We made plans, and during our week in Atlanta we managed a good mix of keeping busy and sitting around doing nothing.  Our fun-for-the-whole-family event was a screening of The Birds at the Fox Theatre, Atlanta’s historic movie palace (See Back When the Movies Were Big: Atlanta’s Fabulous Fox, March 2012).  Mama joined D and me at the High Museum for the current special exhibit centered on the famous Vermeer painting, Girl with a Pearl Earring.  D  humored me by showing  interest in my tales of the Museum as it was in the 80s when I worked there. While we lingered in the atrium before leaving, I could almost see my former boss heading toward the galleries with his characteristic bouncy step.  (See Remembering Gudmund Vigtel, November 2012).

For a few outings, D and I were on our own.  On these excursions, we drove the unlikely second car, an iridescent gold PT Cruiser that Daddy keeps at the ready for us.  Neither of my parents claims responsibility for choosing or buying this vehicle, but somehow, they own it.  I’m glad, because it has always made D smile.  During our annual tour of the shops of Virginia-Highland, we actually made a few purchases.  According to tradition, Mama and Daddy met us for lunch that day at George’s.

D and I spent our last Atlanta afternoon meandering through midtown with one of my dearest friends.  Tedd and I were in school and church together from second grade on.  We therefore have considerable common ground, and we catch up about once a year.  We started our wanderings on the grounds of Grady High, our alma mater, which has been expanded and beautifully refurbished in recent years.  Reading the bricks of the commemorative courtyard brought back long-submerged memories and inspired recollections of half-forgotten classmates now dispersed.  We crossed the street to Piedmont Park and envied the swimmers at the enormous new sparkling pool.  When did the city start looking so good, so clean and fresh?  We finished our tour at O’Keefe, our former middle school, now owned by Georgia Tech.  What was the name of that band that played at the eighth grade dance?  Was it really the Family Plan?  Tedd, with his easy, endearing sweetness and unique humor, brought D into our shared past in a way that I alone could not. She has come to appreciate Tedd just as I do, and she seemed to take real pleasure in our swapping of 70s-era stories.

At my parents’ house, our sitting around doing nothing was of high quality, as it should be on a vacation.  As in previous years, we passed contented hours on the screened porch.  Shaded by trees and edged by dense foliage, the porch is like a cage for humans in the midst of a wildlife preserve.  It’s a perfect spot to watch the exuberant acrobatics of squirrels, chipmunks, robins, wrens and brown thrashers.  In the evenings, we regularly heard a pair of local barred owls calling to one another.

We spent time simply being there with Nana and Papa, engaged in those free-wheeling conversations that seem trivial at the time, but in hindsight, just might be the lifeblood of family and community.  Neighbors dropped by, and D and I went visiting, as we always have. Both Sundays at church, I felt as though I were returning to a second home.  We were greeted warmly by caring friends, most of whom are watching D grow up from afar.

If, in my last post, my daughter sounded like an entitled, annoying teenager, during the visit she was rarely anything but gracious, patient and kind, to me, my parents, and to all our friends.  No one would have recognized her as one suffering the throes of high-tech gadget withdrawal.  Some nights, as I drifted off to sleep, I could hear D and her Nana talking and laughing in the TV room the way they have done for years. It’s a lovely, reassuring sound–the sound of my daughter and my mother, two like-minded night owls, good friends, happy and comfortable together.

Before we left for the airport, Daddy cut us some gardenias to carry with us.
They’re dried and brown now, but still fragrant.

Just before our recent trip to Atlanta, my daughter somewhat reluctantly admitted to a concern about boredom during our stay.  This made her feel guilty, because she loves my parents, and she knows how much they treasure her, their only grandchild.  But, she wondered, what would we do, for eight days?  This worry was a first for her.  In years past, she has looked forward nearly absolutely to visiting Nana and Papa. 
When she was younger, of course, the bar for fun and adventure was low and accessible.  Beginning with the plane ride, a sojourn in Atlanta was full of thrills, there for easy picking.  Her grandparents’ house was an enchanted place, and there was so much to do.  A typical day began with a leisurely breakfast on the screened porch.  D could have Papa’s scrambled eggs every morning if she wanted; he was truly happy to make them for her.  Later, we’d wander from park to park, sampling the different types of playground equipment.  We’d “hike” the wooded nature trail by the creek.  We’d visit neighbors, who doted on D as if she were their own granddaughter.  She’d feed their fish, play with their cats and dogs.  In the afternoons, we’d explore a fantastic sea of old toys in the upstairs playroom, or dress up in Nana’s amazing vintage creations.  At night, we’d be back on the porch for ice cream and ghost stories. Every day offered wondrous opportunities. 

Now that she’s a teenager, the magic has mostly dissipated.  While I expect she’ll always have a sentimental spot in her heart for her grandparents’ home, the silvery jingle of the Southern Express bell is barely audible.  Former childhood pleasures inspire only yawns, wistful sighs and bouts of grumpy melancholy. 
What makes the situation even worse is that, as D grows up, the rest of us are growing older and more jaded.  With each passing year, my parents have less interest in leaving the house for entertainment.  They’re not recluses or agoraphobics.  Most mornings, Daddy is running errands.  He zips out and back to Kroger, to the pharmacy, to the bank, to mail a package, to gas up the car.  He returns almost before it seems humanly possible.  But together, my parents  leave home rarely except to go to church, out to eat, or to do neighborly good deeds.  Occasionally they see a movie, and of course there are doctor appointments, which eat up huge chunks of time.  Home is where they really want to be, and I don’t blame them.  Home is comfortable; the outside world tends to be far less so. In going out, the pay-off is too small, the hurdles too many.  Unpleasantness abounds: heat, traffic, crowds,  noise.  If I live to be my parents’ age, I may well be a hermit. Those aforementioned factors, plus the chance of thunderstorms and the need to comfort my anxious dog, kept me at home last Saturday as H and D went to a Nationals game. 

Another thorny issue nagging at D was the dread of spending over a week in a technology vacuum. Several years ago, we presented my mother with an iMac for Christmas. Because we couldn’t be there to help her deal with the constant minor quandaries, and she didn’t want to be a bother to friends, she gave up.  By the following Easter the iMac was back at our house.  When I suggested to D that we had a  unique opportunity to travel back in time, to experience the life of an earlier era, before household computers, cell phones, cordless phones, or Wi-Fi, she was unmoved. She didn’t want that kind of time travel. Her iPhone would be rendered nearly useless.  She would be cut off from her network of friends.  And, I realized, with some alarm, she would be primarily dependent on me for amusement.  My husband, who is often as restless as a teenager, would be with us only for the first weekend.  We needed to make some real plans, or suffer the consequences.