Shrieks of laughter emanate from Rich’s office. High pitched voices interrupt one another vying for attention. I hear splashing, squealing, complaining and taunting. The sounds of children playing. Our children. Long, long ago. A smile travels across my face.

Rich is finally tackling the long avoided task of converting all our old family video tapes to digital format. Just finding the equipment to do it was a challenge. He searched hard before finding an outdated working VCR player on eBay, and installed a conversion software kit on his PC. He then hauled in the huge box of tapes that has been hibernating in our garage. But that was just the tip of the iceberg.

This conversion requires playing each tape, one by one. The drama is displayed in a small square on his computer screen complete with sound, while the software creates a digital file. Miniature Karens, Carls and Eriks parade across the screen – playing, blowing out birthday candles, building forts in the woods at the cabin, throwing sand out of the sandbox, and singing. The stuff that makes up a young family’s life.

We didn’t own a video camera for years. Instead, we’d rent a massive camcorder from the video store and let it roll all weekend long just capturing ordinary life with kids. The bad as well as the good, the tantrums along with the tender moments. Sometimes there were guest appearances. “Oh look whose here now!” Rich yells from his office, and I go in to see my parents or his – looking young and lively, poignant as they have long since passed. Or our beloved long-term day care provider, the kids’ cousins, our Czech daughter. It’s a treasure-trove of memories.

Day after day these scenes play as Rich works his way through the box. The cheery voices get older and younger again as he grabs tapes in random order. But that’s not all that strikes me.

Rich usually did the filming with an animated running commentary throughout the action. I’d appear on camera with the kids, or as a voice in the background. And occasionally I’d take over to capture Rich with the kids. Our voices sound younger too. And there is an element of playfulness, of engagement with the kids, of a lively family life. One I’d forgotten existed.

We’ve been on our own for years now, having launched our three grown children and adopting the good life as retirees. We’ve become accustomed to our well ordered life, with plenty of time to indulge our own passions, often out and about individually all day long and reconnecting over dinner.

And then came Covid, topped by Rich’s heart condition. Life narrowed. Social contact shriveled. Travel ceased.

As Covid drones on and Rich slowly recovers, I have begun to feel that the joy of life has been sucked out of me. That hunkering down and withdrawing from the world has dampened my lust for life. That I may even be getting accustomed to the small circle we have drawn around our sphere of activity. The quiet nights at home, drawn into the lives of British or Australian TV series.

Spending time with my kids and grandkids only seems to reinforce this feeling. Their vibrant family lives feel in such contrast to my own. I do my best to soak up the giggles and the snuggles. To relish playing games, building with Legos, concocting Paw Patrol rescues and reading aloud. To find time to connect one-on-one with my kids and let their resourcefulness inspire me.

Hearing Rich and me on those tapes brings it all back. We too were fun-loving parents at one time. We played with our kids, engaged with them on their level and had great adventures together. I am heartened by this evidence. And I hear its message reinforced with each tape that plays through Rich’s computer, sending its voices out to find me.

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I can’t help but wonder where the playfulness has gone? When did we get so serious? Is this what happens when you grow old? My spirit rebels, knowing it doesn’t have to be this way. I will fight back.

It didn’t take any coaxing. I responded to the job opening in a flash.

Needed: One School Marm, to oversee two grade schoolers in distance learning

I was hired on the spot.

The need was in my daughter Karen’s home, when a medical emergency interrupted their carefully planned arrangements. Their oldest two children in grades 3 and 4 were well accustomed to the drill of their remote school room, yet still needed supervision while she and her husband were at work. It wasn’t hard to commit to spending the week with my grandkids.

To date, I had only heard about distance learning from teachers, media and hearsay. This was the first time I engaged with it first-hand. To students Ben and Mya it was all old hat by now, their routine well-honed. They knew their schedules well, they were the ones leading me through their myriad Google-meets, videos, live instruction and breakout sessions. I watched as they unmuted and muted their computers to speak in class, raised their white boards to the screen to show answers to math problems and juggled with classmates on a screen full of faces.

I marveled at how easily they embraced the technology, whipping between tabs, logins, and online resources. Like the kids that they are, they sucked it up easily and took it in stride. On the other side of the screen, I had to marvel at the teachers. How they tailored their lessons to the electronic age, leveraged resources on the web and still managed to engage their students one-on-one by name in the grid of faces in their virtual classroom. My admiration grew for this resourceful set of adults, faced with the unthinkable and rising to occasion, teaching under conditions they never dreamed possible.

