Skip It or Go?

It was our last morning at Mohonk Mountain House. Check-out was at noon, and our breakfast reservation was for 9:30. But Mohonk’s price includes free activities and equipment to guests, and the snowshoe hike with naturalist Michael Ridolfo at 10:30 was tempting. The day before, we’d joined him to learn about “Animals’ Winter Survival Strategies,” and today’s “Native American Journey” was sure to be equally good.

“What do you think?” said Dave.

 

“I want to go, but I hate feeling rushed. I’m inclined to skip it.” My favorite thing about retirement is letting days unfold as they will. It’s amazing how full are the hours, how quickly they pass, when not marked by obsessive glances at the time. 

 

“Let’s relax and enjoy breakfast, and if we finish in time, we’ll go,” said Dave. Good plan: no rushing, and our options left open. 

 

By 10:10, we’d savored the last of our omelets, coffee, and juice. 

 

“So. What do you want to do about the hike?” Dave asked. 

 

It was going to be tight, but the sparkle of sunshine on new snow beckoned. “How about wrap up our packing quickly, then you meet Michael and let him know we’re coming. I’ll check out of the room and store our bags downstairs,” I said.

 

When away from home, it takes but one repeat encounter to feel you’re meeting up with a friend. Michael greeted us warmly and introduced us to the other people who would be hiking with us. 

 

While we started out on a trail along the frozen lake, our snowshoes freed us from the fetters of a packed surface and allowed entry to wherever Michael chose to lead. Given his breadth of knowledge and experience, he was not one to follow a script. We clomped through woods and thickets, pausing often when an interesting tree or animal track begged comment or a story. Tiny rodent prints threaded through by a line, a tail trail, were those of mice; voles and shrews do not have tails. We examined fox and coyote prints, noting at Michael’s direction the indents left by claws at the end of each pad. “These are canines. Cat claws, like those of a bobcat, are retracted, where canine claws are always extended,” he explained. 

 

When we passed a tree, girdled with a wide band at its base as if by a beaver, Michael stopped. “When I first noticed this a while ago, it was a conundrum. It looked like the work of a porcupine, but I couldn’t understand why the damage was low to the ground. That’s unusual for them. Then one day, I spotted the animal itself heading for the tree, dragging one maimed leg. That explained it: he could no longer climb. Haven’t seen him around lately; he probably died.”  Michael motioned us on, and I tried to banish images of the suffering porcupine. 

 

As we trudged up a ridge, a young woman accompanying us mentioned that her man had proposed to her the day before, here at Mohonk. She whipped off her heavy mitten and proudly flashed her new ring. Our hoots and congratulations no doubt startled into hiding any creatures that might have considered making an appearance. 

 

When we reached the top of the slope overlooking the lake, Michael stopped us. The crunch and thump of our snowshoes fell silent. Everything was silent. But… not really. “Listen,” said Michael. “Close your eyes. What do you hear?” 

 

My breath above all. A jay’s cry in the distance. The faintest burble and rustle of water under ice. A sigh of wind through the trees. “Native American elders can discern tree species by the different sounds wind makes passing through branches, needles, and foliage,” said Michael. 

 

He led us down to the water’s edge and a large wood plank shed. There he talked about survival skills and demonstrated how to make a fire and purify water. “You can live without food for at least a month, so clean water and shelter are your priorities.”

 

From the shade of the woods, we followed Michael out to a sunbathed meadow where snow crystals glinted rainbow colors. Cold cheeks, rapid breath, white light, and the squeak of dry snow. A young couple planning a life together. A sense of the connection among all creatures. And here on the mountain, a blessed separation from the concerns that so often plague me. Trailing behind the others, I flung my arms wide in gratitude for it all… and for the push to say “Yes!”  

 

 

 

      

The 'Funny Smell' Call

As I dropped off a package at the police department’s front desk, Tara, the dispatcher welcomed me and smiled. “No more funny odors over there?”

 

“Nope. All good,” I said. 

 

Sigh. After last night’s call, we’re going to have a reputation for sure. 

 

It went like this:

 

The brittle needles and drooping branches of our Christmas tree had convinced me. Much as Dave and I love the light and comfort of the tree’s glow on these dark winter nights, it was time to take her down. I was on my way from the attic with the bin for the ornaments when I smelled it.

