Casey’s eyes are bright as she flips the pages of the guidebook to photographs of Angkor Wat. She presses the leaves open so, together, we can look at temples, lichened stone gateways carved with blank eyes and broad lips, and pillars bound by sinuous, elephant-leg-thick vines. My daughter is planning a four-month trip. She says she needs to throw her life up in the air and see what comes down, and I get it – I felt that way when I turned fifty. I understand the lure of a mysterious, ancient place such as this, but I wish her life-tossing could happen close by, at least someplace closer than Asia.
As she talks about visas and inoculations, elephant orphanages and tiger cub snuggling opportunities, I want to hold her close and keep her here. Well, no, I’m not being honest. For her, this is the time for such a trip and I want all that it promises for her. I just want her to be safe.
But it has been a long time since I had any control over her safety. Actually, given the circumstances of her birth, I never had control over that.
Twenty-eight years ago I stood on a stone bridge with my friends Chris and Wendy, telling stories we’d heard about embarrassing places to break one's waters: the release of amniotic fluids that signals the onset of labor. Not the usual topic in some circles, but I was seven and a half months pregnant, and we all had toddlers, so talk was often about bodily functions, diaper rash, stool consistency and runny noses. While we chatted, we watched our kids, Tucker, Molly Beth and Nikki, playing in the yard of the school where we all lived and worked.
Suddenly, I felt a trickle down my leg. I was chagrined, but not surprised - unwanted and unexpected physical sensations had become commonplace over recent months. I excused myself and walked the short distance to our apartment, thinking “Just a little “mistake.” Except I couldn’t stop the flow. I had to laugh. We’d just been talking about broken waters and apparently that’s what this was. From my reading, I assumed birth was imminent. It was early, yes, but it was 1983, and I was not concerned about the baby’s safety. I was in good shape, Tucker’s birth had been smooth, and I’d taken Lamaze classes to refresh my breathing techniques.
Within a half hour, I’d spoken with the Cones, friends who would be caring for Tucker and our dog for the few days I imagined this would take. Tucker stood tearfully by the bed, still zipped in his brown corduroy jacket. “Don’t worry sweetie,” I told him, “I’ll be back in a few days with the baby.” I was confident and Tucker was comforted.
But I was wrong.
The baby did not budge. According to Dr. Hoffman, my obstetrician, that was a good thing: the longer the child had to mature in utero, the better. But the sterile protection of the placenta had been breached, so the doctor had me admitted to the hospital to stay until labor commenced. No germs there, right?
Wrong.
Despite my robust health, I was quarantined in the maternity ward in order to keep me as germ-free as possible. Other than my husband, Dave, I was not allowed to have guests. Apparently, only my friends were potential contaminants because I was encouraged to exercise and I was permitted to walk the halls and mingle with other people’s guests as they ogled the newborns. Maybe the germs found me as I stood among those strangers admiring their infants.
Or maybe they found me while my room was cleaned by The Crazy Lady.
She’d earned that less than complimentary title because of her dour manner, wild gray hair, and blank stare. She always wore a pale pink shirt-waist uniform and rarely spoke. I hadn’t seen her in a few days, but she appeared one morning and true to form, grunted to my greeting as she shoved my bed out of her way. She set down her bucket, dipped the mop, and swabbed the floor, sniffling and coughing a lot, but saying nothing.
Out in the hall, a nurse passed the door to my room and spotted her. “Hey! You’re back,” she said. “Feeling better?’
“Nah,” the Crazy Lady replied. “But I need the money.”
Ah, hospitals. While a blessing in many ways, they can be tricky. Never have I been as sick as during that stay. Natural childbirth purist that I was, I’d avoided even Tylenol throughout my pregnancy, yet, after a few weeks of bed rest, I was red-nosed and congested and taking a regimen of some of the biggest pills I’d ever seen. I would have refused them if I could, but I needed to breathe deeply, easily and energetically, once labor began.
