Still Ten

The day is chilly, the sky winter-white behind the bare gray stalks of the birches.  I should have left Dave a note, I think, as I test a rock for steadiness before giving it my full weight.  If I fall or a bear gets me, no one will know where I am.  The bear is an unlikely threat, although it adds some drama to my lone walk.  And it’s true my neighbors suspect a bear was responsible for smashing their bird feeder and twisting its iron pole.  What else could have caused that damage?  While Dave puts no conditions on his desire to see a bear, I’d want a wall or a window between us.

A year ago, we came close.  I stood at the kitchen sink, hands warm and soapy in a sink of sudsy dishes, when I glanced out the window overlooking the backyard.  Something large was skulking toward the bird feeder.  What the…?   I must have emitted some sound, the kind that shock squeezes from your gut unbidden, for Dave raced to my side, thinking me hurt, and we watched a muscular beast, beautiful, slinking up the cedar pole.  It was tawny and striped with tufted ears, no bear, but a bobcat, as big as our malamute, and it snatched a squirrel dawdling at the pole’s summit.  

A bobcat!  He was a source of joy and stories told for days with wild gestures, shoulders hunched in bobcat imitation, and brows raised hairline-high.  But I would not want to meet up with him in the woods, and I assume he’s still around.  Long after we saw him, I felt his eyes on me when I filled the feeders.  More than that, I found myself behind his eyes, following the woman-creature in clogs and pj’s, with seed-filled plastic bins dangling like buckets from a milkmaid’s yoke.

Back in the woods and prompted by such memories, I pick up a stout stick, about three feet long, and whack it against a tree to test for hidden rot. It is strong and the impact stings my hand.  Satisfied and armed, I climb the rocky slope, seeking solid footing, and stretching for a well-anchored rock or sturdy sapling to haul myself up. 

For a time at our school, I reviewed applications and wrote summaries for teachers before prospective students came to visit as part of the admissions process.  I read each child’s “Hobbies and Interests,” often amazed by the length and variety of the list, chagrined to reflect on how brief my own had become.  Reading?  Conservation? Writing?  Walking?  Walking probably doesn’t even qualify as a hobby or interest.  Thank god I'm not trying to spruce up a profile for Match.com.

If I were still ten, it would be a different story.  I had hobbies and interests aplenty:  tennis, skiing, swimming, crafts, sewing, rock-collecting, antique-doll collecting, playing guitar, reading, and exploring.  Tucked in among all those active activities, reading sounds okay; rounds things out.  And exploring?  Exploring was one of my favorites.  When I was a kid, my friends and I would set forth in our suburban neighborhood knowing that mystery was part of life and it was up to us to find it. 

 

A wooden bridge crossed the stream that ran the length of a wide meadow behind Raleigh’s house.  Together we’d cross over and ease our way through tangled brambles, stopping to release snagged sleeves and ignoring scratched skin, as we formed theories about the goings-on in the mansion on the hill.  What evil experiments were hatched under the purple lights glowing in the basement windows?  What to make of the suit of armor visible on the second floor landing?  Was the machete we found on the bridge a murder weapon tossed during flight from a crime?  And what about the bullet holes in the windows of the garage, a building so decrepit, close to re-claimed by the earth, as entangled in vines and gnarled roots as it was?

We trespassed that property with weekend regularity, each foray reaping fodder for wild tales, our mouths grim at the implications, eyes rounded and dancing at the whiff of danger in our midst.  While for the most part, as an adult, I trust danger is not in our midst, my net is wide, media-flung, and I know of danger lurking in farther fields than Raleigh’s, and they worry me.  My explorations now are mostly mental, and instead of turning over rocks to gather worms and salamanders, I poke at concerns, examining and inflaming them until my rational inner grown-up takes notice, and hands on hips, shuts me down.  Get out of your head and look up, she tells me sternly.

In my current trespass, once I reach the top of the hill, in obedience to that inner voice, I look up and out and around. The land on the far side rises steeply and the black ribbon of stream snakes below, past old stonewalls, fallen trees, and clotted islands of sodden debris. Parchment-dry birch leaves rustle and shiver.  I stand straight in my red jacket, jeans, and scuffed sneakers, my stick clasped in a grubby hand. I’m in my sixties, ready for bears in the woods, and my ten year-old-self grins inside me.

