Jan Galletta

My Life at 58

My older son and daughter-in-law recently moved five doors down from my husband, Fred, and me. Now, I'm torn between ecstasy at their proximity and the apprehension of knowing that the senior Gallettas will surely make pests of ourselves.

Mere minutes after Joe and Nicole signed the house contract, Fred was gleefully percolating with plans. He told them, "Living this close together is going to be soooo great.

"You can honk whenever you pass our house. We can all carpool to work. And when the leaves fall off the trees, we can see right into your bedroom from our house."

What put a gleam in my eye was their plan to store belongings in our garage before the house-closing date to make an easier job of the final moving-in. I figured this would give me an opportunity to smuggle over some extra boxes filled with stuff they'd earlier declined but that I still wanted to unload.

On the downside, I realized Joe and Nicole probably won't sleep at our house after midnight mass on Christmas Eve, as they have since they've been married. They might even want the stockings Fred embroidered with their names to hang on the new house's fireplace mantel, instead of on our buffet.

"Are you nuts?" said Fred. "Christmas was about the ONLY time we saw our parents all year. If Joe and Nicole have children, we may get to baby-sit pretty often. Plus we'll see more of Nicole's family."

As so rarely happens, Fred was right. Because we've spent our married life 500 and 600 miles away from the places we grew up, there were generation gaps to go along with the geographical gulf.

Our sets of parents only met each other twice before they died. Fred and I already have vacationed with Nicole's family several times without even having the under-40-year-olds along as chaperones.

Recently, I asked my younger son what he remembered about my father, who died when Peter was 8. About the only recollection he had was of a duck nest with eggs my father had discovered while they were on a park outing.

His most vivid memory of Fred's mother, who died the following year, was the perfume of spaghetti sauce that permeated her house during our infrequent stays.

Nice memories but not as numerous as the ones Fred and I have from each having lived with our grandparents for several years as children. Even now, he can describe what neckties his grandpa wore on different days of the week.

I never see a spool of thread without thinking of my nightly routine as a preschooler when I climbed into my grandma's bed and she used a sewing box to teach me colors.

Joe and Peter missed most of the grandparent-nurturing scene. But maybe their children won't.

Having my older son married and in the neighborhood seems to put me in the catbird seat for grandparenting, which I'm told is a great adventure.

Speaking of felines, if Peter pairs up and produces offspring any time soon, I might get an even greater dose of baby-close. He still lives under my roof, and he never, ever changes the litter in the cat's potty, so I'm thinking I'll get to do some diaper-changing duty at the very least.

E-mail Jan Galletta at jgalletta@timesfreepress.com