Two weeks at sea: Booze, babes and a spiritual epiphany

After a rough few days, the sea grew inexplicably calm.

I was lost in a world created by John Grisham, deep into his latest novel and paying little attention to my last day at sea. The always lovely Miss Wendy and I were nestled comfortably in a cozy corner of the Brilliance of the Seas, enjoying the final leg of a two-week journey that started in Boston and would end the next day in Tampa.

Our little holiday swept us -- and a few thousand other passengers from around the world -- along the eastern coast of the U.S., into the warm and quiet waters of the Caribbean. We spent restful days sailing around a dozen or so islands just north of South America, stopping briefly at ports in St. Kitts and St. Lucia, Barbados, Curaçao and Aruba.

I did mention there was booze, right? And babes! Okay, truth to tell, most of the ship's passengers -- including the babes -- were born when Truman was in the White House, Frank Sinatra was atop all the musical charts, the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn and the "Cold War" was warming up!

Let's just agree it was a "mature" crowd that was out and about and enjoying the sun and tropical breezes, maneuvering our way around the massive ship filled with twists and turns and decks of steps. The getting from here to there was almost always worth the effort, even for folks using canes, walkers or motorized scooters!

I did mention there was booze, right?

On deck 11 of the Brilliance was a massive buffet, the Windjammer, that magically morphed from breakfast to lunch to dinner each day, the cherry on our holiday sundae. Below decks there were additional restaurants and specialty cafes; bars and bistros; spas, pools, hot tubs and comfy nooks for sunning; a fitness center and exercise rooms.

A seven-floor atrium was centrally located in the belly of the beast, often filled with music, dancing and a wide assortment of entertainment; surrounded by additional bars, cafes and a mini-shopping mall stocked with high-end jewelry, low-end tchotchkes and, wait for it, duty-free booze!

On decks five and six near the front of the ship, the Pacifica Theatre opened its door each evening for shows featuring the Brilliance of the Seas Orchestra and a gaggle of the most entertaining performers -- Bruce Smirnoff, Greg London, Zoe Tyler -- whose mugs you might spot if you ever google "B" list talent.

That said, I need to add they were a special group, entertainers doing their schtick -- comics, singers, a vintriloquist and juggler. They were, without exception, consummate professionals offering up a perfect way to end each perfect day. I did mention the booze thing, right?

So there I was on my last full day of cruising, the very definition of chilled out -- rested and relaxed and working my way through yet another novel, the third in less than two weeks. I happened to look off in the distance and spotted the sun dipping behind a cloud, then noticed that the Caribbean had gone still.

I was so taken by the moment, that I wandered over to a nearby railing and felt a gentle breeze whipping about the ship. The sea was inexplicably calm, a pristine expanse of water reaching out to the horizon that was preternaturally smooth, rays of golden sunshine mirrored in the quiet deep.

The world, at least for an instant, had become a place of aching beauty, a bit of truth and poetry that, frankly, touched my heart. I'm not a particularly religious sort of guy, but the 23rd Psalm popped into my noggin.

He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul.

A moment later life took hold yet again, filled with the sounds of folks at play, enjoying the day and one another. I returned to my lounge chair, Miss Wendy and Mr. Grisham. And I couldn't help but smile when I realized my biggest decision on this afternoon was deciding whether to order a Margarita or a Piña Colada.

I solved the problem by ordering both!

Bailey turns one and we're all happy, happy, happy!

Say cheese: Bailey all smiles as we celebrate her birthday.

So, here's something worth celebrating: Bailey turns ONE on Friday!

It's been a year since Lauren and Josh called us all -- the waiting and anxious grandparents -- back into their little hospital hide-away and introduced us to the tiny package of pink that would become the center of our universe.

Bailey was quietly regal, I recall, bundled up in a swaddling cloth and already checking out the world with a gleeful look of curiosity and good cheer. I was smitten!

In recent months, the simply being part of early babyhood has given way to a singular personality, a bright and beautiful little girl taking her first tentative steps into this bright and beautiful world. I'm thrilled to report she's mastered cooing and gurgling and moved on to screaming songs of joy; she can point and wave and clap; play peek-a-boo and throw the occasional kiss.

