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?

 

 

 

 

 

  

Woodland Neighbors

The bark of the fox was loud, close, and strident. Was it distressed? I ran downstairs to check, unsure what my next step would be if I discovered an injured fox. I looked out the front window and scanned the road. No fox, but a bobcat sauntered down the path through the garden. I knocked lightly on the window, and he glanced over his shoulder, his face maned, wild, and beautiful. He might as well have shrugged, he was that uninterested in me, but the fox barked again, and he took off. 

 

During the winter, two red foxes frolicked in the snow as I watched, breath held, from my bathroom window; a tiny bonus earned during one of my many middle-of-the-night pee-breaks. It is my habit to scan the yard as it slopes along the stone wall to the edge of the woods. Is that shadowed form a stump or a bear? The stump has been there for decades, yet still, I check it nightly for signs of life. Slow learner. 

 

But one morning last May, Dave called softly, “Lea. You might want to see this.”

 

I was still abed, sleeping, and just barely registered his voice. Sometimes my petulant streak emerges, and I ignore the call for a time or two. Thank goodness, however, I responded and joined him in the bathroom where he stood in the tub, phone upheld and filming. A black bear, sleek, handsome, and mighty, was enjoying a birdseed snack at the feeder in the yard below.

We watched as he climbed the stone wall, lifted his nose to the air, sniffed, and returned to the seeds. Annoyed by the paltry sprinkles released by the pat of a paw, he stood on his hind legs, knocked the feeder down, and sat on the grass for a picnic. 

 

Dave and I were captivated by the bear’s every action. The ripple of muscle beneath glossy fur.  The ease with which he moved and took care of his feeder frustration. His relaxed approach once seated for his meal. 

 

When he’d had his fill, he ambled around the side of the house. I scampered downstairs and into the front hall to watch through the window. He stopped at the road, looked both ways, turned right, and lumbered off.

 

After that visit, our son gave us a movement-sensitive night camera, and we have enjoyed watching our nocturnal visitors: coyotes, fox, possums, skunks, and raccoons. During the day, turkey families periodically parade through our yard as well, their heads swiveling on necks that stretch and contract like rubber bands. We don’t see deer as much as we used to, not since hunting season was expanded to four months. Weary of my animal-advocacy, people explain with earnest patience that if not for the compassionate culling of herds by hunters, deer would suffer and starve. My protests about habitat loss and predator populations diminished by hunting are met with eye rolls and head shakes. I push back when some complain about chomped flowers: we have Stop & Shop; the deer and bear have our gardens and feeders.

 

Given the increase in wildlife sightings overall, I’ve wondered if our woodland neighbors were emboldened when Covid confined us, the marauding humans, behind closed doors. But we were set free months ago, and our quiet country road has again become a speedway for neighborhood kids on motorbikes and quads. I hope our fellow creatures are cautious: we live in the woods after all, and this is their dominion. We are the crooked cog throwing off the ecosystem, and if we are to survive, we must learn our place.   

 

  

Note: in our area, we are fortunate to have Wildlife in Crisis, an organization knowledgeable in caring for wounded wildlife: 203-544-9913   

  

The Stephen Sylvestro Memorial Parking Lot Scramble

While Dave has a relaxed relationship with Time, I am obsessively punctual. How was it possible, then, that I was running late for Steve’s memorial race? Dave and I were in separate cars, so, much as I wanted to, I could not blame him. I tried to quell the clutch of panic as I pulled into the winding driveway of The Inn at Longshore. 

 

Lord, it is long. Lovely, yes, cutting through golf greens between towering maples, but I was late, and had no patience for beauty. 

 

As instructed in the email I’d skimmed detailing race particulars, I bypassed the Inn and the main parking lot and continued left to a lower lot… but, where was everybody? No signs, no hubbub, no people. When Steve’s wife, Debby, drove in, followed by Dave and several other cars, I felt better. The race would not start without Deb. 

 

I called Hallie, whose husband Buck, with friends Miggs and Marty, had organized the race. “Where are all the Sylvestros?” Hallie asked when she answered. 

 

“In the lot by the marina.”

 

“Ah, no. Circle back ‘round and take a right at the inn. I’ll be out front to direct you.”

 

Having been Steve’s work wife, Hallie knows us well. How very Sylvestro to go left when the instructions said right. Somewhere Steve was laughing at the perfect imperfection of his family’s entrance. After all, this race was called a Parking Lot Scramble as a tip of the hat to Steve’s habitual race launch. His red Miata would pull in late, park, and he’d dash to the start. If he hadn’t personally arranged our mistaken detour, he was enjoying it thoroughly from his heavenly perch.

