Turning Six

“It’s so beautiful, it looks fake,” my daughter Casey texts back every time I send her pictures. Harsh as that sounds, it’s true. I’m here, walking in a valley through green meadows bordered by mountains  beribboned with tumbling waterfalls, and it’s hard to believe it’s real.

Dave and I are in Switzerland visiting my son Tucker, his wife, Lisa, and our grandkids, Paul and Lexi. Lexi is tireless, and she scampers down the trail ahead of me and Lisa, the bell on her purple backpack jingling in concert with the hollow toll of the bells slung round the necks of the cows and goats grazing in the grass as we stroll by. Propelled by the glaciers melting milky blue ice into its waters, the river rushes alongside.  

Lexi races back to us, her eyes wide behind her pink glasses. She dances with excitement and points skyward. “Look! Look up!

A paraglider has taken off from the cliff above and sails ever lower, a white vision dipping and angling across the trail before us and then dropping neatly into the field to our left. I have snapped, snapped, snapped a series of pictures of his descent, yet another “whoa!” moment in this setting that is magical even without the appearance of a winged human landing nearby. 

But where are the boys? We turn and shield our eyes against the sun hoping to spot them, but Dave, Tucker, and eight-year-old Paul have lingered behind and are still out of sight. What could they possibly be doing?

When we visited the kids in Zurich last January, we were surprised to find the weather so much like Connecticut. It was gray, drizzly, and mild, not calendar Switzerland in the least. “I told you to come in October,” Tucker had groused. He wanted so much for us to see why they loved their new home, but “We are here to be with you,” I would say. “I don’t care about the weather.”

And that was totally true, but Tucker was also right. October in Lauterbrunnen is an artful symphony of spilling water, clanging bells, skipping lambs, and verdant green against the white of snowy mountains. Rustic sheds dot the hillsides, and red geraniums bloom brilliant against the wooden shutters of alpine homes. Months ago, I saw a picture of Tucker and family taken on a path above this village and told him, I want to go there! So, dear souls, they arranged this get-away during our visit. 

Lisa, Lexi, and I skirt the meadow where the paraglider landed and cross a wooden bridge, scanning the trail behind us for signs of the men. “Look!” Lisa says. “A rainbow!” 

Flying humans, contented cows, and now a rainbow? Seriously? Yes. Where the sun graces the mist of one of the waterfalls, a rainbow arches from cliffside to the trail. And there, running toward us, is Paul, with Tucker and Dave in his wake.

“Did you see…. (where to begin?) the paraglider! The rainbow! The cows! The goats!” We greet them with a barrage of all that has amazed us. Yes, they have, and like me, stopped to take innumerable pictures trying to freeze them. 

This has been my challenge since my kids were born. Trying to freeze their precious baby faces, their toddler missteps, their proud accomplishments. Trying to pay attention and take nothing for granted. Trying to do the impossible: slow time. So, I take many pictures, ironically sacrificing the moment in the very act of striving to preserve it. But with Tucker and family now living overseas, imprinting the time together is that much more important. 

When my grandkids were even younger, I’d wonder after a memorable day of picking apples at a local farm, hiking in our woods, or playing in a fort made of a blanket stretched over a quilt rack, Will they remember this? Probably not, but I hoped the feeling would stick. Maybe the feeling of fun and being so deeply loved by their grandparents would last. Shamelessly, I work to cement that. 

“Do you know you’re the best boy in the world?” I’ll say to Paul. 

“Yes!” he hoots.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Because you’ve told me about a million times!” By then I have him in a smothering hug, so his words are a giggly growl. 

Back on the trail, Lexi dashes off to meet her brother and wraps him in her arms. Today is her 6^th birthday, and to Lexi, everything about this day – the rainbow, the paraglider, the music of the bells, our visit – is all for her.  And perhaps, it is. The Universe generous in celebrating this little girl.  

“Where have you been, Paul?” 

“We played ba-loop for a while, throwing rocks into the river. Stopped to see the cows. Did you see the cat at the house with the big garden out front?” 

Yes, we did. “And we got pear chips there!” crows Lexi, with just a hint of “and you didn’t!” in her tone. She is a good sharer, though, and offers Paul a piece. 

That had been yet another fascinating surprise, to come across a vending machine offering raclette cheese, bread, chocolate, and pear chips housed in a charming alpine hut adjacent to a house with an abundant garden. Pear chips can only go so far in staving off hunger and the grouchiness that can go with it, so we head back to the village for lunch and then to the gondola cableway for our afternoon trip to Murren.

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Once we clamber aboard, the gondola lifts us up the steep slope of the mountain. We climb past trees tinged orange and gold, up the white face of the cliff, up until the village is a storybook stage set far below. At Grutschalp, we transfer to a train for the final leg to Murren. Tucker hands Lexi his 360 camera mounted on a long pole. “You are six now, old enough to hold the camera.” Personally, I think he’s brave to hand it over, but Lexi’s proud smile is a gift as Tucker opens the window and extends the pole outside.

To begin with, I’m surprised that passengers are free to open the windows, but more surprising still is when I spot the train’s driver leaning back in his seat, arms stretched luxuriously behind his head. Yes, he is going “no hands” as our train carries us ever higher. He knows his vehicle, though, and we arrive unscathed in Murren. 

The summer tourists have largely departed, and the village is in the throes of build and repair. While there are few private cars, work crews are busy. Trucks shuttle loads of lumber; earth movers shovel dirt; and metal clangs against metal. Still, the town is a collage of color. Window boxes blaze with purple petunias and red geraniums, vibrant against shutters of natural wood or green. Clouds shift across the face of the mountains, and visible far below, we see the waterfalls, village, and snaking path of the river. 

The kids are troopers; scanning scenic vistas is not their favorite thing. But there are tree stumps to climb, a cat to coo over, a grandfather willing to give shoulder rides, and pear chips to nibble.

Across the valley, we see signs of a rockslide, and we’ve heard that the glaciers that feed the river and waterfalls are shrinking. I have allowed myself a respite from the news during our time here, and the affairs of humans seem small and distant in the face of the forces that, over eons, have shaped this expansive scene.

But more immediately, today is Lexi’s birthday, and for me, thoughts of forever hover. 

 “I will miss five-year-old Lexi, but I love six-year-old Lexi sooooooooooo much!” I tell her while enveloping her in a squeeze. 

“Like… for infinity?” she says.

“Yes. Infinity!”

“But what about when you die?” she asks, her expression becoming serious. 

My nose prickles and my voice is strained, although I hope she doesn’t notice. “Even then, Sweetie. I will always be there, watching over you.” 

I remember my sixth birthday; surely Lexi will remember hers?