She's added finger foods and other mushy stuff to her diet while managing to slowly lose some of the baby fat that's made her oh-so huggable and lovable! Happily, she continues to sleep through the night, mostly, even though a squadron of teeth are beginning their final assault on her gums. But that's a story for another day.

All of this stretching and growing -- physically, mentally, emotionally -- is hard work for Bailey; but she's done the chore with grace and good cheer. Truth to tell, if I could use only one word to describe her life and attitude, her spiritual essence, it would be "happy."

In fact, it wouldn't surprise me at all if Pharrell Williams was thinking of Bailey when he recorded his iconic, toe-tapping tune that is HAPPY and bright and filled with joyous energy. Okay, it might surprise me a bit; but, hopefully, you get my drift.

To paraphrase Forest Gump's mom, "happy is as happy does ..." And Bailey knows how to do happy! Her winsome smile and infectious laughter is a gift that I can't resist, a balm for everyday woes that never fails to warm my heart.

So it would seem the only thing left to say is Happy, Happy Birthday, Bailey Boo. I can hardly wait to see what the coming year brings. The really good news is whatever happens, I know it will all be good. After all, happy is as happy does!

Code Black: Scary look into our broken healthcare system

The always lovely Miss Wendy and I stumbled onto an interesting film recently in our little corner of the world that was entertaining in a scary and informative sort of way.

Code Black isn't a summer blockbuster, features no caped crusaders, car chases, or scantily clad vixens; and the good guys -- a hearty and wholesome band of emergency room doctors-in-training --  definitely don't always win. After all, the movie is a documentary, not a fantasy.

The film moves along at warp speed, an adrenalin rush of activity focusing on the daily grind inside the emergency room at Los Angeles County Hospital. It's a bustling and happening place, as often as not laboring under a "Code Black," the designation offered up when waiting rooms and treatment bays are spilling over with patients.

It's been said of "C Booth", the hospital's legendary trauma bay, that more people have died and been saved there than any other square footage in the country; death hangs heavily in the air. But, thankfully, so does hope.

Given all the guts and gore splashed across the screen, it would seem likely that the dramatic tension of the film would have to do with the doctoring at the heart of the action. But, no, the documentary gains traction as the filmmakers explore the impact of our anemic economy on healthcare today and the growing bureaucracy that is slowing down the works.

As the needs of the community grow exponentially, one harassed administrator is forced to shutdown a wing of the emergency room for lack of operating funds and the loss of nurses to higher paying jobs at for-profit hospitals.

Meanwhile, patients wait patiently for care while doctors are kept busy filling out paperwork -- requisition slips, medical records, privacy forms and such. It's all a little maddening. One frustrated resident, clearly upset by the misplaced priorities that rule her life, explains she often has only a few minutes to spend with patients, then must spend precious time documenting visits.

During breaks in the action, the soon-to-be physicians share their back stories, hopes and dreams, and worry about the future of medicine.

It would have been easy for the film's producers to take a political stand, weighing in on Obamacare, questioning the high-cost of care and insurance, wagging a metaphorical finger at the senseless and infuriating gridlock that's taken hold in Washington.

But to their credit, the production team steers clear of partisan politics and focuses their energy on examining the day-to-day problems that have become emblematic of a healthcare system in turmoil and the wannabe physicians struggling to hold onto their humanity and youthful idealism.

I'm thinking it's a battle worth paying attention to in a world just slightly out of whack -- and growing whackier by the day!

Singing Hatikvah and finding hope in Israel

Blogger's Note: I came across this column recently, first posted here in 2012, and thought it worth sharing once again. 

IDF soldiers during special ceremony in Jerusalem.

There is much still swirling around my noggin as I process the ups and downs of my most recent journey to Israel earlier this month. What lingers about at the moment is a very special happening during the first week of the trip as I transitioned yet again from flabby civilian to IDF volunteer. I’ll explain.

On this particular morning in early May, I joined with a group of volunteers from around the world – Australia and New  Zealand; Israel, France, Germany, Holland, Russia and Poland; the U.S. and Canada – shuffling about on an asphalt parade ground on a massive IDF base near Tel Aviv.