 

“Dave?” I yelled down the stairs, “Did you light a candle?”

 

I put down the bin and sniffed. The scent of wax and newly-lighted candle was strong. Dave’s hearing was not. I yelled again.

 

“Hon? Did you hear me? Did you light a candle?”

 

He came to the foot of the stairs and said no.

 

“Weird. Do you smell that? Something’s burning somewhere.”

 

We both sniffed and there was no mistaking it. This was no mere whiff, but the distinct, cozy scent of melting wax and candle flame. He climbed the stairs and we stood in the hall, sniffing. We went from room to room, outlet to outlet, fireplace to fireplace, attic to basement, sniffing. There was no sign of smoke nor fire, but the smell remained strong in the stairway and upstairs hall. 

 

“I do not want to call the fire department,” I said. 

 

“I think we have to,” Dave replied. “We can’t risk there being something we’re missing.”

 

“Ugh. I feel silly bothering them. We just need an experienced nose…”

 

We decided it was unwise to ignore the possibility of something smoldering in the walls. I dialed the fire department’s non-emergency number, described the smell, answered a few questions, and begged the man who’d answered not to send a fire engine. 

 

“We have to send a truck,” he said. 

 

“Do you have a tiny truck?” I pleaded.

 

He laughed, and shortly after, a fire engine and police car pulled up outside the house. Fully-outfitted, Firefighters Al Doty and Martin Ohradan and Officer Tamra French came to the door. They asked a few questions, and a renewed sniff-search commenced. 

 

“I smell the fireplace. Maybe that’s it?” suggested Officer French. At the door to the basement, we all paused. There was a sweet odor, promising, but not waxy. Dave and I know the comfortable smells of our smoky fireplace and the dryer sheets we use in the laundry downstairs. The mystery scent was different.   

 

After a while, Firefighter Ohradan asked, “Do you still smell it?” A good question, an important question, but by then, Dave and I been sniffing here and there for about an hour and no longer knew what we could smell. Our three responders wanted to validate us and our story.  They were patient and persistent in pursuit of that smell, but it was not there for them.   

 

They were also professional, efficient, and concerned for our safety. Firefighter Doty wielded a heat-seeking device and methodically scanned the walls. He found nothing, and we were reassured. 

 

Still, what had caused the smell? I was forming a theory but didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to be written up in a report as a crazy lady, however…

 

Our house is old. When we bought it, we were told it was built in 1782 by Colonel Isaiah Jennings upon his return after fighting in the Revolutionary War. During our early years in the house, I’d sit on a stool, basking in the warmth of our massive fireplace, and imagine other mothers who’d raised their kids, stirred their stews, worried, worked, and mused at this hearth.  I wondered about those who’d lived here in years past. 

 

And maybe they wondered about us. 

 

Our daughter, Casey, was seven when we moved in, and periodically she’d report seeing a pale, bearded young man at her bedroom door. At the time, we told her she was dreaming. But once, a neighbor – a science teacher – shed inexplicable tears while sitting before our fireplace. His mother was a psychic, a quality mortifying to one of scientific bent, yet, later, he asked her for insight. She said she’d “seen” a wake laid out in that room when she’d visited our home. The deceased was a pale, bearded man. 

 

In our thirty years here, I’ve always felt embraced by the house and fascinated by its history. I’ve never seen or felt anything I might interpret as otherworldly… until I smelled that burning candle.

 

 

 

Dave and I are grateful to Officer Tamra French and Firefighters Martin Ohradan and Al Doty for their expertise and kindness in making sure we were safe. 

 

 

 

 

 

   

          

 

 

 

    

Education Censored Is Opportunity Lost

My ignorance about systemic racism has been profound. George Floyd’s murder forced me, forced many of us, literally, painfully, to look and delve into what history books have skirted or left unsaid. 

 

I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s, a white child raised in a comfortable cocoon. The harsh realities of discrimination were distant… or, in some cases, close to home. Many fathers of my generation served in World War II and benefited from the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944, or the G.I. Bill. It provided a means for veterans to receive low-cost mortgages and loans toward tuition and businesses. The act gave those who had served and sacrificed to save the world from fascism (yes, they were antifa) a foundation for achievement upon which succeeding generations could build. 

