There’s a commercial on TV for a credit card asking, “What’s in your wallet?”

There is also the age-old question about what women actually carry in their purses. I’m here to share what I carry in mine.

I have many purses…probably around twenty. Most of them are designer bags that I did not purchase. Generously my sons have purchased them for me. Most of them are small, several are medium-size, and there are two large tote-like bags.

When you buy or receive a designer bag, I find the one thing they are lacking is compartments for organizing. The one I am currently using, and have been using for a couple of years, was a gift from one of my sons and I know it cost more than my monthly house payment. And there isn’t one single, solitary pocket or compartment in it.

With that said, it’s like a carry-all bag for me. Occasionally I have stunned people when they mention something they wish they had or forgot at home. Like a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat, I pull that item out of my bag.

About fifteen years ago my youngest son purchased a used car. On the driver’s side visor, there was an elastic strap to hold papers or whatever, and the elastic was very stretched out and hanging down. I noticed it when he took me for a ride and mentioned it to him. He said if he had a paperclip, he could fix it. I reached into the coin section of my wallet and pulled out a large paperclip. He’s like…”You’ve got to be kidding.” Nope…here you go!

Another time Bill and I were out riding our motorcycles with some friends. Our friends received a phone call from their son who happened to be out riding motorcycles with his girlfriend. She had a mishap on the bike, had some road rash and scrapes. They weren’t too far from where we were, so we rode over there.

Jen was a little banged up. I got my purse and pulled out a zip-lock bag of Neosporin and bandaid’s. One, two, three…I had her all taken care of. Another round of odd looks from the peanut gallery.

Not too long ago I was at a craft fair in Florida. I was wandering around and stopped to look at something. The lady next to me was on her phone talking to someone about something she found but didn’t know if it was going to fit in the intended space. She told the person on the other end of the call that she wished she had a tape measure.

I tapped her on the shoulder and told her I had one. Dug to the bottom of my purse and pulled it out. She measured the item and it was perfect. She bought it and thanked me for having the tape measure. It’s just a small one that doesn’t measure more than six-feet and it’s got a tiny level on it also. It has come in handy more times than you know.

About two weeks ago, my son, granddaughter, Bill and I went to play Pickleball. Instead of just taking my paddle to the courts, I took my Pickleball bag.

Bill had recently purchased a new Pickleball paddle and the group that we play with during the week requires everyone to have their name on their paddle. While we were waiting for a court, I noticed Bill hadn’t put his name on the new paddle. I reached into my Pickleball bag and pulled out my label maker.

Now before everything thinks I’m totally off my rocker, the reason the label maker was in my bag was because several people that we play with during the week don’t have their names on their paddles nor do they have a label maker. I mentioned that I would bring mine along the next time we got together so I threw it in my bag so I wouldn’t forget it.

My granddaughter who is fifteen, stepped back, looked at me and said, “Don’t tell me you just pulled a label maker out of your bag…” Yes I did. She proceeds to ask me who the hell carries a label maker with them. I explained why I had it and she understood. I made a label for Bill’s new paddle, put the label maker away, and went to play Pickleball.

So there you have it folks…you now know the kind of ‘stuff’ I carry around. Oh, there’s more but we’ll save that for another time.

The only thing missing from my purse is money!

No, this is not about football or any other professional sport. This is about the seasonal differences between the two states.

I chose Wisconsin because I live here. I chose Florida because I am there every other month compliments of my oldest son who flies me down to spend time with my grandchildren.

I love our four seasons in Wisconsin although if I had to rate them in order of preference, without a doubt winter would be last.

For the last week or so, it’s felt like fall is in the air. Today was in the high 60’s, sunny, and breezy. A perfect day to hang wash on the line. Outside that is. I watch the weather on a daily basis from March through November to pick the right days for just that purpose…hanging wash.

It dawned on me while hanging wash today that they don’t do that in Florida. It’s either too hot, too humid, or raining. I don’t believe in all the time I’ve been going there that I have ever seen a wash line.

