Adventures Everywhere

As I rocked my grandson in my arms in the darkened room before settling him into his crib for the night, I whispered, “You had so many adventures today!”  Paul snuggled against my chest, waiting...  My son and his wife started this routine when Paul was an infant; after putting on his pajamas and reading a few cozy stories, they turn down the lights, and in soft voices, review his day.

“You saw the men fixing the sidewalk this morning, remember…?”

Dave had been taking a shower, and Paul and I had gone outside to retrieve the sponge Red Sox baseball bat Paul tossed over the balcony.  The bat was in the neighbors’ yard, under a small fir tree.  “Do you see the bat?  Can you get it?”

I opened the gate to the fence, he fetched the bat, and raised it proudly for me to see. 

Suddenly, the pounding of a jackhammer shattered the morning quiet.  “Wow!  What’s that?  Let’s go check it out!”  I said.

“Check it out!” replied Paul as we walked toward a sound from which most people would flee.

Paul is 22 months old and fast on his feet, so I have terrifying mental images of him smacking his head on the sidewalk or darting into the road.  So, “Take my finger, sweetie,” I said.  “Good boy.  Thank you,” and we headed toward the noise. 

While one might think curiosity about that thundering sound would override all else, there was much to inspect within the block and a half we covered.  

Paul stopped, pointed, and squatted on his haunches.  “Those are ants!”  I said.

“Ants!” said Paul, his voice gentle and intrigued.

“See how busy they are? They’re helping their friends take food to their home.  See the hole?  That’s their home.”

“That’s their home,” he said… or something close.

With his eyes, Paul followed the scurrying ants while shamelessly I indoctrinated him with the value of even the smallest lives, the importance of helping, the satisfaction of good work. 

Nearby, drifts of dried maple seeds had collected in the dirt at the base of a small sapling.  Yesterday, Dave demonstrated the fun of these “helicopters,” so Paul scooped up two handfuls and tossed them in the air. “Watah-fall!” he cried as they spun and tumbled. 

“Wheeeeee!” I whooped, as I tossed high another handful.

“Wheeee!”  Paul joined in, as seeds rained down around us.

Oh, being with our boy reminds me of the joys and wonder of this world.  The fascinating industry of ants.  The exhilaration of maple seeds swirling as they fall.  The allure of a jackhammer ratcheting against concrete.  Hm.  Yes.  That too.

Finger in small fist, we resumed our walk toward the deafening report.  “Big truck!”  Paul said with glee.

He was right!  A dump truck and a backhoe were waiting to haul away broken chunks of sidewalk.   “Look!  See that man?  He has a pickaxe.  Can you say ‘pickaxe’?  (Of course, he could!)  He’s breaking off pieces and putting them into the shovel.  Look at that big shovel on the backhoe!” 

“Shovel on the backhoe!” repeated Paul, or something close.

We sat on the stairs of a house across the street from the action and watched as I rattled off explanations and questions.  “What color is the dump truck?  That man’s shirt?  The backhoe?” 

I’d mistakenly told Paul that vehicle was a steam shovel, but not wishing to misinform my grandson, I asked one of the men and he corrected me; the good men of public works were tickled to have such curious, enthusiastic spectators. Periodically they waved or gestured toward what they were doing.  In parting, I yelled over the clamor of the engine to tell them they might have a young apprentice.  They called back, “Nah!  This work’s too hard.  Tell him to stay in school!”

Later that day, after lunch and Paul’s nap, Dave, Paul’s “Tato,” joined us for a trip to the grocery store.  As if the Universe had not been generous enough in providing this morning’s backhoe and dump truck, hook and ladder engine #9 was parked in the back of the lot.  “Look Paul!  What do you see?”  We whooped.

Pointing with a chubby, index finger, Paul hooted, “Big fire truck!”  Not just close this time, but clear as day.

Two firefighters manned the truck, both named Mike.    “Fist bump?” Mike #1 asked Paul.  Oh yeah.  Tiny fist met meaty fists as Mikes #1 and #2 greeted our boy.  “Want to sit in the truck?”  said Mike #1 as he jumped down from his post. 

“Whoa!  Look at you,” Dave and I crowed as Paul perched on the seat… too close to the edge I thought.  So I hovered, hands raised in case he lurched forward, while the two Mikes smiled their encouragement.

But there was shopping yet to be done, so Dave and I gushed our thanks, and we all waved bye-bye.  So many dear, burly men in Paul’s wake today, grinning at our little one and waving bye-bye!