 

Returning Black veterans did not receive those benefits. Did you know this? I did not.

 

The platforms of the major political parties have essentially reversed, and in the forties, it was the Republican party that supported Civil Rights while the Southern Democrats sought to undercut or diminish the impact of those efforts. While the intent of the G.I. Bill was to serve all veterans, the Democrats successfully pushed for state control over benefit allocation. In the Jim Crow South, local banks and agencies refused to extend loans to veterans of color, and colleges and universities would not admit them. In essence, the bill heightened racial disparity; in a cruel game of Chutes and Ladders, white soldiers climbed the ladder offered, while blacks were shuttled toward the chute.

 

Property ownership and education set the roots for advancement, security, and respect that was largely denied people of color. The practice of redlining excluded them from desirable neighborhoods and better schools. Voting restrictions prevented fair representation. Finally, the injustice and violence of discrimination received widespread scrutiny when the public at large became witness through photography and TV coverage.

  

Like Darnella Frazier’s cell phone video of George Floyd’s murder, TV coverage in 1965 forced public knowledge of the “Bloody Sunday” assault on peaceful protesters at the Edmund Pettus Bridge near Selma, AL. The ensuing outcry led President Lyndon B. Johnson to promote the Voting Rights Act of 1965. One wishes the horrific image of young Emmett Till’s maimed face would force passage of an anti-lynching bill, but shamefully, as recently as 2020, that has stalled. 

 

In the past nine years, lawsuits and Supreme Court rulings have weakened the Voting Rights Act’s protections, enabling 20 states to pass significant restrictions. On this Martin Luther King Day of 2022, the John Lewis Voting Rights Advancement Act, too, may fail to pass. At a rally in Phoenix, AZ on Saturday, Martin Luther King III said of 13-year-old Yolanda Renee King, “Our daughter has less rights around voting than she had when she was born.” 

 

Since last year, in my town of Easton and around the country, indignant denials of systemic racism have rung forth, signs proclaiming “MLK yes, CRT no” blossoming like lilies in a funeral parlor. Enigmatic by design, the message seems a no-brainer: if Doctor King gets a thumbs up, surely the CRT no-vote must make sense…? 

 

Dr. King earned his place in that pithy sign-byte with the quote, “I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Critical Race Theory opponents seek to portray this statement as King’s wish for color-blindness rather than his dream of America’s evolution toward the equality and freedoms guaranteed to all, regardless of color, in our founding documents. 

 

America is the Declaration of Independence, D-Day, the League of Nations, and the moon landing. We are also slavery, Jim Crow laws, gerrymandering, redlining, and voter suppression. 

As surely as manacles bound the enslaved, education censored limits the country’s aspirations. A conscience informed through education is the prod and path forward for individuals and a nation. We must grant our young people that breadth of knowledge and trust they use it well.   

 

 

 

  

Caught Between the Lines

This is a first, writing on Christmas morning. Normally, who has time with the bustle of family arriving, little kids prancing about, and presents to open? We should be sitting before the fire, listening to Christmas carols, and, while sipping mimosas, watching granddaughter Eleanor open gifts. 

Well. Bing is crooning, and I have my cup of ginger tea, which, thank heavens, I can taste. The tree lights glow from spiny, green boughs above packages wrapped in red. Dave and I have hugged each other innumerable times, our eyes leaking tears, so grateful to have each other, to have company, for we’ll have no other visitors in this house of contagion. Yesterday, I tested positive for Covid.

Mindful of the 5.4 million people worldwide who have died from the disease, I am grateful for mild symptoms. Still, I wonder: Who? When? Where did I pick it up? It’s impossible to know. Fortified by Moderna vaccines and boosters, we have celebrated the season. Where required, we’ve worn masks and brandished vaccination cards; when among the similarly cautious, we’ve hugged as usual. We’ve been to parties, lovely inns, shops, and restaurants. Some might call us fools to frequent such spots - I feel equally uncharitable toward the unvaccinated who are, in part, responsible for prolonging this pandemic - but so it has been. 

 

In alerting friends and informing family, I find I am far from alone. Omicron has, like an unwanted Santa, slipped into innumerable homes, isolating in their rooms kids home for the holidays, cancelling family vacations, and planting wistful grandparents back on Zoom calls. The prevalence of this disappointment makes it easier to bear.

