Shane

I’m in Prince Georges County Maryland, on the outskirts of D.C., visiting my nephew Liam (Shayne’s youngest), his lovely wife Dawnea, and the newest addition to the clan, Shane Logan Ball, three weeks old. He is Shayne’s fourth grandchild, my Mom and Dad’s sixth great grandchild, and a lovely baby, perfect in every way.

I drove down on Tuesday, a seven hour drive with stops, but easy driving all the way, with traffic only in the last half hour or so. I drove through fog for the first hour, but in Pennsylvania the fog lifted and I had beautiful views of the countryside. Driving south is driving further into spring. In Hartwick, it was still mostly red leaf casings on the trees, but as I drove south the leaf casings were mixed with new leaves, making for a landscape of mixed, muted colors that an impressionist painter would love. By the time I reached Maryland, it was green everywhere. I had crossed into Pennsylvania south and a little east of Binghamton and from there to Scranton, Pennsylvania is still sylvan – beautiful rolling hills, forest everywhere. From Scranton south, it’s mostly cities and towns, but still a fair amount of open country until the suburban periphery around D.C.. It was a beautiful, easy drive – just long. And it reminded me how deeply grateful I am to Jay for all the driving he does for us. He stayed home with Charlie and Hazel-tov, the sensible choice, but I miss him.

I found here a couple transformed into a family. By the time I arrived they were pretty well into the groove of being new parents, but still, an extra pair of hands is always welcome. I spent a lot of yesterday holding Shane, face to face with the miracle of a new life, eyes that don’t yet track, limbs that have yet to be mastered. Dawnea’s mom, who lives nearby, stopped in for a visit with her first grandson. She’s only three years older than me, but her frailty reminded me of how unfair the genetic lottery can be. She’s thrilled with her grandson, of course, but with failing memory and needing a cane for support, her ability to help is limited. But Liam and Dawnea have a village. Keely, Liam’s oldest sister has already been here for several days, overlapping for some of it with a childhood friend of Dawnea’s. After me, Aviva will come, and then Liam’s sister Zahava. Liam goes back to work Monday, and of course that will be a big adjustment. But he’s managed better than three weeks at home, much more than most Dad’s get (or take) in a country that preaches family values but fails to support the most basic value – presence. Dawnea has stockpiled six months of leave with the same kind of resolve and discipline she demonstrated in saving for the house they live in which she bought on her own at thirty. She’s the ant to Liam’s grasshopper – a good combination.

The moves come back so easily, picking up an infant, getting a burp out of him, soothing him back to sleep. He’s a beautiful baby, and deceptively easy right now. Liam and Dawnea are already talking about a sibling for him, and I won’t tell them that they’re not all this easy. Each birth in this latest generation reminds me of my place between my dad, born 100 years ago this June, and this newest person, who will likely live well into the next century. A family is a calendar of sorts, reaching backwards and forwards in time, marking the years with births and deaths. From my grandmother Goldie, who traveled from Poland to America by ship, I know five generations. The world we live in has changed, for better and for worse, but the basics have changed very little. There are still babies to be fed and held and changed, still family to miss who didn’t get to see the most recent miracle.

And now he’s had a big, miraculous, noisy poop.