Casey and Karis

Casey and I should be sitting at a gate at JFK waiting for the announcement of our Air France flight. We should be imagining strolls down the streets of Paris anticipating dinner, good wine, and baguettes. We should be picturing ourselves in the sunshine in Nice, beaming as our Karis marries Dmitry. We should be visualizing the reception and dancing barefoot, pausing only to hug Karis and eat cake.

 

Hotel reservations and flights were nailed down a month ago. We updated our passports, applied for TSA Pre-Check, and indulged in a T.J. Maxx shopping extravaganza – the first, we realized, since the search for Casey’s wedding dress. Like any good mama bear, Casey has worried about leaving three-year-old Eleanor, but this would be a special time for the two of us, and Karis is a special friend.

The girls met in New York in 2007. Karis was training to become a Pilates instructor and needed a body on which to practice. Casey filled in as the body. They became close friends and roommates, and in 2011, to the horror of both girls’ parents, they decided to head to South-East Asia for a 4-month back-packing adventure. 

 

Their destinations were terrifying for those who came of age during the sixties: Viet Nam, Cambodia, and Laos among them. For us, these names conjured napalm clouds, perilous jungles, guerrilla warfare, and exotic diseases. For Karis and Casey, only one of those words, exotic, applied.

 

Casey was 28, so it was not up to us, but what a leap of fearful faith it was to let our daughter go! Plus, things were a little shaky right from the start: while heading out the door to meet Karis and her father at JFK, I said, “Case, are you sure that’s the right airport?”

 

“Really, Mom? Well, yes. But now you’ve made me nervous.” She called Karis who was already in the car, on her way… to Newark. 

 

Throughout the four months of their trip, Casey posted pictures and a blog. She and Karis were the heroines of the story, and Dave and I couldn’t wait to read every installment. Hiking the Great Wall of China. Cruising the Mekong River with a sketchy crew. Sampling crickets in markets. Wading through rivers on elephants. There were alarming tales, too, which, thank heavens, we learned long after they happened: an inebriated night ride tubing down a river, a terrible case of food poisoning, and two robberies.

It was agony to think they were half a world away, so, with their permission, Dave and I joined them in Thailand. As we rode elephants, caressed tigers, bathed in waterfalls, and hiked jungle paths with them, we, too, came to love adorable Karis. And now, 11 years later, Casey and I were going to France to revel in the happiness of her wedding. 

But the telephone rang at 7:30 this morning. Casey and Eleanor both tested positive for Covid, and PJ, Casey’s husband, didn’t feel well either. We couldn’t go. It was out of our hands.

 

As the day wore on, more signs emerged. Little Eleanor told PJ she’d dreamed of “a big airplane filled with water,” and spiked a fever of 103.9. Casey sent a picture of her sick little one asleep on the couch with the message, "This is the reason we're not going." My sister-in-law called and mentioned a minor collision the week before between two planes at JFK: one Alitalia, the other, Air France.  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but now…” 

As painful as this was, it was not meant to be, and we’ve tried to focus on the nightmare involved had we been in flight or in France when Casey and Eleanor became sick. Covid has taught us to make plans, but have no expectations, so we’ve been resigned, even grateful, that Covid cropped up before we took off. 

 

But our beloved Karis is getting married, and we won’t be there with her. 

 

 

 

  

Lacking Conscience or Courage, What Toll?

My son, Tucker, appeared at the door of the bedroom where I’d snuggled him in for a nap but minutes before. He was three years old, and we were visiting a friend for the day. Clearly unnerved, he said, “There’s a gun in there.” 

I scooped him up and entered the room. A rifle was in the corner, leaning against the wall. How had I missed it? The gun was removed, and I lay down with my boy until he drifted off to sleep.

 

Not long before Tucker was born, one of my students died in a gun accident. He was thirteen, a bright kid, funny, kind, and promising. Having spent two years at a school for children with learning disabilities, he’d been accepted at a competitive, traditional school and was eager to commit to that challenge.  Instead, he died. While playing with a gun, a friend of his shot him by mistake.  

 

In the aftermath of that loss, I raised my children to have a gun aversion borne of my own. 

