A Veteran's Take

The bumper stickers on the car in front of mine in the Shop Rite parking lot stoked an uneasy feeling that no amount of broccoli, lemons, and pistachio ice cream could assuage. A drooping American flag was affixed to the car’s roof above a collage of angry messages: “Bidenflation – the price of your vote,” “Go Brandon,” and “Dumb and Dumber” next to pictures of the President and Vice President. There was no way the puny flag atop the car could put a patriotic spin on that vitriol. As the Republican party moves closer to crowning a candidate with authoritarian designs, I can almost hear Colombo’s shocked intake of breath.  

As a sophomore at Joel Barlow High School in the fall of 2000, our daughter’s history assignment was to interview a veteran and invite him or her to a breakfast panel at school later in the year. Very few students were able to find World War II vets to interview; even then, there weren’t many left. Casey was fortunate her grandfather, Colombo, was alive and eager to tell his stories.   

In the war against Fascism under dictators Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito, Colombo had been aboard a B-24 Liberator that bombed the Brenner Pass through the Alps between Italy and Austria. When Dave and I backpacked through Europe in the ‘70’s, Colombo directed us, “Check out the pass; I expect it’s still smoldering.” But, beyond that, his war stories had been tucked away - linen-wrapped in the bundle of letters in his sister’s closet, packed with his flight jacket and mementos in storage. 

            

As a first generation Italian born of immigrant parents who’d arrived only two decades before, Colombo and his three siblings were staunchly American. They wanted little to do with the country their parents had left behind, although Nanny’s homemade pasta and fresh garden vegetables always lured them home for meals. Like so many young men of the time, the three boys responded to the Nazi threat and enlisted as soon as they were old enough: Phil shipped out to the Pacific, Jack to North Africa, and Colombo to Italy.What must the crawl of days and nights have been like for the parents, worrying about all three of their sons?  

 

When Casey and Colombo settled into wicker chairs on the porch in Rhode Island for the interview, the soothing calls of gulls on salt-scented air were a far cry from the echoes of war. Yet, those years reeled closer as Colombo sifted through memories, and his granddaughter jotted notes.

 

With practised precision, Colombo recited his rank, base, duties and missions: “Army Aircorp Staff Sargeant, Cheringnol, Italy.” He recalled an ill-fated flight from Bangor, Maine to the continent, with Louie Prima, barely audible over the plane’s rumble, crooning “That Old Black Magic” on the radio. Engine troubles plagued the journey, necessitating layovers in Iceland and England. Snorting in disgust, Colombo shook his head, “That plane was a brand new B-24 Liberator. Turned out it was a lemon, scrapped once we reached Italy. Never even saw duty.”

  

And in 1945, he was with the crew that flew into Rome with the “Stars and Stripes” newspaper staff that covered Mussolini’s death and the fury of the mob that strung him up. 

 

In December of 2000, Colombo came to Easton to participate in the veterans panel at Barlow. Of those WW II vets attending, Colombo was the hardy exception: strong, healthy, and in great spirits. Beyond sharing his experiences, he brought a satchel of fishing line, morphine and a reflecting mirror: the emergency survival kit he’d been issued for use had that lemon of a Liberator gone down.  

            

On the morning of the panel discussion, Colombo left an inscription in our guest book:  “12/7/2000 – Pearl Harbor Day – How well I remember it! I was sixteen years old and had just finished a sand-lot football game in the snow at Lake Park, Worcester. We won the Park’s league. Little did I know that two years later I’d be in the Air Corps, finishing off the Nazis in May of 1945. On this day, my granddaughter and her class of the year 2000 will be commemorating the fifty-ninth year of Pearl Harbor. I am happy to share this day with her and her classmates.”  

 

So much has changed since that day. 

 

What would those who fought Fascism in the ‘40’s have thought of the bumper sticker bile on that car in the parking lot in 2024? Of the American flag wielded as a weapon in an assault on the Capitol to prevent the peaceful transfer of power? Of the virulence that divides America, and the forces that support an aspiring authoritarian?     

                                                

While interviewing Colombo, Casey had asked what he fought for. His response was immediate, “For the freedom of the United States and all the countries involved.” 

 

To her final question, “What message would you pass on to the people of today?” Colombo said, “Have respect for the soldiers and servicemen, and respect for the American flag.”

Colombo, center

 

 

 

What Lies Ahead?

The weekend was coming up, and I should have been excited. Normally at age nine, the prospect of a birthday party in the city with a movie and lunch at a fancy restaurant would have had me dancing. Instead, I was afraid. 

What if a bomb fell on my parents while I was at the party? Who would take care of me? What would I do? 

Mom and Dad tried to shield me and my sisters from world events. In their bathrobes and slippers after breakfast, they’d peruse sections of the Inquirer and Sunday Bulletin, strewing spent pages on the floor of the den. We girls would shuffle through them to find the Funnies, interested only in Blondie, Peanuts, and Beetle Bailey. If the news was troubling, we might detect some tension, but nothing was said.