In rating our seasons from one through four, it’s difficult to choose which season I would rate as number one…spring or fall. Spring offers a new beginning after a long winter. The trees are leaving, the spring perennials are poking through the ground, and things are greening up. The air smells fresh, the windows can be opened, and on select days, I can hang wash. Florida goes through a ‘winter’ season, but they are never 100% without flowers and they’re not shoveling snow.

However, there is fall that offers so many wonderful things. Craft fairs, cool days and nights, aka sweatshirt weather, leaves turning with amazing shades of gold, red, yellow, and burgundy. Apple picking, pressing apple cider, pumpkins, cornstalks and Halloween. Not to mention the wonderful smell of burning leaves, campfires, hayrides, and preparing for the holidays. Florida has some craft fairs, and some trees do lose their leaves.

My DIL is a Miami born and raised girl. She thinks we’re crazy to live here simply because of winter. About seven or eight years ago my son and DIL came to Wisconsin in January for a family funeral. That girl was going to freeze her butt off. I purchased a matching gloves, hat, and scarf set, and had it sent to her in Miami so she could pack it and bring it along with her. Any layovers north of the Florida – Georgia line was going to test her thin blood. She wasn’t bowled over by a fire in the fireplace or hot cocoa once she got here. Not to mention warming up your car for ten minutes or so before going anywhere.

However, about three years ago, my son and DIL went to northern Michigan (not the UP) with friends in the middle of September. I knew it was going to be chilly and they were staying at a resort on a lake. I suggested that early one morning she bundle up and go out by the lake and just listen. Listen for loons. And she did. And she loved it. Some of the other ladies joined her around a fire pit with blankets and morning coffee. I do believe she was beginning to see the light. She was as giddy as a schoolgirl telling me about all the farms she saw, the apple orchards, and farmers markets. Ahhh…the things we take for granted until they are seen through another’s eyes.

As sweatshirt season approaches, it’s soup making – baking – slow cooker season, and holiday planning in my mind. And while I’m hanging those last loads of laundry for the year, I’m loving the chill in the air, the turning leaves, and the leaves that are falling. Florida doesn’t have this and wouldn’t understand this.

And yet by droves of thousands, folks are moving to Florida every month. Not all for the same reason but I recently heard that an average of 20,000 people move to Florida every month.

I am NOT bashing Florida. After thinking about what we experience here with our four seasons, I feel Floridians are missing something. But you can’t miss what you don’t know. Since I am there every other month, I’ve gotten a good taste of life there, outdoor activities can be year-round, playgrounds are everywhere, and a healthier lifestyle exists in Florida.

After writing this, I’m all psyched up for fall. We had early fall weather this entire past week. I just checked the upcoming weather for the next week. It’s going to be in the eighties.

I wrote my last post the day after not winning as many ribbons at the State Fair that I felt I should have. Going into this, there’s no guarantee of any ribbons.

You don’t know which judge is going to judge which items, are they in a good mood, do they really feel like taste-testing at least 100 items that day, and are the sun, moon and stars aligned? It’s a crap shoot.

After I got over my pity party that Thursday morning, I decided to calm down, turn on my favorite music (classic country), and do the best I can. I had to change my mental approach to baking those last seven items.

It was a gorgeous day outside, all the windows were open, and the most amazing breeze was blowing through the house. Nothing could have made a baking day more perfect.

The next two days were spent actually enjoying myself and putting it on the back burner that this baking marathon was for State Fair. Not once did I mentally comment on the outcome of any of the baked items. I was having fun.

Saturday morning, Day 2 judging, I’m out the door at 5am. Yes, 5am. I have been doing this ritual for well over twenty years. The fairgrounds are five minutes from my house. I go through the gate along with all the hundreds of deliveries that are being made around the clock one week before the start of the fair.

