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. 

 

 

 

  

Walking Home Together

My email inbox is a daily delete extravaganza. I’ve signed countless petitions since the 2016 election thus granting email access to every hopeful Democrat running for office in every state; and every climate, immigration, animal rights, and environmental organization striving to keep me apprised, active, and donating.  So, I click, click, click… delete.  Click, click, click… delete, stopping occasionally to sign another petition or make a small donation.  Yes!  I know! I’m only encouraging them, but our times are dire, and I can’t totally check out. 

As a result, I’m impatient with emails; I just want to get through them.  Sheepishly I confess that when I get animated cards, I often “click to the end.” What a sad metaphor for life.  I can’t even take a few minutes to watch sweet lovebirds string ribbons into a heart on a Valentine’s Day card?  To watch buds sprout and daffodils bloom on Mother’s Day?  To watch deer and squirrels gather beneath reddening oaks at Thanksgiving?  How many smiles have I sacrificed to more quickly empty my inbox?     

True to form, when in early December, my Farmington friend, Whip, sent me and Jen, my junior year roommate, the Jacquie Lawson Cotswolds Advent calendar, I thought I’ll take a quick peek and move on. Wisely, Whip sent a heads-up text first, with an added, “BTW, in your ‘Cotswold home,’ click on the various objects for games – and every day you can click on the bookcase to read a little about the theme for that day.”

Bookcase?  Games?  My Cotswold home?   Hm. Still. I wanted to zip through emails and get back to my To-Do list. I clicked on the link, followed instructions, and the calendar opened… with music, a horse-drawn cart clopping down the street, and a gentle snow fall.

Ohhhhhh.  Something pinched and rushed eased inside me as, using the slide bars on the side and top of the computer screen, I “strolled” through the village past cottages with leaded windows and peaked dormers mounded with snow.  I followed a nice couple over a stone bridge and gazed at the Christmas tree on the other side of the river. Chudleigh’s Tavern beckoned from a side street. It looked like my kind of place: I’d like to grab Dave for a beer and glass of wine there sometime soon.  

When given the option to “decorate” a woodland tree, I chose from an array of ornaments to drag and drop in the boughs of a bushy pine.  I clicked on my garland of choice and tried to drag it to the tree, but it wouldn’t move. I tried again, nothing. Suddenly, the tree lit up… and shimmered.  It was beautiful,and the surge of elation filling my chest took me by surprise.  If that weren’t enough, when I clicked the blue star to go into “my house,” my tree was there in the corner, exactly as I’d decorated it. 

With clicks, I lit the candles on the mantle and set the fire ablaze. Two kittens curled in a snug nest by the fire, and a friendly dog lying near the sofa lifted his head and looked at me. I was flooded with giddy wonder.  I felt like… like I did when I was 8, opening the tiny door of an advent calendar, yearning for Christmas to hurry up and get here, a feeling I hadn’t had in decades.  I had to share this with others, so I went to Jacquie Lawson’s website and sent off calendars to a few friends, my daughter, and daughter-in-law. 

Soon, Casey texted, “So fun! I JUST WRAPPED PRESENTS!”  How delighted she’ll be when she sees her wrapped gifts under the tree in “her house.” 

When Carey opened her calendar, she wrote, at 2:00 AM, that she was getting a kick out of coordinating fireworks with classical Christmas music. No doubt, given my post-menopause affliction, I was also awake at 2:00 AM, but not looking at my calendar.  So the next morning, I was fascinated when I saw her message.  Fireworks? I pulled up the calendar and clicked like crazy, but again, nothing. Clearly I don’t have instinctive computer skills. 

“How did you activate the fireworks?” I texted. 

“I’m not sure,” she responded. “Maybe they only happen at night?  Am I right that the calendar has day and night?” 

Whoa. Day and night? I want to write Jacquie Lawson a thank you note and applaud her brilliant creativity.  

Once darkness fell, I whipped out my computer, and opened the Cotswold scene.  The sky had darkened since I checked in earlier that day, and a silvery light bathed the village.  The calendar moon was in the same phase as the moon rising beyond the barn across our street. Amazing. I clicked on the sky and boom!  A bloom of red lights! Click.  Boom! Green!  Click. Boom!  White!

I emailed Whip.  “Did you know about the fireworks?  Only at night.  Click the sky!”

