Counting Days

A year ago we were living in Italy. The memories are full and continue to warm our souls. We miss it—Casey, Ken and I—every day. I don’t think a day goes by that one of us doesn’t share a memory or the longing to be there again. In a year one grows past the infatuation with the romance of Italy and begins to understand a little of the ebb and flow of life and people. The piazza becomes more than a place of charm and becomes a community. When the tourists go home for the winter, life settles in to a pattern of traditions and calm. It is a different place. Winter brings with it a sense of peace.

Now we are going back—we will land at the Florence airport less than a year after we waved goodbye and watched Alessandro, Camilla and Mario return to the vehicles that deliverd us and our luggage for the journey home. It was a sad day and no one was sadder than our Casey and his sorella Camilla—these children that bonded in such an unusual way. They seemed to become extensions of each other as they spent that year together.

This time is just for two months but we will be there. We talk of the things we will do, the places to revisit, the friends to connect with, meals at our favorite restaurants and the welcomes we know we will receive when we walk in the door. We will belong to our past for a short while.

It won’t be the same because it will be tourist season and we will blend in with all those who are seeking the magic of Tuscany. It is not our favorite season there—in fact, it is not the time we would go if not for restrictions Casey’s school year places on us. Tonight we again wondered if we should return for another year but, it is too late now. Our Permesso di Soggiorno has expired so we would need to repeat the excruciating visa process—which takes months.

I know though that once there we will not want to come back to the states. And, I know for sure that Casey will want to stay with Tommy and Valentina and all his friends. He will want to stay where he can roam and be free, explore and discover—where he can feel safe in the piazza and walk hand and hand with Camilla into the gelateria. He will want to stay in the place that is home.

But now, it is ahead of us and we will relish each of the 61 days and know there are more years ahead for us. And Casey will always have two worlds that he calls home—two places where he belongs. What a future he has!

Math for Grammas

While in Italy we were embarrassingly unsuccessful in helping Casey with his third grade math homework. Eventually his teacher, Maestra AnnaMaria, requested that we not try and to please allow Valentina, his tutor, to work with him. So, shaking off our humiliation, we consoled ourselves with the fact that math processes are different in Italy—quite different from here in the United States. We did feel a little better when we returned home and Casey’s math teacher had a difficult time following the process when Casey showed it to her.

Now, shift gears:

If you are a baby boomer or older or maybe younger and you can think back to grade 4, what were you doing in math? I think I recall sitting in Mrs. Willow’s room with multiplication and division flash cards—through the 9’s. Maybe we did long division but I really don’t think so. For sure we were not doing algebraic equations and logic. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember that until 9^th grade with an English teacher temporarily assigned to teach algebra. She was every student’s worse nightmare.. steel grey hair pulled back into a bun, glasses perched on the tip of her nose so that she could peer over them at offending students (usually all of us) and a long chalkboard pointer that seemed more weapon than teaching tool. Add to this that she was totally clueless about algebra and you can begin to understand my then and now grasp of algebra or lack thereof.

Back to the here and now:

We are back in the US of A—our country, so surely we can help Casey with fourth grade math. Right? We speak the same language, the numbers are written the right way—our way and the teacher is available by e-mail. What could go wrong? This is what—Casey’s math is algebra—x’s and y’s and n’s and =’s and all those things--those things Miss Glasses on the End of Her Nose was to teach us so long ago.

Sadly, the only thing I remember of that class is being accused of leading the class in boisterous laughter when Miss Steely Eye’s drawer wouldn’t open because of a stuck ruler. I was justly or unjustly (your guess) sent to stand in the hall, fearing that at any minute Mr. Pinkney, the principal, would stroll by. Later I learned that was an unnecessary fear as he never left the sanctity of his office.

Anyway, Casey needed help last night so he brought his paper to me. And there they were—all my memories, buried with 50 years of living. Somewhere between that time and this, I did master equations and logic and, logic has stuck but equations and x’s and y’s again stump me. Humiliation visited again as Casey reclaimed his paper and went back to the table, saying he would figure it out himself and ask his teacher tomorrow.

Next time I will try harder. What is that TV program? Something about being smarter than a fifth grader? I think I need to find out when it is on and start practicing for next year.

Mad Doesn’t Work

So, last night Casey was being a real nine-year-old pain. Bright though he may be, he hates to read. This I can’t understand as reading has been a mainstay of my existence and free time since I was old enough to hold a book. I can’t imagine not having at least one book, usually more, in progress--the fatter the book, the happier I am. Casey, on the other hand, likes them skinny and multiple levels below his reading level. Fortunately, this is changing a little as such books are pretty dull in terms of story line and excitement.

