What’s a Hippee, Grandma?” is a question, I suspect, that one  (if not all) of my three grandsons might ask someday, perhaps when the Sixties come up in history class.  Being a hippie grandma myself–late of the generation that didn’t trust anyone over thirty–I prefer not to be called “Grandma,” though.   So they will have to ask, “What’s a hippie, Minna?” if they want to get my attention.

Like Davidson, I wouldn’t have dreamed of actually moving to a commune in those days–I wasn’t that kind of hippee.  But when I was an editor at Random House in the late sixties, I remember stringing “love beads” in my office.  I used guitar-strap material to lengthen my sons pants (he’s finally forgiven me!).  And I was all about altered consciousness.  Once the boys learn about the Seventies,  maybe they will also ask whether I went to Studio 54.  (I did.)  Hopefully, it will be a long time before they ask about that picture on my desk of me in all black leather and dog collar–attached to a leash, no less.   I’ll try to explain that their grandmother, once a hippie, segued to disco queen and then to ace reporter, covering S & M for New York magazine in 1994.

In contrast, “What’s a Hippie Grandma?”  (without the comma) is the question Sara Davidson ponders as her daughter gets closer to the altar and Sara inches toward grandmotherhood.  What, she wonders, qualifies her to become the “hippie grandmother” her daughter claims she will be?   My answer would be:  drugs, sex, and rock and roll–adjectives not formerly (normally?) associated with grandmothers.  But there’s a lot of us out there who fit the bill (Davidson offers other “credentials” in her piece).   “I’m in touch with my inner Mick Jagger,” one such grandma confided.

Not surprisingly, I also think hippie grandmothers have a lot to offer their grandchildren: an expansive, imaginative view about life and, as long as they’re out of earshot of their adult children, some damn good stories.

One of the (few) “gifts” of aging,  contemporary grandmothers know, is that it’s easier to sort out what’s really important.  No big deal about being a hippie grandma — or a hippy one, for that matter.   Nora Ephron said it best when a television reporter asked her to sum up what she learned from writing, I Feel Bad About My Neck, her musings about getting older.  Looking right into the camera, she said, “Eat more bread.”

Each StoryCorps interview is recorded on a free CD for participants to take home and share with their loved one and archived for generations to come at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.

StoryCorps currently has one of the country’s largest oral history archives—with more than 30,000 interviews recorded in all 50 states. Please let me know if you have any questions about StoryCorps or today’s broadcast. I hope you’ll take the time to listen to our stories and to share them with your readers and families, especially your grandmothers!!!

Enjoy!

It went well.  It was a lot of things: a trip down memory lane, a chance to re-view our housemates–and to see them with fresh eyes.  It also forced us to remember–and cringe at–the not-so-nice byproduct of being in a close-knit, almost inbred community.  Legend had it that during rush-week, we made a grand gesture of folding the coats in, so as not to see the label.  It was untrue (I think), but no matter what others thought of us, we knew we were “the Iotas.”

Some have “joined” the page; others aren’t into social networking.  No matter, reconnection can happen on Facebook or in emails.  We go back and forth, sharing the Roman numerals of our lives: partnership status, children/grandchildren, careers.  It’s like time-lapse photography.

So what is it that’s so compelling about reunions–and reconnecting after so many years?  Ironically, I’m  coming up on my 50th high school reunion, and have been involved in a similar process with those classmates.  The woman–and former co-valedictorian–who’s organizing that event asked us to answer a few key questions for the reunion booklet, including your best and worst memories of high school.  (My worst was being spat on and called a “dirty Jew.”) I read the various blurbs, and then turn to my Class of ‘61 yearbook, juxtaposing this new information with each person’s 17- or 18-year-old self.  I read an inscription scribbled over his or her face and get glimpses of who that person was to me. It’s oddly satisfying.

The fact is, these people knew me when: when I went to sock hops and wore circle pins; when I acted in the senior play, when we ate French fries and cokes after school at my father’s diner.

And my sorority sisters know an even more significant “when.”  They knew the old boy friends, the ones I didn’t marry, the one I did.  They remember my favorite songs.  They remember spring formals.  One old friend still talks about the time she ate dinner with my parents and promptly splattered grease on my mother’s white collar.  It’s not just that our lives were intertwined or that they were privy to the details of my life.  It’s also that we can now piece together our young lives, the group experience, and see how we’ve been affected by it.   I sense that they know things about me I don’t even know.

Most of my high school friends and sorority sisters are now grandmothers, and we wonder how we got here. As one of my new-found sorors marveled, “Just yesterday we were putting on our dinner dresses and hoping not to sit with [our “housemother”] Aunt Edna.”

