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?