Spring... and a Baby - reprise

A wrought iron mother wren with a baby at her feet perches on graceful vines encircling a fluted glass vessel. The little vase struck a chord with my mother, and she gave it to me when Tucker was born. Mom loves lilies of the valley, and it was early May, so she filled the vase with a few sprigs from her garden before coming to help out with my new baby. 

 

It was springtime, and the earth had prepared for Tucker’s arrival. In the fuzzy greening of trees, the sunshine glow of forsythia, and the pink clouds of magnolia emerging from gray wood seemingly dead only last week, God was saying – as surely as if He’d hugged me – “Be happy.” And I was. 

 

Lavender lilacs lent their fragrance to the warm, gentle breeze. Tiny sparrows that had passed March in mute pecking swung proudly on twigs and composed melodies. Brown-headed cowbirds chortled bubbling liquid songs, and mourning doves cooed like a mother’s soft soothing. Warblers called from the treetops with trills, chirps, and cheeps. Brother Wind, the woods’ winter alto voice, harmonized with the soprano songbird chorus. Mates were sought.  Nests were readied. My baby was on the way too.  

 

I’d been a poster child for pregnancy, and perhaps, a vexation to my fellow students in Lamaze class. Where Tucker curled tight in the womb, front and center, other mothers waddled cumbersome, expanding on all sides. I felt great, gained little weight, and was eager for birth-day to come.

 

Labor, for me, was a glorious crusade – a good one, without prisoners or weapons. There was blood and pain, but the prize was a baby, and I was well trained for the fight. With the current preference for epidurals, Lamaze has lost favor, but in the early eighties, it was the way to go. It was an invaluable education, and when the contractions began, the pain held no fear. I knew the significance of the sensations at each stage and was ready with a corresponding strategy. As the contractions grew stronger, I pictured my little one, struggling along with me.  Soon we would meet, face to face. 

 

I’d not been aware that I had expectations as far as the sex of the child. Yet, as a girl from a family of girls, I must have felt that this little traveler, so familiar, yet not, would be female. When Doctor Hoffman, the welcoming committee, caught the baby and announced, “He’s a boy, and he’s perfect!” I was surprised.  I was also surprised that this son of a WASP mother was so definitively Italian. I didn’t recognize him as my under-the-heart-in-my-heart companion right away. 

 

He resembled his father, Dave, so thoroughly. Thick black hair was slicked back from his face. His battle down the birth canal showed in in puffy cheeks and pouches under his eyes, like Dave after a long commute. And like Dave, Aunty Cam, Colombo, and his great-grandfather Michael, the baby’s nose was pure Sylvestro, rounded and substantial. 

 

The name “Tucker” is not as unique in this new millennium, but in 1980, it was.  It was round on my tongue, soft as a baby’s kissable cheeks, and the “r” at the end was a cozy burr. There was pride and love in the very utterance of the name, bound as it was to this little boy. 

 

But oh, the fatigue following the eighteen-hour delivery! I had eaten only tea and toast since the contractions began, and after all that hard work – triumphant work! – I was beat. So after snuggles with Tucker, and stitches for me, the nurses spirited him away, and I fell asleep.  

 

At 4:00 AM, I woke in the dark, achingly lonely for my other part, the other heart that had beaten under mine for nine months. The yearning I felt for him was a new kind of pain, and I was keenly aware of the void in my body where once he had been. 

 

Now, he is forty-four, married with two children and living in Switzerland. On this day, the day of his birth, he seems terribly far away as I reminisce about our first meeting so many years ago.

 

When spring comes around with its fuzzy leaves and lilac scents, I can conjure up the feeling of that day when we awaited his birth. As the lilies of the valley push up through the soil, I bury my nose in the clusters of white bells. God is proclaiming, “Be happy,” and I am… but I wish I could hold that little bundle again. 

 

 

   

  

Swamp Song

An exuberant racket rises, croaks, and clatters from the swamp.  While doves nuzzle on overhanging limbs, offering a chorus of coos, their soft voices are bellowed to the background by the wood frogs’ song of seduction.  It is raucous and joyful, and in my relief and gratitude at the demise of this hard winter, I wish I, too, had an annual spring welcome to add to this swelling orchestra of Nature’s voices. 

Our fellow creatures have crept from hiding, out from under the porch floorboards, out from hollows in trees, out from clefts in the rocky ledge in the woods, and out from the sucking mud of the swamp.  To tide them over in this month still barren of food, many have turned to the bird feeder at the end of our yard.  Chipmunks, a portly raccoon, three deer, a coyote, a turkey, and a ground hog have sampled seeds shaken loose by greedy squirrels.