Last night when Casey was told to spend some time reading, I learned that you don’t have to read on weekends. What an interesting concept that is—a new thought! Of course, he had successfully avoided reading on several school nights this week so, in my mind, this was make-up night. We just didn’t see eye-to-eye on this, at all, which resulted in an out-of-proportion battle of the wills. As in most of these situations, no one won. I was mad and he went to bed early and nothing was read. Actually, I lost because I didn’t handle it well at all.

Continuing along this line, this morning I was still a little ticked and didn’t feel like being the warm, cuddly and loving gramma he has grown to love—and I wasn’t. When it was time for Ken to take him early to his Little League game as he was going out the door his last words were, “Gramma, you’re going to come to my game aren’t you?” I sort of growled and gave an undecipherable answer, knowing that I was being much more immature than my years allow for.

Within 3 minutes of the car pulling out of the driveway, the doorbell rang. By the time I opened the door, the DHL truck was pulling away. Looking down I saw a large, long box that could only hold one thing-- flowers—

From Casey to Gramma, Happy Mother’s Day.

And I had just sent him away with a growl. Do we ever learn or are we doomed to keep repeating mistakes?

I went to the game, which I was going to do all along anyway. Casey had two great triples, with 4 RBI’s. He was hot! I like to think it was because he saw Gramma in the stands and he was happy.

Mad is not good and it doesn't work!

Checking In

Just a couple quickies today for those of you who check in to see what's new and find that nothing is. I seem to be somewhat short of topics that motivate me right now...except....

Yesterday Casey added a new name for me--following the gramma-mom of a couple weeks ago. Yesterday it was Mom at a Higher Level. I had to laugh both at the words and the little mind that would even think of this. Of course, it also touched my heart.

Then there is a video clip that I took at the local Spring Fest last weekend. It reminded me of Carnavale and other extravaganzas in Piazza Matteoti in Greve last year. The stilt people were always there and, of course, Camilla and Casey were always in awe.










Stilt performers amaze me, too. I wonder if it is as hard as it looks? Anyone know? The day was hot and you can see the shimmer in the air--not the best video but it tells the story.

Does a 9-Year-Old Think?

The answer is no.

In my imagination, somewhere in Heaven there is a production line where earthbound children receive brains. But, God, in his incomprehensible wisdom has done something inexplicably strange and puzzling. For reasons that escape mere mortal understanding, He doesn’t package common sense and brain matter together. You would think that He would know that if He doesn’t balance these things out, children will do some very strange things—and they do.

If you have followed this blog at all, you know that Casey is the delight of my life, but, you also should know that Casey drives me crazy. He has an abundance of grey matter but he is short, exceedingly short, when it comes to common sense. Maybe the angels ran out that day; maybe he was busy watching butterflies; maybe he couldn’t find the right line. Whatever it was, he has extraordinary brain power but just doesn’t corral it into thinking.

The prompt for this musing was the day he decided to write music. He has never had music lessons; although he and we are trying to find a way to fit them into his already crowded schedule. At school, traveling music teachers introduce the children to violins, drums, winds, brass, etc. Each type of instrument receives several dedicated weeks of instruction. Casey loves the days the music teacher arrives. He particularly liked the violin and drums.

These experiences have prompted him to sit at our piano and compose. He has positioned a notebook on the rack where he writes the notes as he listens to what he plays. I have been excited about this interest and what may be a natural ear for the beautiful. That would be wonderful.

So, I let him alone while he creates little tunes and, as I listen from other rooms, wonder if this is a new Mozart being born. Surely he would be nothing less.

Then came the day I noticed that he was sitting at the keys with a black, wide nibbed, indelible marker in hand. Knowing that he had not been writing in his notebook with this, I wandered over to see what was happening. This is what I saw:

Along with 6, 4 and 2, were numbers 1, 3, 5 and 7. I was transfixed!--Intelligently asking him “what are you doing?” Being very bright, he did pick up on the fact that gramma was somewhat upset. I can say though that I did remain relatively calm which is sort of my MO with larger things. It is small inconveniences and misbehaviors that tend to set me off. This was too far off the scale for anger. Although, I did have a sense that we were destined to have this little ditty forever implanted on the piano.

Fortunately friends came to the rescue. Palma from Palm Desert said to use toothpaste; Sheena from Canada said alcohol. Since these were not true ivory keys but whatever synthetic is used, I tried both of these remedies and they both worked well; however, the alcohol was much easier and faster. A few swipes and the keys were like new. Casey was relieved; I was relieved and he is back at the piano.

Of course, there are myriad other examples of this disconnect from common sense. Multi-tasking is an impossible endeavor. Figuring that if one sock is to go into the laundry, the other should too doesn’t compute. And I could go on but………I sense that this resonates with anyone with a nine-year-old. Maybe Casey is not so different. Maybe this is what’s called normal. Do you think?