 

In 2012, twenty children and the six adults striving to save them were shot at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a troubled young man with an AR-15. Dave and I live two towns away, and sometimes it’s a struggle to ban from my mind images of the carnage faced by first responders at Sandy Hook. And now, Uvalde. It stills my soul to think of the unfathomable grief of the victims' parents and loved ones. How does one live with such pain? Joe Garcia, husband of murdered Robb Elementary School teacher Irma Garcia, could not. He died of a heart attack the day after the shooting, leaving their four children orphaned.  The ripples of tragedy fan wide, anger and sorrow sweeping parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, friends, neighbors… and those of us, far removed, who mourn for them. What will be the toll of this recurring trauma? 

 

Mental health in America is a serious issue, but it is guns that are doing the killing. It is assault weapons that are slaughtering children, shoppers, and church-goers. Those who bellow, “You can take my gun only from my cold, dead hands” seem to think their rights, based on a willful application of an amendment written in the 18^th century for militia men and musket owners, supersede those of the swelling ranks of deceased, injured, and bereaved.

 

They are wrong, but for now, it seems Karma alone will settle these countless scores. Life-saving laws have idled for years as Congressional Republicans, absent conscience or courage, worry more about re-election than murdered children.   

 

Since the Columbine High School shooting in 1999, 2000 Americans have been killed or wounded in mass shootings, and that does not include the thousands of individual gun deaths and suicides.  As 50 Senators block H.R. 8, the Bi-Partisan Background Checks Act of 2021, the murders continue as Americans approach outings with wariness, and parents, fearfully, send their kids to school. 

 

 

Savannah: History's Revelations and Reversals

When I was a teenager, history classes touted states’ rights more than slavery as the cause of the Civil War, and the romance of “Gone with the Wind” further colored my perception of Dixie’s fall. When I visited my grandmother in the South, I was enraged by the destruction wreaked by General Sherman and enchanted by plantations and Spanish moss, eerie and elegant as lacy shrouds, trailing from massive live oaks. 

 

In April, when Dave and I arrived in Savannah after the two-hour drive from Charleston, again I was smitten. The sun and warmth had returned, and a profusion of pink azaleas bloomed in squares and parks. Stately homes with ornamental wrought iron railings were as vibrant and proud as their nineteenth century owners, and to Dave’s chagrin, I had a lengthy list of those homes I wished to tour. 

 

And tour we did, hopping on and off Old Town Savannah trolleys, intrigued as Arthur-of-the booming-voice pointed out the majestic Mercer Williams House and told of the murder there of Danny Hansford. We cruised by, and toured, the Green-Meldrim House, spared damage during the war because General Sherman used it as his headquarters. And later, we wandered the grounds of Bonaventure Cemetery, mysteriously lovely with its graceful headstones and mourning statues, serene and sheltered by ancient trees and draperies of moss. 

 

We ate a lot too. An extraordinary meal of pecan-crusted grouper in the gracious old world mansion of Elizabeth on 37^th. Grilled salmon at The Fitzroy. Creamy shrimp and grits and fried grouper fingers for lunch by the river. All so delicious, but it was the fried food, I think, that did Dave in.    

                        *              *            *

 

A voluminous bouquet of silver helium balloons preceded the gaggle of chattering girls. An inflatable “2” and “1” conveyed the reason for the celebration: a 21^st birthday and the right to legal alcoholic beverages. The girls took selfies, giggled, and ordered drinks. They were young and happy, fresh to the threshold of young adulthood. They were also black, and as I said, female. After the tours we’d been taking, I couldn’t help thinking that less than 200 years ago, they would have been slaves. They would not have been allowed in a restaurant as patrons, nor, for that matter, would I. For, most of that evening, I was alone, and an unescorted woman in such an establishment would have been scandalous. 

 

I’d found the Boar’s Head Grill and Tavern online and made our dinner reservation weeks in advance. As I refreshed my make-up before leaving our room at the inn, however, Dave had started to feel queasy. A nicer wife would have insisted we skip dinner, but I loved the website’s images of worn brick walls, wooden beams, and nautical décor: I wanted to go. “Maybe we’ll just have appetizers and a drink?” I offered.

 

My husband is a good sport and a master of mind over matter; usually he can will away physical discomforts. But not that night. 

 

When we arrived at the Boar’s Head, it was as wonderful as its pictures, but Dave felt even worse. He thought a seltzer would ease his stomach, but the scent of food, good as it was, drove him out the door. “I need to get some air,” he said. “I’ll feel better after a walk.” 

 

I was alone when our server, Sharon, came to greet me. I explained the situation, ordered Dave’s seltzer, and told Sharon I wasn’t sure when he’d be back. She assured me I was welcome regardless and suggested a light, ginger-based cocktail. Shortly, she returned with my drink – which really was tasty – and told me she’d stepped outside hoping to give Dave his seltzer, but he wasn’t in sight.