Forty-five years ago, Jen, Whip and I lived in the same dorm and were close as sisters. After we graduated, we went to different colleges.  We wrote letters for a while, then our correspondence petered away to Christmas cards. Eventually, I dropped that too. About seven years ago, Meredith, the third in a junior year three-room with Jen and me, coordinated with Jen to plan a mini-reunion. Meredith has lived in France for decades, returning to the US in the summer. She is tenacious about traditions and friendships: she does not let them slide. That summer gathering has become an annual event, renewing friendships long dormant, bringing Whip, Jen, and Meredith back, actively, into my life.  

                     L to R: Andy, Meredith, Lea, Maurita, Vickie, Whip, Jen, 1971

Turned out Whip, the Giver-of-Cotswold-Joy, did not know about the fireworks. She passed the discovery on to Jen who looked forward to trying it later, noting that she was addicted to the calendar’s Solitaire game. Whip confessed to a similar compulsion, but added, “I shouldn’t be playing. I don’t have time to get addicted – work and Xmas stuff, plus my mom just got home from rehab, etc.”

Jen texted, “Hope your mom is okay.  Rehab?”

“Mom was in the hospital, and then was so weak she was in rehab for 3 weeks getting her strength back. Now she’s home, but too scared to get out of bed for fear she’ll fall.”  And she added, “Lea, I’m sure you’re remembering your wonderful mom with love this Christmas, and missing her a lot.” 

Jen texted, “I was just saying to someone the other day that getting old is REALLY hard… [My mother] absolutely refuses to use a cane or walker, though she is afraid of falling too. So she ‘furniture walks’ and is not nearly as active as she could be.”

By the time I checked my phone, the threads were long, a mix of calendar high points with a comforting purge of common worries and frustrations. Whip’s mother had become grouchy with age, adding to the difficulty of caring for her. Jen commiserated, “Sorry Whip!  I know how tough this is. I pray I’ll always be nice to my daughters.“

Late to the exchange, I chimed in,  “Hi! First, the happy thing… the calendar! Even on this rainy day, I woke up thinking Ooooo!  What will today hold? Last night I was able to click on the darting elf – a moment of triumph! – and he did a little wiggle dance! And the fireworks were such a discovery… how lovely to “walk” thru the village in the moonlight!  Thank you Whip!  Such fun!

“As to aging, Dave’s Aunt Cam, who was feisty and vibrant ‘til she died at 94 (her friend came to pick her up for Bingo and found her dressed and ready, but dead… THAT’s the way to go) Anyway, she always said to me, ‘Lea, do yourself a favor and don’t get old.’” 

Whip answered, “Aging is truly terrifying… I’m so grateful for my daughters, and hope I’m decent to them when I’m elderly. I didn’t know the elf did a dance when you click on him! I’ll try that!” 

“Age truly, is not for sissies,” I replied.  “Now I recognize how much courage it takes to age gracefully.  And re. the elf, not sure if it’s related, but when I clicked on the stockings, 2 little guys popped out and the elf ran thru soon after.  Hopefully we know more than our parents did about diet, exercise, and involvement in people and causes beyond ourselves.” 

As if on cue, Jen picked up the thread having returned from Pilates.  “I am SO grateful for my friends, more than ever in past years. I guess it’s partly age and partly circumstances that have really made me think about priorities. Now I’m going to get my calendar back up and try to find that elf!” 

Believe me, the elf is not easy to catch. But I loved the weird, wonderful weaving of calendar magic and… friendship magic; the comfort of facing life’s phases with women who have known me, and each other, for decades and decades. As teenagers, boys and schoolwork consumed our conversations, now, health, parents, kids, grandkids, and politics absorb us. Crazy. 

My favorite quote – a plea in today’s fractious times! – is that we are all here to walk each other home. The holiday season is expansive in its means to help us do that, through the spirit of giving, the smiles of strangers, the pull of home, the poignancy of memories, years-long bonds, and even shared glee over a Cotswold calendar. 

                                L to R: Whip, Meredith, Lea, Jen, Fall 1970

                                   L to R: Meredith, Jen, Whip, summer 2019

                                               (You all know what I look like!)

Glorious Currents

When I was born, my parents were living in Edie’s family’s garage apartment, so Edie and I go back as far as friends can go.  We attended each other’s first birthday party. We suffered the wrongs of an evil science teacher who accused us of cheating (which we had not).  We both adored Ms. Josten, our beautiful 8^thgrade Latin teacher. We danced, over and over, to Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” in our living room at 638.  We drove stealthily past Cliff Pemberton’s house when, at sixteen, I longed for him. We made mashed potatoes for midnight snacks and begged Edie’s mother to make her famous chocolate sauce. And fifty years later, when my Mom received her diagnosis, it was natural to call Edie and weep while curled on the green-carpeted stairs of 638 where, as teens, we’d spent countless hours gossiping about boys. 