In my glee at these appearances, I remember snuggling with Casey and Tucker, reading Stephen Kellogg’s Tally Ho Pinkerton or Come Play with Me by Marie Hall Ets.  While over-brash hunters or impulsive little girls unsuccessfully sought elusive foxes or fawns, vigilant young readers could spot the animals hiding in the pictures.   “Where is the owl?” or “Can you see a cardinal?” I’d ask. While scanning the illustrations and hooting a triumphant “There it is!”  the kids learned to identify the creatures, and love them.

Dave, however, is muted in his enthusiasm at some of these wildlife sightings.  When lily and tulip shoots are sheared low by foraging animals at the hint of a bud, he growls, every year, his intention to get a BB gun.  This threat becomes a litany when we glimpse the groundhog’s annual litter of three soaking up sun on the large flat rock in the yard.  I beam and murmur, “they are too cute,” while Dave grumbles that it’s time for target practice.  No worries.  I know he’d never do it…although those seed-thieving squirrels might push him too far.

Rainy April nights present a particular challenge as the warm, wet roads compel swamp dwellers to creep forth onto asphalt with perilous results.  A drive home through roads cut through local bogs is a sad and frustrating obstacle course as one strives to swerve around tiny hopping bodies, some so small it’s hard to distinguish which are rain drops and which are frogs.

The other night, Dave drove and I acted as frog spotter as we neared home after dinner in Fairfield.  Dave did his best to dodge and weave as I winced at close calls and barked, “Watch it!  Careful!  There’s another one!”  In the path of the three-point back-up into our parking area, two frogs squatted, unmoving.  We waited a mite, hoping the bulge-eyed suitors would continue their pilgrimage to the sultry ladies in the pond across the street, but no.  So I climbed from the car, assuming a slight nudge would urge them along.  Again, no. 

When I was a child, I did plenty of friendly frog hunting.  In our neighborhood, there were woods and ponds to explore, and my sisters and I loved to tip toe through tickly reeds to pause, hands cupped and poised, ready to pounce on unsuspecting frogs.  Often, while swimming underwater in my aunt’s frigid spring-fed pool, we’d notice frogs swimming beside us, their bodies stretched long and sleek, thrust forward by those powerful hind legs and webbed toes. When we returned home from these forays with muddied hands and sloshing buckets, frogs, salamanders, or earthworms generally accompanied us, although their stay was brief, as Mom sent us out to free them as soon as she was aware of their presence.

But that was decades ago and I’ve not held a frog in years.  When these two travelers blocked the car and refused to budge, I slipped my hands gently under their soft bellies, one by one, and carried them to safety.  To a degree that surprised me, I was moved by the weight of those small lives, and the pulse of their heartbeats against my palms. 

How often, I wonder, do children gently hold frogs now?  Like so many other woods, those I roamed with my sisters as a child have since been bulldozed for homes and a ramp to the highway; many kids don’t have the easy exposure I did.   Phones and video games have replaced frogs in children’s hands, and I worry about the loss of connection and reverence for nature, without that sense of small bodies and the pulse of a heartbeat in one’s palm.

Too Fast?

Do I drive too fast?  I’d debate it, but Dave says yes, and the Universe seems to agree.  Yesterday, on my way to school, a cop pulled me over for speeding.

Even before purchasing my new Ford hybrid and embarking on my quest for maximum mileage, the infirmities of my beloved old Caravan necessitated sensitive and conservative driving.  No sudden stops.  No revving.  No speeding.  Together, we chugged along at a moderate pace so I could react swiftly if her eccentricities threatened a breakdown.  

Now, moderate speeds are the means to hit my target mpg of 45.  When the cop pulled me over, I was gliding down the hill on Bronson Road, no gas, foot poised over the brake.  I’d checked the speedometer moments before and it read maybe 30 mph. 

This officer was the kind of cop I wouldn’t want to antagonize:  visor pulled low, head shaved, jaw tight, bottom lip out-thrust.  Stern. 

“Lady,” he said, “When I pulled in behind you, just after you saw me and jammed on your brakes, you were going 40.  So I hate to think what you were doing before.  It’s 25 on this road, and the Dogwood Festival’s this weekend.”

By his expression, it was clear he envisioned me plowing down whole families as they crossed the road with their arms laden with craft show goodies and bake sale cupcakes.  Still, I had not slammed on the brakes – just eased them on a trifle - and could not believe I’d reached the speed he claimed.  Still, I was not about to argue with the man.  

“I apologize, Officer.  To be honest, I just got this car and I’m trying to boost the mileage, so I really have been driving carefully, and….”

“Lady.”  He cut me off, voice hard.  He gestured with one hand, thumb and forefingers opening and closing like a pair of chattering false teeth.  “You’re going on and on, blah, blah, blah.  I’m just telling you it’s 25 on this road.  You’re lucky I don’t give you a ticket.” 

He turned to face forward, said, “Have a nice day,” and drove off.