We were all volunteers for Sar-El, an organization that places people on IDF installations in Israel to help out as needed. Mostly the work is cosmically menial; but it’s work that needs to be done and it releases “real” soldiers to handle more important tasks.

Each morning after rolling out of our bunks in our oh-so spartan quarters, getting cleaned up and dressing in uniforms – yes, we wear IDF-issue outfits; how cool is that – dining on a hearty breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, cheeses, yogurt and all the tomatoes and cucumbers we can scarf down in 30 minutes, we join with a company of young solders for morning flag raising.

On this day, our madrichot – that would be Tamara and Eleanor, our guides and commanders – decide to take the morning ritual to a new level. We’ll not just heft the iconic blue and white banner of the Jewish state into the sky over Tel HaShomer, but also sing Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem.

Hatikvah manages to be both uplifting and melancholy, an anthem that poetically speaks of hope and the Jewish soul, all wrapped up in a musical score of aching beauty. For most Jews, certainly those of us raised on the Zionist dream of a Jewish homeland, the melody rests lightly in our hearts and souls, easily recalled whenever the first mournful notes are played.

The problem is that the words are in Hebrew, a remarkably difficult language to learn – especially for foreign volunteers who are often older than Israel itself. It’s one thing to say hello, shalom, in Hebrew; it’s a bit more rigorous to recall and recite the sophisticated lyrics of the anthem.  

So while a few brave and bilingual volunteers begin singing, the rest of us stumble about, humming the tune and sounding off whenever the word Hatikvah is mentioned. Meanwhile, the company of regular soldiers nearby, young men and women drafted into the IDF and serving out their time as laborers, stare at us in bemused silence, trying to figure out why we’re singing their national anthem.

But like the country itself, there’s something contagious and endearing about Hatikvah, both the words and the melody. The silliness of the effort gradually morphed slowly into a grand effort, the mournful tune giving way to the stirring anthem that has sustained and unified the Jewish people for decades now.

Even some of the young troops are caught up in the moment as together we share the words of the poet Tali Herz Imber, “Our hope is not yet lost, The hope of two thousand years, To be a free people in our land, The land of Zion and Jerusalem.”

I can’t help but think that on this day, if only in a very small way, I’m part of the ancient promise, first whispered to Abraham; a vision that is no longer simply a hope, but today a reality.

Remembering Dad: A lesson in what matters most

Me and my Dad in the early 1950s. 

Blogger's note: This is a column I wrote for the AJC back in 1996. My daughter Lauren has been hocking me for months to post it on my blog. This, then, is for Lauren -- and my Dad.

There's a beautiful story I stumbled across recently that captures something truthful and transcendent about the human condition.

A little girl comes home and tells her mother she's confused.

It seems her Sunday school teacher has told her that God is bigger than we are but manages to live within each of us.

The little girl wonders how this can be. "Wouldn't God break through us?" she asks her mother. Of course, God does "break through" each of us when we're doing Godly things.

Ever notice the joyful look of people working really hard to help other people? Every notice how some people who seemed lost in their own lives find meaning and hope when they reach out to support a friend or stranger?

Helping ourselves by helping others isn't a new belief. It's a concept that is detailed and embraced by most religions around the world and by people of faith who intuitively understand the importance of charity and good deeds. It's a lesson I've been taught since childhood.

That it's taken me years to comprehend says much about my inability to learn things quickly and little about my teacher.

There was a man in my life who attempted to teach me the lessons of giving by example. His life was a constant reaching out. There were big things. Money to charity. Time devoted to civic and religious organizations. Taking care of his wife and children.

But it was the small things that  I remember most, the day-to-day efforts to reach out, to do good, to let God "break through" his life.

An example: It was one of those sultry summer days, hot and humid and threatening to rain. We had stopped at a small market, a mom and pop operation that sold milk, bread and cold drinks. While we talked to the owner, a neighborhood boy -- shirtless and shoeless, wearing only shorts -- came in to buy a drink, reached into one of those slush-filled boxes that were popular in the '50s and pulled out an icy "Co-Cola".

Just as he turned to leave, the bottle slipped and crashed on the floor. The boy froze. He stared at the mess and seemed dazed.

It wasn't till years later that I realized that the dime he had spent that afternoon was probably all the money he had in the world, that there was a good chance he had saved his pennies for a week or more, eagerly anticipating this treat.

