This grandma has been on Eastern Standard Time for more than a week, which means she now has her east coast sea legs under her. And she’s learned some things in the process. Like, there’s very little hot chocolate in a cup of hot chocolate where The Boy and I had breakfast one morning.
I am *single mom* to three grandkids while Daughter Summer and SIL Josh fly east to keep an adoption court date in Africa.
My first day on the job, I managed to pick Lydia up from school; drop Lilly by the orthodontist; get Lilly to MMA practice …
No, they’re not twins and their mother doesn’t dress them alike
Today = ordered an Uber car to the airport, got through security at LAX and am seated with a Chai tea. An hour and 22 minutes before my flight to Jersey is scheduled to depart.
This is not my fault. Remember, I was married to Hubby all those years.
Since we’ve been eating our way through LA, today’s 600-ft-elevation-gain hike through Runyan Canyon provided some much-needed (for me) sweat therapy.
Son Jeremy and DIL Denise are home for five days. And all we’ve been doing is eating. At some fabulous places. Kale chips and a delicious veggie-and-fruit power shake concocted from almond milk made on location at the little juice café, Kreation, in Venice.
Today’s plans included breakfast for lunch at The Griddle Café on Sunset Blvd and then on to the observatory in Griffith Park high in the hills across from the famous Hollywood sign.
Once upon a time, Son Jeremy, DIL Denise, and Hubby and I were frighteningly close to the Boston marathon bombs when they went off. Jeremy had just finished the race, and we were threading our way through the crowd and snapping a few last photos.
I love that America’s response to these types of horrific events is to rebuild. Commemorate the dead and honor the heroes, but continue hosting marathons.
Today the 30th annual LA Marathon, dubbed “Stadium to Sea,” began at Dodger Stadium and ended in Santa Monica.
Today I visited the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles, named after the famed Nazi hunter and a Nazi death camp survivor, Simon Wiesenthal.
In a previous life, I chaperoned teenagers on educational tours of Europe. On two different occasions, the trip included a stop at Dachau, a Nazi concentration camp. It was impacting to have a full hour to walk the somber grounds and envision what went on in these barracks, this crematorium.
Hubby’s favorite music was from his high school and college days. Think “North to Alaska” by Johnny Horton. And Marvin Gaye in “How Sweet it is to be Loved by You.”
There was no sleeping in on Saturday mornings for Daughter Summer in her teen years. Hubby would slip in an Everly Brothers CD, quietly open Summer’s bedroom door, slide the CD player into her room and hit the play button. “Wake Up, Little Susie.” On full volume.
Summer usually jumped out of bed.
I’ve been writing from my apartment in the mornings (notice how it’s not only my bike, by also my apartment now). As after-lunch drowsiness creeps in, I pack up my laptop and head to my second living room – the neighborhood Starbucks. Because no one at Starbucks will let me get away with falling asleep and drooling on the table.
I recently had a conversation with my two favorite baristas and learned that we have a couple things in common. Holding large dreams, for one – large dreams shaped by cancer.
Copyright © 2026 Marlys Johnson
