Living Consciously

Lillian, my newest granddaughter, seeing your name for the first time immediately brought to mind the great-great-grandmother you are named for. She was a large, pillowy woman. One of the family stories described the time your grandfather, as a little boy, snuggled into her generous soft bosom and told her, "Grandma, you have such big hearts."

She did have a big heart. Her life held ample hardships, but also ample love. Her gift to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren was warm approval and unconditional love. She had a special bond with your grandfather, who was her first grandchild. Your father and his little sister loved to visit her; you certainly would have, too.

Part of what is miraculous about a newborn baby like you, granddaughter, is the wonder of getting to know a complete, unique person who wasn't here yesterday. Making that acquaintance from a distance isn't the same, of course, as doing so in person.

Yet, thanks to technology—a miracle in itself, even if it isn't anywhere close to the miracle of a brand-new human being—you, only hours old, were right there on the computer screen. It was possible to marvel at your delicate fingers, smile at how tiny you looked in your father's arms, and try to figure out who you looked like (yourself, mostly, at this point).

You were indignant in your first few minutes in the world, but observing it thoughtfully by your second day. You'll need both that indignation and that contemplation to thrive here. It's a challenging as well as a delightful world you've been born into.

You'll also need the love of people with big hearts. And that is one thing you already have. Welcome, little Lillian. It's wonderful to have you here.

In a Western movie, he would have been one of the bad guys. Not quite the worst bad guy—the leader of the outlaw gang or the iron-fisted landowner trying to take over the entire valley and marry the small rancher's pretty daughter against her will. No, he'd have been the chief sidekick or the hired gun, the one who never said much but who was always there, a figure of quiet menace looming in the background.

He looked the part, from his wide-brimmed black cowboy hat, to the black denim duster over his black jeans, to his polished black boots. The holster on his belt was black leather ornamented with metal studs. The only light things about him were the blond hair that curled past his shoulders and the three-day growth of whiskers that added an outlaw touch to his weathered face.

He shouldered through the door, pausing for a heartbeat while everyone in the place pretended not to look at him. When he located his target, he started across the room with the slow, deliberate stride of a predator. Each step was punctuated by the thump of a boot heel; only the jangle of long-roweled spurs was missing.

The woman he was after was at the far end of the room. She was tall in her boots and jeans, and slim—hard-work lean rather than fashion-model slender. Her straight brown hair, tied at her neck, hung nearly to her waist. The man in black spoke to her. She nodded and began to follow him toward the door.

As they walked, she showed him what she had in her cart. She had found a pattern, she told him, and the gauzy white fabric and silver wire trim were just what she needed to make angel wings for the church Christmas program.

While she paid for her angel-crafting supplies, he waited near the checkout counter, one hand resting casually on his cell phone in its leather holster. They walked out of the fabric store together, got into a bright yellow Jeep, and drove away.

Western drama just isn't what it used to be.

One of the side effects of growing older is that you have more and more scars, but fewer and fewer people who know about all of them.

Balanced against other weighty concerns, this may not be very important. It does matter, though. Our scars are evidence, not just of physical wounds, but of events we have lived through and maybe even learned from. The answer to the question, "How did you get that scar?" is a piece of our personal history.

In the following stories, the scars don't all belong to the same person, but all of them are real. The identities of their owners are being withheld in order to protect the unlucky, the careless, and the clumsy.

There's the white line on your chin that's a memento of the time you were helping a friend move and you fell out of the back of the Suburban and landed face-first on the concrete driveway. You remember grazing your cheek on the corner of the trailer as you fell, and you realize how lucky you were not to break your cheekbone, shatter your jaw, or lose a bunch of teeth.

The shallow divot on your wrist comes from the family bike ride when your daughter had a wreck in front of you and you fell over her. You landed on your face—getting an impressive shiner in spite of your helmet—scraped your wrist, and tore a ligament in your elbow. Until then, you thought seeing stars happened only in the comics.

The triangle on your knee is a souvenir of the time a steering cable broke on the boat and it veered abruptly to starboard—or was it port? Everything and everyone in it slid sideways. The cut on your leg was minor; what you remember most is that one of the kids almost went over the side.

The gouge in your knuckle came from nearly cutting off your finger during your college summer job. It was a good incentive to finish your education and learn how to find oil instead of drilling for it.

The mark across your thigh is a reminder that it's a good idea to stop the chain saw after it goes through the log and before it reaches your leg.

The line on your ankle marks the place where the orthopedic surgeon put in a screw—probably the most expensive hardware item you'll ever buy. That was the time you learned that it isn't a good idea to jump on the trampoline with your sandals on.

Scars are more than just marks on our bodies. They can be mementos of poor decisions, bad luck, or narrow escapes. They can serve as receipts, showing the tuition we've paid for educational experiences. They are part of our personal history and sometimes our family history as well. They may even remind us we were lucky to survive to talk about them.

We're lucky, too, if we have plenty of people around who know and care about our stories, including our scars. After all, some of our most interesting scars are in places we can't show to just anybody.

It's a challenge to write something clever and entertaining about a family reunion when you know your words are likely to be read by most of the people who were there. Trust me, it gives a whole new dimension to the idea of writer's block.

This reunion—the fourth or fifth annual one now—was a three-day stay at a campground that included my parents, all four of their children, all their spouses except one who was out of the country (no, he didn't schedule the trip just to get out of spending time with the family—honest), all the grandkids, plus spouses and fiancés, except for two who live at a distance, and, of course, all four of the great-grandchildren. And let's not forget the six aunts and uncles and the handful of cousins.