When would that be? I’d begun to despair.
Three weeks passed and still not a twinge. Who would have thought I’d clamor for contractions, but so it was. Dave had brought in my sewing machine, scissors and a supply of gingham and calico fabrics to help pass the time. I cut out squares of blue, yellow and green, arranged pleasing patterns on my bed, and made bumpers for the baby carriage and a full-sized patchwork quilt for Tucker.
Tucker. I was frantic to go home to my boy. He fell under the prohibition against guests and was allowed only an occasional, bewildering visit. Why was I in my nightgown during the day? What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I hold him? Why couldn’t I go home? From what I heard, his confusion at my prolonged absence was resulting in tantrums, tears and battles for control. His two grandmothers were taking shifts caring for him while Dave worked, so he was in loving hands, but he needed me… and I needed him. I’d had it with the hospital. If the doctor refused to induce me soon, I planned to slip into my street clothes and sneak out.
When Dr. Hoffman stopped in for our daily visit, I pled my case: during my stay, I’d seen many healthy babies born three to four weeks early, and I was but two weeks from my due date. I painted a dire picture of Tucker’s yearning. I described the sick crazy lady swabbing my floor. I was revving up for another salvo when the doctor said, “Sure.”
What? Oh. That went better than I’d expected. He scheduled a pitocin drip for 8:00 a.m. the next morning.
For me, labor was a glorious battle with a baby as the prize. I was well-armed with my breathing techniques, lollipops and ice chips for dry mouth, and tennis balls to counter back pain. Dave, my valiant cheerleader, was at my side. A joyous picture of Tucker was prominently displayed as my focal point. I was ready.
Dave’s eyes were filled with loving respect as he held my hand while contractions sent wiggling lines soaring on the monitors, but I remember only the good, hard work of helping the baby make her way out to my arms. I remember the strain of pushing and my faith that Dr. Hoffman would not let me hurt myself, so I was free to bear down, bear down, bear down when it was time. In my mental movie of the birth, shot from an angle that allowed me to see my red face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pursed and blowing, I bellowed as Casey surfed into the doctor’s hands.
“It’s a little girl,” he announced, “and she’s so sweet.”
Now that sweet little one is off to Asia. She mentions destinations like Viet Nam, Laos and Cambodia, names that to me, still conjure guerrilla warfare and napalm devastation. While I am excited about her adventure, I am anxious. She says, “Mom, I don’t want to be raped or kidnapped any more than you want me to be. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” But, I want the trip to be over, with Casey home again, telling me of the wonder, learning and challenges of her adventure, complete with pictures, wide eyes and shrieks of laughter.
I love this brave, beautiful girl who has been out on her own for years now, living in New York City, and I have to admit, that was scary for me too. I think back to the frustration of my long wait for her birth in the hospital, and the years – such a short time it seems - when she was safe in her car seat, safe in her bed, safe in our care, and still, it is hard to let go.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Trombones to Tears
I am crying in my car as I drive to work. For me, this is not so unusual. My car is a roving cocoon where I ruminate, dream, and work through conflicts via inner enactments. I nudge or shove myself to tears with poignant reminiscence or imaginative pursuit of fears and worries to their full, dramatic, gut-wrenching finales. I fuel whatever mood takes me, such that often I arrive in the school parking lot with make-up smeared and lips twisted in an effort to quell sobs.
Often the cause lies with music. By radio or CD, the morning’s selection can tease out a memory with its full sensory accompaniment. A little Loggins and Messina can spin me back to the seventies, to my bedroom at #638, to the pale blue bedspread with multi-colored flowers, the clatter of Mom making dinner in the kitchen below, the window open to soft summer air, and my own nasal voice, filled with yearning for my new boyfriend, Dave, as I sing along with “Till the Ends Meet.”