 

     

The Search

In 1975 when I married Dave, I wore my mother’s wedding dress.  It was of cream-colored satin with long sleeves, a fitted torso, and flared skirt.  Simple and lovely.  Tradition comforts me, and I felt the dress was a link to my young parents and their day in St. Louis twenty-three years before.

My bridesmaids wore long blue and white gingham dresses with square necklines and puffed sleeves, the epitome of seventies prairie splendor. I so loved those Gunne Sax creations that Dave bought me one as a wedding present.  It was the perfect outfit for Colonial Easton Day when I wore it last, eighteen years ago.

Mom has our shared dress wrapped in tissue, stored in a long white box up in the attic or in a closet somewhere, but, while a fifties dress worked well in the seventies, it’s not going to fly in 2016, so with glee and wonderment, I’ve tagged along with Casey on her quest for THE dress.  

“The Plumed Serpent” conjures a haughty, feathered snake.  Purple perhaps, with emerald eyes, and a flickering black tongue, a sidekick for Aladdin’s genii.  Nowhere in the words lies the flounce of a wedding gown, yet Casey’s search began at a shop of that name.  Karis, Casey’s maid of honor and traveling partner in Asia, and Lisa, her dear friend and cousin Trevor’s wife, joined us for this opening plunge. 

Was champagne offered?  Yes it was, and we were thrilled with our treat as Karis, Lisa, and I settled on a sofa in front of a low stage before an expansive mirror, while my daughter disappeared into a dressing room with the consultant. 

Shortly, Casey returned, smiling sheepishly and rustling in layer upon layer of tulle.  It was not my girl’s style or choice, but she looked pretty and amused, and wasn’t that part of the process, to play princess and see what might work?

Next, she shimmied forth in a form-fitting lace number, and then, in an ice-white movie-star sheath.  In each, she looked beautiful, but never captivated, and every time she re-appeared, I scanned her face for a sign that something in this or that dress had what she wanted.  There was a flicker of interest in a gown with Grecian lines, but the cut was such she couldn’t get it over her hips, which was discouraging and underscored the challenge and risk inherent in this mission.

For, unlike every other clothing purchase, wedding shops carry only one sample, one size, of each gown, so even a likely prospect entails guesswork.  To give some clue as to how the finished product might look, the consultant clamps, cinches, and belts loose fabric.  If the dress is too small, it stays unzipped or unbuttoned, held together by clamps connected by ribbons, just enough to give a vague sense of its effect.  Can you imagine?  Such jimmying and jamming of flesh and fabric, and still the bride-to-be must take a leap of faith that the addition or removal of panels, lace, straps, and sequins, will produce the effect she wants for her wedding day.   

While we did not find a dress, the Plumed Serpent was an excellent introduction, and armed with new insights, Casey made an appointment at Kleinfelds in New York.  Have you seen “Say Yes to the Dress?”  I have not, but Kleinfelds is the setting for this popular reality show, and while the store has been an institution for years, it has gained celebrity through television exposure.

The day of our visit was bitter cold, and newscasters had solemnly warned listeners to bundle up.  People pudgy in fleece, wool, and gender-neutral parkas raced briskly to restaurants and coffee shops.  Noses peeked from multi-wrapped scarves and woolen hats pulled low over brows and ears. Heavy socks and Uggs were featured footwear, except for Casey who opted for thin socks and Frye boots.  “My toes are freezing,” she groaned.  “What was I thinking?”

She was thinking of chiffon and lace of course, and with relief, we spotted Kleinfelds and hustled inside.

This, most surely, was a temple to marriage.  The reception area was cavernous, with a lofty ceiling supported by Corinthian columns, their capitals ornate with curling plaster leaves.  A graceful white orchid and green mosses sprouted from huge urns.  To the left of the front desk, a stately mannequin, chin thrust skyward, shoulders proud, her face a mask of ennui, stood resolute beneath the weight of great waterfalls of satin that, to my thinking, would slow a bride down.

My daughter sat beside me on a velvet loveseat, flipping through bridal magazines while we waited.  Her long auburn hair tumbled over her parka-padded shoulders as she dabbed on some lip-gloss.  “Nice shade,” I said.

“’Infallible’,” she replied, brandishing the tube so I could see the name on the side.