Food and beverage trucks, porta-potties, rides being erected, windows of brick-and-mortar buildings being washed, millions of flowers being watered, and so much more. I find my parking space in the dark, right outside the doors of Championship Hall. I park, turn on the radio, and watch all of the activity around me. It’s also a time to think back on the previous two days of baking, mentally checking that I brought everything I was supposed to, and checking my purse for my paperwork and recipes. There is at least one hour of time to myself before the next entrant arrives…it’s my friend Jan. She’s been doing the Culinary Challenge for over 40 years.

At 8am (used to be 730am but nobody told us of the time change) the doors open and it’s time to register our items. After that’s all done, several of us take a short ride to a Greek restaurant across the street from the fairgrounds to have breakfast and talk about what we baked, what worked, what didn’t work, as well as catching up on each other’s lives in the last year. See…we’re State Fair friends and only see each other once a year.

After breakfast we head back and find more State Fair friends and catch up with them as well as watch all the other entries get registered. We get up, walk around, comment to others on how beautiful their cakes, cookies, and pies are. We’re killing time until 1pm when the judging starts.

There are six judges and one of those six is only for the canning division. The other five take care of the numerous other categories.

The first five items are presented to the judges and one of them is a cake I baked. Gosh, I can’t remember one of my items ever being judged in the first round. However, I’m in good company as there are about eight or ten cakes in this category. The category is Lemon Hibiscus Cake.

There are four ribbons give in each category: first place, second place, third place, and fourth place.

Still not allowing myself to be on pins and needles, I didn’t watch my cake category being judged. I was watching other items being judged. Breathe…breathe…breathe.

Finally, they are announcing the top four cakes and I won first place…a blue ribbon. OMG, I can’t believe it. If I didn’t win anything else that day, I was happy.

Fast forward about five hours. The judging is done but now it’s time for the judges to choose the winners of Judge’s Choice Award and Best of Division Award. In the past several years I’ve won two Judge’s Choice Awards, but in almost thirty years, I’ve never won Best of Division.

To explain Best of Division, say there are ten different categories for cakes. Each one of those categories has a first place, blue ribbon winner. At the end of the day, it is decided by all the judges, which cake of those ten cakes is the Best of Division. Watching all the judges tasting all the cakes, going back and forth, and conversing with each other, the decision was made.

For the very first time in all these years, my Lemon Hibiscus Cake with Lemon Buttercream Frosting won the coveted prize of Best of Division. I could hardly breathe.

The judges congratulated me, pictures were taken, a beautiful ribbon was handed to me, and all the thoughts of the first day of judging simply vanished.

This time I drove home crying tears of joy…instead of disappointment, as I had done three days earlier. I won a total of five ribbons on Day 2 and ended the 2024 Culinary Challenge very happy.

For the last several years I’ve seen a man in my neighborhood that is homeless. The first time I saw him about three years ago, he was sitting on a bench outside of the grocery store about three blocks from my house. At that time I assumed he was homeless because he was surrounded by about a half-dozen plastic bags…and they weren’t the grocery store bags. He didn’t look dirty or disheveled. His hair and beard were well groomed. His clothes looked clean and decent. He was ruggedly handsome.

At the time I didn’t think too much about it simply because he was so well groomed and clean. I assumed he had a clean, safe place to go every night.

Then I saw him sitting on the bench almost every time I went to the grocery store. Nothing changed about him or his belongings. I was strangely curious because I’ve heard that most homeless people have a level of mental illness, but I still could not comprehend carrying all of my belongings with me and walking the streets.

After quite some time of seeing him, all of a sudden I didn’t, but was still curious about him, and hoped he found a place to live. I wondered where he went when it was raining, snowing, or bitterly cold.

Spring came and as the weather warmed up, he reappeared. He wasn’t hanging out on the bench at the grocery store anymore. I saw him, with his growing collection of bags, sleeping under trees. First on one side of the street, then the other side of the street, and then several blocks away leaning against a wall at the gas station. This went on for about three or four years.

He reappeared about two months ago when the weather warmed up once again. His collection of bags was growing and growing. I often mentioned to my husband that we should get him a wagon to make it easier to move all those bags.