Today, however, the brass section blared “Seventy-Six Trombones” when I started the car for the drive to Southport. It was sunny and warm enough to roll down the windows, let the breeze take my hair, and invite every passerby to March! March! March! with Professor Hill’s boys’ band. I was smiling and tapping my foot, but one song led to another and, of course, “The Music Man” is not solely music, it’s a story, just like every day of my life, of anyone’s life. I’d grinned through “The Sadder But Wiser Girl,” started to tear up when the Buffalo Bills crooned “Good-Night Ladies,” and knew I was gone, pathetic, when I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing when Winthrop lisped his way through “Gary, Indiana.” Oh please, Lea, there is not a word, not a note of that song that warrants tears.
But here I am weeping as I drive down Hillside Road because my own story line inter-weaves with that of Harold Hill and his librarian: this weekend, my nephew Campbell is playing the role of River City’s pompous Mayor Schinn in the Shipley School production of “The Music Man,” and I cannot be there.
While I organize clipboards and review the benefit schedule, ponder placement of jewelry and action figures for the live auction, the lights will dim in Shipley’s theater as nervous eighth graders take their positions behind the curtain for the Saturday matinee.
I have not been totally deprived. Last weekend, I returned to my childhood home to attend my 40th Shipley reunion. Rehearsals for the play were in their final days, so in between receptions and dinner with the women who were my friends from kindergarten to ninth grade, I snuck into the darkened theater to catch a few acts. Again, there is nothing to warrant weeping in this show, yet I smiled and wept throughout – at the talent and youth onstage, Campbell’s perfectly irascible performance, the innocence of the storyline, and at memories of being in my daughter Casey’s audience throughout her school years.
I was born to be a mom seated in the darkness of a student production; there are few places where I feel as blissfully engaged, euphoric and sad – all at the right moments in the plot. Through our membership in Casey’s fan club, Dave (now my husband) and I learned the responsibility of being a good audience; the importance of laughing at funny lines and clapping wildly at memorable scenes. The kids feed off that energy and it was our joy to provide it.
Campbell will have a full complement of cheerleaders as his parents, my sister and brother-in-law, will be at the show, as will my other sister and my mother and father. The whole family. I want to be there with them in one of the folding seats in the dark to beam and cry and applaud.
I pull into the parking lot, emotionally tossed from high spirits to wistful tears and back up again as the reprise of “Seventy-Six Trombones” spins twirling batons, the clash of cymbals and high-stepping majorettes through my mind. I check the mirror for tell-tale smudges of midnight blue eye-liner, make the necessary touch-ups, take a deep breath, and head into the school.
Often the cause lies with music. By radio or CD, the morning’s selection can tease out a memory with its full sensory accompaniment. A little Loggins and Messina can spin me back to the seventies, to my bedroom at #638, to the pale blue bedspread with multi-colored flowers, the clatter of Mom making dinner in the kitchen below, the window open to soft summer air, and my own nasal voice, filled with yearning for my new boyfriend, Dave, as I sing along with “Till the Ends Meet.”
Today, however, the brass section blared “Seventy-Six Trombones” when I started the car for the drive to Southport. It was sunny and warm enough to roll down the windows, let the breeze take my hair, and invite every passerby to March! March! March! with Professor Hill’s boys’ band. I was smiling and tapping my foot, but one song led to another and, of course, “The Music Man” is not solely music, it’s a story, just like every day of my life, of anyone’s life. I’d grinned through “The Sadder But Wiser Girl,” started to tear up when the Buffalo Bills crooned “Good-Night Ladies,” and knew I was gone, pathetic, when I had to bite my lip to keep from sobbing when Winthrop lisped his way through “Gary, Indiana.” Oh please, Lea, there is not a word, not a note of that song that warrants tears.
But here I am weeping as I drive down Hillside Road because my own story line inter-weaves with that of Harold Hill and his librarian: this weekend, my nephew Campbell is playing the role of River City’s pompous Mayor Schinn in the Shipley School production of “The Music Man,” and I cannot be there.