Still, it was October of 1962, and at school, Duck-and-Cover drills sent us scurrying under desks, and some of our parents’ friends had excavated fallout shelters in their yards. Well-stocked with supplies, they were cool and cave-like to visit, but the thought of living there? Crazy claustrophobic, but for kids, the stuff of fantasy, as imaginable as life in a fort or submarine. 

Children with less protective parents spoke ominously about our enemy, the U.S.S.R, so we weren’t oblivious. The bomb scare clues were glaring, though not the specifics: that Soviet missiles with nuclear capabilities were being installed in Cuba and aimed at American cities. For me, lying rigid with fear in bed at night, every plane passing overhead held potential threat. Was that whining sound a bomb hurtling toward us?  

Now, I am the parent concerned for children and grandkids of my own. Although I try to resist, I scroll through my newsfeed every day striving to quell panic. Bad idea. On Sundays, the sections of the Boston Globe are strewn about our floor, and I still turn to the Funnies -  Pickles, Doonsbury, Foxtrot, and Family Circus – seeking a lift. 

I am reading Bobby Kennedy’s 1967 memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Thirteen Days. He describes President John Kennedy’s calm in the face of the nuclear threat, and his belief in the necessity for debate and consideration of opposing opinions among Cabinet members and military advisors in deciding a course of action. Despite pressure from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to invade, the President chose prudence, a blockade as an initial step. Further, in recognizing the importance of allowing the Soviet leader to save face, he exchanged respectful letters with Premier Khrushchev urging a peaceful resolution. 

At 7:00 PM, Tuesday, October 22, the president appeared on television to inform his fellow Americans of the crisis. He told those watching that all branches of the military were in position and ready should the blockade be ineffective. Our NATO allies had been alerted and were ready to support us. 

In his book, Attorney General Kennedy reflected,  “We went to bed that night filled with concern and trepidation, but also with a sense of pride in the strength, the purposefulness, and the courage of the President of the United States. No one could predict what was in store in the days ahead, but we all felt that the President, because of his own wisdom and personal dignity, would have the support of a unified country.” (1.)

A unified country: a wistful dream in this time of partisan division. There are currently no missiles on our doorstep aimed our way, but leadership – the leadership that would determine our course in such a crisis – is up to the voters. Incredibly, millions of my fellow Americans support an erratic man who has invited aggression on our NATO allies – those who stood with us in 1962 and after 9/11 – if they don’t “pay up;” a man whose influence on Congress has successfully blocked essential aide to Ukraine despite the importance to our national security; a man convicted of fraud and sexual assault; a man charged with insurrection.    

In 1962, my parents, the country, and the world waited, terrified, to see what the U.S.S.R would do. And because the President was cautious, well-informed, mindful of ramifications, and respectful in negotiating with Khrushchev, an agreement was reached. The missiles in Cuba were dismantled. 

In November of 2024, I will wait, terrified, to see what future my fellow Americans envision for our children and grandchildren: Democracy; rational, experienced leadership; and the NATO alliance preserved … or chaos under Trump. 

 

1.        Robert F. Kennedy, Thirteen Days,  A Memoir of the Cuban Missile Crisis, 

W.W. Norton & Co., New York, pg. 43-44.

 

 

Hurry!

The morning was a flurry of packing, rounding up snow pants, and snipping tags off new mittens and helmets as we prepared for an overnight in Flumersberg. After a week of Connecticut-comparable weather in Zurich, we were heading to snowy mountains, fir trees, and alpine chalets to experience calendar-Switzerland. 

This trip required strategy as Lisa had enrolled Paul and Lexi in a weekly Sunday ski school, so we had the kids’ skis, poles, boots, and helmets to tote as well as our overnight bags. “And,” Lisa warned, her tone ominous, “we have to make several connections to get there.” 

Once all was ready, we waddled - fat in winter coats, dragging rolling bags, bristling with ski poles, and burdened with backpacks -  to the tram stop. As usual, Dave and I were grateful and apologetic for our duckling status, dependent as we were on Tucker and Lisa for directions and tickets. When the tram rounded the curve, Paul and Lexi took their positions at the exact spot where the back doors opened, scrambled inside, and nabbed their favorite seats by the back window. We were off!   

We arrived at the train station with enough time to buy lunch. The kids bee-lined for a booth selling warm, salty pretzel buns with a hole down the middle, just the right fit for a sausage or a generous portion of melted cheese. Delicious. We then located the correct track and sauntered its length before climbing on board. 

Swiss trains heading to Flumersberg expect skiers among their passengers and provide stands near the doors to store equipment. Having discovered how tricky it was to pry loose a ski pole that slid and stuck behind the overhead rack when initially placed with our bags on the shelf, we moved the kids’ gear to those stands. 

After we’d settled into our seats, Lisa commanded our attention. Like a general preparing her troops, she said, “When we arrive at our stop, we have to be ready. We have one minute to catch the bus.”