When gym time came I followed Ben to the basement, chromebook under his arm, where he set himself up with a jump rope, balls and shopping bags. Shopping bags? Not all students have access to gym equipment or space at home, but one ingenious instructor created workout videos based on doing moves while throwing plastic bags into the air. It required as much dexterity and coordination as any fancy athletic routine, but with less chance of knocking over any lamps.

All kids procrastinate, doodle and play around during the school day. They wouldn’t be kids if they didn’t. Under this new regime, I watched Mya carefully select the colors and font for her text as she composed answers to her reading assignment. I rolled my eyes as she insisted on drawing the question numbers instead of typing them, erasing and redrawing until she got them just right. All that took far longer than actually coming up with her answers. But I had to admire her computer skills.

While the technology is new, the subjects haven’t changed much. I sat with Ben as he worked through the steps of long division, over and over again until he had it down pat. I read poems with Mya and listened to her answers when she was asked to analyze the poems, look for metaphors and similes, and compare their messages. I learned about open vowels, reviewed the use of commas and how to construct a timeline. We read stories together and answered comprehension questions.

Since I was a live-in aid, we found time for extracurricular activities as well. Before school became cooking time, resulting in mounds of mini banana chocolate chip muffins that fueled us through the next two school days. After school, Karen, Ben and I took to the ski trails. Donning headlamps, we skied under the lights and then ventured beyond to ski the quieter, dark unlit trails. It was a welcome release after being in the house all day.

Despite being highly self-sufficient, the kids seemed to thrive on having someone close by as we traveled through each day together. Someone to answer their questions, to help with explanations and just reassure them that they were doing it right. I felt needed and relished the closeness of our days together, our joint mission. Since I live several hours away, it was a rare opportunity to get to know them better.

I never aspired to be a teacher – I knew I didn’t have the right genes for that. But I can be a good old-fashioned School Marm.

It was a Baptism unlike all others. Planned for Easter Sunday, our grandson was to be baptized with both Carl and Chelsea’s families in full attendance. But it was quickly derailed by the arrival of COVID-19. As the months went by, the likelihood of gathering continued to dwindle, and baby Crosby quickly outgrew the heirloom gown he was going to wear (handmade for my dad 106 years ago). With his first birthday rapidly advancing, new plans were laid. And then re-planned with the ever-changing landscape of COVID.

Careful precautionary measures were put in place. The ceremony would take place outdoors, on the shores of Lake Michigan. Chelsea’s family would arrive a few days beforehand and celebrate the birthday and baptism together. Our family would stay afterwards, for a second round of festivities. We would only meet at the baptism, separated by distance and masks.

It all sounded as safe as possible, combined with staying in an AirBnB where we could retreat to our own space. But soon even those arrangements increased in risk. Rich’s recent open heart surgery put him in a new class of vulnerability. In his weakened condition, was it wise to drive to Milwaukee, where the COVID rates were far higher than home? Should we be gathering with family, even at a distance?

I didn’t want to face the decision. Forging ahead, I poured my heart into creating a new baptismal gown for Crosby. I chose sturdier (and warmer) wedding gown satin in place of Dad’s delicate fabric. Replicating the inset lace took some googling for instructions, but I relished recreating the slanted lace decoration on the skirt, then added it to the sleeves for good measure. Sewing fed my soul and was a welcome diversion from coronary woes.

As the date approached, so did apprehension, but holding it at bay in favor of family unity we made the journey. As if to smile with favor on the plans, God delivered a beautiful morning for the baptism – brisk November air with deep blue skies mirrored in Lake Michigan’s waters, sunshine radiating limited warmth and infinite light.

Well bundled to ward off the chill and masked against COVID, the baptism proceeded. No church would have been more sacred. No ceremony more holy. No congregation more thankful to be present. We all bore witness to God’s love and acceptance.

The ceremony complete, we moved to Carl and Chelsea’s front yard where the sun lingered and so did we. It lasted long enough to savor the morning and its significance among those we love.

Soon afterward, the weather turned windy, wet and stormy as if to close the chapter on the baptism. Rich and I retreated to the seclusion of our AirBnB, where he rested and remained segregated from the rest of the clan. But as the afternoon waned, I returned briefly for one more occasion – Crosby’s first birthday. Documented with pictures and a full report for Rich.

We have all been inspired to inventiveness throughout this year of COVID. It’s not over yet, and we will continue to be challenged to find ways to celebrate yet remain safe. Surely this was one for the family history books.