Before Mom got sick, Edie and her husband, Dave #2, invited us to their time-share in Bend, Oregon, and that is what prompted our entire trip west.  

Edie and Dave #2 are seasoned travelers and hikers, and after my Dave and I experienced Glacier’s High-Line trail – during which we inched along a foot-wide pebbly path while clinging to a cable bolted in the rock face so as not to be swept to our deaths by buffeting winds – we thought we were reasonably ready to keep up with them. 

On our first evening in Bend, they eased us in with a lovely canyon walk.  The next morning, we were up at 7:00 AM, slathered with sunscreen, fortified with granola and yogurt, and out the door by 8:00 in order to stay ahead of the scorching sun during our hike up Smith Rock. 

Edie and Dave #2 were compassionate to us Smith Rock neophytes.  Yes, they’d chosen the Misery Ridge Trail, clearly designated “Most Difficult,” for our second day, but as I said, my husband and I were secretly preening with unearned cockiness after conquering at least a mile of Glacier’s High Line, and, adrenaline-charged, we were game. Besides, Earth herself beckoned to us, her bones exposed, ragged, red and raw, towering above and before us. Onward campers!

Our Bend Camp counselors were mindful of hydration and stamina, and insisted upon regular shade and water breaks, and, omigod, Chocolate Mint Cliff bars.  Can I tell you how good those things are? Anyway, we didn’t realize how significantly Edie and Dave #2 had slowed their pace for us, and Dave and I thought we were hoofing along just fine; we were solid.  The breath-stealing sight of rock climbers suspended from cables slung from one precipice to another gave us yet another excuse to take a good long pause for pictures and exclamations. 

Ultimately, the sun caught up with us, and our final descent down a series of switchbacks was sweltering as well as challenging, but Dave and I were proud and exhilarated that we’d hiked this “most difficult” trail.  Were we undone by the rattlesnake curled in the rocks to the right on the teeny trail? No! We inched by and took pictures. 

When we reached the end of the trail, mentally, I danced a victory lap that, at 65, I had successfully, fairly comfortably, achieved such a feat. But, I had not remembered, had not considered, the climb back up to the parking lot.  When I gazed up toward the lot - so faraway it seemed! - my body began to protest. 

You know that let-down response when you really have to go to the bathroom and you pull into a rest stop and your body thinks, “Yay!  Now I can go”? And then, the bathrooms are closed for renovations and you are really screwed because your body thinks it has permission to release?  Yeah.  It was like that.  

Agh, I was so close, but my knees said, “no way,” so I sat in the meager shade of a stunted pine while my heart cursed me with a frenzied, erratic, reproving beat.  Wait. Wait. Slow it down. Slow it down. I reflected on an incident at Logan’s Pass, when Dave and I witnessed a rescue helicopter landing to pick up a hiker who’d had a heart attack. Oh Lord. I’d not been charitable in thinking the man had been unrealistic in gauging his abilities.  Breathe.  Breathe. Judge not, lest ye be next. 

When my heart calmed, I stood up, and remarkably, that respite was enough. I crested the final leg to the parking lot where Dave #2, bless him, waited in the car with the air conditioner blasting.  Once seated and cool, my triumph and bravado returned. 

So, what next?  Bring it on!   

                        *                                  *                                  *

In the morning, rested and well fed, again we were up and out by 8:30 to hike the volcanic cone of the Newbury Shield.  It was forbidding and charred, a vast expanse of spikes and crevices. Surprisingly, berry-studded bushes and yellow potentilla bloomed from cracks in the rock, and chipmunks and lizards scurried about the black surfaces.  How could that be?  Oh, this Earth! So beautiful, bountiful, resilient, and mischievous!  I’m thinking about having her tattooed somewhere on my body.  

In our normal life, a moonscape stroll such as this would provide stories and adventure for months, but this was but one morning at Edie and Dave’s Bend Camp.  For, that afternoon, we were off to the Sun River Resort for a bike ride followed by tubing down the Deschute River.  