I know myself, and when making a connection, I want to avoid the wild-eyed anxiety of missing the next leg of my trip. I don’t mind an hour’s wait with plenty of time to read my book, stroll, or buy a snack. Naturally, I assumed one minute was an exaggeration.

Paul and Lexi bent their heads close over a video game while I gazed out at the landscape flying by. Rain streaked the window, artfully distorting glimpses of lakes, villages, and churches. Even so, I took pictures, hoping my iPhone would surprise me in freezing a few recognizable images. 

As we neared the station, Lisa gave the word, and we began to load up. ‘We have to move quickly,” she said. “I’m serious. We have one minute.” 

We shrugged on our coats and grabbed our bags from the racks and the ski equipment from the receptacles. The moment the train stopped and the doors slid open, we bolted. 

The bus was there, waiting on the far side of the tracks. “Hurry!” 

We ran! Grandparents and small children clumsy in boots and heavy coats, hurtling along the platform, backpacks bouncing, rolling bags clattering, skis and poles clanking! Down the stairs! Under the tracks! Up more stairs! “Hurry! Hurry!”

Everyone clambered onto the bus, the doors closed, and the bus took off. There was not a moment of grace, not a glance from the driver to check for people on the platform or passengers safely in seats. No! Time to go! Schedules to keep! Good heavens!  

Next, to the cable car. So many literally moving parts to this adventure, but this stretch, given all, was leisurely. The cable car was continually revolving for the next few hours, so we slipped into a general store to purchase a variety of chocolate snacks, then lugged our load up yet another flight of stairs. 

The cars swung around on a track, never stopping. The six of us gathered into a knot, tight as possible, so we could hustle onto the car as it slowed. Hurry! Skis and poles into the external holders! Shift over! Shift over! Everybody in! Is everybody in? Got the bags? Yes! Whew!

Relieved to have successfully reached the final leg of the trip, we slumped onto the hard bench seats as the car slid out of the station and rose over houses and expanses of green. Rain and fog enveloped us as we climbed. Gradually, up and ahead, we could see a distinct line where the temperature dropped and the rain… turned to snow. 

  

 

 

Shoeless in Lucerne

With full hearts, apps, and online planners, Lisa and Tucker strove to convince us that their move to Switzerland really does have a silver lining. Perhaps an overnight stay in a palace in Lucerne would be persuasive? Worth a try. 

After an easy one-hour train ride, we stowed our bags in a locker at the station and hopped a tram to the Museum of Transportation. Paul is a train enthusiast, and after two prior visits, this museum had become his favorite: a must-go, first-stop in Lucerne. For a time, Dave and I joined the kids in wandering among vintage steam engines and passenger cars, admiring massive cogs, beautiful wood paneling, and gleaming brass fittings. My father would have loved this place, but when Tucker said Paul and Lexi could spend hours there, I silently reflected that I, on the other hand, might prefer to do something else. My mind-reader of a son suggested that Dave and I take off and explore the historic sections of the city on our own for a few hours. Brilliant.

Absent apps and lacking comfort with public transportation, we opted to stroll the sidewalk that skirted Vierwaldstättersee, or Lake Lucerne.  Heavy gray skies stained the water pewter, and low-slung clouds swathed the snow-capped mountains on the far side of the lake. As we passed beneath the gnarled limbs of ink-black trees, I became aware of a strange scratching sound that seemed to follow us. 

I turned to survey the scene behind me. Swans sailing along or butt up in the water. Boats shrouded and anchored for winter.  Skeletal branches clawing the sky. Nothing to explain the odd noise. We continued on… and so did the sound, only it had morphed into a thwapping drumbeat.  

What the…?   

At some point, I thought to check my boot  –  formerly, Mom’s boot. 

Packing for the trip to Zurich had required strategy. We needed to bring warm clothes, Christmas presents, and twelve boxes of Annie’s Mac N’ Cheese, beloved by the grandkids and unavailable in Switzerland. Shoes had presented a particular challenge. We knew one of the activities Tucker and Lisa had envisioned entailed an afternoon of sledding during an overnight in the mountains, so winter boots were a must. Given their bulk, they wouldn’t fit in our suitcases, so we’d be wearing those boots on the plane. I love my Lands End snow boots, but not on my feet while wedged in economy seating for eight hours.

Mom passed in 2018, and I had inherited her tall, black, fleece-lined, water-resistant boots. They were good-looking enough for evenings in Zurich, would suffice in snow, and were slim and comfortable enough for the plane ride. Thank you, Mom.

Who knows how old they were, or how often Mom had worn them? They looked to be in perfect condition, but, on this day, with hours of walking ahead, the sole of one boot had detached from the heel.  Earlier, Lisa had mentioned that she thought stores were closed today due to the holidays. Great.