And what does this do for–or have to do with–our daughters?  For one thing, they see how important it is to acknowledge and keep up with one’s past.  Mine already gets this;  she has an annual girls’ weekend with her college chums, and is in contact with many characters from high school as well.  Thanks to the Internet, she doesn’t ever have to lose touch.

But there’s another important message here for our daughters: Despite the obviously  different frames of reference, we’re really not that different, are we?  I suspect my daughter and many of  her peers could relate to this statement, posted recently by one of my sorority sisters:

I loved the women! I loved being part of something, that quite frankly, I still think of as so very special. It was, and continues to be a memory of which I am so very fond.

And someday–just as we’re now doing–our daughter will be asking themselves. “How did we get to be grandmothers?”

Miami, 2011

With summer around the corner, the prospect of inter-generational house-sharing increases. So journalism professor Mary Quigly, founder of Mothering21–a site about “raising” older children (read adult children)–asked readers to share their experiences. Mary, who is not yet a grandma, recalls visiting her own mother’s pristine condo in Florida, usually without incident–except for the time one of her children spilled a cherry Slurpee on Mother’s precious pale blue carpet:

My husband and I  got most of it out after scrubbing with numerous chemicals.  Before leaving to go home, we  cleaned the apartment so spotlessly that on her next visit my mother never noticed the slight discoloration on the rug. I saw it though every time I opened the front door!

Now the shoe is on the other foot and we Boomers are the ones protecting our homes from sticky fingers and Slurpees.  Here’s the piece (in the interest of full disclosure, she quotes me in it!), which has familiar themes and good advice for daughters.   (The rest of the site is well worth a read, too.)

Now how about some responses from daughters who host their mothers about what it takes to be a good older-generation house guest? (Jen? Anyone?)   Ironically, after writing the above post, I remembered that I had, in fact, written such an article for the New York Times in 1979–Jen was 10 and Jeremy 7: “When Children Are House Guest for a Weekend.”  The advice holds up!

“…giving birth to or raising another precious human being changes you as nothing else can.”

In her beautiful Mother’s Day offering,  What Becoming a Mother Can Mean to a Woman, published on Fox News online magazine, psychologist Phyllis Chesler, a distinguished professor of women’s studies and author of thirteen books, recalls the changes in her own life:

Female motherhood is both a sacred undertaking and a sacred experience.  Becoming a mother—giving birth to or raising another precious human being—changes you as nothing else can. You are pitched, head-long and feet-first into a parallel universe, a new way of life, a craft, a passion which tempers and deepens all those who engage in it.

For example, before I became a mother, my ego knew no bounds. I thought I could overcome all obstacles through force of will, not by bending to circumstance, or trusting in forces larger than myself. Becoming a newborn mother changed my life. It humbled me, slowed me down, made me kinder, and infinitely more vulnerable to cruelty.

Mothering a child is an incomparable rite of passage.

So, now that the pancakes have been served in bed, the car washed for you, the garage cleaned out (with your help of course), and it’s back to everyday motherhood, ask yourself, how has motherhood changed you?  Please state your age, so we can see if there’s a difference in the generations.  Of course, we older mothers-turned-grandmas have to dig deeper into our psyches to remember what it was like before children!

When my book, Don’t Blame Mother, first appeared, a journalist from one of the major women’s magazines called me. For their Mother’s Day issue, they wanted to report “The Best Advice My Mother Ever Gave Me” as told by numerous interviewees. They knew I had just written this book. I replied, “When you said that, a response immediately popped into my head, but could you do me a favor? Before I tell you what it is, I’m just curious to see what my mother would say. Could you please call me back in five minutes?” She agreed.

I called Mother - Tac Karchmer Caplan – and told her what the journalist wanted to know. Her immediate answer: “Don’t wait till you’re old to say what you think.”

“Perfect!” I said. “That’s exactly what came to my mind!” When the journalist called back, I told her what had just happened. I heard her sigh.

She was disappointed. “That’s not really what we were looking for,” she said. “We were looking for things like how to keep mascara from running.” Mother, I like your advice the best! Thank you. And Happy Mother’s Day. (Mother is now 87 and still saying what she thinks.)

Three Generations of Mothers

Happy Mother’s Day to Paula and Tac, to our daughters Emily Caplan Stephenson and Jen, and to mothers and daughters everywhere who are–we hope–doing their best to say what they think!

My Daughter, the Mountain Climber

I am in Paris (where Fetes de Meres is not until June 7).  This coming Sunday, May 7,  is the first American Mother’s Day (if memory serves me,which it often doesn’t!) that I haven’t been with at least one of my two children.  I suppose I’m fortunate to have had so many other Mother’s Days with them  Or maybe I should consider myself lucky this year.  We all know that it’s just a Hallmark holiday.  And isn’t every day supposed to be Mother’s Day?  Yeah, right.