After a tasty lunch on the balcony of a club overlooking a golf course, we changed into bathing suits, took a shuttle upriver, and slipped into the water, each cupped in our own royal blue inner tube, at the mercy of the river’s whims.

For three hours we drifted. Three hours to gaze at blue sky. Three hours to admire passing greenery and the occasional bird. Three hours to chat, when our tubes floated close enough, about the wonder of creation, man versus nature, evolution, and the danger of Trump’s roll backs in environmental and species protections.  

Three hours where my control was limited to what paddling hands could accomplish in steering clear of debris or maneuvering toward a promising current. Despite what we like to believe about life, isn’t that really all we are ever able to do? 

Together on The Block

Tangled brown tresses tumble from the blond woman’s rolling bag.  A wig, I figure, but a closer look reveals a head.  A mannequin’s head, mind you, but with its lifelike face and all that hair, it is…well, unnerving. 

“Traveling with a head?”  I comment.

The woman glances down at her bag and laughs.  “Yeah.  I have a wedding tomorrow.”

Oh.  That explains it. 

My husband, Dave, is parking the car while I wait with our friend Joanie - plus Dave’s guitar, our backpacks, a cooler, and bikes - for the ferry to Block Island.  It is September, and as we have for years, we are meeting dear friends for our annual gathering.

The drive from home to the ferry, as always, was tricky.  As a rule, on this weekend, Dave leaves work in Greenwich around 3:00 PM.  He then sits, stews, and grumbles in traffic while Joanie and I pace, anxiously glancing at the clock, waiting for him to pull in at home to pick us up.  When he arrives, he unfolds himself gingerly from his seat, adjusts his back, and walks as briskly as possible to the house.

We girls strive to be upbeat, feigning calm, once Dave sets to work hefting the bikes on top of the car and strapping them in as the minutes pass.  Joanie, ever optimistic, gives a “Whoo-Hoo! We’re off!” kind of cheer as we plunge back into the sluggish current of Friday afternoon traffic.  Under ideal conditions, it’s two hours and fifteen minutes to the dock in Point Judith, our preferred place of departure.  The last ferry of the day chugs out at 7:00 PM. 

We all love Point Judith, but for Dave, it’s an integral part of this Block Island weekend.  After the frenzied ride, he likes to browse at the sweatshirt shop, then stop in next door to pick up a steamy cup of Rhode Island clam chowder, with it’s salty gray broth and potatoes, no cream.  Around the docks, the stench of fish and motor oil pervades.  Gulls cry as they dart and wheel around hoary fishing boats bristling with lines and rigging. Engines grind, chains clank, halyards whack against masts, and somehow, it all seems charming.

But it was well after 4:00 when we left home today, and I had to seal my lips shut to maintain the fantasy, for as long as possible, that we might make Point Judith in time.  We were passing the exit for Waterford when Dave asked how long it would take to get to the Point.  “We’d have maybe ten minutes to spare if we don’t hit any slow spots,” I said, trying not to embellish, whine, or coerce.  

Dave is a master at maintaining an animated public face, but he had spent too many hours in traffic this week, and could not mask his disappointment.  “So I guess it will have to be New London,” he said. 

There is nothing wrong with New London.  The downtown boasts lovely Victorian buildings of aged red brick, but the transportation center is a utilitarian ferry depot, and we would sorely miss the joy of our accustomed ride over with our friends, Hallie and Buck.  Still, decision made, we are here in plenty of time to catch the ferry along with the woman and her extra head.

Once Dave joins us, we board the ferry, climb the metal staircase to the upper deck, and take our seats.  Dave is determined to be content and heads for the bar.  He returns with potato chips, two plastic cups of merlot, a beer, and a smile.  We click our drinks in a toast as the ferry churns out of the harbor.  Too bad my husband chooses to set his beer down, for he kicks it over, sending a cascade of golden brew toward our assembled belongings.  Argh.

An hour and a half later, it doesn’t matter, for we are encircled by friends at Dead Eye Dicks on Block Island, ordering swordfish, crab cakes, lobster rolls, and shrimp.  It’s the perfect spot for the first night, right across the street from our hotel, The Narragansett.

In the beginning, the “Race Around the Block” was the incentive for this island weekend.  Dave’s brother, Steve, would run the course, sweating, pumping, and panting, while the rest of us relaxed in the warmth of the afternoon sun at the finish line, sipping tasty mudslides and admiring the view of New Harbor.  The tradition has continued because increasingly we recognize how precious is this time together.