My mentor reached over to the drink box, pulled out another bottle of Coke, popped off the cap and handed it to the boy. The youngster held onto the bottle like it was worth its weight in gold.

It was a tiny gesture, certainly devoid of any cosmic import in the overall scheme of things. And yet it speaks to the heart of what we humans are all about when at our best.

My friend and teacher is now 82. He does volunteer work in Columbus, both for the Police Department and for a local hospital.

He stays busy and reaches out to others.

It's a lesson I'm just starting to appreciate.

It's a lesson my father -- William Feinberg, called Bill by family, friends and strangers -- continues to explore in his journey through life.

A footnote: My Dad died in 1997, a year after this column was published. Hundreds of people attended his funeral, many of them there to pay their respects to a man who had touched their lives through his good works. Honorary pallbearers included representatives of the city's police department, where he worked as a volunteer, and Saint Francis hospital where he had logged over 2,000 hours as a volunteer.

Life with Bailey: Short visit turns into grand adventure

Rule No. 1: If Bailey is happy, everyone is happy!

It was a cold and blustery day last January when Bailey, her mom, dad and doggie sisters dropped by for a short visit. Their home had been hit hard by the "arctic vortex" that blew its way across the region, dropping temperatures into the single digits and causing all sorts of weather-related problems.

My daughter and son-in-law's house was temporarily afloat, one little leak spilling gallons of water across much of the main floor. At first glance it seemed a minor, if troubling issue that might take a few days, perhaps a week or so, to fix.

Absolutely no problem, both I and the lovely Miss Wendy figured. Here was a perfect opportunity for all of us to hunker down and weather the storm; spend some quality time with the kids and really get to know Bailey, our precious little granddaughter, up close and personal.

I did mention this all happened last January, right? If you look at a calendar and crunch the numbers, that means we've been together for five months now. The good news is we're all still talking to one another and, even better, this little adventure is nearing its end!

In just a few days, Bailey, her parents and doggie companions will be schlepping back home and Wendy and I will once again become empty nesters! Despite the challenges that come with four adults, a baby and two dogs living in close quarters, I'm thinking it will be a bitter-sweet moment when the gang moves out and the house goes quiet.

The silence will be especially heavy in Bailey's room, filled with a crib and changing table, toys, diapers and the heady, soft scent of a baby. Her yips and yaps, cooing, crying and laughter have become part of the space, hanging lightly in the air and my memory.

It's not often that grandparents get to experience the first steps a newborn takes into the world -- eyes focusing, rolling about, sitting up and reaching out for sounds and colors. But Wendy and I have watched with expectant glee as Bailey mastered all these little things, her babyish ways ever so slowly morphing into what has become her unique personality.

What lingers around heavily at the moment is the soliloquy she offers up some mornings, a quiet cooing that spills lightly into joyous squeals, signaling the start of a new day. I've lain awake in my bed, watching the early-morning shadows march across the ceiling and, filled with contentment, listened to her soaring song.

A moment later, standing at her crib, I've watched Bailey glance about and, spotting me and whoever else has the morning watch, break into a smile that never fails to warm my heart. Find a way to package such innocence and spread it about, and the curse of cynicism would be vanquished from the world.

And so it's on this cosmic note that I choose to remember this bit of life, an adventure that I'm thinking we'll be sharing for years to come. The story will most always begin on a melancholy note, "do you remember back in 2014 ..." And at least for a moment we'll recall the donuts and fleas, web connections and Sesame Street, stacks of laundry, shared meals and walks around the neighborhood.

But mostly I'll recall Bailey's soaring song and the morning smile that filled my world.

"Miss Wendy" moving on to exciting new chapter in her life

A wonderful life: Bubbe and Bailey creating new memories

It was way back in the early 1980s when the lovely Miss Wendy opened a special door that will be closing on a euphonic, if melancholy note next week.

We had just moved to East Cobb and our daughter Lauren was starting pre-school at the JCC. Back then the school was housed at Congregation Etz Chaim, the synagogue that we stumbled across shortly after moving into this little corner of the world.

Wendy, being Wendy, got to know the teachers and administrators at the school quickly, so it didn't come as a surprise when I learned that she would be joining the staff as a part-time worker. Actually, it all made sense.

