Birth-Days

Both of my children were born near the end of February and they would tell you their mother or their father - sometimes both of us on phone extensions - will re-tell our stories of their birth-days on their birthdays. Even after all these years, even after they've each added their own experiences to the family birth lexicon, they listen patiently.

At the time this photo of me was taken by Arthur, I was hours - many, many hours - away from motherhood. I loved that coat - mid-calf length, the most wonderful understated blue-gray color, with a soft belt, here tied above what they call baby bump these days but in those days, you were just pregnant. Purchased at Hess's in Allentown just weeks before we moved back to Potter County, I'd had my eyes on it for months, waiting for the big end-of-season 50% off sale.

Bonnie from Dr. George's office called on a Tuesday afternoon to tell me doctor had decided that, it being 21 days beyond my calculated due date, he should induce labor. I was to report to the hospital around 8:00 p.m. and he would come after office hours to begin the induction process.

We took a stroll around the farm on that cold, snowy February afternoon after I called Arthur at work in the darkroom of The Potter Enterprise, weeping, and he hurried home to comfort and distract me. He snapped this photo up by the milkhouse with our trusty Minolta SRT-101 35mm camera and later this picture shared proof sheets with photos of our baby daughter.

It was the same time of year, late February, four years later that the splash of amniotic fluid spreading across the floor at the top of the stairs heralded the beginning of labor - again a long, long labor - that brought our son into our world in our bedroom.

I wrote about that birth experience in an article I submitted to Redbook magazine, recently unearthed from a long-forgotten box of paperwork. 

Birth-days in the year 2024 - the two of us, gray-haired grandparents now, still in this place where we raised those two young Metzgers, still in awe of these two human beings we call our daughter and our son.

Words That Matter

I'm sure it's an experience shared by us humans - that moment when something you read, or see or hear stops your brain for an instant. For me, it's sometimes the shudder of goose bumps rising on my arms, or as if a small voltage shock passes through me, or a sultry breeze rearranging wisps of hair.

And it was like that with this little poem by Naomi Shihab Nye:

Ever since the pandemic and ever since I started putting the 7 as the decade of my age, as I go about the day with its duties, chores, responsibilities, there's this constant hum in my head – my time here on this big blue marble is limited. 

And now, this poem - so few words, with so much meaning for me - this baby boomer sitting at her desk on this cold winter morning, surrounded by so many shoes that simply do not fit anymore. But by the same token, there are those shoes - you know the ones - those you reach for when you know you're gonna be on your feet all day, or the whimsical ones, or the slouchy ones, perhaps the slippers and,  especially, the ones that make you smile.

So on this late winter Saturday morning, I'm taking off the ill-fitting shoes and reaching for those that fit today - especially the ones that make me smile.