Last year we celebrated Janet and Art’s daughter’s wedding and Steve and Debby’s 40^th anniversary, although we were saddened to learn of Moo’s son’s divorce.  The year before that, Len had just retired, good reason to indulge in an extra mudslide.  Three years ago, we learned of Nelson’s Parkinsons diagnosis, and in 2009, I trudged off the ferry wearing a scarf, newly bald from chemo.  Dave had thrown out his back the morning we left for that visit, and this year, Joanie's the one wearing a back brace. But Moo’s husband Cisco has joined us for the first time; Art and Janet’s daughter is pregnant; Mary’s daughter just got married; Tucker got a job at Google, and Casey’s boyfriend, P.J.  got a job at IBM.  So we celebrate and support, depending on what’s called for.  “Peaks and valleys,” says Nelson’s wife, Anne.

Our topics, activities, and props have changed.  There is more emphasis on stretching before mounting our bikes, and the question, “How did you sleep?” is not idly made.  While none of us felt a need to bring a head in a bag, everyone carries a phone.  As we catch up and crow while poring over the photos stored in those phones, most reach for their reading glasses to do so.  Despite these signs of our aging, Block Island restores us.  Deb says, “As soon as I see the island come into view from the ferry, the weight lifts from my shoulders.  Here I can be a kid again, silly, and free-wheeling.”

Saturday night, after dinner at Dead Eye Dicks and a day of shopping, beaching, and bike rides, we gather in the living room at The Narragansett to sing.  A couple, Karen and Peter, gray-haired and about our age, are reading quietly on the couch.  I don’t give them much thought, but with a friendly smile, Joanie goes over to sit with them. Meanwhile, Art goes to the bar to buy them a drink, a kind gesture to offset our disturbing their peace.  I file away their lessons in courtesy, and am proud of my gracious friends. 

As everyone settles in, Dave strums his guitar, starts and stops a bit, trying out a few possibilities.  I think he’s crazy to bring the guitar over to the island.  He has to lug it around in addition to his backpack, and grapple with it while riding his bike.  I’d never bother, too much of a pain, but where I give up on something that seems like too much trouble, Dave is willing to deal with the inconvenience if it’s going to make a difference in the end.

And it does.  Would we have gathered on the couches and chairs at The Narry to sing if Dave hadn’t brought his guitar?  We limp through “Sloop John B” and some Simon and Garfunkle numbers, straggly and short on words.  Then the phones and reading glasses come out as Mary, Len, and Karen locate a lyrics site so everyone can lean in close to see the words.

Beatles songs seem embossed in our sixties-era souls and everyone belts out “You Won’t See Me.”  As we move on to “In My Life,” a few voices quiet as eyes fill with tears.     

“All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends

I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life I've loved them all.”

Once just a pretty song, the lyrics now strike a poignant chord.  While every one of us has lost a loved one, this weekend at The Narry is a joy-filled moment, alive with laughter, friends, and memories in the making.

As we warble though Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son,” I reflect that ours was the youthful perspective when that song was popular.  Now, we are the wistful parents. Okay.  Enough of that.  Getting maudlin.  Time to ramp up the mood.  Nelson takes over the guitar for a while, then back to Dave for some Jonathan Edwards and our favorites, “Don’t Cry Blue” and “Shanty.”  Usually, we count on Steve’s harmonica for these two, but he left his guitar and harmonica at home.  No one gives him any grief about that though. Hmm.  He does not disappoint, however, and amazes us with a convincing vocal “harmonica” accompaniment.

It’s getting late, and even with the help of eyeglasses and cell phones, the tempo is slowing down.  I look around this circle and marvel at the decades, experiences, and life phases we’ve been through together:  our own graduations, weddings, pregnancies, job changes, and kids…not to mention, many birthdays.

This morning, while browsing the shops in town, I noticed and bought a greeting card, a vintage photograph of a line-up of little girls, each holding the waist of the child before her.  Audrey Hepburn was quoted in the caption beneath the picture, her words so apt, so true:  “The best thing to hold onto in this life is… each other.”    

Circle Unbroken

We heard their laughter and the lyrical rhythm of island accents before we saw them.   Two women - one with red lipstick and long hair, the other with corn rows tight against her scalp, both with cocoa skin - had struggled to sit atop a massive boulder on the lawn below the lighthouse and above the sea. Their male companion stood before them, holding a camera at arm’s length. Happy people on a glorious day, I thought and smiled to myself at their joy.

