A Sneak Preview of a chapter from Geometry

Chapter 18 - Rocking The Babies Goodbye

The Germans are proud of their beer. The world is proud of Germany’s beer. The gods of wine and beer are proud of Germany’s beer. And every little town has its own brewery. The smallest, most dilapidated brewery in Germany could still make a better beer than any giant beer corporation in the U.S. The Germans had been making beer long before Columbus was ever born, and long before he had ever approached Ferdinand and Isabella about the possibility of sailing west. The King and Queen probably sent Columbus off with a whole case of German beer, Carol was certain. A huge party, like all the “hails and farewells” she was having to attend all the time.

“Ahhh, those Germans. Their beer is good, yes my queen?”

“The best, Ferdinand. The best. Ahhh…there he is, the guest of honour. Chris! Come here, I bid you.”

“Your Grace,” he bowed, “I must declare again how deeply indebted I am to the mercy and benevolence of your Worship, to that of the King as well, for bestowing upon me the great honour of sailing on this journey for the noble and righteous flag of Spain.”

“Right. Chris, do they have beer like this in Italy?”

“No, Your Highness. The Germans have a way.”

“Very well then, you shall have a case of German beer aboard all of your ships for the merriment of your officers and crew.”

“Your charity is most highly treasured by me, your humble servant. But can we make it a couple of cases, Your Majesty?”

Carol had heard about the beer. Everyone had heard about the beer. She knew the time would come, but that didn’t make it any easier. Her kids were going to try the beer. Her babies. She’d talked to other parents whose children had had a rough time of it in Germany;, kids whose resistance to peer-pressure was not as strong as her own children’s, she was sure. But still, if you put teenagers in a situation where a substance that was formerly off-limits to them both socially and legally was suddenly accepted, how much peer-pressure would it take?

Carol wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but she knew the German beer went down smoother and tasted better than the stuff she had first tried and hated back in college. Everyone tried it at about the age of 17 or 18, whenever they went away to college. And they usually hated it. Bitter and heavily carbonated. Only the ones who kept at it could develop a taste for it. She had never bothered. She made the switch to wine. And Stan, being a pilot, was more of a martini man. And he agreed, the beer would be a tough one for Alan and Karen to resist.

“Well, honey, they won’t be kids forever. Part of growing up. Maybe we should just buy them a couple of beers and set them in front of them at dinner,” Stan wasn’t joking.

“No. That would send the wrong message,” Carol wouldn’t hear of it.

“They see my martinis, they see your wine. They’ve seen all of the men and ladies knockin’ em back at the parties. They will try it, honey, no question. I am suggesting we take away the taboo nature of it for them. Let them know that we understand they’re going to try it.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Stan, but it’s still the wrong message,” Carol walked into the kitchen.

Ever since they were babies she was having to let the rope out a little longer. Just enough to let them know they were their own people. At first it was weaning them from the breast. Then it was taking away the pacifier. Then it was getting rid of the walker, the baby shoes, the tricycles. Then it was allowing them to fight. To fall down. To get beat up once, in Alan’s case. To allow them to fail and to get back up again, and always to be there when they fell. Paula away at college had a few threads of rope remaining, mostly made of money. It was a never-ending process, loosening the apron strings. And it never got any easier. It had always been a hard thing to do.

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Carol felt like a bad mother whenever she had to take them there. She didn’t care much for the Post Nursery. All those sniffling and screaming children cooped up with underpaid and overworked women in white uniforms, some of them Black, trying to maintain order. But it was necessary sometimes for all the little coffees and luncheons and teas that she was required to attend. Maybe not required, but if you didn’t go, you certainly weren’t helping your husband’s career. And so it was a twinge of heaviness that she brought her three children to the Ft. Benning nursery for an afternoon. Little Karen was 4 months old. Her first trip to the nursery.

Nan, or Nana as all the kids called her, only filled in part-time when things were busy or someone was sick. She was getting old and hadn’t worked full-time in years. But with Leon passed on and not a lot of things holding her at the house, she was glad to answer whenever they called for her to fill in at the Post Nursery, which was easily three times a week lately. There was a lot going on at Ft. Benning these days, what with Vietnam gearing up and all the boys being sent through with their families.

She’d always been great with kids and the post kids were special to her. Poor little babies, she thought. Always moving and getting shuffled around. Her own boy had moved his family out to Seattle to work at Boeing and wanted her to join them. She didn’t want to move and she felt sorry for anyone who had to. She liked her friends and her church and her life there in Columbus. She wasn’t ready to give it up and move all the way across the country. Maybe later, when she got too old to take care of herself. But right now, she had things to do and people she loved in Georgia. Poor little babies.

“Look at those beautiful babies!” Nana greeted Carol at the Dutch door to the area where the infants were.

Holding Karen while Paula and Alan toddled behind holding each other’s hands, Carol was glad to see that it was a grandmotherly type that would be with her baby.

