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The Afghan

It was the perfectly silly Zayde game.  I covered Bina up with the blanket and she’d pretend to be asleep. I pulled the blanket back and she giggled and announced “awake”.  We did this 10 or 11 times until it was time for another game.  But as she climbed off the couch, I realized that the blanket we had been playing with was, in fact, an Afghan knitted, over 55 years ago, by Nana Francis, my grandmother, her great-great-grandmother.   Among our tasks as Nana’s grandchildren was to partner with her in the creation of afghans by holding up the hanks of yarn as she wound them into balls. We’d sit on the small ottoman across from her in her lounge chair, two hands raised and moving back and forth as the wool strands traversed the distance between us.  I close my eyes, and I am still there; sitting erect, synchronizing the movement of my arms with the flow of the yarn. The threads of Nana’s afghan stretch back hundreds of years.  To a Horodenka, in the Ukraine, then part of the Aust
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The Visit

Part One: Getting Ready The preparations for Bina’s week-long visit to our home began three weeks (or more) before her arrival. It wasn’t as if we needed to put the crib together or install the safety gate atop the stairs three weeks in advance – but we couldn’t contain our excitement.  A whole week with our expanded nuclear family.  Six adults, whose presence would be fully eclipsed by a 16-month old toddler.   The countdown in the context of what, otherwise seems to be the increasingly dramatic acceleration of the passing of time, seemed to slow day by day. New toys and board books arrived almost daily from Amazon.  Having completed the “ Bina Trail ” in our backyard months before, We searched Amazon for sales on Christmas lights to string along the paths and then spent hours hanging the lights among the trees. We traveled to a used children’s clothing and toy store in Kennesaw and bought a small inflatable baby pool and 200 plastic balls. The method to our madness – an in
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Some Assembly Required

Five thousand years from now, a researcher of ancient manuscripts will be perusing the stacks of the Beinecke Library at Yale University and will uncover a frail yellowed document with simple, yet indecipherable pictograms. An expert in ancient English, he will struggle to read the words, seemingly meaningless; “ Ikea, SNIGLAR Crib” . He will spend months, perhaps years, searching in vain to fathom its meaning.  Carbon dating will be used to identify its origins.  Engineers will gather from across the globe seeking to ponder its purpose.   Religious scholars will determine that it is a relic of an ancient cult – perhaps sacred instructions to build a tabernacle to be carried by a nomadic people as they wandered through the desert.   Of course, we do not have to wait five thousand years for people to be mystified by Ikea instructions.  In households around the world, recent college graduates, young couples, husbands and wives and new parents are arguing and hurling expletives along
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Snapshots of a Miracle

As parents, the miracle of a child’s development seemed to pass us by like scenery through the window of a speeding train.  We spent our days, feeding, bathing, diaper changing and coaxing into bed and suddenly, and without warning, our children were transformed from tiny, helpless infants into small encapsulations of humanity who talk a mile a minute, endlessly play peek a boo and get lost in books.  One day they are in diapers and the next they are in college. Conversely, as grandparents, we have the best seats in the house from which to watch and marvel at the miracle of a child’s development. Each day, Jo and I observe this miracle through the lens of Facetime.  One day, Bina scoots across the floor on all fours.  The next, she is taking tentative first steps.  In a seeming blink of an eye, she is toddling about, bent on exploring the world.  One day she utters a tentative “hi” – perhaps the first word she shared with us. Within weeks, she is naming all of her animals, saying
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Bubbe Zayde TV

Facilitated by the remarkable technology that is FaceTime, Jo and I speak with Bina almost every day. Perhaps, I should rephrase that – Jo and I perform for Bina – and we do so with great delight.  At moments when Bina is a bit cranky or needs company while Nomi quickly runs to the basement to put in a wash (with Bina secure in her high chair), the Bubbe and Zayde Players are called upon to perform.   I announce my appearance on Bubbe and Zayde TV with a rendition of “It’s Happy Zayde Time” sang to the tune of “ It’s Happy Doody Time ”, among the essential anthems of my youth. Jo’s specialty is a highly exaggerated sneeze that causes her hair to flop over her face.  Bina thinks that is the best thing ever. I call upon a Kermit the Frog Pirate doll to perform an array of antics; popping up from behind Jo’s shoulder, resting atop her head, magically appearing from the side of the screen.  Peek-a-boo maintains its allure for toddlers through the ages.  We sing songs; Bina’s favor
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The Bina Trail

This past July, a heavy summer rainstorm deposited perhaps 5 inches of rain on our Sandy Springs neighborhood along with an 80-foot oak on the roof of our home.  The tree removal, which involved an array of heavy equipment not generally intended for suburban usage, also destroyed our yard’s limited landscaping. Desperate to transition our backyard from a post-apocalyptic landscape to something fit for human habitation, I reached out to our local UGA Extension office.  Several weeks later, Abra, an advisor from the office, visited our home to assess the lunar-like landscape.  Observing the ¼ acre arbor of dense trees behind our yard and, noting that I had a granddaughter, she suggested that I create woodland trails to explore.  “For the grandchild” were the three magical words that catalyzed me into action. A week later, Atlanta Arbor, the company that had so expertly removed the oak encased in our roof, deposited a truckload of wood chips on our front lawn.  Beginning the next day,
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Trees a Crowd

Each year is unique, and each year brings it surprises.  Last year, in the days preceding Rosh Hashanah, we held the infant Bina Mazel in our arms and celebrated her Simchat Bat (Baby Naming).  A year later, in the days following her first birthday, we sat in Nomi and Keith’s living room together watching her scoot around the room.  I was reminded of days long ago when we struggled to keep up with her mother as a non-stop toddler.  Bina wants to explore everything; toys, books and dolls; but also paper cups, pieces of lint, and Milo’s (the dog) eyes and inner ears. Like both of her parents, she is drawn to music and shakes her hands and tush to the same Raffi songs we shared with our children. Like her Zayde (grandfather) she is a two-fisted eater, and, for instance, armed with an avocado slice in one hand and a sliver of pizza in the other she relishes her meals.  She is a great blessing, and her grandparents, aunts and uncles are smitten.  We are all in her orbit.  5778 ended
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