 “Would you like a picture of the three of you?’  Dave asked.  Naturally, they were delighted by his offer.

After they’d checked out Dave’s shots from their perch on the rock, the woman in cornrows, Ann-Marie, I soon learned, twisted toward me and said, “Is he a photographer?  Just has a way….”

Her friend, Maxine, slid to the ground and strolled over to where I sat nearby on the grass. “We have reason to celebrate,” she volunteered.  She nodded toward Ann-Marie and said quietly, “A year ago, I was with her when she had surgery.”

A few years back, I would have left it at that, but since I’ve had cancer and Ann-Marie is a woman, I said, “What kind of surgery?”  Given the statistics, it was almost a formality.

“Breast cancer,” she replied, and the sadness is, I wasn’t surprised.

When Ann-Marie joined us, I told her of our bond and hailed her as a sister.  Her nice-stranger-smile deepened to one of connection, and she hugged me tight, a hug infused with shared fear, relief, hope, and gratitude, then she settled to the grass next to me, just barely loosening her hold. 

I was half in her lap, my hand in hers, as the five of us spoke for close to an hour.  “During diagnosis and treatments, it was the circle of love that kept me going,” Ann-Marie said as she smiled at Maxine.  “The circle of love is essential.”  With our hands still clasped, her eyes locked on mine, she added, “There is no coincidence in our being here, together, in this place.”  And I knew she drew strength from our companionship in cancer, just as I had from Joanne, Dede, and Wendy.  The disease and fear might have been ours to fight as individuals, but we were not alone.

Nor were Dave and I alone this weekend; we had a date on the hill above New Harbor, so it was time to mount up.  Dave took group pictures, we exchanged emails and hugs, our three new friends headed to the lighthouse for a tour, and Dave and I retrieved our bikes for the ride back to the hill.

 For over a decade, our September Block Island gathering has served as escape and celebration. In 2008, the route to Point Judith was tagged with evacuation signs and cars, countless cars, heading the opposite direction as a hurricane blew in.  Did we postpone?  No!  Otie and Janet made the trip from Pittsburgh a day early just in case, and our Connecticut contingent barreled ahead, thrilled at the prospect of howling winds and pounding surf.  There was one brief moment on the way up, after we’d passed the third evacuation sign, when I thought, are we being stupid about this?  Forget about it!  All aboard!

In 2009, the weekend fell during my second round of chemo-loser days.  I’d just lost my hair and felt logy and sad, plus it was windy and rainy and I worried about errant gusts stealing my scarf.  Dave had thrown out his back and we were a gimpy, pathetic pair – not our usual BI selves.  The Friday ferries were cancelled, so we made the crossing on Saturday; the rest of the group – Hallie, Buck, Steve, Deb, Len, Mary, Otie, Janet, and Joan – had taken an earlier boat.  They met us at the dock, a receiving line of loving friends.  They relieved us of our backpacks, and Dave and I rented a mo-ped, a motorized means to free-wheeling, so we could keep up.

Every year, on the Friday of departure, there’s the ordeal of the white-knuckled drive down I-95, zipping along at 15 mph through rush hour traffic to make the last ferry.  Once that ferry pulls from the pier, however, there is water between us and …everything else.  Water between us and worry.  Water between us and doctors.  Water between us and the ability to take care of to-dos, commitments, and concerns. Through Steve’s diagnosis, Colombo’s strokes, hurricanes, and my cancer, Block Island has been gloriously and blessedly AWAY.

I hesitate to speak to my Sylvestros of God, but this weekend, that of Steve and Debby’s 40^th anniversary, I sensed His hand in the brilliance of the sun, meadows of golden rod glowing yellow, sapphire seas, and blue skies swirled with playful wisps of clouds, a setting fit to honor four decades of marriage.  

By the time Dave and I pedaled up, most of the others were on the hill, spreading blankets on the grass, hauling a ponderous picnic table to a level spot, opening bags of chips - tortilla and potato - and the requisite containers of hummus.  While mudslides – a frozen chocolate/coffee/rum confection– are always the drink of choice, Hallie was also chilling champagne.

What would be the afternoon’s format?  No one was sure.  While this time together on the hill was a given, the anniversary layer was uncertain.  A few weeks before, Deb mentioned to a few of us her wish to renew her wedding vows.  “When we got married, I said the words I was supposed to say, but I was a kid. I didn’t get it.  Now I do.  It’s not always easy.  You have to work things through.  It really is ‘in sickness and in health.’ After forty years, I know about commitment.  I’ve lived what I vowed.”