I gazed at my girl, lovely in any case, spruced up with mascara, eye shadow, and “Infallible,” to emulate her wedding-day look as she tried on dresses.  I could feel the prickle in my nose, a little sting in my eyes.  “You look beautiful, Sweetie,” I said.  She tilted her head to one side and smiled a baby sloth smile.  My dear one.

“Hello!  I’m Diane!  I’ll be your consultant today!”  We snapped to attention and shook hands with a reed-thin woman dressed in a stylish black pantsuit and heels.  Her blond hair was long, with bangs cut straight across her brow, and I guessed she was about my age.  Her smile was broad, many-teeth-broad, as she led us into the showroom in back and chatted with Casey about her wedding plans, venue, budget, and design preferences.  The two of them headed for the dressing room and left me to survey my surroundings. 

 My, what a bustle! Floor length mirrors were arrayed throughout the large room, each with a low, round platform before them. Clusters of mothers, maids, friends, and the occasional bewildered father gathered before those platforms, watching with loving eyes as their youthful brides-to-be swished and turned in dress after dress.  Against this flowing vista of attendants, gowns, and mirrored images, I spotted a pert nose, bright blue eyes, and wisps of blond hair well-muffled in a scarf and parka.  Karis.

After hugs and pleasantries, Karis’s eyes drifted from mine and focused somewhere over my shoulder.  “Oooooh!  Sparkly things!” she cooed.  I followed her gaze to a lavender wall of arched niches lined with shelves of brilliant accessories.  “Disneyland for ladies!” crowed Karis as she tried on a jeweled tiara, admired pearl-encrusted combs, and ran a finger beneath pairs of dangling earrings.  “What’s this?” she asked a salesperson while placing an intricately woven headpiece, a “Juliet cap,” it turned out, over her hair.  “Perfect for pilates, don’t you think?” she said.

“Karis!” called Casey as she and Diane swept into the room.  The girls hugged and squealed a bit, then Casey mounted the platform for our viewing.  The dress she modeled was “light and airy” according to Diane, but to me, the peach-colored satin was flimsy as a nightie.  None of us loved it, so they returned to the dressing room for the next round. While I preferred a fitted white dress with a ruched bodice, Casey liked a cappuccino lace.  “I look pretty in this, I think,” she said, but her tone was flat, her expression, uninspired.

And Karis and I knew what we wanted to see in Casey’s face, for one mirror over, we’d witnessed another girl’s moment of discovery.

The woman was pleasant looking, short, and stocky, probably in her late twenties.  Her brunette hair was caught in a messy knot on the back of her head.  The dress she chose – a strapless sequined bodice with a voluminous multi-layered skirt of scratchy tulle - was nothing either of us would have selected.   But as she twirled and swished, her hands buried in the folds of her dress, her smile brightening to rapture, her radiance filled the room.  “This is it!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands and jumping up and down, delighted as a child.  She loved herself in that dress.  Hearts full, Karis and I grinned at each other, and clapped along with everyone in the vast room.  As the young woman retreated to the dressing room to change, reluctant to change, her reflection flowed with her from one mirror to the next, and she beamed at every glorious vision of herself as she passed.

That is what I want to see when my daughter finds her dress. 

 

 

Going Up

Tea and cookies at the Mohonk Mountain House is a civilized snack served at 4:00 PM, and savored while sitting in velvet Victorian chairs before a cozy fire.  Today, however, the management graciously invited the citizenry of New Palz (all of them) to a day of skating, hiking the trails, and afternoon tea.  A generous offering, but when Dave and I entered the lounge, the dash of hordes desperate for a cup and the surge of celebrants eager for a sugar cookie convinced us that a walk suited us just as well.

A stay at this resort is a luxury for the most part beyond us, but for several years we have taken advantage of a mid-week, pre-holiday deal that puts an overnight almost within the realm of reasonable.  With its dormers and turrets, balconies and stone arches, porches and picturesque overlooks, the Mountain House is a castle nestled in the Shawungunk Mountains, like Brigadoon, an oasis from a different time, a time where we want to be. 

Despite the dimming light, Dave and I skirted the lake, leaving the castle behind us, taking an easy stroll along a wide graveled trail arched over with evergreens.  To our left, massive blocks of stones scoured from the earth and carried by the glacier jutted from the steep slope that rose to the ridge.  Ahead and above us, obscured by great profiles of rock with soaring foreheads and protruding chins, we heard youthful voices laughing and chattering, three teenagers, we later learned.