As I clopped along, I wondered if we might find an open hardware store where we could buy twine to bind the sole to the shoe? Or maybe, the front desk of one of these grand, lakeside hotels would have some Gorilla Glue?

Eventually, the sole fell off, the clopping sound now replaced by a satisfying metallic click, like that of a tap shoe. So, we sang “Singin’ in the Rain” as I added a few jaunty dance moves to my lop-sided gait.

Seriously though, what to do? These were the only shoes I ‘d brought to Lucerne, and we were having a special dinner at Château Gütsch, the palace, that night. Already I felt self-conscious and literally out of step as passersby swept along in their chic overcoats and snappy, intact shoes. 

Ultimately, we crossed a bridge and entered an alley we hoped would take us to the historic center of the city, the covered pedestrian bridge, the lion monument… and glue, twine, or shoes.   

A winding cobblestone street led past an ornately painted building, its fairytale façade aswirl in golden vines, urns, and a faux balcony from which gazed portraits of a young family. Across the alley, an elaborate sign in forest green and gold depicted a rampant lion and the dates 1334-1937. Mere steps from these ancient beauties, we spotted a shop window announcing a “Schuhmacher.” We don’t speak German, but there was no mistaking the meaning, the array of soles so cruelly within reach… nor the dark interior of a store clearly closed. 

Discouraged, we tapped on, but were soon enchanted by fountains and squares encircled by gabled buildings magical in color and design, all telling stories if we’d known how to read them. Still distracted by my Cinderella-esque, missing-shoe situation, I wondered what the denouement of my tale would be. 

As the afternoon wore on, lights shown amber from restaurants and cafès and - behold! – in rounding a corner, we spotted a department store. And it was open! 

I tap-limped inside and located the shoe department only to find rack upon rack of sneakers. I found a salesperson, gestured toward my foot, and sheepishly waved the orphan sole. She smiled encouragement and directed us to a store a block away. “Easy! And they’re having a sale!” she said. 

Now, with a springy step to my tapping, I strode ahead of Dave to Dosenbach with its bountiful selection of shoes. In noticing my plight, another customer laughed and said, “The same thing happened to me in New York!” And there it is: while world events would have us think otherwise, kindness and common experience grace so many chance encounters.

Once I’d settled on not one, but two new pairs, a saleswoman scooped up Mom’s boots and said, “Should I dispose of them?” 

Why would I lug those traitors around?  I was done with them and waved them away without a thought.

Until later. That night as I lay awake, I thought about the ease of repair and the connection to Mom, and wished I’d not been so hasty. 

                       *                                 *                                 *

Comfortably shod and gleeful having successfully navigated our way back to the station after our solo excursion, Dave and I met up with the kids and retrieved our bags from the locker. We boarded a tram, and Lisa checked her phone for the location of the cable car up to our palace.

Lisa’s parents have lived in Germany for years and with that, and a number of trips to Switzerland prior to their move, Paul and Lexi have evolved from the screaming babies on the plane that everyone dreads to the seasoned travelers they are now. When we descended from the tram and ran to the cable car, the kids cheerfully trotted to keep up, the backpacks carrying stuffed animals, pillows, and books bobbing on their backs.

We squeezed into the tiny cable car and ascended via an ever-so-steep track to the gleaming white turrets and spires of Château Gütsch. Enthroned high above Lucerne, the hotel welcomed us with heraldic lions, winged angels, and banners flying. 

What would be the décor of a 19^th century palace? I had pictured ponderous rough-hewn doors and wrought-iron torches, and there were a few, tokens perhaps from the earliest structure, but overall, the interior was bright, sleek, and elegant.  As we waited to check in at the reception desk, Lexi twirled with the excitement we all felt, and I wondered who had thought it wise to place a large porcelain vase on a delicate pedestal table so close by. Blessedly, there were no mishaps before we received our keys and headed through a ballroom, outside along a balcony overlooking a courtyard and the city below, back inside, down a hall, and into our rooms. 

Paul would be sleeping with Dave and me, and his cot was made up at the bottom of a twisting wooden stairway to our bedroom loft. After he freed Winnie the Pooh from his backpack and set him on his pillow, he scampered up to check things out and noted, as the stairs creaked with every step, “It sounds like your house!”   

After we settled in, it was time to dress for dinner. New shoes or not, I was pretty sure my black sweater and herringbone slacks would be inadequate in such a setting. But so it would be. As it happened, there was only one other party in the spacious dining room when we were seated, and they did not seem bothered by what I was wearing. 

With an eye to creating a garden ambience, the room was pale green, rose, and white lighted by ornate chandeliers - bouquets, really -  of crystal flowers in pastel hues. Airy as it was, the room might have seemed cold but for a blazing fire in the massive fireplace. That proved irresistible, and Dave took the kids over to snuggle in front of that warmth for some stories while we waited for dinner to be served.

In the interim, a large group entered the dining room. They were in great spirits, happy to be together and relishing, as we were, the treat of staying at Château Gütsch. And they were comfortably at ease in their well-worn sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. 