For young parents, grocery shopping is one list among many, exhausting if it follows a day at work, an annoyance on the weekend when it takes up free time.  For us, Paul’s Tato and his LeaLea, it was anything Paul wanted it to be, as long as we wound up with the makings for dinner.  

Usually, I don’t take time to notice, much less marvel at the shapes and colors tucked in the shelves of Stop and Shop. But with Paul, I saw the beauty in mounds of shiny apples, ponderous pumpkins, and dimpled oranges.  We pointed, and Paul named them, as shoppers around us smiled and said, “Smart boy!”

We’d decided on tilapia for dinner, and wheeled over to the seafood counter, totally forgetting the surprise that waited there.  OMG! Lobsters! Could this day get any better?

Dave lifted Paul out of the cart so he could study closely those crusty creatures, their waving antennae, and spidery legs.  Paul noted the big ones and watched as some little ones took their naps.  I threw in a comment about playing nicely with friends as a bully of a lobster clambered over those napping babies.

Having never done this as parents – we were too busy!  We had things to do! – we set Paul free and followed him as he dashed down the aisles, weaving around displays and indulgent, smiling shoppers, stopping dead periodically when something caught his eye.  In the pet department, an elderly woman quizzed Paul on animal names, then looked at me and said, “Treasure these times!  It goes so fast…”

As if I don’t know!  We last saw Paul a month ago, and already he is taller and slimmer.  Already he has dropped some endearing words and gestures as his pronunciation improves and he mimics more accurately.  Already, he is more of a person, surer of what he wants… and what he doesn’t.  As I did with Tucker and Casey, I try to freeze our time with this little boy, much as I know it can’t be done.

In the darkened nursery that night, with Paul snoozy in his striped pajamas, snuggled close to my chest, I whispered, “and you sat in a fire truck.  Do you remember the two Mikes?  And you went to the grocery store, and watched the lobsters play with their friends.”

  

 

   

That is who we are, isn't it?

“So, you were on the stage when the shooting started? Can you describe for us what happened?” 

As he listened to the news anchor’s question, the young man’s gaze was averted.   He was seeing something else, something off-camera, something that left him pale and haunted.  In his blue flannel shirt and jeans, this kid had just spent the evening at a country western festival… and been sprayed with gunshots from a window on the 32^nd floor of the Mandalay Hotel.  The silence seemed long… painful… between the anchor’s question and the boy’s ability to find his voice.  He glanced into the camera and quickly away.

“I was with my sister,” he began, and immediately, I worried about his sister. “We heard this popping noise.  Pop, pop, pop.  At first we thought it was, like, firecrackers or something, you know? But then, this guy next to us was shot…” The boy angled his head and placed a finger where his neck met his jaw, “here.  In the head.”

He went on, his voice flat, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, back in time.  “The shooting stopped, then started again.  There were three volleys.  Each time, my sister threw her body over mine and told me she loved me.”

With tears running down my face, I imagined being there.  Out on a glorious night, enjoying the music and festivity, and then, the fatal shift wrought by that popping sound. Those desperately whispered, possibly last, loving words as Dave leapt to cover me, or as I leapt to protect my children. The futility of flesh as a shield when hatred has access to an automatic weapon. 

Who would continue to allow that access after the deaths of 20 first graders and six of their teachers in Sandy Hook?  Who would allow that after the deaths of theater-goers watching a movie in Aurora?  Who would allow that after the deaths of young people dancing at a club in Orlando?  Who would continue to do nothing as guns in the hands of the mentally ill or hate-consumed continue to kill Americans gathered peacefully together?

Statistics vary depending on the source and definition of a mass shooting. Gun Violence Archive counts 1500 mass shootings since Sandy Hook.  These include incidents where four or more people were shot, not necessarily killed, and not including the shooter.  So if three people were shot and killed, they’d not be counted in that statistic.  In terms of individual gun deaths, the average is 12,000 homicides a year.  If suicide by gun is included, the number skyrockets, as if 12,000 weren’t skyrocket enough.        

So, how is Congress responding to these tragedies? What steps are they taking to keep guns out of the wrong hands?  Oh, wait.  No. Their response, no doubt prodded by the NRA and gun manufacturers, is to pursue ways to make it easier.  In Connecticut, we are blessed by Senators Murphy and Blumenthal, and Representative Jim Himes who are seeking to close loopholes in existing legislation. But a few months ago, enough members of Congress voted “aye” to pass a law that allows those with mental illness easier access to guns.  Not only that, there are bills currently under consideration to legalize silencers and give concealed-carry permits validity even in states that don’t allow them.