 

As I generally do from November through February, I’ve had a slightly raw throat and intermittent runny nose. I’ve thought nothing of it, but given our many activities, my daughter said, “Would you consider a test before we come over Christmas day?”

 

Of course! We scored a test kit at CVS, apparently a rare find this Omicron Christmas, and Dave went first. We spread the sheet of instructions on the kitchen counter, then Dave swabbed, stirred, dipped, and timed the test strip as directed. In case we couldn’t easily read the results, we peered through a magnifying glass: blue line only. He was negative, and I expected the same.

 

Wrong.

 

I followed the steps as Dave had but needed no magnifying glass to detect the pink line: it glared, vibrant in accusation. We were stunned, disbelieving, and determined to get a contradiction. Earlier in the day, I’d passed the Fairfield Covid testing site and pitied those waiting; now, compelled by a pink line, I had to join them. I hopped in my car to head East.

The queue of cars had diminished, and I turned into the lot, pleased this would be a short jaunt. I rolled down my window as a uniformed attendant approached. “Appointment?” said the young man, his face nearly obscured by a mask and wool cap.

 

“No,” I said.

 

“You need an appointment.”

 

“But there’s hardly anyone here.”

 

“That’s because there are so few workers. No test without an appointment.” 

 

“Can I make one with you now?”

 

“No.” He handed me a slip of paper. “This is the number and email address to contact. But you can’t stay here. Park across the street while you wait.” 

 

Obediently, I drove to the adjacent lot and called the number but connected with neither robot nor human who could help. Frustrated, I called Dave and he pulled up the website. I listened as he growled and cursed, ultimately foiled by its intricacies. Meanwhile, my cheeks felt flushed, and my skin prickled. Oh no. The symptoms are worsening.  

 

Resolved to get a PCR test, hoping for a negative, I swung into the test site again.

 

“Appointment?” said the young man.

 

I explained the futility of the crappy information on that stupid scrap of paper he gave me, but I said it nicely, hoping to win him over and worm my way into the line. He shook his head no and, perceiving a threat in this desperate, graying matron, summoned a security guard. “You need an appointment,” they chanted in chorus. 

 

Agh. Fine. Enough!

 

For the next half hour, I toured Urgent Care centers, CVS’s, and pharmacies, hoping, without success, to secure a PCR. Resigned to missing Eleanor’s Christmas morning exuberance, I drove home. 

 

Dave met me at the door, his smile wide. He’d called Yale New Haven and - praise God! - reached a human. “She said they’ve waived the appointment requirement in Fairfield! They don’t close ‘til 6:00.  You can make it!”

 

My shoulders slumped at the thought of heading back, but I did, and again the young man stopped me at the entrance. “Appointment?” 

 

I spewed, rapid-fire, the news from Yale.  

 

“Lane 1,” he replied without argument.   

 

Gone was the flush and the prickling sensation. I was elated! And even though this changed nothing since it takes at least 24 hours to get results, it was a triumph to get past that young pup. Plus, the nurse, an angel swathed in blue robe, mask, and shield - who’d given up her Christmas Eve with family so I might be tested – was so sympathetic upon hearing we’d miss seeing our kids. 

 

Mission accomplished, I returned home in high spirits, bizarre given this crimp in our Christmas. 

 

And this morning, everyone is with us. We’ve been on FaceTime with my son, his wife, little Lexi, and Paul, who demonstrated the cool attributes of his new Hess jet. Our daughter posted videos of Eleanor joyfully washing windows with the cleaning supplies she’d requested from Santa. We “visited” by phone and Facetime with other family members and friends throughout the day. So, while often I rail with frustration at technology, today it ranks with vaccines, and the science behind them, on top of my gratitude list.  

      

 

.  

Dinner at 5:30... Fingers Crossed

Never had we been so organized. The local Sylvestros were coming for an early Christmas gathering, and with three-year-old Eleanor and almost-two Taylor in tow, we’d planned a prompt 5:30 dinner to get them home and to bed on time. 

 

Our preparations had launched days before.  Lists #1 and #2 – groceries, errands, and gifts – had been checked off and discarded. Lists #3 and #4 – menu and timing – waited on the kitchen counter, demanding attention and compliance. 