Why had I worried? Times have changed. Mom is no longer looking me over and asking, “are you really going to wear that?” but old lessons die hard.  

And I wish I’d not discarded her boots.    

 

 

Joy, but for the Apps

In July, my son Tucker, his wife Lisa, 8- year-old Paul, and 5-year-old Lexi moved to Switzerland. Dave and I had known this wrenching change was coming – Tucker had warned us years ago – still, it has created a sad void only partly eased by Facetime calls and wistful viewings of Google “This Time Last Year” slideshows. For all our efforts to treasure the  moments because “it goes so fast,” I’ve realized, it’s not just that it goes fast; the little kid years are short. Babies change from week to week, and then, well, kids are only willing to be “little” until what, age 9? My kids are in their forties and frankly, it seems a fiction that they were once the children pictured in our photo albums. 

We yearned to see Tucker and family, but waited six months and flew to Zurich in the end of December.  

It was the morning after a sleepless overnight flight, and Dave and I were still in bed. Dimly, I registered a whispered exchange, but dozing still seemed a good idea. I knew my grandchildren were just outside the door, and I smiled knowing they were close.

It was impossible to miss Lexi’s stage whisper, “I just want to hug LeaLea!” 

“No, you just want to wake her!” Paul insisted, conscious of parental instructions to let us sleep.

What kind of grandmother am I that I did not leap up and hug those kids? But I was enjoying the repartee, and curious to see what came next.

“Lexi! No! Lexi!” Would she heed her brother’s commanding sotto voce? 

Apparently not, for, while I did not hear her tiptoe across the room, I felt her cheek laid gently on my hand. So soft, so precious. 

And then, I scooped her up. “Good morning, Sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here! Paul! Come snuggle with us!”

Dave – “Tato” to his grandkids – is a tough act to follow. He has charmed nephews, nieces, students, and grandkids with his inexhaustible repertoire of inventive games, goofy jokes, energy, and imagination. I don’t try to compete; I’m not nearly as fun nor funny.  Yet, inexplicably, Lexi has chosen me as her favorite. Dave chuckles in recalling Lexi’s honest, “I love you Tato. But I love LeaLea more.” 

The four of us lay in bed for minutes only – Lexi is not one for lying around. She was up and demonstrating the paper backpack she’d made for us, a wonder embellished with swirling rainbows of Crayola colors. She then took stock of our already comfortable accommodations, and announced, “You need tissues on your bedside table.” That accomplished, she again surveyed the room with the critical eye of an experienced hostess and said, “You need wastebaskets. I’ll get them.”

Over the course of our visit, Tucker and Lisa had planned a range of activities to give us a taste – often literally – of their new life. We went up to Uetliberg for the view and a liberal helping of melted raclette cheese. We went to Sprungli cafe for rich hot chocolate and the hedonistic array of tarts, pastries, and cakes. We went to a pop-up chalet for creamy fondue and crusty bread. And we went to the mountains for snow, but that came later. On this day, we were bound for downtown Zurich.

 

Paul and Lexi are city kids accustomed to traveling by tram, T, and train. The stop is a five- minute walk from their house; the zoo, three minutes in the other direction. Helpful yellow giraffe footprints are painted on the sidewalk, and every kid I saw zig-zagged their way to the tram or zoo, leaping from print to print. 

I am not a city person and would have preferred to hold the kids’ hands, my body between them and the road. I would have liked to maintain a marked distance between the tram tracks and the children, but that is not their way. They know exactly how close they can get – closer than I’d like - and they scampered to the spot where the tram doors would open so they were first in line and could nab the coveted back seat.  

While we waited, Tucker said, “Mom, give me your phone and I’ll set up the app for your train tickets.”

How could he know that the word “app” stills my soul? 

My boy came of age in a computer world and has lived in a city since college. Programming and coding are his interest and his work. Public transportation, routes, stops, and connections are second nature… as they are for Lexi and Paul.

Not so for me. When I handed him my phone, he tapped briskly then said, “What’s your Google password?” How could he know that question near brings me to tears, and invariably whatever I type elicits a curt “Invalid” and inaction in whatever task is attempted on whatever device I use? How could he know my string of failures with apps and passwords, my Pavlovian avoidance as a result? I am not exaggerating when I say my nose prickled at his question, as pathetic as that is.

“I don’t have it with me. It’s written down at home.”

“Never mind, Mom. I’ve got it.” 

Sigh. Next time we come to Europe, I’ll know to bring passwords, although that’s no guarantee of success. 

After a quick, comfortable ride on the tram, we dismounted into a drizzly, then pouring, rain and hurriedly opened our umbrellas. This was not the snowy, alpine Switzerland of calendars. “We told you to come in October!” Tucker said.  