WHAT? Why is the agony and outrage most Americans feel not reflected in the votes and actions of Congress?

“The second amendment demands we protect gun ownership!” might be the response.  But it’s lunacy or willful ignorance to think the founding fathers envisioned automatic weapons, or would wish to protect the right to spray death on innocent citizens with a weapon designed to kill many in a short time.

Over the past year, my husband and I saw Zac Brown in concert at Citifield and James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt at Fenway Park.  The stands were packed to capacity at both venues, with roughly 35,000 eager fans in attendance at each.  Despite the happy crowds and great vibe, it crossed my mind, just a quiet flitter, that a shooter with an automatic weapon could do a lot of damage if that were the goal.

Instead, people danced, just as the concert-goers in Las Vegas did.  Everyone smiled, and some linked arms, as 35,000 people sang along with James Taylor to “You’ve got a Friend.”

That is who we are, isn’t it?

In the names of those dead by gun violence, and to prevent adding the names of our loved ones to that list, I pray that Congress, those entrusted with the well-being of the nation and its people, will be moved by these deaths to enact common sense gun control and start, at the very least, with re-instating the ban on semi-automatic weapons.

Home Is...

It was the first time our children, Tucker and Casey, had seen the house Dave and I were close to buying.  At ages ten and seven, our kids had lived their lives on a school campus, eating most meals in a cafeteria with other kids and their families, having the run of a gym, playground, and athletic fields, even tubing downstream when the creek became a rushing river during Hurricane Gloria.  Life was good. 

Still, this house was pretty cool.  

We’d toured the interior, and the kids had scoped out the rooms that would be theirs.  We’d stood, all four of us, in the vast fireplace that had been the heart of this home in the eighteenth century.  And then, we’d headed outside to explore the woods-encircled yard.

Dave and I studied the roof, which we knew we’d have to replace.  An unwelcome expense, but then we’d be set for the next twenty-five years.  A lifetime!  The kids raced around, checking out the barn, playhouse, old well, and the shed built around a gnarled apple tree.  

When Tuck spotted a low-hanging dogwood branch, he leapt up and grabbed it to swing.  With a startling snap, the branch split.  Tuck landed on his feet, rattled but unhurt, as Dave and I looked at each other wide-eyed.  We hadn’t bought the place yet and already we were breaking things.

Dave found a strong, straight cedar limb near the edge of the woods.  We propped the sagging branch back into position and sheepishly headed to the car. 

Twenty-seven years later, that cracked branch is still sprouting a few limp leaves come spring.  Twenty-seven years later, and we’ve re-shingled the roof again.  Twenty-seven years later, Tucker is 37, and Casey, 34: both are married, and Tucker has a son.  Both recently purchased their own homes.  It’s not like I wonder where the time has gone: so many stories, milestones, and memories have filled those twenty-seven years… Still...  Yeah.  Where has the time gone?  

The other night, the phone rang around 10:00, late for a phone call.  Luckily, I didn’t glance at the clock or I would have panicked.  An accident?  A death?   No, thank god.  It was Casey, running another load of bins and boxes from her apartment to the new house.   “Mom.  I just had a thought.  You were only a few years older than me when you bought the house in Easton.  And you already had two kids!  That is crazy pants!”

It is crazy pants.  Casey and Tucker are such grown-ups, more than I am it seems sometimes.  But it is amazing to think of all the years, all the living, all the change that has brought me from Casey’s age to 64, that has brought my kids from those scampering little ones to the wonderful adults they have become.

After bringing over four carloads of boxes on Casey and PJ’s second night in their new house, we sat on the rug on the floor (no furniture yet) in the newly painted “NYPD Blue” living room sipping celebratory Proseccos.  It was easy to conjure myself at their age, standing in our foyer when we were moving in 1990, gazing at bare walls... and our future.  My thirty-eight year old self felt an empathetic tug of nostalgia for the former owner as I pictured him standing where I was, giving a sweeping look into the empty rooms before closing the door behind him for the last time.  He had lived in the house with his wife and daughter for forty-five years.

Every so often, I broach the idea of selling our house to move into something smaller, something within walking distance to town and biking distance to a beach.  I’m trying to be practical.  A number of friends have told me, “you want to move out by the time you’re 70, when you still have the energy.”  70!  And yet, incredibly, that’s not so far off. 