See, what he does is take two bags in each hand, walks about twenty or thirty feet down the sidewalk, and puts them down. He returns to his previous ‘residence’, picks up four more bags and walks them to where he put the first set of bags. He continues this practice until all the bags are moved. Then he starts the process all over again and again until he reaches his new destination.

I’ve never seen anyone approach him and was a little apprehensive myself. I’m a member of an online neighborhood group so I decided to post something about him to see if anyone had more insight. I received many responses. Several knew his name was Jeff. Some people said he was very mean as they had approached him with food and offers of a wagon for his belongings…always turning down both.

I told my son about him and he said that one day as he was driving to my house, he noticed ‘Jeff’ walking with a bunch of bags and assumed they were groceries. He pulled over and offered him a ride. Jeff told him to go f**k himself.

So it’s pretty obvious that ‘Jeff’ wants to be left alone, carry all of his belongings without assistance, and wants to sleep under trees. He’s not hurting anyone but it’s nice to know that many people are watching out after him.

About ten years ago there was another homeless man standing day in and day out at the end of an exit ramp from the Interstate. He held a cardboard sign saying he was homeless and wanted money for food. I never saw anyone give him anything, but I don’t hang out at the exit ramp of the Interstate.

About a year later there was an article about him in the newspaper. So many people had seen him and were curious enough to contact the newspaper. They sent out a reporter to interview the guy and he was nice enough to answer the reporters’ questions.

He admitted that asking for handouts was easier than keeping a job and that he did quite well at it. Florida was his winter home and he couch-surfed all the way there in fall and headed back this way in spring. I don’t recall everything the article said about him, but he seemed content doing just what he was doing.

As we’ve heard, it takes a village to raise a child. In these types of cases, that same village could help the ‘Jeffs’ of this world with food, clothing, and a wagon…if they wanted the help.

(In Rod Serling’s voice) Imagine if you will, 6am, still dark outside, the house is quiet, and you’re looking for something non-electronic to amuse you.

It’s not your house and the only magazines you can find are a National Geographic and Esquire. I knew Esquire was going to be loaded with ads for things I could never afford but since I’ve never cracked the cover of an issue, now was as good a time as any.

And I was right. I had to turn 16 pages before getting to this issues Table of Contents.

A couple pages later an article caught my attention. Written by a gentleman who had apparently been in regular therapy for over twenty years, how it helped him talking to someone he could trust, and what happened in his life that lead him to therapy.

Naturally, as I can imagine in ninety-nine percent of therapy patients, it is your family, or a member thereof, that led you to this point in your life.

What the hell…I decided to read it since there was nothing else for me to do at this hour of the morning without making noise.

Although the writers childhood issues were different than mine, his feelings about them were the same.

As I continued to read his story, how he felt about situations, or better yet how different instances made him feel, I saw parallels in our lives. I almost felt vindicated because I finally have a found someone who shared my feelings.

As he shared different situations in his life, how he was affected, and how his long-time therapist helped him through these bumps in the road, I couldn’t get over our connection.

Have you ever shared something that was troubling you with someone only to have them reply, “You shouldn’t feel that way?” No, you shouldn’t feel that way, you don’t want to feel that way, but yet here we are…and that’s how I feel.

I was in weekly therapy over thirty years ago. For several weeks I focused on one issue and one day the therapist asked me what it would take to resolve this situation. I told her I wanted an apology from an individual. She asked if there was a chance I would that that apology. No. Very nicely she said, “Then let it go.”

Those four little words instantly lifted a heavy weight. I felt light and free. I wonder if someone else would have said those same words would have had the same impact. I don’t know.

Since that time I’ve tried avoiding telling someone what they should and shouldn’t feel but instead, through a short Q&A session, find out why they feel that way. A better understanding of where they’re coming from instead of telling them how they should feel.

That’s what a friend does…

In an earlier post I talked about moving my mom from independent living to assisted living. I also mentioned that she was one step short of a hoarder.

Two dumpsters and about thirty-five 55-gallon garbage bags later, what didn’t go with my mom to her new teeny-tiny assisted living apartment, came to my clean, clutter-free house.