While I organize clipboards and review the benefit schedule, ponder placement of jewelry and action figures for the live auction, the lights will dim in Shipley’s theater as nervous eighth graders take their positions behind the curtain for the Saturday matinee.
I have not been totally deprived. Last weekend, I returned to my childhood home to attend my 40th Shipley reunion. Rehearsals for the play were in their final days, so in between receptions and dinner with the women who were my friends from kindergarten to ninth grade, I snuck into the darkened theater to catch a few acts. Again, there is nothing to warrant weeping in this show, yet I smiled and wept throughout – at the talent and youth onstage, Campbell’s perfectly irascible performance, the innocence of the storyline, and at memories of being in my daughter Casey’s audience throughout her school years.
I was born to be a mom seated in the darkness of a student production; there are few places where I feel as blissfully engaged, euphoric and sad – all at the right moments in the plot. Through our membership in Casey’s fan club, Dave (now my husband) and I learned the responsibility of being a good audience; the importance of laughing at funny lines and clapping wildly at memorable scenes. The kids feed off that energy and it was our joy to provide it.
Campbell will have a full complement of cheerleaders as his parents, my sister and brother-in-law, will be at the show, as will my other sister and my mother and father. The whole family. I want to be there with them in one of the folding seats in the dark to beam and cry and applaud.
I pull into the parking lot, emotionally tossed from high spirits to wistful tears and back up again as the reprise of “Seventy-Six Trombones” spins twirling batons, the clash of cymbals and high-stepping majorettes through my mind. I check the mirror for tell-tale smudges of midnight blue eye-liner, make the necessary touch-ups, take a deep breath, and head into the school.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Tribute to a Friend and Artist
Our friend Steve Larrabee passed away April 5. May 13th would have been his 61st birthday. I wrote the following essay and sent it to him about four years ago. He called me after he'd read it and told me I didn't need to worry, that things were not as bad as I seemed to think. That wasn't the truth.
Dear Labs,
I wrote this piece with the greatest love in my heart. We want you to be happy and inspired and well.
XXXXOOOOO
Hi. My name is Lea and my friend Steve is an alcoholic.
I worry. When we talk on the phone, his voice does not sound the same. When I ask what he’s doing, how he’s doing, he pauses too long. He is a talented artist - is art always linked with torment?
The power of Steve’s craft inspires. Both my husband Dave and his brother embarked on their woodworking efforts after admiring Steve’s projects. Undulating shelves, multi-colored lamps, and inlaid chopping blocks – he rendered even everyday items extraordinary.
Testaments to his talent and love abound in our house. In the mid-eighties, three watercolors of our children arrived unexpectedly in the mail. There was no occasion – they were just a gift. Casey at one or so, Tucker at three. Steve captured the light in their eyes and the roundness of their kissable cheeks – a moment for us to hold on to, now that the kids have grown up and left home.
We have a dulcimer of black walnut that Steve made in the seventies. It is sinuous grace carved in chocolate wood. We don’t know how to play it, but it’s a beautiful accent, leaning against the wall behind the dining room table and Windsor chairs that Steve also made.
Our house was built in 1783. We love antiques of that period, but could not afford authentic chairs to go with the table we’d purchased at an auction. While the idea of making eight of one thing must have grated a soul fueled by novelty, Steve agreed to the project… and I love my chairs. New as they are, they speak of the centuries. For all of their hard wooden-ness, they are as comfortable as if cushioned. Steve’s caring and craft are in each spoke and leg.
In the mid 1980’s, Steve cut off four of his fingers at the first knuckle. He was guiding a plank through a joiner and somehow, his hand slid into the machine too. A chill touches my spine in picturing the scene. The shock. The realization. The trip to the hospital. “I need those fingers,” Steve said at the time.
But it turned out he didn’t. He healed, at least outwardly, the skin closing over the wounds, and he learned to make do without those fingers.