I love the idea of a walking, biking life, but I wish I could take this house with me. With its porches, huge fireplace, and decrepit, finally dying, dogwood, it is home.  I don’t want to abandon it. What if someone who doesn’t appreciate its history buys it?  Someone who sees it as old, rather than venerable?  Someone who thinks it would be fine to rip up the wide-plank floors and wrench out the massive beams?  Omigod.  I can't stand to think of it.  This house is more than a building; it’s an embracing friend, and we have been its charges as well as its stewards.  Over its 235 years, it has been infused with spirit: ours, those who have gone before us, its own.  Fact is, it actually is home to some spirits, but that’s another story.

 For now, moving is off the table. Last time I mentioned the idea to Dave, he shook his head and said, “Have to tell you, Lea, I can’t see myself leaving this house anytime soon.  I’m only leaving this place in a box.”  Oh.  That’s pretty clear.  Good.  I can settle in, love my house, and for now, not worry about being practical.  This house is perfect for visits from grandchildren, the perfect place for grandchildren to remember…

Finding Art

What might the artist’s message be?  What was he trying to say?  Thumbtacks secured a length of string reaching from the floor to the wall and Carey pondered the installation with concern.  All she could get from it was, well, office supplies.  Was she really that shallow?  Sigh.  The eyeball projected on a glass ball was equally bemusing.  But wait.  What is this?  She spotted a series of ridged gills emanating a stream of air.  Inhalation and exhalation.  Breath!  The sustenance of life!  She glanced about, smiling with satisfaction, eager to share her insight with some other patron.  

Something held her back though, and she studied the oeuvre more closely.  Hmm.  Ah.  Upon closer review she realized the structure was… an air vent.  Oops.

What is art?  Centuries ago, it was defined and regulated by the church.  Artists worked their craft in light and shadow, color, portraiture, movement, and emotion through religious themes. I’ve wandered wearily through the galleries of the Uffizi and Accademia in Florence glazing over at one Annunciation, Nativity, Crucifixion, and Resurrection after another… and don’t get me started on the torments of the saints.  Agony… for everyone involved.

With a little inner remonstrance to pull myself together, I’ve sought to get past the themes and focus on the paintings’ elements: depictions of village life, building interiors, fashion, and drapery; the extraordinary skill in realistic representation; the emotion conveyed with paint on canvas.   While I prefer Hudson River landscapes, I recognize artistic skill and beauty.  Go back a few centuries and the “what is art?” question is unnecessary. 

It’s the use of feces as a medium that really throws me.

But I do understand that art can inform and provoke.  On a recent trip to The Ringling Museum of Art in Sarasota, FL, Dave and I were transfixed by a series of photographs taken at an African diamond mine. Laden with ponderous sacks, black laborers, so numerous that any identity was obscured, waited in line to scale rickety wooden ladders up a cliff. Startling in his unblemished shirt and arrogant whiteness, an overseer stood with his clipboard amid the sea of sweating, over-burdened workers.

It was a grueling scene and underscored how little I know of exploitation, how supremely fortunate I am in my life.

As Dave and I continued on toward the Monda Gallery, a mother and young daughter emerged.  The child spun, skipped, and bubbled with excitement.  “That was SO much fun!” she said.

“I knew you’d like it!” her mom replied.

Fun? I was still haunted by the diamond mine, and fun sounded good.

We entered a dimly lit, lofty room hung floor to ceiling with ribbons, thousands and thousands of multi-colored ribbons, a sea of swaying stained glass.  Soft classical music and birdsong conveyed a sense of cathedral quiet and deep forest, yet all who entered added their own melody of pure joy and discovery. 

Small children whirled in giddy circles shrieking with laughter.  Teenagers chattered and took pictures with their phones.  Others walked slowly in a moving meditation, the ribbons parting and falling gently into place as they passed through. 

Smiling as ribbons slid over my face and skin like a breeze, I held out my arms to let the ribbons flow from them like waterfalls.  Every movement was novel, a personal creation of sound, color, dance, and joy.

What is art?  It’s still an open question, but I found it in “Pathless Woods.”  

Note: Anne Patterson, the creator of “Pathless Woods,” has synesthesia, a condition that causes sensory perceptions to overlap; when she hears sound, she sees color.  In this installation, the artist helps participants experience that same merge as they create their own path through 8472 ribbons - the equivalent of 25.6 miles – cut into 16’ lengths.  If it comes to a museum near you, GO!