I made a pact with myself that whatever boxes I brought back to my house, each item was going to be cleaned before I went back for more. I did this for about 14 days in a row. That meant her collection of throw pillows, sweaters, jackets, afghans, etc., were washed. Each knick-knack, and believe me there were hundreds, kitchen items, cookware and God only knows what else, were all washed in warm soap and water.

As everything was cleaned it went into my basement for sorting and pricing. That took another couple of weeks. I set the garage sales dates for April 26th & 27th, 8am to 3pm. My sister from Michigan was coming to help.

I made arrangements to borrow 5 tables. Each was covered with a nice tablecloth. I think I was hoping that the better everything looked, the more people would buy. Since it’s been about 20 years since I’ve had a garage sale, I didn’t know if anything had changed.

Social media seems to be the way to advertise so I picked three or four different sites and advertised as well as on Nextdoor and Facebook. I created a cute little ad and repeated it on each site about every other day.

Garage Sale signs were ordered from Amazon and strategically placed within blocks of my home. Everything was set up the day before so that we could have a relaxing morning the first day of the sale. Not knowing what to expect, I wasn’t sure if I should have arranged for crowd control. Someone told me that sometimes people show up the night before to get the best stuff or they show up one or two hours before the advertised start time for the same reason.

By 8:30am all I heard was crickets. My sister said where she lives, the crowds start shining around about 9am. Sure as all hell, 9am rolled around and people started arriving.

Very few people bickered on price over the course of two days. Several made comments on how clean and organized everything was. That made me feel that all that work was worth it. I don’t care for small talk but thank God my sister does. Several people just wanted to chit-chat and she obliged all of them. Our husbands graciously helped people who purchased multiple items get everything safely to their cars.

About fifty percent of my mother’s treasures sold and the rest we boxed up as soon as the sale was over and took them to St Vincent de Paul. Two full SUV’s of ‘stuff’. After we got home, we had a nice dinner, were in bed by 8pm, and my sister left the next morning. After stripping beds and doing laundry I spent the afternoon sleeping on the couch.

As God is my witness I will never, ever do this again. The reward isn’t worth the work.

All of us save or collect things. I personally am attracted to anything kitchen related…serving dishes/platters, I have a large collection of scrapers from Pampered Chef, utensils, tablecloths with matching napkins, etc. My sister loves hair-related products and gnomes. My husband collects remote controls, and my brother-in-law collects tools. I’ll stop right here so I don’t throw my entire family under the bus.

I used to collect spoons, salt and pepper shakers, decorative plates, along with teacups and saucers. The only kick in the pants I needed to get rid of those collections was cleaning them several times a year since they were displayed for others to see.

In the last several years I have adopted a minimalist lifestyle. Every six months I go through my closets, drawers, and basement. If I haven’t used something in six months, I sell or donate it.

What really got me thinking about cleaning out my house of things I don’t need or use, or something that others would find questionable if I fell off the face of the earth, was my stepmother’s passing in 1997.

I traveled to my dad’s house to help him go through her belongings and decide what was going into his annual garage sale, what should be tossed, and what was to be donated.

There was a section in the basement of her crafts that was curtained off. I found some unusual things behind those curtains that made me come home and start purging my house of anything that might be questionable.

Fast forward twenty-seven years. A very quick decision was made to put my mom into an assisted living facility. Prior to that, she lived in independent senior living. On the same property is the assisted living facility so it was an easy move to a smaller apartment right across the street…and there was an opening.

Since my sister lives out of state but would come home for the move and to clean up the apartment afterwards, I started packing things. This wasn’t going to be difficult because it was a 2-bedroom apartment and I had just shy of three weeks to get this done.

I was in for a rude awakening. I started by collecting boxes and going by mom every day for one or two hours. Each day I’d pack four to six boxes, bring them home, and wash or clean everything. Each box was the size of a paper box or larger. There is a pile in my basement for rummage sale items, donation items, and items that my mom would still need to use in her new home.