If only it had been dry, much less sunny! For that day, Zurich hosted a food festival, and the scents of curry, cinnamon, fresh donuts, and pizza offered by dispirited vendors wafted from colorful, albeit bedraggled, booths. One could imagine the pleasure of a leisurely stroll along the river past soaring steeples and skeletal trees while sampling such offerings had we not been balancing dripping umbrellas. Still, donuts dipped in sugar and warm chocolate were too tempting to pass up, so we made our purchases and ran to a sheltering portico. 

                                 *                        *                    *     

Come evening, the rain had stopped, and the lights of the city reflected off the river and still-wet streets. Lisa and I ventured forth, brushing off the fatigue that kept Tucker, Dave, and the kids at home. The Swiss celebrate the New Year over a period of days, and that night, Zurich was hosting an art show where different artists projected their work on the facades of iconic buildings.  

Dave and I live in the country, surrounded by the stillness of woods and stone walls. To be out in the vibrancy of the rain-washed night, chattering and striding along with my daughter-in-law, was exhilarating.   

Our pace was brisk as we hoped to visit every site, re-tracing the route of our earlier walk, now festive with color bright against the darkness. The city itself was the artists’ canvas, the blues, yellows, and pinks on the buildings melting into the water and rippling across its surface. Brilliant webs of light stretched across streets illuminated by the glow from shop windows. On a corner, a vendor wrapped roasted chestnuts in paper cones, their smoky scent enveloping passersby. And if this were not joy enough, as we stood beneath a church awash with colors, its bells rang out, a resounding accompaniment to the sensory symphony.  

 

A Christmas Mission and Memories

For decades, my sisters, Rita and Francie, my brother-in-law Matt, and their son, Campbell, had joined my parents in their annual holiday pilgrimage to family graves to lay wreaths. Given the distance from Connecticut and the frenzy of the season, Dave and I had never been able to go. This would be our first time. While my parents died years ago, Rita’s partner, Bill, and her son, Jared, would join us as well.   

Rita’s van seated six, so it was a tight fit, but we wanted to travel together. Dave and Bill insisted on squeezing into the way-back, folding in knees and tucking toes under the seats in front of them. It was not a surprise when they launched into a convincing big brother/little brother performance.

 

 “He touched me!”

 

“No, I didn’t!”

 

“Yes, you did!”

 

“Make him move!”

 

“You can’t make me!’

 

Sigh. Too easy for these two to pull it off. 

 

The car was awash with laughter and the scent of pine as we made our way to our first stop, St. David’s. 

 

Those who could, hopped out of the car.  Extricating the two men from the third seat involved all manner of contortions: lifting legs, reaching hands, and angling butts. Dismount complete, Rita raised the hatch of her van, and we lifted out swags of greens and holly. After slipping off the cellophane sheaths, we twisted wires around the ends to affix red velvet bows. 

 

The original church, built in 1715, still stands adjacent to the graveyard. Creeping ivy twines around the trunks of towering firs, their sheltering boughs swooping low over rows of granite headstones. More subdued now in this solemn place, we walked around a long stone wall freckled with pale lichens to the graves of my aunt, uncle, grandparents, and great-grandparents and laid down our offerings. 

 

But… where was Hobie?

 

My grandmother, Gaga, lost her firstborn son when he was 18 months old. Spotting his bottles sterilizing on the stove, he had reached up to grab one and tipped the vat of boiling water over on himself. To us, her granddaughters, and perhaps to the children born after Hobie’s death, Gaga was kind but distant. That consuming love was a risk she would not take again. 

 

Much as I sought to banish images of the accident, my thoughts invariably turned to my grandmother and her lost little one when my kids and grandchildren reached 18 months. It has been my comfort to think that Gaga and Hobie were reunited for eternity, and I’d assumed they rested together here, at St. David’s.

 

“No. He’s in Penllyn with Granpa,” Francie said. 

 

Of course. Hobie died long before my grandmother and was buried where they lived at that time, before my grandparents’ divorce. 

 

Francie pointed to a grave partially hidden by ivy behind that of my great-grandparents. A stone cross marked that of another small boy, a child I’d not been aware of. Gaga’s mother had also lost an infant son. My heart ached at the shared agony the women before me had endured. 

 

Despite long-ago sorrows, graveyards have always been a place of comfort for me. The sadness and stresses endured by those resting beneath blankets of grass and moss had been resolved, and I believed, I hoped, there was reunion and peace for them on the Other Side.

Next, off to visit Mom, Dad, Uncle Henry, and my grandmother Byeo, mom’s mother, at the Church of the Redeemer. The last time I visited this site, my daughter, Casey, went with me. When I’d suggested the idea, Casey said, “Mom, it will make you cry.”

 

“No, it won’t. I’m in a great mood! Happy! I just want to visit.” 

 

So, we’d driven over and climbed the small rise to the graves. I said, “Hi Byeo. Hi Mom and Dad”… and burst into tears. 

 

But this time, I felt only joy at being there. After placing the swags, we stood in a circle and sang, “We wish you a Merry Christmas.” I indulged myself in imagining those beloved spirits taking a seat on their stones, smiling at the circle of family. 

