“Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Good night, Ben.”
“Good night, Jim-Bob.”
“Good night, Mary Ellen.”
“Good night, John-Boy.”

Every night. Their lives seemed so attuned to a common, simple rhythm that they even retired at the same time, observed a ritual benediction on the day and presumably fell asleep.

Okay, so it was the Great Depression and rural Virginia. But really?

I remember watching those stories—all of them, I’m sure—and listening to the mellifluous voice of Earl Hamner, Jr. as he set the stage for each episode and then tied a ribbon on the evening’s message. After all, those were Mr. Hamner’s memories we were observing. It all seemed so idyllic, so straightforward, so achievable.

Perhaps it is simply another testament of the power of memory to cast a gauzy haze of golden light over the most mundane events of our lives. If that is the case, then I’m ready to throw some gauze over the current events of our lives in order to soften some of the harsher edges.

You see, we had this precise time-table for a sequence of events. The planned denouement was the post-retirement move into our new home in Liberty Lake, Washington on April 1. Understanding the importance of managing all the moving parts with a focus on the final objective, we put our home on the market in February. It sold in six days. What followed is not particularly interesting. But the upshot was that our new home would not be ready until late July, and we needed to vacate our Kingston home by May 31. So we are now living in a multi-generational home with one of our sons, his wife and their 2 week old baby boy, another of our daughters and her three children. Count us! Where there were two, there are now nine!

Jimmy is the fifth of our six children. He came along four years after his next oldest sibling Katie and 8 years before his youngest sister Molly. Jimmy never really approved of our parenting. I know that doesn’t sound too unusual. Most kids think their parents are uncool.

But with Jimmy, it was something different. He behaved as though we had failed the test—or worse, that we hadn’t even shown up for the classes. We were simply inadequate to the task at hand. He wanted structure in his life. So when he was eight, and his little sister came along, he had zero confidence in our ability to care for her. As the only competent member of the family, he was reluctant to go to school (as a second-grader) and leave his little sister in the sole care of his marginally competent parents. It was only much later we learned that this behavior was clinical.

Long since, our son has become a man grown. He is married to a beautiful young woman, and they love each other. They also love order. Their counters are always polished. Their floors are always vacuumed. Their laundry is always folded. It’s unnatural. And this is where fate has flung us.

When our children left home, Becky and I were reminded that we are, in fact, tidy people. We were surprised by the ambient neatness that settled on our home when we were alone. But apparently we make allowances for grandchildren and crowds generally. Furthermore, living out of a suitcase does not promote order. The whole air of impermanence discourages the kind of thoughtful arranging that makes possible the everything-in-its-place kind of life style.

When we arrived on the scene, Jim and Carli were expecting their first baby. They had purchased every baby contraption available from Amazon and Craig’s list—most of which vibrate and chirp. Our first child (Jim’s older sister) slept in a drawer. But not our grandson Emmett.

So, where Jim and Carli had been living as a hip, twenty-first century couple, now they have a new baby, a set of grandparents and assorted aunts, uncles and cousins coming and going and beaucoup paraphernalia under foot. Their lives will never be the same. And that makes me smile.

When I look back on these weeks through the gauzy, golden haze of memory, I will be grateful to have enjoyed such a great vantage point for this wondrous time in the lives of our son and daughter-in-law. Even now, and even though not very much about it feels “normal” (whatever that means), it is all pretty marvelous.

“Good night, Grampa.”

“Good night, dear Emmett.”