Starting with the kitchen, I did just the upper cupboards and that took fourteen boxes. Also, two 55-gallon trash bags that were half to three quarters full of garbage. By the time I was done with the kitchen, it exceeded twenty boxes and at least three or four more garbage bags. In order to stay on top of this, I needed to clean out each box each day, wash or clean each item, and take the empty boxes back the next day.

I did this for a little over two weeks before my sister arrived to help me. My mom saved everything…and hid it all very well. She had every report card from her school years (she’s almost 94), holy cards from funerals with the obituary stapled to them going back over sixty years, pens, pencils, plastic bags, gift bags, cottage cheese and yogurt containers, bottles and jars, hundreds of photos of people my sister and I didn’t recognize, dozens of rosaries and prayer books, clothes that she hasn’t worn in thirty years, all investment and bank statements, electric company statements, every greeting card she ever received in her life…and the list is endless. I don’t recall ever working this hard every day for three weeks until the move was over, the old apartment was cleaned out, and was scrubbed end to end.

Every part of my body ached. Sometimes I cried because I didn’t understand why she saved so many things. I checked in with my sister on a daily basis before she arrived and told her that she will not believe this. She didn’t believe it…until she saw it. She hid her feelings and anger a lot better than I did.

It’s over. Two dumpster rentals later, at least thirty fifty-five gallon garbage bags, tons of recycling, an expensive lesson with the Got Junk company, numerous cuts and bruises, and many sayings of the Serenity Prayer. We finished yesterday, my sister went home this morning, and at this moment it’s literally ten hours since I’ve gotten off my couch. I’m exhausted and took a very long nap today.

I’m taking some time off from everything for about ten days and then I will start going through the hundreds and hundreds of items in my basement to prepare for a rummage sale in a couple of months. I will also continue going through my closets and drawers to rid my house of non-used items. I don’t want to put my children through what I have just been through for the last three weeks.

And you shouldn’t either. Just think about it.

As I am writing this, it’s six months until my 67th birthday. So, if we go back to when I was about five or six years old, I started thinking about trash…not really trash but recycling.

A new program in our community (which was a small farming community in southeastern Wisconsin) adopted a trial trash receptacle. It was a green metal stand about 4-feet tall. A clear green garbage bag fit into it. At this time in my life, I don’t know the purpose behind it other than it was supposed to replace our round metal trash cans. I can’t remember how long we used it or why it simply disappeared one day, but I think that was the start of me becoming a mini tree-hugger!

Fast forward all these years and as far as I know I’m the only person in my circle of family and friends that recycles the way I do. First, any bottle, can, or jar gets rinsed and then washed in hot soapy water with the other dishes. This also removes the labels. Cardboard boxes get broken down after I remove any of my shipping information. I also recycle the little square plastic containers that my annuals or perennials come in. 

The long and short of it is that I actually take that extra second or two before throwing something away to determine if it’s recyclable.

When you come home from the grocery store, most likely you have the plastic produce bags that hold your apples, oranges, and assorted veggies. I haven’t used those in years because I purchased washable, reusable produce bags to reduce the amount of plastic bags that come into my house. For over twenty years now I’ve used washable canvas grocery bags to avoid all the plastic bags from the grocery store. If any plastic bags do come in my house, they go in a large plastic bag, that when full, is recycled at the local grocery store.

Zip Lock bags. Great invention. Handy. Convenient. Billions are in the landfills every year. When I was a kid, and some of you may remember this, your mom and / or grandma washed bread bags and other plastic bags and reused them. I don’t go that far but I do recycle all of those types of plastic bags…and I purchased silicone zip lock bags, wash them, and reuse them.

All of this sounds good in theory except that most friends and family that I know do not do any of this. Plastic bags go in with the regular trash. Bottles, cans, and boxes go in the regular trash. When I see this while at someone’s house, it bothers me, but I can’t tell other people what to do with their recyclables. I did once and the friends invited me to come to their house once a week, sort through their trash, and separate everything. I declined.