Steve, I’d heard, was not so sure about the renewal of vows piece, but he’d bought Deb – forty years later – an engagement ring, and today, he would present it. 

Others had planned their own presentations.  Moo had flown in from New Mexico, her first trip to the Block.  She’d done some research on traditional 40^th anniversary gifts and had something hidden under a sweatshirt in her bike basket.  Nelson and his wife Ann had also joined us, and Nelson had worked with the island to create an appropriate gift. 

Steve and Deb’s son, Trevor, had thought the celebration was the next day.  Oops.  So, as the rest of us chatted and sipped mudslides, Trevor sat eyes and fingers to phone, working on his toast while his wife, Lisa, and soon-to-be-three daughter, Ava, spilled packets of colorful sand on paper, preparing a bee-u-ti-ful picture. 

Because Dave is an online-ordained minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism, a justice of the peace, and Steve’s brother, he was chosen to orchestrate events, whatever those events might be.  After Ava changed into a pale blue princess gown and donned long pink gloves with the help of two young courtiers enlisted at the playground, Dave rose to chorale our attention. 

Until he spoke, we were scattered, small groups on blankets facing this way and that, but when Dave began to speak, we naturally formed a circle, a circle of love.  Deb and Steve were the focus, at the head of the circle, but in a circle, actually, there is no head, so all the words spoken of lasting love and friendship were spoken for all of us, everyone in that circle. 

Steve’s white mane, Deb’s river of blond hair, a circle of sunglasses, a circle of soul-deep smiles that have beamed at each other and at these two people for most of those four decades.  There have been losses, hospitals, worry and nursing homes, but there’s been traying at Trinity, cheering at races, work at Eagle Hill, hunkering down for hurricanes, dancing at Captain Nick’s, trips home for the holidays, weddings, Trevor and Christopher’s concerts, strumming guitars, playing with Ava, and this shared weekend on the Block.  How does that translate into words?

We tried… with laughter, stories, tears, and hands to hearts.  We spoke of Steve and Deb’s love, their courage, their example, and their role in bringing us all together.  Dave, who accompanied Steve and Deb on most of their dates and followed Steve to high school, college, and Eagle Hill, relayed a dream in which Carolyn, our recently departed friend, told Dave “True love is a gift,” thus giving him his message for this day.  With great ceremony, Moo unwrapped her offering: an eggplant engraved with “Happy 40^th Anniversary.”  Nelson unveiled a rock-solid symbol of love, a rock, in fact, found on the beach, shaped like a heart, and signed by each person in the circle. 

Trevor waited until everyone else had said their piece, then mused aloud, “How do I say thank you for all the love and caring over the years?  How do I repay all the sporting events, girlfriend advice and all the hours you lost when I was late coming home (or would fail even to come home)? What can I give you for all the times you supported me in my triumphs, and provided a shoulder when there were losses? What present is there for all the times we just sat together and shared…whatever? How do I thank you for the guidance when I was unsure of my way, and your restraint to allow me to find it myself? You nurtured my growth, yet allowed me my independence. So… what gift is enough for two kickass parents?

The answer came to me today. And no box can hold it, no wrapping can cover it.  No store had it on a shelf. My gift is not to you, it is to my little girl. I promise to care for her the same way you did for me.

              

And someday, just maybe she'll say, ‘How can I thank you -- for all you've done for me?’
              

Hopefully I get the chance to tell her, ‘Don't thank me. Thank your Mimi and Poppy. Because I'm the product of their love.’”

Whooshhhhhh.  Tears.  Tears around the circle.  Every one of us wiping eyes and cheeks as Steve and Deb reached out to their boy for hugs.  And then, thank God, Deb requested a bathroom break before the boys brought out guitars to sing.  Trevor called his brother Christopher, in Arizona, who spoke to his parents and sang along via speakerphone, as Otie, Dave, and Trevor played the Wedding Song, as it had been played at the marriage forty years before. 

And that would be a good place to end, a moving place, but Nelson emptied and upended a beige plastic ice bucket, now a drum, and joined the musicians.  Steve whipped out his harmonica and Len scrolled through words on his cell for round two of the festivities: Sloop John B, The Boxer, and Shanty.  A gleeful blond princess whirled to the music, arms outstretched as her own kickass parents looked on.