“What do you think?” said Dave.  “Shall we add ‘rock-climbing’ to our activities when we tell friends about Mohonk?”

Totally.

Having not done much rock-climbing, or any, we both wore sneakers. I regretted this, telling Dave I wished he’d worn hiking boots so we could legitimately call this outing a hike, but rock-climbing?  Even better.  Besides, we planned only to clamber up a little ways. Just enough to claim the activity.

But we got into it.  Kept climbing.  And when Dave called, “Here’s one of the red arrows that marks the trail.  Wanna keep going?”  I did, so we continued onward, pleased to have the guidance of those who’d planned the best approach.

Cheerfully, we reached for finger- and toe-holds, and where there were none, paused to study our options and plan how to progress.  At times Dave gave me a boost; other times, I stretched out a hand to steady him.  In places, we had to scooch through gaps, or heft our butts up onto a grainy surface, and swing our legs around and up. 

All else receded as we scanned the rocks before us, the chinks and inclines, the heights and spans, to decide the best and safest way forward and up.  It was difficult, but I was grinning, pleased I could still do this, grateful and awed that I was scaling these bones of the earth, rocks shunted and lifted and tumbled into place millions and millions of years ago. Oh, how I need to recall that perspective as I ruminate and worry about every detail of life. 

The light was fading and I yelled ahead to the teenagers, asking if they knew how much further we had to go.  

“Not sure.  Close, I think.  I hope,” a young man’s voice called back. 

“Plenty of time before dark,” Dave said.  He knows where my head goes.

For this is not the first time we’ve headed out for a walk that turned into something else, an adventure if one is charitable, sheer stupidity if one is honest.  Years ago, when I was still on our town’s conservation commission and our malamute Kodiak was alive and fit, we set out with the dog on a November afternoon, around 4:00… a time we should beware of, it seems.  Though the trail was local, it was new to us, well marked with blue splotches painted eye-level on intermittent tree-trunks.  We marched along with Kody straining to run, her ears pricked and swiveling. 

I always felt guilty with this big girl on a leash.  She was majestic, maned, and wolfish, black and white with a masked face.   Bred to pull sleds, but born, it seemed to me, to howl and run wild. I felt honored to be her human, and wished more for her than life in a house and at the end of a leash, but suburbia, hunters, and cars limited her freedom. 

For some reason, I’d thought the trail was only a mile or so.  I was mistaken, but when the sun set in front of us we’d been hoofing for a while and it didn’t make sense to turn back.    Periodically I’d ask Dave, “Are you nervous?” and he said no every time, which calmed me.  But my mind was picturing headlines, “Conservation Commissioner Lost in the Woods,” the “What a Jerk” part unprinted but implied.  Plus I knew this preserve backed up on the 750 acres of Trout Brook Valley, which was adjacent to the even larger Devil’s Den state park. One could wander lost in those woods for days.  Mentally, I whipped up a full-scale search with dogs and helicopters as I plodded on, craning for a glimpse of a trail marker, but no longer able to see them in the dark.

It was a glorious night, the sky velvet and star-sparkled, the constellation Orion overhead, club in hand.  We knew the hunter’s orientation in relation to our house, right above the mailbox, at this time of year.  We’d also taken note of where the sun went down. In the absence of a compass or Boy Scout to guide us, we took stock with those elements, and turned to head in the direction Orion indicated.  Having grown up watching “Lassie,” we also enlisted the dog, saying, “Where’s home, Kody?”  When we loosened up on her leash, she pulled as if she knew the answer, and eventually we spotted the reassuring flash of headlights along Black Rock Turnpike.

Back on the rock face above Mohonk, we’d long ago lost sight of the lights of the hotel, but the red arrows were still visible to mark the way. 

Up ahead, we heard a female voice, shrill with alarm, say, “You’ve got to be kidding.  I can’t do it.”

We heard the exaggerated teasing sighs of her friends, but I’d registered her remark with concern.  “What is it?” I called. 

“The arrow on this rock points straight up.”

Excellent.

Still, I felt some satisfaction that we were closing in on the kids.  I realized it might be because challenging spots slowed them down, but Dave and I had them by four decades at least, and I couldn’t help a whisper of pride. 