 

Obediently, I circled back, down the long drive, trying not to look at the clock on my dashboard. How had I missed seeing the red Miata parked to the right on my first swing through? Well, I had, but what a wonderful prop for the Start and Finish of this race. 

 

Miggs and Buck were bustling about, greeting, checking people in, and distributing commemorative mugs and certificates. They had conceived and organized this event and like loving, responsible parents had spent wakeful nights worrying they’d oversleep this morning (they didn’t); wondering if the Miata’s presence would make Deb happy or sad (happy); and worrying the weather would hold.

 

And far beyond holding, it was sparkling, glorious! Drenched in sunshine sent by the heavens, or perhaps again, by Steve himself, the people he loved and who loved him right back, scrambled from their cars and set off on the route.

 

The course of Steve and Debby’s lives was represented in those scramblers: son Trevor, daughter-in-law Lisa, and grand-daughters Ava and Taylor. Brother Dave, our Casey, PJ, and little Eleanor. “Adopted” sons, daughters, and their families. Niece Mackenzie from Rhode Island, friend Dave from New Hampshire, and colleagues and friends from The Southport School, Southport Racquet Club, races, and The Mission.  So many threads merging, not as a tapestry - that over-used metaphor - but rather a banner at Steve’s Finish line. 

 

I’m no runner, but I had plenty of company on my walk. It was a pleasant meander past the Inn and down the lane, and Mary, Len, Janice, Gerry, and I started out slow, with a stop at the Inn’s restroom. No one was rushing, and the day was a delight. Many times, I have driven away from that inn, my mind swirling with benefit checklists of linens, lanterns, programs, and flowers. How had I not noticed the shimmering waterway alight with golden rod? The feathery silver fronds of tall, waving grasses? The songs of crickets and birds?

 

Too busy. For some, this event, like life, was a race. It certainly would’ve been for Steve: competition was his fuel. But today, for most, it was a time to catch up and reminisce about Steve, his grin and shaggy white hair, his endurance, humor, spirit, and courage back when he could do anything he set out to do. 

 

His brother Dave rode a bike, doubling around to take pictures, pulling over to grab engaging shots: families jogging, toddlers peeping from strollers, ponytails swinging, and smiles universal. At the end of the race (I came in 63^rd), no one was ready to say good-bye. 

 

After winning, a given, Steve would’ve gone for a follow-up lunch at his second home, the Old Post Tavern.  So Buck, Hallie, and Patrick, the restaurant’s owner and Steve’s dear friend, invited us, all 70 participants and their families, over for continued hugs… and salad, sandwiches and pasta. There might have been a few beers in that mix as people mingled, chatted, and laughed. 

 

Hallie can barely say Steve’s name without tears and Deb hates public speaking, but there were things they wanted said. Not easy for either, but, after cheers and encouragement, Hallie sat on the bar and raised a toast. Deb stood beside her, beaming love and gratitude; Steve’s people are hers as well, after all, and they have buoyed and sustained her since his departure.   

 

As it is often with memorials and funerals, it was fun, a reunion reinforcing a revelation: we can be happy again. Happy, despite loss, happy in the memories. Happy in being with the people Steve loved and who loved him. 

 

Steve would want it so; knowing him, he’d insist.

 

             

A Pause at Camp Lealea and Tato

Tiny toes with chipped red nail polish rest against my leg. I’ve been waiting for my grandchild to fall asleep, lying with her on the bed that used to be Casey’s.  Eleanor has had a cold, fever, and double ear infection which have kept her from daycare, so she is with Dave and me, her Tato and LeaLea, for the day. 

 

I’d planned to take a little lie-down myself during Eleanor’s nap, but when she drifts off, I stay.  Trying to freeze the moment, I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her fist clutching her flamingo blanket, the frayed bandaid on her knee, and I give thanks that she is healthy. For, two nights ago, I lay beside her in the dark, cooling her too-hot body with damp cloths, and praying that daylight would see her scampering and cheery as usual. She was fitful and hot with periods of such stillness I kept my hand on her back to reassure myself she was breathing.

 

Darkness lasts long when you’re awake and worried. I didn’t have a baby thermometer, the wonderful kind that requires only a quick swipe across a sick child’s brow, so I couldn’t take her temperature. Were the wet cloths enough or should we call a doctor? I so wanted this night to be a respite for Casey and her husband, but I wondered, at what point should we phone them? I wanted to think Eleanor's skin was cooler, but was it?   

 

In the dark, thoughts spiral. How to distinguish that mental leap to a crisis from what is actually happening? What would my mother have done? 