“Blah, blah, blah?”  Ouch.  I do blather sometimes, it’s true, but if he treated me that way, dressed as I was for work in a blouse and black slacks, the epitome of a friendly Fairfield County matron, I can only imagine how that exchange might have plummeted if I’d been wearing my black hoodie. 

I crept onward to school, amazed at how ridiculously slow 25 was, and finding it very difficult to maintain that speed.

The next day, I was driving Park Avenue on my way to Mercy Learning Center, running a hint behind schedule.  I stopped at a traffic light and you can imagine my joy when a student driver took a left turn, placing himself in front of me once the light changed.  Great.

The young one did precisely what he should have, crawling along at 25.  I crept along behind him, and arrived at MLC only a few minutes late. 

Not to read too much into this, but I wondered if these two incidents were cosmically related.  Were they reminders to prevent an accident that was otherwise awaiting me?  Or was the lesson broader? 

My route to work follows tree-shaded streets lined with historic homes and centuries old walls, not that I notice them.  And when he gets in my car, Dave is always surprised that the same CD plays for months before I change it.  To his raised eyebrow, I’ll say, “Don’t even hear it, Hon. I’m inside my head.”

Truth.  Too often, I’m on auto-pilot and my faithful cars get me where I’m going.  Oh, I’m watching the road and obeying signs, but it’s amazing what one can see and hear without actually perceiving.  I can say the same of walks in the woods or even a busy day; my focus is inward and my senses serve only to keep me on track. 

In her book, My Grandfather’s Blessings, Rachel Naomi Remen recalls an old prayer: “Days pass and the years vanish and we walk sightless among miracles. Lord, fill our eyes with seeing and our minds with knowing. Let there be moments when your Presence, like lightening, illuminates the darkness in which we walk. Help us to see, wherever we gaze, that the bush burns, unconsumed. And we, clay touched by God, will reach out for holiness and exclaim in wonder, “How filled with awe is this place and we did not know it.”

Spring has been generous over the past few days.  The air is rose-scented, soft, and warm on the skin.  Warblers astonish with their range of showy trills and melodies.  God’s roadside gardens bloom with wild daisies, purple phlox, and clover.  It is a season that caresses, and as I walk, or drive, I do so more slowly, smiling at the bounty of gifts.  Maybe I owe thanks to the cop and student driver for the reminder to pay attention.

Enjoy the Endeavor

Soft air, fresh, but not yet perfumed by blossoms still tight and pale on just-green stems, breathes through open windows. Forsythia and daffodils shine yellow against gradually greening grass.  Magnolias have burst into clouds of purple-tinged white, the petals already wilting and tumbling like a snowfall. 

Sure, I’ve taken moments to sit on the stoop, to steep in the glory of the season’s makeover, to mark even the jerky dance of myriad gnats, flecks of living dust dancing at the first hint of warmth.  But, for twenty years, I have coordinated Eagle Hill-Southport’s spring benefit, and the event is a week away.  If I do not direct myself consciously to look, listen, and feel spring’s scents and songs, it would pass, a backdrop, barely perceived, to my mental whirl of details, to-do’s and “don’t-forgets.” 

Order an extra tablecloth for the photo booth prop table.  Remind the caterer to tell the bartenders not to open too many bottles in advance.  Pick up flowers for the program chairs!  Should we order 20 more forks?  Re-print the winners’ letters with changes noted.  Get 5 X 7 frames for the prize lists.

At 3:13, or 3:27, or 3:56 AM, my eyes fly wide in the dark.  Talk to the caterer about adjusting the number of servers.  Confirm the psychic and DJ.  Who will man the wine raffle table?  

None of this is new; I know my frailties.  Worry, guilt, and anxiety can rock me, so, I have routines, prayers, readings and writings (and a very dear husband – goes without saying) to bolster me.  My current book-friend is The Art of Growing Up by Veronique Vienne.  Some might snort at my wish to read a book with that title, and I wouldn’t blame them.  At sixty years old, should I need guidance in this art?  Apparently so. 

A few days ago, butterflies had taken up their accustomed residence in my stomach, a feeling I’m used to, but dislike.   During my morning reading, Veronique offered, “Enjoy the endeavor and good fortune will follow.”  

I’m one of those people who read pen in hand.  I underline, dog-ear, star and comment-in-margins when a passage strikes me.  I’ve read many of my favorite books several times, and my life’s phases are reflected in the different words that have moved me.  I will come to a page clean of Lea-ink, seemingly without interest given the absence of notation, but then a sentence breezed over before will capture my heart and bring tears to my eyes.  It will comfort and inspire, warranting a flurry of stars, underlining, and comment. 