We have undertaken several house projects over the past thirty years, an addition in Clinton, a kitchen and porch here in Easton. Steve drew plans and “made boxes” that became cupboards and shelves. There is as much of Steve in our home as there is of Dave and I. He is in the etchings on the wall in our bedroom, in the drawers, knobs and wainscoting of the kitchen, in our living room built-ins, in our dining room chairs.
We have photographs documenting these various stages. Steve grinning as he posed, drill in hand, on the roof at Clinton, his beard sawdust-speckled, his eyes behind plastic safety glasses.
I should say something else about Steve’s eyes. When he smiled, his eyes danced; they were crinkly and kindly. You could not help but love the man you could see through those eyes. The last few times I saw him though, his eyes were shadowed. He would tell me he was not drinking, but they say alcoholics lie.
When we spoke, before he moved away, he would tell me of his pain. He could not seem to meet the Mount Everest of a standard that he’d set, even though the rest of us saw him bravely scaling that peak. He said he was a bad friend… and I’d run through the long list – all the help, all the love, all the inspiration, all the art, all the CUPBOARDS! But I could not convince him, even with tangible proof. He dwelt in a dark pit, sealed away from the truth of his contributions. As much as they were a light for us, he would not let them shine for him.
He moved to Easton with Joan about thirteen years ago. Together they built a house that was more than a house. Two artists, they brought their touch to its moldings, its beams, its railings and floors. We have a picture taken of the two of them standing on the poured concrete foundation, tarred brushes in hand, mugging for the camera. They lived in a trailer on the property, working at their day jobs as well as the new house. Despite all the work and the stress, they were tight. “It doesn’t get much better than this,” they would say to each other.
What happened?
Was there a tipping point? Steve had been sober for twelve years. What happened?
Even now, Joan wonders if an intervention could save him. She still loves him… and we do too. Dave has heard from addiction counselors that the only thing that could reverse the course would be if the person he loves most tells him that his choices are ruining them both… and turns away.
“He lost Joan and he lost Moo,” I remind Dave. “Who else would that most beloved person be?”
We worried when Steve moved to Vermont, to a 250 acre farm. It’s a big responsibility for a man who worries about money and duels with demons. We hear he dates a woman who fights duels of her own. We worry; it sounds like another set of hands digging his pit deeper.
When we built our porch, two years ago, Steve came with his backhoe to dig holes for the posts. Like the New England farmers of the seventeenth century, he discovered a healthy crop of boulders impeding his way. It was laborious work, but being our friend, he helped us, as he had done many times before, and dug them out, adding them to the ancient wall behind our house, laid by those long-ago farmers.
Steve is here in the stonewall and the porch where we sit, overlooking the woods while spring peepers sing. He is here in the kids’ portraits and our dining room chairs – and in the kitchen, the dulcimer, and the etchings hanging on our bedroom walls.
And in our hearts – did I say that? He is in our hearts too….
We miss you, Labs… and we worry.
Dear Labs,
I wrote this piece with the greatest love in my heart. We want you to be happy and inspired and well.
XXXXOOOOO
Hi. My name is Lea and my friend Steve is an alcoholic.
I worry. When we talk on the phone, his voice does not sound the same. When I ask what he’s doing, how he’s doing, he pauses too long. He is a talented artist - is art always linked with torment?
The power of Steve’s craft inspires. Both my husband Dave and his brother embarked on their woodworking efforts after admiring Steve’s projects. Undulating shelves, multi-colored lamps, and inlaid chopping blocks – he rendered even everyday items extraordinary.
Testaments to his talent and love abound in our house. In the mid-eighties, three watercolors of our children arrived unexpectedly in the mail. There was no occasion – they were just a gift. Casey at one or so, Tucker at three. Steve captured the light in their eyes and the roundness of their kissable cheeks – a moment for us to hold on to, now that the kids have grown up and left home.