Penllyn was a trek, a trek we’d made every other Sunday when I was young. We three girls would sit in the back seat - perhaps playing a bit of annoying “she touched me!” ourselves - wearing dresses, short white socks, and patten leather shoes. Luncheons  with my grandfather, step-grandmother, and great-aunt-Anna had been formal affairs. 

 

An old red brick church stood watch over this graveyard. Francie directed my gaze to the steeple. “The bell tower was dedicated to Uncle Harry when he died in World War I.” 

 

Captain Harry Ingersoll was the revered young uncle my father never knew, but whose memory brought Dad to tears whenever his name was mentioned. He is buried in the Meuse-Argonne Cemetery in France, but a stone honors him in this place. Nearby lies his brother, my grandfather, and Ingersolls going back three generations. Here, also, is Hobie, nestled close to my step-grandmother. I bristled at this cozy set-up: Hobie should be with Gaga.  

I had not been to Penllyn in close to 50 years. The last time I can recall was to introduce my long-haired hippie boyfriend, Dave, to my very proper step-grandmother. For this momentous meeting, Dave had chosen to wear a flannel shirt and well-worn white carpenter overalls. We had barely entered the door when he leaned over and split the seam of his pants. Quickly, he tied his yellow rain slicker around his waist and politely refused every offer to hang it in the coat closet. Memorable indeed.  

 

Once all the swags had been laid and holiday greetings given, we headed home. As we drove past the white stucco Blue Bell Inn, I reminisced about exploring my grandparents’ barn and discovering the ancient coach they’d put back in service during the war, Aunt Anna’s Christmas parties, and the excitement of Santa’s appearance at the top of her stairs with presents for every child. I thought of the many early evening trips home on Sundays, snoozy in the dark of the back seat with my sisters, marveling as the moon seemed to travel the sky alongside us. I reflected that I am now the grandmother, the baton passed from one generation of women to the next. Children grown, little ones beaming, eyes bright at the aura of pine boughs laced with tiny lights, and the prospect of a kindly gentleman in a red suit delivering joy.    

 

It will be a while...

Paul and Lexi’s suitcase is packed and zipped, the outfits I’d chosen for them laid out on their beds. My son, Tucker, and his wife, Lisa, are home in Massachusetts, scurrying to empty the last cans and jars from their cupboards and ferrying final loads to the dump and Goodwill. After months of planning, acquiring Visas, squaring things up at work, and seeking renters, they are moving to Switzerland in two days. While I have dreaded this final step, delivering the kids to the airport, I am in departure mode, geared for the drive to Boston. 

“I don’t want to wear that!” Lexi whines. 

 

“Everything else is packed, Sweetie.”  

 

“But I don’t want that shirt!” she says as she flops on the bed, her face set. 

 

Honestly! I am not interested in a stupid squabble over clothes, and my impatience shows. 

 

“You like this shirt, Lexi. Just put it on.”

 

“No!”

 

I glower at her and prepare another stern salvo, when… wait.  Stop. Some inner angel has the good sense to snag my attention. Am I really going to bicker over clothes with this precious four-year-old who is about to move far away from me? 

 

No. Not for a second more. 

 

I unzip the suitcase and pull her close. “Okay, Sweetie. Show me what you want to wear.”

 

She shuffles through her clothes, rejecting a pink tee-shirt with a sequined heart, the rainbow leggings, and an orange “Bingo” jersey. “This,” she says, pulling out a dress she’s worn twice in the past week. Fine. She tugs it over her head and looks adorable. 

 

Paul and Lexi have been with us for a week, and it’s been a whirl of playgrounds, Hide N’ Go Seek, crafts, and Candyland. Swimming, tea parties, “helicopter rides” and Red light/Green Light marathons with our daughter, Casey, and four-year-old Eleanor.  Mornings with the kids in soft PJ’s, watching “Bluey” on T.V. over a breakfast of frozen waffles, fruit, and “LeaLea’s special yogurt.” 

At ages seven and four, Paul and Lexi are up for anything: filling the bird feeders, vacuuming, husking corn, and baking. They want to be with us, no matter how mundane the errand. “I’m just going to put the clothes in the drier…”

 

“I’ll come with you!”

 

“I’m just going to empty the compost out back…”

 

“I’ll come with you!”

 

“I’m just going to get my sunglasses out of the car…”

 

“I’ll come with you!” And a little hand slips into mine for every jaunt or task. 

 

While Paul or Lexi happily folds warm tee shirts stamped with unicorns and dinosaurs, my nose prickles, tears barely in check. While dumping the compost, I brush my eyes dry with the back of my hand. Behind my retrieved sunglasses, my eyes are damp. The little kid years are short, so very precious, so blessed with humor and snuggles, and Dave and I have basked in that light. We are keenly aware that it will be a while before the next visit. 