Some people went fishing (and treated the whole group to a fish fry on Saturday night). Some people went swimming. Some people went for walks. Some people went for ice cream. Some people spent most of their time sitting in the shade and visiting. Everyone ate—fairly often, actually. And, apparently, everyone had a good time.

Several people remarked on the responses they get when they mention spending a three-day weekend with the extended family. These range from, "You really do that—and you enjoy it?" to, "I could never spend that much time with my family!" and, "How many fights were there?"

Sorry, no fights. Maybe that's because most of us have a sense of humor. It probably also helps that, despite some beer to go with the fish, this isn't a family where anyone gets falling-into-the-campfire drunk. (True, there is one uncle who occasionally passes out, but that's a heart problem, not an alcohol problem. Thank goodness the extended family includes a couple of veterinarians.)

But we do get together fairly often, and we do enjoy it. Is that because we're somehow closer or nicer than other families? Probably not. We come complete with the disagreements, personality conflicts, and leftover childhood stuff that all families have. But somehow, the idea of family is more important than any of that minor stuff.

At any rate, we keep showing up—for the summer camping trip, the Christmas party, and the various events in between like house-painting, moving, birthday parties, and weddings.

And maybe that's what makes the difference. The more often you show up, the better you get to know the people who share your blood and your history, and the more fully you understand how important they are to you. Maybe that makes it easier to accept their quirks and oddities in the same way you hope they accept your unique and endearing personality traits. Maybe showing up is simply what it means to be family.

I came across a new and unfamiliar President the other day. He was sitting on the street corner, gazing off into the distance in a pondering and Presidential way. I didn't recognize him. He was stout enough that I thought for a moment he could have been William Howard Taft, until I remembered that Taft was several blocks away, winding up to throw out the first pitch of the World Series.

Even though I didn't recognize this man, I knew he was a United States President, simply because he was on a street corner in downtown Rapid City. Over the past few years, statues of Presidents have been erected throughout downtown, a few each year. We don't have all of them yet, but we're getting close. By now there are enough that, except for the obvious ones like Washington and Eisenhower and the Roosevelts, I'm no longer sure who all of them are.

One of the things I've been meaning to do for the past year or so is take a walk through downtown and check out all the statues. Driving past the newest statue this week reminded me that I haven't gotten around to taking that Presidential stroll.

It even occurred to me that this might be a "bucket list" item. (For anyone not familiar with the 2007 movie, "The Bucket List," the title refers to a list of things you want to do before you kick the bucket.) Walking around to look at a few statues, I decided, hardly seemed big enough to qualify for a "bucket list," unless perhaps the statues in question happen to be in Rome or Egypt.

What I need, I realized, is a list for smaller things. Stuff that's not important enough so I would care if I kicked the bucket before I got it done, but still stuff that I would like to do. Small, enjoyable things that aren't life-changing but are still worth doing. Like walking around looking at the Presidents. Or playing the piano more than I currently do. Or planting some rose bushes.

Things on this small of a scale don't really merit a bucket, but they're still important enough to pay attention to. I've decided it's time to start a list for these little wishes that I haven't gotten around to yet. I'll begin it just as soon as I get my desk cleaned off so I can find a fresh piece of paper. I'm going to make a "teacup list."

(One of the things I haven't gotten around to yet is seeing "The Bucket List." Maybe I need to put it on my list.)

A few weeks ago, we noticed a pair of robins exploring home sites along the beam that supports our deck. Mrs. Robin would perch on the beam, then sit, then turn around several times and sit again, as if trying the place on for size. She did this repeatedly, while Mr. Robin sat nearby, waiting for her to make up her mind.

The next day, they began building. Actually, though we assumed this was a joint project, we only saw her at work. She would flutter up to the beam with a beak full of sticks or grass, poke them into the pile of stuff already there, then press down with her breast, circling around and around to create the inner bowl of the nest. It took at least one full day, and countless trips, to accumulate enough material to build the nest about three inches high and shape it to her specifications.

Over the next few days, any trip down the basement steps automatically included a stop to look out the patio door and check on the robin. During one of her brief times away from the nest—presumably for a quick trip to the earthworm aisle of the nearest grocery store—we peeked with a mirror and saw one small blue egg. A couple of weeks later we saw what looked like two little heads above the rim of the nest.

It's been a rainy spring, and from time to time we wondered how Mrs. Robin was coping with all the wet weather. True, the nest was underneath the deck, but plenty of water must have been coming through the half-inch gaps between the floor boards. One afternoon, during a cold, heavy downpour, it occurred to me that I could have given her a little more shelter by simply moving a big flower pot so it covered the nest.

It may have been a good idea, but it came a little late. The next day we saw Mrs. Robin on the power line that comes into the house. She had half a worm in her beak, but she wasn't eating it. She was simply sitting. We decided she must have been taking a break from the kids, enjoying a few minutes of solitude. This made us wonder how many kids she had and how big they were by now, so we took our mirror downstairs for a quick look.

The nest was empty.

We were sure the baby robins weren't old enough to have left home. Besides, we hadn't seen any fledglings out on the grass. We looked beneath the nest for little bodies, but all we found was the broken shell of one tiny blue egg.

What happened to the baby robins? The rainstorm? The cold? A neighborhood cat? Or did they even hatch? Who knows?

Had this particular pair of robins found a different site for their nest, we would never have noticed or cared when the babies came or when they disappeared. But, because we had a window into their lives, we did notice. We came to think of them as our robins—not our property, exactly, but as neighbors whose comings and goings we cared about.

We still see Mr. and Mrs. Robin around the yard. So far, though, the nest has remained empty. Either they've decided not to start over with another clutch of eggs, or they've built another nest in a better location. It probably doesn't matter much in the grand scheme of things. Still, we would like to know.