“Enjoy the endeavor and good fortune will follow.”  Unnoticed before, this time, the line prompted consideration.  I thought about all the meetings, all the emails and discussions.  I thought about the women who have given countless volunteer hours on behalf of the school and our students.  I thought about the friendships that have evolved through the process, for I’ve not been alone in my lists, worries and three AM musings. In meetings with the parent benefit chairs, each has reported her own list of mid-night mind-storms. And other staff too, the directors of development and maintenance, have chipped away at their lengthy checklists.

Responsibility for this event weighs on me heavily - as does everything in which I play a role, or feel I should play a role - but Veronique helped me remember how much of that is shared, how willing others are to help; how much I’ve enjoyed the brainstorms, laughter, and even shared frustrations.  She led me to recognize how much I’ve enjoyed this endeavor. 

After reading Veronique’s wise words, it seemed a switch had been thrown, the butterflies flew, and I felt almost giddy.  I went to school buoyant, with a full heart, because I realized good fortune is not just a hoped-for end product; good fortune can be the joy of the endeavor itself. 

   

Spring...and a Baby

A wrought-iron mother wren with her baby at her feet perches on graceful vines encircling a fluted glass vessel. The little vase struck a chord with my Mom and she gave it to me when Tucker was born. Mom loves lilies of the valley, and it was early May, so she filled the vase with a few sprigs from her garden before coming to help out with my new baby.

It was springtime, and the earth prepared for Tucker’s arrival. In the fuzzy greening of trees, the sunshine glow of forsythia, and the pink clouds of magnolia emerging from gray wood seemingly dead only last week, God was saying - as surely as if He had hugged me - “Be happy.” And I was.

Lavender lilacs and lilies of the valley lent their fragrance to the warm, gentle breeze. Tiny sparrows that passed March in mute pecking swung proudly on twigs and composed melodies. Brown-headed cowbirds chortled bubbling liquid songs and the mourning doves cooed like a mother’s soft soothing. Warblers called from the treetops with trills, chirps and cheeps. Brother Wind, the woods’ winter alto voice, harmonized with the soprano songbird chorus. Mates were sought. Nests were readied. My baby was on the way too.

I’d been a poster child for pregnancy, and perhaps, a vexation to my fellow students in Lamaze class. Where Tucker curled tight in the womb, front and center, other mothers waddled, cumbersome, expanding on all sides. I felt great, gained little weight, and couldn’t wait for birth-day to come.

Labor, for me, was a glorious crusade – a good one, without prisoners or weapons. There was blood and pain, but the prize was a baby, and I was well trained for the fight. With the current preference for epidurals, Lamaze has lost favor, but in the early eighties, it was the way to go. It was an invaluable education, and when my contractions began, the pain held no fear. I knew the significance of the sensations at each stage and was ready with a corresponding strategy. As the contractions grew stronger, I pictured my little one, struggling along with me. Soon we would meet, face to face.

I had not been aware that I had expectations as far as the sex of the child. Yet, as a girl from a family of girls, I must have felt that this little traveler, so familiar – yet not – would be female. When Doctor Hoffman, the welcoming committee, caught the baby and announced, “It’s a boy and he’s perfect,” I was surprised. I was also surprised that this son of a WASP mother was so definitively Italian. I didn’t recognize him as my under-the-heart-in-my-heart companion right away.

He resembled my husband, Dave, so thoroughly. Thick black hair was slicked back from his face. His battle down the birth canal showed in puffy cheeks and pouches under his eyes, like Dave after a long commute. And like Dave, his aunt Cam, his father, Colombo and grandfather, Michael, the baby’s nose was pure Sylvestro, rounded and substantial.

The name “Tucker” is not as unique in this new millennium, but in 1980, it was precious and new. It was round on my tongue, soft as a baby’s kissable cheeks, and the "r” at the end was a cozy burr. There was pride and love in the very utterance of the name, bound as it was to this little boy.

But, oh the fatigue following the eighteen-hour delivery! I had eaten only tea and toast since the contractions began, and after all that hard work – triumphant work – I was beat. So after snuggles with Tucker, and stitches for me, the nurses spirited him away and I fell asleep.

At 4:00 A.M, I awoke in the dark, achingly lonely for my other part, the other heart that had beaten under mine for nine months. The yearning I felt for him was a new kind of pain, and I was keenly aware of the void in my body where once he had been.

Now, he is twenty-seven and living in Boston. For Mother’s Day, he took me out to a chocolate buffet brunch. He knows me well; it was an excellent choice.

Tucker no longer looks like Dave; he looks just like me and my father. Do I sound smug? He has Dave’s brains and sense of humor, and has started his own business. He has a wonderful girlfriend named Heather. But he is farther away than I would like him to be, and when spring comes around with its fuzzy leaves and lilac scents, it feels like I’m awaiting his birth.

When the lilies of the valley push up through the soil, I go down on my hands and knees and bury my nose in the clusters of white bells. God is proclaiming, “Be happy,” and I am….. but I wish I could hold my little bundle again.