In the midst of so much darkness, in our little world spirits are bright.
My always-on-the-move, usually happy and endlessly entertaining 19-month-old grandson Quentin is the reason why.
Here’s how my Saturday morning has played out thus far. After easing into the day, I made strawberry-banana smoothies for me and the rest of the household.
We then spent the next 15 minutes leisurely sipping, smiling, clicking our respective glasses and sippy cup, shouting “cheers” and laughing uproariously. (“Cheers” is the newest addition to Quentin’s burgeoning vocabulary repository.)
I can’t count the times I’ve laughed and smiled—and it’s not even noon. Three (more) cheers to that!
A declaration from our toddler CEO-in-training
The other day, 14-month-old Quentin had something to say.
He was knee-deep in his always-very-busy day, pushing his favorite “stuffies” around in their miniature pink stroller, tending to the farm animals and other little friends in his toy barn—and keeping a close eye (per usual) on all the goings on around the house.sometimes-safe corrner for our two older cats). It also has a locking door, requisite these day with this new highly energetic housemate.
So, I didn’t actually hear what Quentin had to say firsthand, but the secondhand report absolutely floored me.
Here’s the backstory. For months now, I’ve been saying “You’re not the boss” to this very headstrong toddler (who was formerly an equally headstrong infant)—followed by “I’m the boss, mommy is the boss, daddy is the boss. You are not the boss.” I didn’t know if it was resonating at all, since he’d usually keep advocating—loudly—for whatever he wanted at the moment or seem to simply ignore me completely.
The other day, though? He declared to his mother that “I’m the boss”!
I guess I should be happy that some of what I’m saying is sinking in. (At least that’s what I’m telling myself right now.)
“Baby Hercules” is in the house
There’s never a dull moment here in my little corner of the universe.
I’m getting used to it, the things that go missing on the daily. Toothbrushes, hair brushes, things that are orange, and lids of every size and color currently top the list.
Quentin, my youngest housemate, is an always on the move thirteen-month-old dynamo. He’s surprisingly strong, exceptionally observant and absolutely relentless, a cross between baby Hercules and a toddler CEO-in-training. He truly thinks that he is the boss.
He started walking at 9 1/2 months—and can dart around in the blink of an eye. We have learned to be ever-vigilant, everywhere. I by default became the primary disciplinarian, saying “no” so frequently that “Marcy No-hara” would have been a more fitting moniker.
I’ve learned, however, that saying “no” does absolutely no good. In fact, it seems to spur him on. (I may have met my match.)
A work-from-home slice of life
Here’s a recent view from my “WFH” office door. Baby’s water cup upended. Cat treats dispensed but still insufficient. Sunday “Seattle Times” still unread—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
New baby. New president. 2020
In these divisive and relentlessly terrifying times, I think we can all agree on one thing—2020 has been a truly horrific year so far.
We still have five months to go and staying alive continues to take the top spot on everyone’s to-do list.
Last August, a seeming lifetime ago, I was strolling with my daughter Gabriella along a nearby trail in Woodinville. It was a gloriously warm Sunday afternoon.
She and her hubs had recently returned to the PNW after a year in Virginia—and were home for good..
After discussing their respective career plans and mapping out which communities in Seattle sounded best for their next apartment, we wrapped up our convo with a tagline that made us smile: “New baby. New president.. 2020!”
Just a few months later, the first part of our 2020 tagline came true.
On December 18, her 27th birthday, Gabriella heard her baby’s heartbeat for the first time.
One week later, on Christmas Eve, the parents-to-be learned their baby was healthy and a boy.
(“This kid already has impeccable timing,” I quipped.)
They marked their calendars for July 6, 2020—the baby’s due date.
The new year soon began unfolding in all its horror as Gabriella’s belly slowly grew.
Gabriella and Jesh hunkered down in their tiny studio apartment in Wedgwood, a charming community just minutes from UW and downtown Seattle.
She’d chosen to go the midwife route at the Center for Birth. If things went awry, the hospitals were just minutes away.
My minimalist millennial slowly realized that minimalism and new motherhood don’t align well at all—especially in a 500-square-foot studio.
I have a 3 bedroom/1 bath rambler with a den that’s a converted garage. It has a separate front entrance and relatively new doors that cordon off the den from the kitchen, making it essentially a fourth spacious bedroom. The little family had found their new landing pad.
The expectant parents and their two cats moved in with me in late June and we excitedly prepared for the baby’s arrival.
July 6 came and went. The baby stayed put.
The window for using the Birth Center was closing, since my daughter was now two weeks overdue. It was time to induce.
She checked in on the evening of July 20 at Evergreen Medical Center, the hospital that was ground zero when the pandemic first began in the U.S.
She’d spend the night, and the plan was for the baby to come the next day. Gabriella and Jesh were allowed to invite one person to be there for the birth. Happily, I was the one.
I’ll cut to the chase. Quentin Justin Thomas Jacobsen made his earthly debut at 4:03 p.m. on July 21, 2020.
He was 2 weeks overdue, but arrived at the impeccably perfect day—on what would have been his great-grandfather Thomas Joseph O’Hara’s 100th birthday.
New baby. New president. New grandma—looking so forward to better things ahead.
Returning home to the PNW—for good
The dog days of summer are in full swing here in the “Emerald City.”
Today, it’s rainy and gray—which is more than okay by me. Nothing can dampen my spirits right now. My millennial daughter and her hubs are coming back home.
Gabriella and Jeshua have spent the past year in Fairfax, VA and have had more than their fill of the East Coast. Both of them grew up here and it’s hard to top this region’s exquisite beauty and mild weather.
Living so far away (for so long) has provided them with the clarity they needed. They’re flying out with their two cats early next week, jetting back to VIrginia, packing up their seafoam green Prius and heading west.