For a decade or so, Wendy had worked in various offices doing mostly secretarial chores. It was decent work but, well, not really a career. That all changed the first time she sat in a classroom surrounded by a group of youngsters, held up a book of colorful pictures and created a story that both entertained and enlightened the children.

The lovely Miss Wendy had found her calling.

As Lauren got older and moved on to elementary school, the part-time gig became a full-time job. Over the years Wendy worked with just about every age group, helping youngsters find their way as they took their first tentative steps into the world.

She continued her important work in the summers as a camp counselor, eventually becoming a director of one of the JCC programs at Shirley Blumenthal Park. And then she blinked.

Now, nearly three decades of work spread out from there to here, a bit of time filled with the stuff of life -- playing and learning, laughter, tears and memories.

Hundreds of young students -- many part of her legion of "teddy bears" -- have made their way through her classroom, learning their letters and numbers, stories about a fella named Waldo and a warrior named Judah, songs and dances and how to make matzo. They've also learned important lessons about how to get along with one another from a woman who's lived her life smoothing out rough corners with a joyful heart and a constant smile that most always lightens the heaviest load.

And here's just one way Wendy can measure her success. Walk along with her into any shop, restaurant, grocery store or park, movie theater or synagogue, and within moments her students -- many now  grown with children of their own, others just a year or two removed from her class -- spot "Miss Wendy" and most always offer up a warm hello, a few words of shared memories and, occasionally, a little embrace followed by words of thanks.

I'm the guy standing nearby, the one who is occasionally greeted as "Mr. Wendy." And although I often roll my eyes and tap my feet impatiently, the truth is that I couldn't be prouder of my wife and what she accomplished in a world that was once unfamiliar, but now is partly defined by her personality and good work.

For Wendy it's time to retire and move on to new adventures; time to create more memories, especially as a Bubbe. But "Miss Wendy" and the children she taught and loved will always be part of her life, warm thoughts that she can embrace in the golden years of her life.  

Bailey Update: Six months and counting!

Bailey, Bubbe and Pops share a special moment together.

My daughter Lauren is so excited that her daughter Bailey is now six months young that she's pulled together a video to celebrate. Truth to tell, I'm pretty darn excited myself. If you need a little smile and want to celebrate along with us, click on this link: Happy birthday (sort of) Bailey!

It's been an exciting adventure so far. Bailey is wiggling about, holding herself up, mostly, turning over a bit and starting to chow down on real food -- finally!

There has been a little playing about with sleep. After only a month or so, Bailey was sleeping through the night. For whatever reason, a few weeks ago she started waking up before the sun peeked over the horizon. So Lauren has tweaked the feeding schedule and we're almost back to a full night's sleep. Can I get an amen out there!

Meanwhile, as some of you know, Bailey, her parents and doggie sisters, are spending quality time with me and Bubbe. There was a little frozen pipe problem back in early January that forced Bailey and her folks out of their home. So we've all been living the good life together.

There's nothing like waking up to a baby yelling for breakfast each morning, especially when she offers up a morning smile that will melt your heart.

Happy half-birthday, Bailey. And just think, only another six months and you'll be ONE!

Mother Nature thows an icy punch; we battle back!

Lauren and I finally make it home!

So the plan last week was to take a few days and visit the Big Apple; eat our way across Manhattan, attend a few Broadway shows, do a little shopping and enjoy some wintry weather.

We managed all the things we could control -- food, shows and shopping. But Mother Nature held on to all the white and fluffy stuff that we were hoping would turn the area into a winter wonderland. Turns out you really shouldn't fool around with Mother Nature.

She decided to follow us back to the Land of Cotton and unleash her wintry bag of tricks. It's been frigid the last few days in my little corner of the world and today all the white and fluffy stuff we were hoping to spot in New York is covering the ground here.

My neighborhood certainly looks like a winter wonderland, but a few inches of snow in the deep south causes all sorts of problems, especially when it turns to ice. The entire region is in gridlock at the moment, major highways and thoroughfares, boulevards and secondary roads filled with vehicles quickly going nowhere!