 

That was only the first of her kindnesses, for she stopped by the table often to see if I liked my drink, bring me a basket of warm bread, and to chat between stops at her other tables. We talked about her upcoming move, tales of hauntings, and the history of the Boar’s Head, originally an 1800’s cotton warehouse on the river front… just down the way from the dock where the ships of the Trans Atlantic slave trade unloaded their human cargo. 

 

Earlier that day, Dave and I had been transported to the 1800’s through a “Slaves in the City” tour along with my friend Edie, her husband Dave, and their son, Carson. We met with ten others at the African American monument, not far from the Boar’s Head. 

 

Wearing flowing garments and a green turban, our guide, Sister Patt Gunn, greeted us, her face alight with welcome.  Formerly a lawyer for the ACLU, she was a force for the power of truth, stories, and human dignity. As we followed her over the cobblestone streets, she planted her vibrantly colored rain stick for emphasis and rhythm and spoke of the need to acknowledge the role of slavery in the past to further healing and reconciliation in the present. 

 

It was her 64^th birthday, and she was in a celebratory mood, for the years she’d lived as well as for the culmination of a successful campaign to mark 22 locations significant to the city’s history of slavery. “There are statues of white men all over Savannah,” she said. “Over half the population was enslaved back then, and over half the population now is black. Like John Lewis used to say, I got into some good trouble… and we’re gonna get those markers.”

 

Leaving behind the cheerful bustle of souvenir and candy shops, Sister Patt led us up a sloping brick-paved road to the Cluskey Embankment Stores: cavernous, crumbling vaults dating to the 1840’s.  She invited us to enter one of the dank enclosures where moss and feathery green ferns grew bright from chinks in walls streaked with seeping water. 

 

“Take a good look at the bricks,” she directed us. “What do you see?”

 

After learning of the fingerprints on the bricks in Charleston, that’s what I expected as I leaned in close. But[l1]  some of these bricks had been deliberately chipped and scratched. “Ashanti and Adinkra tribal symbols,” said Sister Patt. “When the slave ships arrived, there were sometimes days to wait before the auctions. What to do with the traumatized Africans who’d survived the journey? They kept them here.  Sick and terrified though they were, they left these signs. I’ve had folks come on my tours, stand within these walls, and wail, “Those are the symbols of my tribe!”

Outside the vaults, she indicated an informational placard and told us to read it. “I can barely stand to look at it myself,” she said, for it stated there was no documentary evidence to support the use of the vaults as holding pens. “And yet we’re finding and submitting new evidence all the time.” And of course, there were those marks, defiant symbols of identity and dignity carved in the bricks on the walls. 

 

From homeland to ship, to holding pen, to auction; from tribal member to slave; from person to property.  One’s past – name, position, relationships – stolen as surely as one’s body, as a new life of bondage to privileged whites obliterated what came before. 

 

In the 1830’s, George Welshman Owens –politician, planter, lawyer, mayor - enslaved over 400 people who labored in his household and his multiple plantations. When Dave and I began the tour of the Owens-Thomas House and grounds, we entered a room beneath the former slave quarters that was dedicated to those 400. “Minda,” “Gumbler,” “Doll,” “Pryan,” “Lucy,” “Caddy,” “London, “Bob”: the names spanned one wall from floor to ceiling. The bedrooms, laundry, and kitchens where they toiled and slept, exposed to heat and cold, were a stark contrast to the elegant rooms of the Owens family. How could one live in lavish comfort yet consign those who served you to inadequate lodging and malnutrition? 

While I’ve always felt for the women of the past, those suppressed by enslavement or societal decree, when I started this piece, I was comfortably grateful for my place in 2022, solid in my rights and, along with the birthday girls, welcome at the Boar’s Head. In recent weeks, that sense of solidity has been shaken. The Taliban has burqa-bagged the women of Afghanistan, who, in the fifties, were as free as my mother to wear a knee-length skirt. And Justice Alito’s leaked draft decision overturning Roe v. Wade threatens privacy rights far beyond abortion.

 

Ultimately, Dave returned to our table at the Boar’s Head, restored by a walk and sips of his seltzer. But what of us, the women of this modern world? Will those conservatives enraged that their freedom of choice was assaulted by mask mandates triumph in determining our rights, and in so doing, the trajectory of our lives?    

