch and catching up on each others' stories.

In late afternoon, we head off on our own. In my case, to Glen Rest, outside of Columbus, where my parents' graves and those of my grandparents and some aunts and uncles are buried.

This is a happy task, despite the occasional tear and speechless pause -- just another way to "Honor Thy Father and Mother." I wouldn't miss it.

Retiring

Dear You,
Retirement is not such a big word, but it means big things. It's full of tension: a pulling away from something big, and (if you are lucky) a drawing toward something, perhaps equally big.

It also means the difference from a sort of public life toward one much more private. During your working years, you're out there. Meeting people, being treated as someone to pay attention to. It is interesting to see how, during the retirement years, you move so unnoticed through the world. It's like going through the Mall of Life -- "No thank you, I'm just looking," if you're addressed at all.

As a male, I certainly drew much personal meaning from my job. Who are you? I'm a Schoolteacher. What am I now? A retiree -- is there anything more generic?

The "toward" after the "away from" is Time. We exist in time, and when you are working, those hours, while remunerated in various ways, are dedicated to something outside yourself. In my case adolescents and all their many needs. In retirement, however, if you work it right, Dear You, your time is your own. Be creative today, I tell myself each morning. Wake up early, it's Time.

A Third Wheel

Brandon has three grandfathers: his mother's father, his father's father . . . and me. I'm his father's mother's husband, Grandpa Paul. The other day, on a visit to Brandon's home, his mother asked him to introduce my wife and me to two of his friends. The first was easy: this is my Grandma Kristine. Then he paused.
"And who's that?" prompted his mother, pointing at me.
"Well," Brandon offered. "It's kinda complicated."
Yes, it is. Brandon is only 10, but already he has figured out that "family" is kinda complicated these days.

My wife and I have a dozen little kids who refer to us in various forms of grandpa/grandma. My daughter's children have a Grandma Kristine, but they never met Grandma Becky, who died before any of them were born. My wife's sons' children have the complicated situation I've already described. When they were really little, it was easier for them. Now the oldest girls are entering the teen years, and they're in charge of explaining the genealogy to their brothers. I'll leave it to them.

And I've not even dared here to wade into the swamp of family get-togethers, such as Christmas or birthday parties.

Starting Out

I suppose any writer starts this way -- searching for a topic, looking for an audience . . . and here I am. It's possible, of course, that no audience will announce itself, so I'll just do what other journal-ists do: address myself to that Anonymous Other.
Anne Frank wrote "Dear Kitty" in her journal. I'll avoid cats here and just say "Dear You."

So, You.
It was Alexis, my grand-daughter, who posed the question. "How do you make a blog, Grandpa?" She is about to take a cross-country trip with her family, and I'm providing her with some stamped, self-addressed stationery so that she can let me know what she is experiencing as she sees the USA. Her father has a laptop and will stop at some "hot spots" to do his work en route, so perhaps she can also create a blog and take a minute here and there to do her reporting to the world at large.
After all, if I can do this at age 65, what can a 13-year-old do? (Answer: in the area of technology, many, many things!)

I've called my blog Literally Littrell. I like to think I'm literate, so it's a kind of pun. Do you see that, Dear You? It will also suggest to me each time I pause for words to try to be literal as well as literate.
It's past the middle of May. And that's it for today.