 

Oh, how I missed her that night!  

 

The joy of being a grandparent is beyond expression, and the love and sense of responsibility is intense. My prayers for Paul, Lexi, and Eleanor’s health, safety, and happiness fly heavenward in a daily stream, a flurry that must be exhausting for God. Keeping little ones safe is a job too big for humans alone.

 

Beyond that, I want to be the grandmother my Byeo was to me. Whether I popped the blossoms on Mom’s hostas, scratched Dad’s new bike by mistake, or blew a spelling test, I knew I was Byeo’s “lamb,” bathed in “oceans of love.”  

 

When Eleanor was an infant, Casey invited me to join her as she sang her baby to sleep. I put my arms around the two of them as we swayed in the dark near the crib, Casey singing “Byeo Bye,” the lullaby my grandmother sang to me. I was so touched that Casey had listened to my reminiscences and resuscitated this song that my throat tightened, and I couldn’t get the words out to sing with her. I hoped Byeo was smiling from her heavenly perch. 

 

Casey has asked, “Do you look at Eleanor and see baby Casey?”  And sometimes, yes: in her build, the color and scent of her hair, the rounded cheeks and pouty lips. But while my daughter was theatrical as a child, she has imbued in her little one an animation and expression more apparent in Casey now: in the rise of Eleanor’s eyebrows and knowing grin as she angles for a treat; in her arch retorts and quips; in her stance as she poses, allowing time for a photo. As this 2 ½ year old crosses her arms over her chest and gives us a withering look, or hugs us tight, teeth clenched in “aggressive love,” Casey sighs and admits, “she gets that from me.” 

 

This morning, Eleanor arrived wearing a red Weekapaug tee-shirt that was Casey’s when she was little. Paired with a blue denim skirt, she looked like a mini-camper, and Dave and I tried to fill her day accordingly, mindful of making summer memories that might last even after we’re gone. 

 

First, we walked down to the swamp to pick raspberries. Like me, Eleanor is not a fan of wet grass, and wanted to be carried. She tucked her feet up and squeezed hold when I tried to encourage her to walk, but no. And by the way, she is not a featherweight. 

 

The three of us peered through the tangle of shrub and vine, searching for “mumba-wumbas” – big, ripe raspberries, ready to eat. We cautioned her about prickers and pointed out the pale orange of berries that weren’t quite ready. From then on, she was an able judge; “Nope.  Too orange.”

 

When mosquitoes buzzed round and the heat ramped up, Eleanor announced, “I want to paint!” A capital idea! We retreated to the room that used to be Casey’s, and Eleanor demonstrated her new proficiency in pouring, filling the water cup without spilling a drop. She painted precise, beautiful swaths of magenta and green, then washed her brush, observing with a giggle that the brown of the water “looks like poop!” 

Painting was enthralling for maybe seven minutes, then we headed to the playground.

 

During the fifties, how many afternoons at playgrounds ended in hospital trips after spine-jarring falls when kids jumped off seesaws, scraped knees, and broke bones in tumbles on asphalt? Now playgrounds are carpeted with a spongy layer, and see-saw butt-whumps are cushioned with rubber padding. Playgrounds without pain: a wonderful concept!

 

When we arrived, Eleanor mounted a colorful zebra that bounced on a sizable spring. Until she was ready for action, she rocked thoughtfully, surveying the unfamiliar kids scrabbling up the slides and spinning on the merry-go-round. Then she was off! As she hung from the monkey bars, Dave and I assumed catcher position, urging her to say, “Ready!” before she dropped. Failing that warning, we managed to catch her every time. 

In a triumphant first, she climbed a swervy ladder to the top of the big kids’ slide and sat, so proud, calling, “Look at me!” to our whoops and applause. Gratefully, just when her aging grandparents hit a wall of fatigue, she’d had enough. “I want to go back to Lealea and Tato’s house.”  On the way, we stopped at Sherwood Farms so Eleanor could hug Claudia, the cashier, and buy some cherries and broccoli. At such times, I feel my own childhood summers. 

 

At home after a snack, it was time for everyone to rest. Eleanor wrapped her flamingo blanket around her arm, said, “Night-night Tato,” and without any fuss, took my hand and headed for the stairs. So here we are on Casey’s old bed, the blinds drawn to shield us from light. The fan whirs, one of my favorite summer sounds, and I pause awhile longer to watch my little one sleep. 

  

 

A Celebration's Postscript

What’s that sound?  It had been a late night prior, and the heavy brocade curtains in our room at Boston’s Parker House effectively muffled the outside world. But as I shook off sleep, I thought I heard… drums?