 

 

 

---

 [l1] 

City With a Past

Once the four of us had clambered into his Uber and buckled in, the driver held up a palm-sized Alexa device and said, “Pick a song!” 

 

Unprepared for this unexpected invitation, the four of us - Dave, Edie, her husband Dave, and me – waffled a bit before Edie called out, “Alexa! Play ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’!” As the music filled the car, the driver distributed strawberry candy, switched on the strobe lights of a mini disco ball, and said, “Welcome to Abdullah’s party car!”

 

What? So fun!  The music was loud, and we sang along and rocked out as “Addicted to Love” followed “Buttercup” during the drive from dinner back to The Vendue, our hotel in Charleston. Abdullah got a great tip, and we experienced yet another example of the surprises travel can hold.

 

The Uber party was quite the contrast to our day of touring Fort Sumter, the Nathaniel Russell House, and the Aiken-Rhett House. But Charleston is a city of contrasts: breezy porches, aromatic gardens, cobbled streets, and beautiful homes, many built of bricks… bricks bearing the fingerprints of the enslaved people who made those bricks. 

 

During a walking tour on our first day in the city, our guide, Theresa - slim and blond, lively and informative - pointed out the fingerprints. A Charleston native with family ties dating back to 1763, Theresa had an abundance of current connections too, and she waved and promised phone calls to those she encountered along our way. She was proud of her city, and with feigned indignation, said that Charleston’s history was not confined to slavery and the Civil War; she felt its role in the Revolution had been overlooked.  Two signers of the Declaration of Independence had lived there, and the city had survived British shelling and a siege. 

 

The weather was fine during that walk, and we admired magnificent churches, craftswomen weaving baskets, perfect pink camellias, gracious homes shaded by live oaks, and the harbor beyond the sea wall. When Theresa pointed out the “earthquake bolts” fortifying several houses, we marveled at Charleston’s endurance despite bombardment by man and Nature. 

 

Perhaps it was the chill and rain that followed over the next few days, but it was hard for me to slip off the shadow of Charleston’s pivotal role in the slave trade. 40% of the enslaved entering America came through the city’s port, and Charleston has been diligent in documenting the torment of the people who pressed their fingertips into those bricks. Reminders of that torment are ubiquitous as slavery was enmeshed in every aspect of the economy. Bronze plaques mark auction sites in parks and on street corners, and the former slave market and Old Exchange are now museums. 

 

Perhaps the shadow was sustained by the book I was reading, “The Invention of Wings” by Sue Monk Kidd. The story is inspired by abolitionists Sarah and Angelina Grimké, sisters whose childhood in a wealthy slave-owning family gave rise to their abhorrence of slavery. Ms. Kidd is a masterful writer, and it was painful to read her portrayal of the oppression of those enslaved. 

 

In touring two museum houses, Ms. Kidd’s book attained reality, substance, and color, as the home of the Grimké sisters would have been of the same era and opulence.   Slave trader Nathaniel Russell’s house is fully restored with extravagant moldings, elegant table settings, and period furniture. The Aiken-Russell House, on the other hand, has been preserved - though not restored - along with the slave quarters, kitchen, stables, and work yard. During the self-guided audio tour, we learned, to the extent recovered by research, the names, positions, skills, relationships, and rooms of the enslaved people whose harsh lives of toil enabled the luxurious lifestyle of their owners. 

 

Visiting these homes in the city and region that prospered because of kidnapping and enslavement forced me to reflect on a life with no rights, no recourse, and no refuge, one’s worth measured in dollars, and documented as property.  Trouble-aversive as I am, I could imagine too easily the fear of making even minor mistakes given the threat of flogging or punishment in the workhouse. And when exhausted from constant labor, how much more likely those mistakes - excess salt in the soup, a spilled tray, a broken vase - accidents common to us all?

 

 And what of resentment? How would one quell it? 

 

Some politicians seek to suppress the evils of the past, even as they inflame residual prejudice and grievance. I seethe at the anachronism of white supremacy, the spirit of the Klan still fueling policy. America’s history is marred by shame, but the journey has always been one of aspiration.  To its credit, Charleston has chosen education to confront its grim legacy. May the power of painful lessons guide us forward.

 

  

Tale of a Train Trip South

Dave and I love train travel, and if the distance requires a sleeping car, all the better. When my friend-from-birth, Edie, invited us to meet her and her husband, also-Dave, in Charleston, we were excited at the prospect of our first extended trip since Covid. Given the 820 miles from here to there, we anticipated a sleep-over, and while the 6:00 AM departure time on our tickets made clear that would not be happening, my mind’s eye continued to conjure the coast slipping by the window of a cozy couchette.  