 

Usually, Paul procrastinates and fidgets while getting dressed, but not today. He is quiet as he puts on the shorts and tee shirt I’ve selected, perhaps more conscious than his little sister of the momentous change ahead.  

 

His fingernails need a trim, so we go to the bathroom and fetch clippers and scissors. Paul sits on a wooden stool Casey made in middle school, and I sit on the floor. “I can do my left hand, but will you do the right?” 

 

“Of course!” 

 

He is methodical and takes his time. Each nail requires several clips as he angles the clippers this way and that. It is all I can do not to hurry him along, to suppress a breezy, “How ‘bout I take it from there?”

 

But again, thank heavens, I think, wait. Why rush this time together? It will be a while before the next visit.  

 

When he’s ready, I take his right hand in mine and slowly snip while telling him how Byeo, my grandmother, did my nails. “She cut, filed, and buffed them to make them shiny. And then – this is interesting – she’d run a white pencil under the top of each nail.”  

 

“Why?” asks Paul.

 

“I guess she thought it looked nice. Isn’t it funny that I still remember that? I wonder if you’ll remember this when you are 70?”

 

Paul doesn’t say anything, but he’s a thoughtful boy, and I can tell he’s thinking about it. And, again, my nose prickles…  

 

It’s one of the many gifts of time with Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor that memories of my kids’ childhood, as well as my own, are revived. While making drip castles with sand, playing “Birdie Dear,” or trotting a child on my knees for “This is the Way the Farmer Boy Rides,” I hope Byeo is watching these reruns of her games. And I hope she beams as much as I do when Lexi asks indignantly, “Why can’t it be a Farmer Girl?”

 

All three kids like to paint, and a few days ago, I’d noticed one of Lexi’s pieces was particularly specific, hieroglyphic in appearance with squiggles and shapes paired with numbers. When I put her to bed that night, she pointed at one of the spindles on the headboard and said, “I tried to draw it, but it wasn’t very good.” 

 

Startled, I looked around. “Was your drawing this afternoon about your bed?”

 

“Yes.” And I watched as she counted the carved arcs and spindles in the headboard, then pointed to one pillow, two sheets, and one blanket, all as drawn and numbered on her picture.

 

“Wow, Lexi. Actually, it wasn’t just good, it was amazing!” Dave and I have marveled at so many signs of how much, and how quickly, our little ones are thinking, learning, and growing.  

 

It has been a throw-back week of making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and remembering to pack changes of clothing and snacks no matter how short the excursion; of snuggling up with cozy stories; and splashing in the pool with Casey, Eleanor, and PJ. What a respite from my usual newsfeed doom scroll. What a gift to be immersed in unicorns, rainbows, dancing, and giggles. 

 

Dave has been gleeful in playing catch with his grandson, pulling up his former glory years as a pitcher in putting on Tucker’s old catcher’s mitt and a sports caster’s voice to call a play by play with Paul as the star. “And the crowd goes wild!” Dave would whoop when Paul delivered a solid pitch. 

 

Every joyous moment is heightened, poignant, as we strive to freeze it. We know it will be a while until the next visit. 

 

Before we head out, we give the kids our phones to dash around the house and take pictures. Paul decides to video, and his is a heady ride of blue-sneakered feet and floorboards as he runs through the rooms for quick pans interspersed with extreme close-ups: my mother’s porcelain milkmaid; an air vent he helped Dave fix; the dragon-headed fireplace tools; and the springy flag on the Fischer Price castle.

 

Lexi’s going for stills. Hers are carefully composed, mostly in focus, some, surprisingly artistic. She takes several pictures of the items on my bureau: a card she made for me, and photos of 6-year-old Lea with Byeo. She captures vignettes in the guest room, a glimpse down the stairs, a shot of the suitcases and backpacks waiting by the back door. We are touched by what they choose to capture and wonder how much they'll remember.

The ride to the airport hotel in Boston is uneventful, and when we arrive, Tucker and Lisa are waiting for us. Before they fly, we have one last day together to run races through the sky bridge, frolic in the hotel pool, play catch in our room, and Hide N’ Go Seek in the lobby. Their flight departs at 9:00 P.M. and the kids are remarkably cooperative given the late hour. They put on their pajamas in hopes they’ll sleep through the flight and slip on their backpacks. Then, our caravan of kids, carts, weary parents, and sorrowful grandparents sets off.

 

Tucker has scoped out the long and circuitous route to their gate from the hotel. He and Dave push carts loaded high with massive suitcases through corridors, across a parking lot, into an assortment of elevators, and down to the terminal while the kids scamper alongside. During his earlier reconnaissance, Tucker had met with the TAM Airways representative who would check them in, and she is an incredible help with the ungainly process of filling in forms and checking those bags. 

Finally, it’s time to say good-bye. 

 

We’re not allowed to accompany them to the gate, and the airport employee who turns us away is kind and apologetic as we all hug and cry and cry and hug. Oh, this is hard. 

We know it will be a while before the next visit.