How Many Lullabies?

I remember my Grammy Stern singing to me. She would lie in her tall double bed, singing to the ceiling. Right next to her, in the low army cot between her bed and the wall, I would look at the carnation flowered wall-paper for as long as I could stay awake. Mostly, I remember her singing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Eugene Field wrote that poem/song in 1889, the year my Gramps Stern was born! 

Perhaps she also sang Brahms’ Lullaby and Rock-a-Bye, Baby, but “...the wooden shoe that rocked the three was a wee one’s trundle bed...” is what sticks with me more than any other song.

Now, I’m a Grammy, and I sing to my granddaughter. I sang to my daughters too, but neither they, nor I remember that quite so well as that both their grandmas sang to them; Yiddish songs from one, and songs of social justice from the other.

There’s something about the voices of the ancestors singing down the line that has the power to calm, reassure, and safely tether that rocking trundle bed in the misty sea where the little stars were the herring fish. 

Maybe, when we’re parents, we’re too distracted by the dance of juggling so many balls... school, carpool schedules, play dates, bills, jobs, social calendars, shopping, cleaning, cooking, pet care, doctor check-ups, dentists... it’s enough to make me pull my hair with the memory of it all! 

Grandies have time, (if we make it), to hunker down and listen to the pace our grandkids set. Lucky is s/he who has leisure time to marvel at ant trails and follow them as far as little fingers, toes, and curious eyes want to go. Super lucky is s/he who remembers being sung to and can pass on the gift of right brain drift.

Saturday night found me with Miss D, who at five and three quarters has perfected the magic trick of wrapping all the adults in her surround around her little finger. Lucky was I, to be asked by her to sing “the lullabies,” at the end of our super-fun-day together.

“You can repeat some songs, too, Gra’Moose,” she said with her signature imperious 'etcetera’ hand gesture, made by circling her hand round and round at the end of her wrist. 

 I turned my head to look at her. 

“You can turn your head back to the ceiling, too, Gra’Moose,” her eyebrows knit together with heart-breaking earnestness. She was on her side, watching me.

“Yes, I can,” I said, quickly turning my head so she wouldn’t see the smile of recognition that threatened to turn into a laugh, brimming with inexplicable tears of joy. I wondered if she could see how much I love her as I sang, and how many lullabies would put her out to that misty sea.

I kept singing. The happy lump in my throat wobbled my voice a bit as I sang Wynken and Blynken, the Beatles lullaby, Paul Tracy’s Lala Gashle in a South African dialect, a couple from Marsha Berman and Patty Zeitlin, traditional songs, new-age and “neurotic” (GranPun’s joke), in short, any and all songs with melodic line and steady rhythm. 

In a way, singing is a dirty trick. Right brain is so hungry in this left-brain world, it is easily appeased and slips right into the sleep groove, pulling the rest of the body / mind with it. 

Grammy’s voice always won out over my best efforts to count those carnations. Eventually she would leave the room, clicking on the radio, tuned to softly crackling classical music. Pond’s cold cream, from her dresser, lingered in the air, and the familiar scent of Gramps’ cigar stub, in this coat pocket, wafted from the front hall closet. Reassured that all was right with the world, I’d drift into peaceful, blissful, dreamless sleep.  How many lullabies did it take?

Saturday, D and I enjoyed the first warm-enough-to-go-barefoot-day of the season, and the surprising heat of an early spring. Global warming seems to be right on schedule. The ants and fleas a little ahead of their usual industry. A wild turkey on a “turkey trot” down the road streaked by with a great gobble and a wobble. Who knew they could be so fleet of foot? Our own shoe-clad-for-the-long-winter feet felt tender in their bareness on the redwood bark and harsh asphalt street. We’ll need to do this bare-foot thing more often! Toughen up.

She walked/dragged the stuffed dog she’s named “Bubblegum,” on a lace leash - cleaning the walkways as we went along. Bubblegum's formerly white belly fur has a few oak leaves stuck to it. We pulled weeds, talked with neighbors, met the new Basenji puppy next door, the cat named "CB" for "Cry Baby" from across the street, and made surprises for Gran’Pun to find when he returns from camp.

Don’t ask me how many lullabies it took for D to land in dream-time. I was too blissful to count.