My daughter Lauren, a teacher in Cobb County, headed home when school officials called it quits in the early afternoon. The 20-minute commute took at least three hours and she ended up abandoning her car in a church parking lot about a mile from our house.

I trekked through the ice and snow -- now there's a phrase I don't use very often -- to meet Lauren on the last leg of her journey. Together we slogged through the wet and chilly stuff, working our way around slippery spots and the occasional car that had lost its battle with the elements.

In fact, just a block from our neighborhood, we came upon a sedan that was inching its way around a particularly treacherous curve in the road, its wheels spinning on a carpet of ice. Somewhat foolishly we volunteered to push the car over a slick spot in the road. It's a battle we lost. A moment later the car and its driver were in a nearby ditch. 

I'm pretty sure there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of cars in ditches across the metro area or abandoned on highways that, for the moment, have become expansive and chilly parking lots. Thousands of folks are stuck where they are, hunkered down and hoping to make it through the night.

So I'm really happy to report that everyone in my family has made it home. We just had a splendid dinner -- thanks, Josh -- and my granddaughter Bailey has been fed, diapered and is fast asleep in a warm and toasty room.

This, then, is my long and windy way to simply announce that Mother Nature might have won a few skirmishes on this cold and chilly day. But I'm thinking, at least for the moment, we won the battle!

Pastrami, focaccia and babka -- oh my!

Like all things Italian? Then you'll want to visit Eataly!

The lovely Miss Wendy and I decided recently we needed a brisk winter break from the Land of Cotton. So earlier this month we took a trip up north for a tiny taste of the Big Apple.

Truth to tell, we enjoy a bit of snow and a wintry chill -- at least for a few days. That's why we're willing to venture into Manhattan in January. There's something special about the area when the temperature plunges into the teens and snow falls gently across Manhattan.

Unfortunately, during this most recent trip it wasn't white stuff falling from the sky but a wintry mix of rain and sleet. No matter. We still managed to nosh our way through several delis in Midtown, enjoy two Broadway musicals -- Motown: The Musical and Kinky Boots -- stroll about the East Village on a food tour and make our annual pilgrimage to Zabar's to stock up on babkas. Can you say yummy!

Oh, we also visited The Jewish Museum to take in a special exhibit featuring the iconic work of Marc Chagall and, just as memorable, dropped by Max Brenner in Union Square for a cup of splendid hot chocolate.

I could easily pause and whisper Dayenu at this point, agreeing with the Passover ditty that, yes, this is all enough. But what lingers in my mind at the moment is the hour Wendy and I spent at Eataly, a specialty market on Fifth Avenue featuring a cornucopia of goodies to whet the appetite and soothe the soul.

The expansive space -- it's sort of an IKEA for the stomach -- is filled with a rich assortment of goodies, all with an Italian accent. It covers just this side of 50,000 square feet and includes pastas and grain products, chocolates and sweets, bread, pastries and other such delights, meats, poultry and fish, a wide assortment of wines and, of course, an entire corner devoted to olive oil!

Food and beverage stations are strategically placed around the perimeter, offering up delightful aromas that both tingle and tease the senses. If there's a problem, it comes with simply trying to get from here to there, pushing through the crowds of locals and tourists that fill the market throughout the day in search of a tasty treat.

It's a battle worth fighting! After all, to the victor goes the spoils. For Wendy and me that meant we walked away with a veggie sandwich: a tasty garden delight nestled between two hearty slices of focaccia, and a cup of bourbon chocolate gelato!

A day later we were back home, feasting at least for one evening on all the left-over goodies -- pastrami from the Carnegie Deli and babka from Zabar's; a bit of focaccia and a huge case of indigestion. 

Turns out the really good news is we were warm and snug back in the Land of Cotton. Two days after leaving New York, yet another blast of arctic air spilled across New England and the wintry mix we had slogged through turned to snow -- lots of snow!

I'm thinking if our little winter adventure had been a day or two later I'd now be writing about our miserable delay at LaGuardia, and the delights and surprises of Eataly and Broadway would only be fading footnotes.

Mother Nature shouts “BOO”, but Bailey is safe and happy

Despite the weather, Lauren and Bailey are all smiles!

I think one of the perks of being a Pops is that one day down the road Bailey will make her way over to my house and her Bubbe and I will have a grand sleepover with our beautiful granddaughter.