Cynicism aside, this can be a hard day for mothers and daughters.  Those of us whose mothers have died feel the loss even more acutely.  And some women can’t stand being with their mothers, not even for one day.  But even close mother/daughter duos have “moments.” Who needs the pressure to have a “good” Mother’s Day?  As the family grows and changes, you also step parents and in-laws and all their ideas, potentially making the day more strained than celebratory. Plans bump up against prior traditions: “Mother’s Day has always been at my sister’s house” is met with, “But our family goes to the Pancake House.”

The good news is that any relationship can shift toward a more positive direction.  In her “5 Ways to Strengthen the Bond with Mom”– just published on The Buzz — relationship expert Terry Orbuch directs her advice to daughters.  Here’s a few points we older-generation mothers ought to remember as Mother’s Day approaches.  After all, now it’s their day, too!

1.  Make a gratitude list. Just as Orbach advises daughters not to focus on what Mom does wrong, it’s a good idea for mothers to “take 10 minutes and write down a handful of things you really appreciate” about your daughter, too.  No one is all bad all the time, and humans have an unfortunate tendency to elevate the negatives. Consciously listing the good will help you gain a balanced perspective. And by the way, if you have trouble thinking of what’s she’s “given” you, just look at your grandchildren!

2.  Figure that your daughter is doing the best she can. She’s got a life, and you’re no longer a big part of it. If yours is anything like mine, she’s busy from dusk ‘til dawn, what with the car-pooling and kids’ activities, her husband and their obligations, her work and her workouts (see above, which is the least of it!). When she sounds rushed or preoccupied, she probably is. I try not to it personally–often, but not always, I succeed.

3. Bite your tongue. Don’t say the first thing that comes to mind–and this includes something about yourself.  Whatever your thought–an observation, advice, and certainly criticism–sit with it for a while and ask yourself, “Will our relationship improve if I say this to her?”  It’s one thing to share honestly about your own life, quite another do it with the expectation of solace.  Even though your daughter is now an adult, who knows what it means to be a mother, it’s still inappropriate to burden her.

4.  When she does or says something offensive, admit that it hurts. If this seem to contradict point #3, it’s a matter of walking that line between being an oversharer and doormat.  Neither will do much to further your relationship. But check in with yourself  first–or even better, run it by a friend who’ll tell you the truth–to make sure you’re not overreacting. And if you decide to talk to her about it, give her the benefit of the doubt and let her know this is your perception, as in, “I don’t think you did this on purpose, but I felt …..”

5. Encourage your grandchildren to respect and honor their mother. Have them make a gratitude list about all the good things she does for them.   Also, help them think of, and execute, a surprise that their mother would really appreciate.  One year–not even sure if it was for Mother’s Day–my older two helped me clean out their mother’s car.  It was a three-generational win-win-win!

For many of us, our mothers have been our moral compasses, the ones we turn to for information, knowledge and advice. Now, as parents ourselves, it is suddenly easier to understand how much we need their guidance as we shepherd our children safely into adulthood.

The bond between mothers and their adult children is complicated. On the one hand, our mothers have been there, done that. They have survived the toddler meltdown in the dairy aisle, the 10-year-old who wasn’t invited to the sleepover, the teen who can’t get home by curfew, the senior who is wait-listed at his first choice school. On the other hand, advice from mothers is fraught with our shared history.

Jennifer Blau Martin, a mom and health educator who blogs with her mom, says that when we are new parents, we seek our mother’s advice to bolster our confidence. As our children grow, we trust ourselves more but we still occasionally need help. Jen suggests that our moms are a valuable resource because of their ability to view our plights with a level of objectivity. Additionally, mothers often have areas of expertise that we would do well to tap.

Her mother, Melinda Blau, journalist, author and creator of the website MotherU, (www.motheru.com) agrees. She offers this advice for mothers and children. “Mothers, wait until you are asked to share your advice and once it is given, let it go. Adult children have the right to decide whether to take their mother’s advice and also how and when to implement it.” To parents, Melinda has this to say, “If your mother shares her opinion without invitation, the adult reaction is to ask her to wait until you request her input.” Melinda asserts that seeing each other as a whole person, not just as mother or child, is key.