 

Throughout the week, I’d decorated the house. The plastic bin parade had descended from the attic, and our collection of Santas, angels, nativities, and elves unearthed from between layers of tissue. Old friends of fabric, porcelain, and felt returned to their traditional spots around the house, each piece sparking the flash of a memory or beloved face. 

Just as Pandora’s music selection can swing from the annoyingly jolly “Frosty” to the solemn power of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,” so my mood in December can shift from festive to wistful. A video text from my daughter, Casey, of Eleanor jump, jump, jumping in excitement while decorating their tree filled my heart with all the magic Christmas holds. The velveteen Santa my parents gave Tucker on his first Christmas conjured images of Mom and Dad dressed in red and green holding court during Christmases past. And I smiled, even as tears prickled, while setting the table with my grandmother’s silver, a mundane task made moving in triggering thoughts of my Byeo.

When the day of the dinner arrived, Dave and I rose early. Food is a complicated arena in our family, and allergies, favorites, dislikes, and traditions require a smorgasbord of options. The alternative roast for the non-meat-eaters, the chicken for those who do, the bean casserole, cheese bread, and stuffing, all called for different oven times and temperatures, so we mapped out a sequence that would work. We cooked several dishes in advance to re-warm closer to dinner and put the chicken in the oven at 2:45. We looked at each other, triumphant and amazed. 

 

While I was raised with a strict adherence to schedules, Sylvestros are rarely on time. Dave and I often have terse exchanges before departing for any event as I am ready at the door, arms crossed and thin-lipped, as he takes his time brushing his teeth, looking for the right tie, or trying to find his keys. And there have been times as hosts when I’ve greeted guests while Dave finished dressing, yet on this day, we had time to shower and relax before everyone arrived. 

 

When our family members trickled in, we had everything under control. 

 

Oh wait. The hors-d’oeuvres! We’d forgotten to assemble the platters. With the chicken in the oven and casseroles in a queue awaiting warming turns, we’d been at ease, checking our phones and emails. No worries! Dave poured drinks, and I grabbed the cutting board and holiday bowls to dish up the humus, home-made salsa (no onions), Tostitos and crackers (both gluten-free), and cheese (the lactose intolerant folks would just have to steer clear). 

 

Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby sang their respective versions of “White Christmas,” and everyone settled in the living room. The children opened their gifts, reluctantly sharing amid the tumult of ripped wrappings as encouraged by their moms. 

When the dinner hour drew near, I took a tour through the kitchen to check my list and begin the re-warming process. Dave had taken the chicken from the oven to baste it, and I eyed it with concern: the skin was still pale.

 

“Do we have a baster?” Dave asked peevishly as he clattered about in the utensil drawer.

 

“We used to. Maybe it was tossed out,” I said. “What-EVER. But you’re letting all the heat out! The chicken doesn’t look anything close to ready.” Organized or not, we were closing in on the finish line, and we were off-schedule. The clock is my mistress, and I strive, however shrilly, to please her. 

 

The chicken, spoon basted, was returned to the oven.  The side dish line-up remained, chill to the touch, on the counter. No point in checking the timetable, my inner harpy snarled. Might as well throw that list in the garbage. 

 

Shortly after, I noticed that the oven temp was reading 220 degrees. 

 

“Dave?” I called, my voice accusing. “Did you turn down the oven?” 

 

“No. Why?” With brows knit, he joined me and turned the dial to 350. A small crowd had gathered by then, all staring in dismay at our traitorous appliance. We waited, hoping to see the numbers rise. But no. 

 

Sigh. A broken oven during a holiday dinner, sadly, was not a first in our home. We’ve had blown stove tops and toilets flooding cascades of water prior to parties before. 

 

“Turn on the grill!” said PJ, my son-in-law. “We can finish the chicken outside. And call your neighbors. I’m sure they’ll help.” 

 

We have the best neighbors ever, and when I called Laurie, she was on it. “What temp? I’ll start heating the oven now.”

 

PJ and Dave took care of the roast. Casey and I took the dishes to Laurie’s. She finished the cooking for us, and when we returned to pick everything up, she’d even sprinkled the fried onions on the bean casserole to brown them.    