We’ll build a little castle of sheets and towels that will spill across the living room and play hide-and-seek around the house, then drink hot chocolate and watch cartoons into the night. I’m a little exhilarated and exhausted just thinking about it all.

That said, thanks to Mother Nature our chance to bond with Bailey in such a Norman Rockwell fashion has given way to stark reality. For the last week or so Bailey, now an aging newborn of three months, has been living out her babyish days and nights with Bubbe and me.

She comes with an entourage – her mom, dad and two doggie sisters: Maggie and Ella Rufus!
The temporary move was made after a blast of artic air gripped the Land of Cotton, just about the same time as one of the furnaces at Bailey’s home decided to call it quits. Bailey and her mom bundled up and settled in with us while her dad remained home – an oh-so chilly but necessary decision. Hey, somebody had to watch the dogs!

A short two days later and the cold snap played itself out. Bailey and her mom headed home. What they stumbled into when they reached their house had them – Bailey, her mom, dad and the dogs – all momentarily reeling and in search of sanctuary.

I’ll explain.

The cold snap apparently whirled about Lauren and Josh’s home – that would be my daughter and son-in-law – and lingered around a few vulnerable pipes in a back bathroom. Need I say more?

When Lauren walked into the family room she heard a bit of static coming from a couple of speakers – never a good omen – then saw that a nearby hallway had become a watery canal. Yikes! Several inches of water covered all the nearby rooms, turning the newly installed carpeting – a little gift of welcome for Bailey in early October – into a soggy mess.

The static Lauren had heard was just a tiny taste of the pop and sizzle playing out as Mother Nature fried all the high-tech gizmos filling the house – computers, routers and lots of wiring connecting a state-of-the-art sound system, flat screen TVs, digital lighting and expansive security system.

That’s a long and windy way to say the gizmos and other stuff are mostly toast today. But, fortunately, there’s always tomorrow.

That’s where we’re all headed right now, neatly bundled up together in Pops and Bubbe’s home; warm and comfy and waiting for repairs. Okay, we’re a little pressed for space and there’s a little bumping into one another now and again.

But we’re all taking it a day at a time and, the good news, at least for me and the lovely Miss Wendy, we now have that opportunity to have a grand time with our new granddaughter in an up close and personal way.

No, we’re not building castles out of sheets or sharing warm cups of cocoa with Bailey – yet! We’re doing something better. It’s called life. It begins around 7 each morning when Bailey quietly announces that she’s up and ready to start the day.

She’s generally all scrunched up, her tiny legs flailing about as she searches for her thumb. If we’re lucky – and most mornings we are – she offers up a welcoming smile and a bit of baby gibberish that never fails to warm my heart.

The bulk of the day is a mixture of handling mundane needs – feeding, burping, and changing diapers – along with fun and games; lots of rocking and singing, tummy time and soothing walks around the neighborhood. Do this simple stuff just right and Bailey offers up a reward.

Often it’s just a contented sigh, her tiny hand resting lightly on my cheek or tugging at my finger; occasionally it’s the contentment I feel watching her eyelids grow oh-so heavy as I rock her in my arms and she falls ever so lightly into a gentle sleep.

Truth to tell, it’s a wondrous and symbiotic relationship.

Lauren, Josh, Bubbe and me – and let’s not forget Janice and Steve, our machatunim – are all working together to take care of Bailey’s needs. For her part, Bailey then satisfies our collective need that she be safe and happy.

So despite the watery mess that Mother Nature tossed our way, despite the close quarters and the little “gift” Maggie left on our hallway carpet – I did mention the two dogs, right – all is good.

At the moment the house is quiet. Lauren and Josh are resting in the guest room, Maggie at the foot of their bed; Bubbe is asleep and Ella is regally plopped next to her, comfy on my pillow; and in the room that was once my own little girl’s, my granddaughter is now safe and happy and floating in a dream.

In a couple of days or a couple of weeks the watery mess that is Bailey’s house will be fully repaired; warm and dry and home once again. And here’s the really good news. Years from now, I’m thinking, we’ll be talking and laughing about the “Arctic Vortex” of 2014 and the grand adventure that brought us all together in a very special way.