Beyond the exertion, this was a physical puzzle.  At times the red arrows were friendly partners, providing good guidance, easing our way.  At others, they mocked us, a joke surely, pointing up the flat face of a boulder without any visible cracks to cling to, and I pictured the painter smirking as he slapped that red sneer on the rock.   Yet, always we figured out a way up. 

Dave was faster, taller, and stronger, but he remained the rear-guard to protect and sometimes shoulder-boost his flower of a wife.

We could heard Kyle, Greer, and Todd just ahead, and had ascertained their names through their taunts and encouragements.  Every now and then we’d glimpsed Greer’s curly head of hair, Kyle’s bearded face and broad torso in plaid flannel, and Todd, enveloped in his navy blue hoodie.  “How much further, do you think?” I said again, but still, they had no idea.

“Sundown in twenty minutes,” Kyle called, and I inspected the overhangs around me, finding no comfort in the specter of a night spent, back to rock, in their shelter, as opposed to our cozy room with its wicker headboard, snuggly quilt, and convenient bathroom. I refused even to think about the meals now roasting in ovens and simmering in pans in Mohonk’s kitchens. 

“Shit.  I am not climbing that thing.” Greer again.

“Yes, you are,” said Todd. 

“What is it?” I said.  The kids were close now, just around the lip of a ledge.

“A ladder.  A series of ladders.  Straight up.  Kyle, I don’t think you’ll even fit in there.  Too narrow,” said Greer.

Too narrow? 

By now, we were in this together.  I was grateful the kids were with us on the mountain, grateful for their company, both in the adventure and in case.  And as we rounded the ledge, we saw two feet disappearing into a crevice above us. 

Later we learned this was the “Lemon Squeezer,” a long, tight crevice with sturdy wooden ladders bolted to one side. As we stood at their base, I reflected that I would kill my kids if they ever tried anything like this, much less attempting it in the dark.

“It’s going to be a good story soon,” I said. 

Dave, my brave one, my stalwart man, stood beside me as we eyed that groove in the rock with dismay.  Still, the ladders guaranteed footholds and handholds at regular intervals, a good thing as it was pitch dark once we climbed inside the crevice. 

Muffled grunts, complaints, and nervous laughter accompanied the kids’ struggle up the rungs. Glimmers of light broke the blackness, filtering past the bodies crammed into the opening above us, as one of them turned on a phone flashlight.

It was work, climbing those ladders.  Well-smoothed by many hands, the wood of the rungs was solid and reliable.  Reach, grab a rung, heave, step up: it was crazy, to be doing this, but I felt strong, capable, and daring.  I didn’t want to be stranded on the mountain that night, but climbing those ladders felt good.

“Thank God!  I see the opening at the top!”  It was Greer.  “Agh.  The ladder stops short.  How do we get out?”

“You’ll be fine.  Press your feet against one side and inch up,” said Kyle, his voice kind.

More grunts and the sounds of fabric rubbing rock, of shifting, and shoving… and then hoots of triumphant relief.  The kids had shimmied their way out… and Dave and I were alone, clinging to ladder rungs inside a crevice, on the side of a mountain, in the dark.  But we knew we were close. 

Reach.  Grab a rung.  Heave.  Step up.  “Can you believe we’re doing this?”  I could hear the grin of satisfaction, along with the effort, in Dave’s question.    

Then, a bright light, and a head and shoulders silhouetted against the opening I could now see. “Here, I’ll hand you my phone.” 

And I could picture this young man, a stranger, Kyle it was, lying flat on the rock slab above us in order to stretch an arm far enough into the crevice so I could reach the phone pinched in his fingertips.  

“Oh my god, thank you.  I’m so grateful you’re here, that you came back with the light for us! Are we near the top?”

“Yep.  Almost there.”

With my right hand, I clung to the ladder, while twisting to the left to angle the phone down to illuminate the rungs below me for Dave.  Once he caught up, I threaded my arm between my body and the rock face in order to hand the light back up to Kyle.  He didn’t leave to rejoin his friends, but waited at the opening, shining the light into the fissure while Dave and I inched, backs and feet pressed to opposing rock faces, out onto the rock ledge, into open air, above the wide spread of the Hudson Valley. 

P.S.  We returned the next day to take pictures in the daylight!