 

The little girls’ fatigue was starting to show, although nestling into “the fort” under the dining room table was a good distraction for a while. And thanks to teamwork and good neighbors, dinner was served, hot, delicious… and only an hour late. Despite the dance through the food gauntlet, the blown oven, and tired children, the evening was all one would want: time together. A year of loss and pandemic caution has been a harsh teacher in exactly how precious that is. 

         

Connections and Cycles

 

While some seek sleek lines, bright lights, and austerity, Dave and I love the warmth of well-worn wood, a fireplace tarred with the soot of centuries, a bar bearing the imprint of innumerable elbows and pints, and the welcome of a friendly barkeep. With his deep-set eyes and hollow cheeks, Larry seemed the living incarnation of every guardian to have held this post in the tavern at The Beekman Arms. 

 

We were in Rhinebeck, NY for a two night get-away. I’d been delayed in our room by a phone call, and by the time I arrived at the tavern, Dave was ensconced in jovial conversation with Larry and Howard. A shared interest in music and sports had already done their work, forging bonds just as they’d no doubt done for the earliest travelers.  Had the three men been younger, no doubt wenches would’ve been covered too.

 

Like Dave, Larry plays guitar, and the two had already discussed artists they admired and Epiphones, Martins, and Fenders, the guitar brands they favored.  We told Larry he looked like James Taylor – a comparison that pleased him – but Willie Nelson was his guy. “The way that man plays…” he shook his head in awe as he wiped a glass and glanced down the bar in case someone needed a refill.   

 

After introducing me to his companions, Dave turned back to Howard. 

 

“What can I get you?” asked Larry. I ordered a Malbec and mused that this might be a long evening of Red Sox chatter as a postseason game against the Houston Astros played out on the TV at the end of the bar.

 

“Enjoying your stay?” said Larry as he set my wine before me. How often must a kindly bartender ask the same and listen patiently to repetitive tales of local wanderings? I filled him in on ours, a visit to Olana, the home and masterwork of artist Frederic Edwin Church. I mentioned my love of historic graveyards, the comfort I feel in the resolution of all those lives, and our stop at the Red Church. There, the sextant, again, a relic of another age in his stooped posture, wispy hair, and bug-eyed gaze, had fumbled with a set of keys and allowed us a glimpse of the interior. It was spare, unheated, and for now, lacking a congregation. But, “George Washington worshipped here,” the sextant assured us.

Together Larry and I mused on the rise and fall of farming, shipping, and industry along the Hudson River, and the impact on the towns that lined its banks. During our drives to and from Olana, Dave and I had witnessed the decline in rusting warehouses and abandoned homes. We’d also seen (literal) signs of HOPE, and the evidence of the pendulum’s swing in one such building’s renaissance as an antiques market. 

 

When Larry shifted his gaze to check on other guests, I said, “Go! Don’t let me hold you up!”

 

“It’s a short bar," he said. "I can hear them if they need me.”  

Howard waved good night as he rose to leave, and Doug from Marblehead took his place. He joined Dave in whoops when the Sox scored a run. By then, Larry and I had delved deep into our brushes with cancer, God’s grace, unfinished business, and lessons learned in this life, possibly, as foundations for the next.  He said, “I read this book “Many Lives…”

 

“Many Masters!” I exclaimed, finishing his thought. “Yes! I read it years ago.”

 

“A life changer for me,” said Larry. “I’m not a great guitar player, but I want to be, so I practice a lot. Maybe not in this life, but who knows?” he added with a smile.

 

The tavern closed at 10:00, and the game had ended with a Red Sox win. It is the way of traveling and meeting strangers that one can feel close to a person, and then just… leave. Sometimes we exchange contact info, and there’s always an intention to touch base, but only occasionally does that happen. 

 

“Larry? Can I hug you?” I asked as I gathered up my purse and jacket. In this time of Covid, the answer’s not a given, but he came round the end of the bar and hugged me tight.  

    

Dipping into the lives of others – be they Frederic Church or Larry the bartender – is the joy of travel. Living in New England, one needn’t go far to find that.  Music, kids, causes, and cancer often provide the opening to a person’s story. And fine, yes, sports too. For over a year, Covid confined us to our own centuries-old hearth, a blessing of a place to be, but this fall we’ve been able, once again, to pack our overnight bags and venture forth to connect with those tending the inns and taverns where the Founders filled their bellies and fueled their yearning for independence. 

  

Will They Remember?