 

Omigod! Drums! “Dave! Wake up! The parade’s starting!”

 

It was 9:30 AM, the morning of the 4^th of July, and the Declaration of Independence would be read at 10:00 from the balcony of the Old State House as it was to Bostonians 245 years ago. One of our reasons for this visit to Boston was to be present for that reading. 

 

We scurried about our 7^th floor room, donning jeans and jackets, and grabbing raincoats and umbrellas, then dashed to the elevator. The doors opened to reveal a couple in full red, white, and blue regalia: beads, hats, and tee-shirts. Our lack of visible patriotism was ever more evident when we left the hotel and joined a similarly bedecked throng heading to the square, the trill and thump of fife and drum coaxing our footfalls into a rhythmic march. Thankfully, a city employee was distributing small flags which we gratefully accepted. 

 

After days of rain, the heavens were kind, gray and churning, but so far, dry. With a boom of muskets and pounding of drums, the various bands and corps dressed in colonial garb assembled in the square beneath the East side balcony of the three hundred years-old brick building. Small children were lifted to parents’ shoulders as people poured in from surrounding streets. Strangers smiled at strangers and inched aside to allow others to pass as everyone pressed closer to get a good view.

After this year of Covid, mask-contention, insurrection, shootings, and racial strife, it seemed hopeful and fitting to merge with the multitude for greetings from Boston’s Black mayor, Kim Janey, and Black baritone Dana Whiteside’s magnificent rendition of “God Bless America.” Still, as we jostled cheerfully below the balcony, I couldn’t escape troubling images of other happy celebrants - at a concert in Las Vegas or a night club in Orlando - and headlines, crosshairs, and targets. While no shots rang out, this year’s reading seemed to hold added weight, as I pondered recent events and the country’s opposing factions. How might their interpretations differ in listening to the Declaration’s justifications for separation from a government seen as grievously flawed? 

 

In the Founders’ list of accusations against King George, I heard reflected Trump’s disregard for American traditions, laws, and public health: to me, grounds for impeachment, conviction, and removal. Conversely, those who stormed the Capitol on January 6^th claiming the revolutionary fervor of 1776 might point to some of the same statements as validation for their assault. 

 

The pandemic and January’s uprising were awakenings: we are not immune to the plagues and issues that challenged our ancestors. They are ever-emerging, and ours to address. Never have the people of the past seemed more real. 

 

During a 2019 visit to Boston’s Faneuil Hall, Dave and I participated in a reenactment of a debate over the Fugitive Slave Law and 1854 arrest of Anthony Burns. Burns had escaped slavery and lived in Boston as a free man for two years, but a probate judge bowed to the federal law and Burns was returned to his owner in Virginia. Bostonians erupted at this outcome, and one Amos Adams Lawrence remarked, “[W]e went to bed one night old fashioned, conservative, Compromise Union Whigs & waked up stark mad Abolitionists."

 

For the reenactment, index cards bearing the names and assertions of those who’d attended the 1854 meeting were distributed to people who wished to take part. Slavery was abolished in 1865, but the injustices and discrimination of recent years infused the readings of the men, women, and children of all ages and colors who volunteered with an outrage as urgent in 2019 – and 2021 - as when Andrew Burns was led away in chains. The fury we gave those borrowed words was driven also by a sense of responsibility to those confined to the balcony in 1854. At that time, most of us would have been silenced: only white, male property owners had the right to speak.  

 

 

Truth is objective, but the reporting of history is not. It has depended on who held the pen, who knew how to write, who was allowed an education, and whose opinions and input were given credence. How many know the story of Anthony Burns? Or the names of suffragists Lisa Stone and Carrie Chapman Catt? Until recently, the horror of the Tulsa Massacre was largely suppressed, and the current uproar over Critical Race Theory demonstrates the resistance that remains to teaching America’s failings as well as our achievements.  

 

On Sunday, we gathered, jubilant in celebrating 245 years of democracy and progress as clouds of confetti shot skyward in a celebratory whirl. Those once silenced now can speak. Tragedy and activism have spurred wider awareness; and in teaching the whole story, we move forward together.

 

Epilogue: 

 

After the 1854 decision, Anthony Burns spent four months in jail in Richmond, VA and was then sold to David McDaniel of North Carolina. Fortuitously, Boston abolitionists learned of Burns’ whereabouts and raised $1300 to buy and free him. Burns went on to be educated at Oberlin College and became a Baptist preacher in Ontario, Canada. In 1862, he died of tuberculosis at the age of 28.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Reunion

The attic is warm and dark, the air, dry, with the gently musty scent of well-travelled trunks and rolled-up rugs. Within its depths, bins, baskets, and cardboard boxes hold sets of china, stamp collections, vintage clothes, and paintings, the remnants deemed worth saving by five generations of my family. After years of postponement, it is time to purge. 