I’m readying their room in my modest little rambler and expect they’ll stay for a while before moving closer to the city. This “mama bear” could not possibly be more delighted.
Solitude, tall trees and the exquisite beauty of Camano Island
It’s a rainy Saturday morning.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my tiny cabin nestled amidst the towering trees in Camano Island State Park near the shores of the Puget Sound.
It’s early, still—a little after 8 a.m. So quiet and peaceful, with occasional birds providing soothing background noise.
I arrived here a few days ago, an early escape before the long Memorial Day weekend. It’s been a thoroughly restorative and relaxing getaway in an exquisite corner of the universe that’s just one “hour-ish” north of Seattle.
Pro tip: Arriving Thursday afternoon was a very wise move. I had the park seemingly to myself that first day and night.
On Friday morning, I awoke around 4:45 a.m. to an enchanting symphony of beautiful bird songs. The concert started slowly and in time built to a beautiful crescendo. It was most definitely the best wakeup call of my life thus far.
Camano Island is also home to my younger sister and her husband. They moved here a few years ago and have absolutely fallen in love with this slice of heaven.
(Same here!)
One very lucky “Lefty,” remembering
33 years later, it still remains the very worst day of my life.
On April 21, 1986, you died—suddenly of cardiac arrest. You had retired just six months before—since that was the policy in place at Lockheed. Retire at 65, ready or not. (I think you were not.)
So much has happened in the ensuing years.
Your eldest son, Thomas Patrick O’Hara, is now 65—the oldest age you would ever be.
Tom’s youngest child, Brett—just turned 33, born on April 12, 1986. He was your third grandchild and recently become a father himself to an exquisite daughter named Charlotte Eve (“Charlie”). I have yet to meet her, but Regan and I are treated to weekly “slices of her life” thanks to Tom.
Tom’s two other kids and their spouses have also become parents over the past five years. Tom and Mindi have Thomas and Heidi and Kate has Aedan.
So, Dad, you and Mom now have four “great-grandchirren”—along with twins set to debut in a few months to John and Cathy’s eldest son, Brendan and his wife Sterling. Soon to be six—and the grandchildren are just getting started.
I know we will collectively keep you and Mom alive in our memories and stories.
Grocery shopping (+coupons and candy bar enticements for shopping assistants) will always be intertwined in our memories.
You would have absolutely loved Costco, which is headquartered in my hometown near Seattle, Washington.
You would have enjoyed wheeling around the supersized grocery carts in the enormous warehouse stores filled with supersized deals on everything any family could possibly need.
You’d also be amazed at the advances in technology. You always loved embracing new innovations.
I remember when you proudly arrived home one Saturday afternoon with a microwave oven. I’ll have to find that picture of you beaming next to your new purchase.
And how about the time you brought home a new intriguing video game called “Pong.” It must have been 19XX. We O’Hara kids were enthralled, watching that single white ball bouncing back and forth across the screen.
My daughter, Gabriella (#15 grandchild) is now 26. She is a “Lefty” like me. We like to think that you would given her the nickname “Little Lefty.” I have just one, Dad, but she is an absolute gem.
From the very start, I’d share stories and memories about you.
I remember when she was about three. It was sometime in 1995. In between VHS-taped recordings of “Rugrats,” her favorite mid-90s show, I slipped in another VHS tape.
It was a recording of the Lockheed “roast” that occurred shortly before your retirement in October of 1985. (I need to find that tape as well!).
I pressed “play” and there you were in all your glory, sitting back, smiling and enjoying the stories and memories your colleagues shared. Then Roy Anderson made an appearance. He was your boss—chairman and CEO of Lockheed.
After a several minutes. I stopped the tape, cognizant of my own “rugrat’s” short attention span.
Her soulful brown eyes were opened wide in amazement and astonishment. She had paid attention and appeared to have enjoyed seeing “Grand-O” on TV. After a few moments, she had just one question. It involved the white-haired, well-coiffed Roy Anderson.
She turned her head away from the tube, gazed intently into my eyes and asked: “Mama, was that God”!
In her 3-year-old brain, Grand-O was in heaven yet somehow still alive on TV. And the silver-haired fellow must have been God.
Dad, she knows of you only through the countless stories and photos I’ve shared from the time the very start. I know that all of your kids—and the kids of your seven siblings (our cousins on the East Coast)—have also continued to keep the memories of “Uncle Tom” alive over the years.
You rose from such humble beginnings to such impressive heights—and yet stayed true to your roots until the end.
“I’m a simple man,” you say often.
Here’s my simple truth: I think of you most every day, still—and always will.
I’ll continue to keep your memory alive with stories, reminiscences and photos.
Here’s to you, “Big O”!
xo,
Lefty
Stayin' alive in Snowpocalypse 2019
Outside my window in my little rambler near downtown Woodinville, the world has been transformed. The fourth snowstorm unleashed another half inch of powder last afternoon and through the night.
Giant branches on the weeping willow in my backyard broke off and fell in the early morning hours. I vaguely remember a sound that resonated deep within a dream—but it wasn’t loud enough to fully awaken me.
I awoke to see the aftermath—a close call that narrowly missed falling on my roof. Exactly a week ago, another close call. A mail truck plowed into my van, shearing off the entire front bumper. One moment I was inching out carefully into the road as cars stopped to let me turn left. I remember happily listening to KEXP, looking left, looking right, left again and a head nod to the patient driver allowing me to turn—and then boom!
I’m still processing it all and awaiting work on the extent of the damage to my car. The mail truck driver was okay, I am sore and shaken up but alive. I realize how close I came to being killed or very seriously injured.
On this snowbound day in the frigid and weather-weary Emerald City, i’m counting my blessings. Life is good.