One friend went to far as to ask me if I know what happens to all of my recycled items once the garbage / recycling truck hauls them away. I don’t. I assumed that the truck carrying the recycled items drives to the recycling center, drops them off, and then some process is followed to clean and process these items for reuse. 

In the last several years I’ve had a couple of family members point out to me, as well as show me online articles related to recycling, that only 8% of cardboard, tin, plastic, glass, etc., is actually recycled. EIGHT LOUSY PERCENT!

I’m dumbfounded. First, when you’re me and doing all this label removing, washing, and preparing items for recycling…and nobody else that I know is…I’m spinning my wheels. I’m not doing this because I’m some big Save The Earth heroine. I’m doing it because I was asked to by our community. But…if others aren’t following this to the letter of the law, why should I?

To me this is no different than yielding to the car on your right…or going 55mph if that’s the speed limit…or paying your taxes…or obeying any other God or man-made law in our society. Simply…why wouldn’t you?

All of this has become second nature to me for more than half of my life and I just do it without thinking…but why should I? I’m seriously considering not doing this anymore. The population of the United States is approximately 340 million. If…IF less than one-fourth (for arguments sake) is recycling like I do, the landfills are still filling up and will continue to do so until this is taken seriously. There are more people, more products, more ‘throw-away and buy new’ attitudes than ever before. One person is not going to make a difference. It takes a village.

Ok…I’m off my soapbox. 

Olga is from Columbia, South America. I am from Wisconsin. She speaks very little English. I do not speak Spanish at all. Well…ok…I know one phrase. “uno cerveza por favor” (more beer please). I only learned that from numerous vacations to Mexico.

Olga lives in Miami and I’m in Wisconsin.

So what is our common bond? My grandchildren…JP (boy, age 2) & GK (girl, age 1). She is their Nanny and she is absolutely wonderful.

I have always prided myself as a multi-tasker, very organized, great cook / baker, excellent housekeeper, and always on top of my game. That is until I met Olga. She could run circles around me.

Olga plays with them as I would. Kiss’s and hugs them as I would. Makes sure they’re well fed with fruits, veggies, and proteins…as I would. And she loves them…as I do. She speaks softly to them either in Spanish or using the little bit of English she knows. JP cannot pronounce ‘Olga’ so he calls her ‘Olda’.

I have had the pleasure of ‘tag-teaming’ with Olga twice in the last two months and will be ‘tag-teaming’ with her again in about two weeks. I call it ‘tag-teaming’ because without a lot of communication, we get the job done for my son and his wife. She handles GK and I take care of JP. My son and his wife are both executives at their respective company’s, therefore, a good share of maintaining order in the house and caring for the children, falls to Olga…and then to both of us when I’m there to help out. I help out when my DIL travels for business and is gone for three or four days at a time. Since Olga leaves at 5pm, I’m there to make supper, play cribbage with my son, give the kids their baths, and get them down for the night…just as my DIL would do if she were there.

Through our very obvious language barrier, we have a found a way to communicate. She looks up words on her phone in Spanish and translates to English and occasionally I will do the same or I will motion for her to follow me to show her something. Last week while we were tag-teaming, I knew one of the little projects I wanted to accomplish was to reorganize the linen closet. While explaining to Olga a project I was going to tackle in the garage, she said the word ‘towels’…and I knew she meant linen closet. We were both on the same wave length and started laughing. While I was working on the linen closet, she was tackling the kids closet that was overflowing with lots of clothes and shoes thanks to wonderful grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends.

Olga arrives each morning at 8am. During the day she is nothing short of a calm tornado, if that makes sense. She moves through the house like a Ninja. Olga is a quiet, middle-aged woman who does not have any children of her own but has been a Nanny for many years. The first thing she does when she arrives each morning is to greet the kids with hugs and kisses, and then her day starts. Daily she empties all the waste baskets in the house, makes the beds, starts the daily laundry, empties the dishwasher, and in between attends to whatever the kids need. JP attends a morning pre-school program so it’s just Olga and GK. When the kids are not sleeping or eating, she is always, always on the floor playing with them.