I am my parents’ daughter, the child of an antiques dealer and a collector, and I’ve been raised to value “mint condition, in the box.” Further, I am sentimental, and I treasure the letters, endangered species now, between my grandparents and their parents and children. Substantial vestiges of my own kids’ childhood - baby clothes, toys, Mother’s Day cards, and artwork – occupy any number of bins as well. So, this is not a project of wanton disposal, but a slow perusal of the contents of each container, and a re-connection with those who saved each item in the first place.

 

It is also a favor to my children, Tucker and Casey. My goal is to cart to the dump and Goodwill stuff they’d never want, consolidate their possessions for later review, and clarify, for myself, what’s up there. 

 

Beyond that, I love attics. I love the quiet, the smell, and the solitude. I love the sense of the past, its challenges resolved, its mementos resting between sheets of tissue. I love the coexistence of seasons, with Easter baskets, fans, witches, and Santas side by side awaiting their turn downstairs. I also love wresting order from chaos, so I’ve looked forward to this sojourn beneath the eaves. 

 

My plan is to start at the back and move forward, attacking each section as ruthlessly as possible while honoring prior owners and mindful of preserving what they might want preserved.  I’m particularly eager to examine the contents of a large Victorian steamer trunk. 

 

Because of its sturdy metal body bound with wooden bands and brass studs, I had deemed it impregnable to damp and forays by the mice with whom we reluctantly share our 1782 home.  Over the years, I have used it to store newspapers and magazines covering pivotal world events, as well as campaign propaganda from Reagan through Biden. I’m curious as to what I have saved. 

 

It turns out, our mice - undaunted by wood, metal, and brass - at one time moved in. Clearly, they also decided that news of the invasion of Iraq and Trump’s election were best served up shredded and fluffed as a cozy nest. With brave resolve, I tug on blue gloves and scoop that vile mass out and into a black garbage bag. As Dad used to say with more than a trace of sarcasm, “Anything for the children.” Tucker and Casey would’ve taken one look, closed the lid, and trashed the whole thing. I, on the other hand, swab liberally with Lysol, and salvage what I can.  

 

Thankfully, the mice have not molested the parade of plastic bins that hold three generations of childhoods: my mother’s, my kids’, and my own. These are labeled in black Sharpie, and contain Cabbage Patch Kids, Barbies, He-Man figures, Micromachines, Transformers, and Mom’s scrapbooks, wedding dress, and porcelain princess doll. It’s strange how familiar are some of these toys, unseen for over three decades: Tucker was five when he sent Skeletor and He-Man into battle. Casey cuddled her bald and not-so-cute Cabbage Patch Kid, “Baby Salus,” at age four. In a way, it’s hard to believe those little ones abide in my wonderful, thoroughly adult children, and I am grateful for these time-traveling toys and the memories they bear.  

 

Just as Casey and Tucker at age 38 and 41 are composites of all their former selves, so am I.  My Barbies and Ginny dolls rest within some of these bins, as do pamphlets, posters, programs, and newsletters from my work years and involvement in conservation and animal rights. A battered picnic basket at the top of the attic stairs contains old photographs, albums, and journals; Lea as she evolved is embarrassingly well-documented. 

 

This is my 50^th high school reunion year, and I must write bios for the two schools I attended.  Seeking a starting point, I retrieve Journal #1 from the picnic basket and open to my first entry written at 3:30 P.M., April 28, 1971.  

 

Any hope for precocious profundity is quickly squelched as I read my reflections for the two weeks before graduation.  My 18-year-old self was obsessed with Broadway shows and frequently quoted lyrics while pining for a boyfriend and panicking at the prospect of the leap to college. She – I – also vacillated, ad infinitum, between agonizing over losing friends and declaring that she - I – would NOT let that happen. 

 

There have been times in my kids’ lives when they were similarly troubled with the insecurities and worries of adolescence and young adulthood. As they’ve grown, succeeded in work, married, and had children, I’ve wished I could’ve assured their young selves, with the certainty of foresight, that all their yearnings would be met. The same goes for Lea of 1971.  I wish she’d had the benefit of journals #2 through 45, for husband Dave shows up in ‘72, and college held new friends, a semester in Rome, and academic engagement. 

 

As to the girls I refused to lose touch with, many are still dear friends. And when I log onto the 50^th reunion Zoom meetings, my heart fills in re-connecting with those who had drifted away.