As Tiger Moms push the boundaries of success and Helicopter Moms monitor their children’s every move, and movies like The Race to Nowhere and Waiting for Superman highlight our children’s collective stress, the advice from our mothers, when they do weigh in, can be helpful….[continue reading the rest of this article here]

We became close in my midlife, her sixties.  She had lost her daughter to a horrible crime; I had lost my mother to a horrible death from cancer.  It wasn’t that Ruth was a replacement mother, or I a replacement daughter. Rather, you could say we became friends with (family) benefits.  She is my father’s sister, twelve years his junior–the baby in the family, just as I am.   Equally important, she was there–there in my father’s childhood, there when my mother went to summer camp (the girls from both families ironically attended the same one), there when my father and mother dated, there in the early years of my own life, which I can barely remember.   I could tell her anything. She also told me her secrets.  She reminded me often that what one appears may not accurately reflect who that person is inside.  And here she was, this woman whom everyone adored, telling me on more than one occasion that “in the dark of night,” she’d get on “her broomstick.”  Then, and only then, did she dare to say what she really thought.  No one could hear her.  And in the light of day, no one would have guessed.

Reading Barbara Graham’s wonderful contribution to The Buzz–The Other Grandparents–brought to mind Aunt Ruth and her broomstick.    We all harbor secrets in our souls–negative opinions and uncharitable feelings that could wound and, possibly, cause irreparable damage to our loved ones.    Some people might say it’s phony or duplicitous not to express them.  But I don’t think of it that way.   Rather, when we keep our mouths shut, we give ourselves a chance to see the situation–or the person–through fresh eyes.   Knowing you don’t have to give vent to angry or resentful feelings might just allow other–better–feelings to creep in.

For more on the art of collaborative conversation, read my 3-part series on Shareable.net

My first grandson was only four months old when my daughter and I first began discussing the “motherhood union.”  Jen actually came up with the term, when I said to her, “It’s like we’re in the same club now.”

It’s easy for me to think of Jen and I as part of the motherhood union.  Not so my mother and me.  It’s not that we had a contentious relationship–the screaming in our family was delegated to my eleven years older (and very protective) sister.   At first it was simply that I didn’t know my mother.  A former teacher who now was the lady of the house, she was considered “old”–35–when she had me, her third child. (She had lost a baby after my brother, nine when I was born, and often reminded me that I was her “change of life” baby, her “surprise.”)  Everyone was out of the house when I was growing up, so I spent a lot of time alone or with “the help.”   My mother was always busy, shopping, volunteering and, mostly, putting out elaborate spreads when “the girls”  came over to play mah-jong or canasta.   Then there were the times she’d take to her bed, claiming another “sinus headache,” which, looking back, was depression.

I wasn’t angry as a child–maybe a little sad, but I didn’t feel deprived.  It was the only kind of mothering I knew.  By the time I was a teenager, I had developed great people skills.  I was a kid other kids’ mothers loved.   It got me places.  Still does.

Cut to a week before my wedding.  One of “the girls” called my mother to tell her that my father had been having an affair with Shirley–a buxom redhead (think Jessica Rabbit) who lived across the street and just happened to be my mother’s best friend.  Although I saw his behavior as reprehensible–and felt guilty because even I had known about Shirley–it was my mother who turned their divorce into public spectacle.  She’d rant about my father to anyone who’d listen.  At one point, she aired her complaints on national television, to the delight of host Alan Burke who loved stories of sex, sleaze, and sensationalism.   I saw as little of her as I could.  I had my own marriage to worry about.

Even after Jen was born, I bristled at every visit.  I hated that sometimes she’d just show up, asking if she could take the baby for a walk.   Then, as Jen got older, it was lunch.  Then, it was for an afternoon at her apartment.  But slowly, as she and Jen developed a relationship that had nothing to do with me, I began to soften, seeing a side of my mother I’d never have imagined.  My mother had always been too preoccupied to be much of a hands-on grandmother with my older siblings’ children–by then, there were six of them.  Now it was if she had all the time in the world.

When Jen would come home from an outing and describe how she and “Gamma Henny-etta” played “restaurant,” it brought me back to sixth grade, the one year my mother decided to go back to teaching.  When I visited her classroom and watched her with her students, I kept thinking.  Is that really my mother? And I felt the same way as my four-year-old daughter recounted their day.  My mother role playing? (She was the waitress, Jen the customer)  My mother getting down on the floor with her for a “picnic”?  Laughing?

Their relationship began to change our relationship.  Sadly, just as I was letting go of my anger and getting ready to re-vision my mother through adult eyes, she was diagnosed with bone cancer and dead five months later.   It was Jen who helped me get through it.  I cringe when I think of the times I’d have liked to slam the door in her face, when I realize how my young, newly-married self, was so insensitive to the indignities she suffered.  The thing is, we were in the same club.  What I was afraid of, I now know, is that I’d end up in the same boat.

Afterword:  The irony is not lost on me that my own “grandma name”–Minna–is derived from my mother’s pet name for me:  Minda–a baby talk version of Melinda.