When I make the daily run to the grocery store, Olga has a sixth-sense when I’m returning because she’s always coming out the front door when I arrive to help carry in the groceries. This woman just amazes me. (Maybe she’s got a GPS tracker on the car??? LOL)

There is a car seat for each child in her car so she occasionally takes them to the park. Sometimes she has to pick up JP at school and needs to take GK along. Once it’s lunch time, she makes a wonderful lunch of leftovers or she whips up something she knows each child likes…and makes sure they have fruit at each meal.

Once the kids are down for their afternoon naps, I tell Olga to grab a coffee (espresso) and we both sit on couch, try to have a conversation with our phones nearby for assistance, and just relax from the hectic morning. I do not know how many years she’s been here or anything about her life in Columbia. I know she is married to a man from Peru whom I have met. He is very cordial and friendly.

I am so happy that my grandchildren have such a wonderful Nanny in their lives. There is peace of mind from many miles away that the kids are well cared for and loved all thanks to Olga.

As a kid I remember adults telling me that the older I got, the faster the days, months and years will fly by. It’s true.

Today is September 1, 2021 and many kids are going back to school. That includes my twelve year-old granddaughter. I refer to her as Miss V. Her mother texted me a picture of her standing on the fireplace hearth at home and holding a sign that said ‘First Day of 7th Grade.’

That simply cannot be. It was yesterday that I received a frantic call from my son that the ‘normal delivery’ was now going to be an emergency C-section. I left work and raced to the hospital. Everybody was fine. My son was exhausted from being up all night. I sent him off to get some sleep. Mom was sleeping from being up all night and the C-section. That left me and Miss V…who was also sleeping.

A nurse came in and said I was welcome to stay so I sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. The nurse handed me my granddaughter and a doll-sized bottle of formula. I held her for about 8 hours with intermittent feedings and diaper changes. The hospital room was almost dark except for the TV that was quietly on.

So now fast forward to a 7th grader, aged twelve…but going on 30. She says words that I have never heard of so I Google them. Miss V is strong-willed, knows what she does and does not like, and although her parents as well as myself are outgoing, gregarious people, she has a shy side.

This past May I was proud to perform the wedding ceremony for my oldest granddaughter, Savannah. She is 21. Again, it is simply not possible that she is 21.

Since I always wanted to be the type of grandma that I didn’t have, I made sure I was involved in her life as much as I could considering she lived 5+ hours away. I surprised her at a school event one time, and I showed up for her prom so I could personally see her in the beautiful gown she chose. She entered the Wisconsin State Fair Culinary Challenge with me for several years and won ribbons each time. For her high school graduation I told her to pick anywhere in the world she wanted to go. She chose Italy because at the time she was learning about Pompeii and Mount Vesuvius. Off we went on the adventure of a lifetime…and it was her first time on an airplane.

I doubt that her date for prom (whom I will refer to as Mr Sunshine) was as excited to see me as she was. Savannah’s parents and myself followed Savannah and her date to the high school for the dance. He got out of his truck and started to walk towards the school entrance WITHOUT opening Savannah’s door and escorting her into the school.

Since I’m old and believe in manners and courtesy, I made Savannah and her parents stop just short of the school doors and wait. Wait for what? Her date walked into the high school without once glancing back to see where she was. I don’t think so bucko!

We stood there for maybe 2 minutes and he finally came outside to see where we all were. He walked towards us and I told him that he should have escorted her into the school and held the door for her. By this time, other prom attendees and their families were gathering around. I told Mr Sunshine to hold the door for our group and while he was standing there, he can hold the door for all the other folks that were standing there also.

I’m sure Savannah wanted to crawl in a hole but I know that her folks were on my side. I was wondering what pack of wolves raised him with out manners.

With that said, I may be getting old but there’s always a lesson to teach younger people. I’m glad I have the respect, manners, courtesy and common sense that the kids today don’t have. That’s ok…I’ll share mine with them just like I did with Mr Sunshine.