“This is Karen. She’ll need a bottle right away and she doesn’t like to be wet for any longer than about 15 seconds. If she starts to cough, you’ll need to flip her over like this and gently rub right here, maybe tap just a little between her shoulder-blades. And after she eats, she may spit-up a little, so I brought this extra towel here. It’s her favorite.” Carol laughed nervously when she noticed Nana’s expression. “I’m sorry. I’m Carol. You have kids?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Nan. Kids call me Nana. Your little Karen is safe, honey. You go on. Don’t you worry, Carol. Your other two need to go down there to the where the bigger kids are.”

Nana watched as Carol walked the hallway with her other two. Poor woman. Three little kids and she isn’t maybe 25 years old herself. Just a girl. Just like that last mama who dropped her little boy in here, two little girls in tow. That was one of her jobs. Take the babies and send the toddlers down the hall. And it seemed to Nana that all the post mamas were just girls. And it seemed they all had a slew of kids.

Carol poked her head back in the Dutch door after getting Alan and Paula situated with some Legos and Tinkertoys and explaining their idiosyncrasies to the toddler area staff.

“She’s doin’ good, Carol. You go on,” Nana called out with smile from a rocker in the corner, feeding Karen the bottle.

Nan thought it was her duty, her mission, to love little kids. She knew they liked it, and it sure didn’t do her any harm. And they want to pay me to do what I do anyway, love children? She wished she still had her grandchild nearby. He was a teenager and getting big and sassy. She worried if her son and his wife were watching him the way she could. Probably not. Oh, they were good parents, good as they come, but no one does it like a grandma. Especially a grandma who sees it as her mission.

“You all done, girl?” Nana wiped the baby’s mouth and pulled out the towel Carol had sent with her just in time for Karen to spit-up on it.

“Well, I guess it is your favorite towel, huh baby?” Nana laughed.

Nana looked into her eyes. She liked to send love to the babies through her eyes while she wondered about them. What future is yours, girl? Where you goin’ next? Little Georgia baby. Little Army baby. You got a lot of travelin’ to do yet before your boy of a Daddy and your girl of a Mama ever get out of this. Oh, Lord, watch this little baby girl of yours. Poor little Army baby. Well, at least your mama loves you, I can see that.

The boy who had come in at the start of Nan’s shift was jabbering in a crib. He was probably nine months old, she guessed, judging by the way he was trying to pull himself up on the rails of the crib and falling down and looking around.

“Babah!” the little boy looked at Nana.

“Yes, boy! Good! That’s a baby! You’re right. You a smart little guy. Like you so old that you can go around callin’ someone a baby!” Nana loved these babies. They can't talk back yet. Now's the time to show them what love is, before they can get sassy and you have to start telling them what love is. Now, she could show them.

“Come here, you,” Nana balanced Karen on her hip with one arm while she scooped up the boy from his crib with the other and returned to her rocker in the corner.

“You babies need a song, don’t you?” Nana looked up and waited for something to sing. She usually sang a quiet hymn or a chorus from church. Nothing rousing to startle the little ones, but one of the softer ones that always worked to put them down.

“I know. See how you like this one,” Nana didn’t care that her voice wasn’t that good. She knew it wasn’t that good. Leon even used to tell her it wasn’t that good. But that never stopped her singing. And she hadn’t met a baby yet that wanted her to be quiet. Even her grandson liked it still and one time almost got his mouth popped when he’d told Grandpa Leon to be quiet while Grandma was singing.

And she rocked them gently as she sang softly in the voice that every child loved.

There’s a hole in the clouds - I saw blue up there - somewhere there is sun

It will be clear - soon down here - the rain is almost gone

She liked how the babies always looked at her when she sang. They were getting it. The love. Poor little Gypsy babies.. Little Army babies. Hope someone sings like this to you wherever you go. Baby’s got to have music. Baby needs a song. ‘Specially a gypsy baby. Oh, Lord, watch these little babies of yours.

There’s a breeze stirs the clouds - there’s a change out there - somewhere skies are blue

They will be here - soon, I hear - the sun will shine on you

In no time their little eyes were closing slowly as they looked up at her and to the ceiling. And when they were finally out, Nana couldn’t stop singing. She wanted the music to go into their little minds while they slept, to keep them at perfect peace. She slowly let her voice trail off and fade away and watched as they adjusted in their sleep to the newness of no singing. The little boy’s brow went down for a moment and the little girl’s fists clenched for a second.

Nan got up from the rocker with a graceful motion forward that anyone could tell was practiced and perfected. A seventy year old woman doesn’t get up from a rocker with two babies by herself unless she’s been doing it a while. Smooth and fluid. And the babies never even noticed. She laid them in a crib along a wall that was painted with a mural of Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck in military uniforms, carrying rifles.

“Thanks, Nan. Was he good?” the young Army wife was asking as Nan passed him over the Dutch door.

“Oh, he’s always good, Becky, you don’t have to ask that everytime,” Nan laughed.

“You say that about all the babies, Nan.” Becky laughed.

“Babah!” the boy was reaching out to the crib where he’d been sleeping.

“OK, John. We’ll get you a bottle,” Becky smiled at her boy as she said goodbye to Nan.

She’ll be alright, Nan could tell. She loves her babies. Still, the poor girl, Nan thought. She don’t speak baby very well. She’s too young yet herself.

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