No matter. Thirteen waking hours on Amtrak would grant time to read books that had hovered too long in the queue by my bed. The Boston Sunday Globe would fill a few hours and the Crossword puzzle would entertain my husband still more. Trader Joe's provided bread, cheese, fruit, and granola bars should the café car’s offerings lack appeal, and I tucked a bottle of Nineteen Crimes wine in my canvas tote bag along with a stack of cups should we make any friends by cocktail hour.

 

Well, the books and the Globe remained in my bag, for conversation was our pastime as it happened; and we did have reason to share the Nineteen Crimes when dusk shadowed the vista beyond the tracks.  

 

Dave is curious. About everything. He always has questions and always gives them voice. While our kids roll their eyes when he chats up cashiers and Uber drivers, his curiosity has often proved the key to learning of lives different from ours, and so it was on our ride to Charleston. 

 

“Did you fly one of those Tomcats?” Dave asked the gentleman seated across the aisle from us. The man was about our age, African American, and masked as we all were. He glanced at the embroidered patch with the Air Force insignia on his bomber-style jacket and tugged the sleeve to give Dave a better look. 

 

“Military Police,” he answered. “I spent two years in Thailand. Learned the language. Traveled a lot.”  

 

Dave’s father and two uncles served in World War II, and the VFW is one of his favorite charities; we traveled in Thailand with our daughter in 2011; and Tony, the vet, was currently working with the homeless and mentally ill in New York.  He was friendly and open to conversation: thirteen hours would not be enough to cover Dave’s questions. 

 

As we chatted across the aisle about the specifics of Tony’s service and the military in general, those seated nearby chimed in. A wiry army vet had the seat in front of Tony, and a young man in fatigues one seat back was fresh out of Marine boot camp. 

 

“Agh. You must be so glad to have that behind you,” I said to the young Marine. “But do you feel empowered having made it through?”

 

He had lowered his mask to sip from a water bottle, and it was clear from his smile that he was scrolling through months of memories before answering. “I loved it even when I hated it. I knew it was for my own good, to prepare me for anything so I can defend my country if need be.”

 

At mention of boot camp, the other vets groaned. “Those drill sergeants just scream in your face, don't they?” said Tony. 

 

“Oh yeah, they do. Saying, ‘You’re nuthin’! You’re stupid! They spit in your face they’re yelling so hard,” said the Marine. Yet surprisingly, his expression was one of fond reminiscence.

 

“They’re spitting on purpose! Tearing you down to build you up. Just like someone did to them in training. Am I right?” said Tony, craning around the seat in front of him to include the army vet. 

 

The three men were nodding as they shared tales of early morning inspections and grueling drills, chuckling at what they’d endured, agreeing to its necessity in making them better soldiers and better men. 

 

“Would you be interested in being a drill sergeant yourself, do you think?” Dave asked the Marine.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I would. Pass it forward.”  

 

The importance of the issues and our effort to speak over the thrumming of the rails forced us to raise our voices, and when a topic overheard compelled them, passengers from seats further down the car joined in. As talk about military discipline led to a discussion of discipline in parenting, a man with dreadlocks down to his waist drew near. “Hope you don’t mind me listening in. The problem here is babies having babies. They don’t know how to be parents! They’re kids themselves!” The woman seated behind Dave agreed. “Mm-hm. That’s the problem.” 

 

At one point, I leaned over Dave’s back to ask the Marine what led him to enlist. “To be honest,” he said, “I wasn’t on the best path. Didn’t have a great role model in my dad. Had no idea what I was going to do with my life. If you’d told me a few months back that I’d be a Marine now, I’d’ve said you were crazy.” He shook his head as if not believing it himself…and radiated pride.

 

“I know four Marines,” I said. “Two of my uncles and two friends. It’s always mystified me that the Marines are portrayed as the toughest of the armed forces, and yet, these guys are the kindest, nicest men I know.”

 

Again, the young man’s smile was proud.  “Yes,” he said. “We are gentlemen too.”

 

For Dave and me, fortunate dwellers in the privileged bubble of Fairfield County, everything about these encounters was a gift, an opportunity to speak openly with people of diverse backgrounds and experience.  By the time we reached Charleston, we had shared our wine and found, as we always do, that it doesn’t take more than smiles and curiosity to unlock someone’s story. Truly, there are good people everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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.