Once I’d shoved the bureau in front of the door to the hall and barricaded that route to the stairs, I felt better. Dave and I had seen videos of our grand-daughter, two-year-old Lexi, opening baby gates and unlatching windows, and eager as we were for our grandchildren’s visit, we were anxious about keeping Lexi safe and confined. We never confessed to our son and daughter-in-law the dream we’d had, both of us mind you, a night shortly before Lexi and Paul were due, a dream in which Lexi escaped from the house. We prayed it was not a premonition.

 

One hears of such things – both escapes and premonitions - and the stomach clenches with horror. We had few concerns about the kids during daytime; night was the worry. Our staircase is steep. The house is close to the road. We are surrounded by woods. Coyotes often serenade us, and last spring, a bear strolled through the yard. A bevy of sickening scenarios seemed possible and bid us scrupulously prepare. 

 

Above all, prevent flight. We bought plastic covers for the doorknobs which worked to perfection: I could not open the doors by myself. We shifted that bureau into place and booby-trapped the other hall door with a jangly toy that would roust us from sleep. We purged the house of sharp objects and packed fragile treasures away. With these precautions and constant vigilance, we felt pretty sure we’d return Paul and Lexi safely to their parents at week’s end. 

 

When last the kids visited in March of 2020, Lexi was barely talking, and Paul was just four. He was weepy when it came time to leave, and we hugged and reassured him, “Don’t worry, Sweetie! We’ll see you soon! You’ll be back for Easter!” But Covid intervened and but for the mercy of Zoom, we didn’t see the kids again for over six months. Precious time stolen when children are so briefly young.

Oh. And have I told you our son and his family are moving to Zurich next summer? We are happy for them, of course we are! And everyone says Switzerland is lovely to visit. But we want the kids to remember us and this antique, woods-encircled home. 

 

Will they? At three and six, their ages upon moving, what’s realistic to hope for?  For clues, I scan my life for pre-school memories: a mini roller coaster in the playground, a boy who ate glue, two dogs locked while mating during Parents’ Visiting Day. I’m sure I could scrounge up others beyond these oddities, but these I can pin to my years at Chessie Rawls School. Hm. Quite a line-up. What can we offer Paul and Lexi that is equally memorable?

 

When first they arrived, Paul scampered about the yard and through the house, re-acquainting himself with the layout. Lexi, trailed by her hovering grandmother, toured thoughtfully, drawn to the cradle Steve made for Casey, intrigued by an old school bell and the electric piano. She was enchanted by the Fisher Price dollhouse and Mom’s tiny china tea set.  She was curious, fearless, constantly busy, and surprisingly careful.

 

At Seaquest, we marveled at lizards, otters, a wallaby, and sharks. We watched big cousin Ava perform in a show at the Cabaret Theater, and they met adorable baby Taylor for the first time. There were jam sessions in the basement, with Paul on drums and Lexi on bongos, and when reunited with Eleanor, there were too-hard hugs, manic dances, and tumbles to the ground. Every day, we went to the farm and the playground. But will they remember? 

 

While Paul has always loved cozy stories and snuggles at bedtime, settling in was tricky for Lexi. She’s grown out of the Pack N’ Play, so we purchased a raft-like inflatable “Hiccapop” toddler bed. There was nothing to contain her, so each night, one of us stayed with her until she drifted off. 

 

I give her credit; she tried to sleep but was restless. When it was my night for Lexi-duty, I lay on the floor next to her and marveled at her gymnastics. She’d twist upside down, do head stands and somersaults. She’d sigh deeply and flop first one arm then the other, and both legs over the side, until her bed served only as a pillow. Sometimes it was the reverse: her head on the floor while her body sprawled over the bed. As a fellow insomniac, I empathized, and had to admire her form.  

 

At the beginning of this try-to-sleep nightly marathon, I’d sing songs. Lexi, like Eleanor, loved “Morning Town,” and “Daisy, Daisy.” Both little girls would request name changes (after all, who’s Daisy and who cares about her?), and would stop me, mid-song, to insert Taylor or Paul in the lyrics. After a few days, Lexi knew all the words. It filled my heart to hear that precious little voice singing with me in the dark. But on the kids’ last night, she had to warble alone. My throat tightened, and I could not sing through the tears.    

 

I will remember, but will they?