We have a dulcimer of black walnut that Steve made in the seventies. It is sinuous grace carved in chocolate wood. We don’t know how to play it, but it’s a beautiful accent, leaning against the wall behind the dining room table and Windsor chairs that Steve also made.
Our house was built in 1783. We love antiques of that period, but could not afford authentic chairs to go with the table we’d purchased at an auction. While the idea of making eight of one thing must have grated a soul fueled by novelty, Steve agreed to the project… and I love my chairs. New as they are, they speak of the centuries. For all of their hard wooden-ness, they are as comfortable as if cushioned. Steve’s caring and craft are in each spoke and leg.
In the mid 1980’s, Steve cut off four of his fingers at the first knuckle. He was guiding a plank through a joiner and somehow, his hand slid into the machine too. A chill touches my spine in picturing the scene. The shock. The realization. The trip to the hospital. “I need those fingers,” Steve said at the time.
But it turned out he didn’t. He healed, at least outwardly, the skin closing over the wounds, and he learned to make do without those fingers.
We have undertaken several house projects over the past thirty years, an addition in Clinton, a kitchen and porch here in Easton. Steve drew plans and “made boxes” that became cupboards and shelves. There is as much of Steve in our home as there is of Dave and I. He is in the etchings on the wall in our bedroom, in the drawers, knobs and wainscoting of the kitchen, in our living room built-ins, in our dining room chairs.
We have photographs documenting these various stages. Steve grinning as he posed, drill in hand, on the roof at Clinton, his beard sawdust-speckled, his eyes behind plastic safety glasses.
I should say something else about Steve’s eyes. When he smiled, his eyes danced; they were crinkly and kindly. You could not help but love the man you could see through those eyes. The last few times I saw him though, his eyes were shadowed. He would tell me he was not drinking, but they say alcoholics lie.
When we spoke, before he moved away, he would tell me of his pain. He could not seem to meet the Mount Everest of a standard that he’d set, even though the rest of us saw him bravely scaling that peak. He said he was a bad friend… and I’d run through the long list – all the help, all the love, all the inspiration, all the art, all the CUPBOARDS! But I could not convince him, even with tangible proof. He dwelt in a dark pit, sealed away from the truth of his contributions. As much as they were a light for us, he would not let them shine for him.
He moved to Easton with Joan about thirteen years ago. Together they built a house that was more than a house. Two artists, they brought their touch to its moldings, its beams, its railings and floors. We have a picture taken of the two of them standing on the poured concrete foundation, tarred brushes in hand, mugging for the camera. They lived in a trailer on the property, working at their day jobs as well as the new house. Despite all the work and the stress, they were tight. “It doesn’t get much better than this,” they would say to each other.
What happened?
Was there a tipping point? Steve had been sober for twelve years. What happened?
Even now, Joan wonders if an intervention could save him. She still loves him… and we do too. Dave has heard from addiction counselors that the only thing that could reverse the course would be if the person he loves most tells him that his choices are ruining them both… and turns away.
“He lost Joan and he lost Moo,” I remind Dave. “Who else would that most beloved person be?”
We worried when Steve moved to Vermont, to a 250 acre farm. It’s a big responsibility for a man who worries about money and duels with demons. We hear he dates a woman who fights duels of her own. We worry; it sounds like another set of hands digging his pit deeper.
When we built our porch, two years ago, Steve came with his backhoe to dig holes for the posts. Like the New England farmers of the seventeenth century, he discovered a healthy crop of boulders impeding his way. It was laborious work, but being our friend, he helped us, as he had done many times before, and dug them out, adding them to the ancient wall behind our house, laid by those long-ago farmers.
Steve is here in the stonewall and the porch where we sit, overlooking the woods while spring peepers sing. He is here in the kids’ portraits and our dining room chairs – and in the kitchen, the dulcimer, and the etchings hanging on our bedroom walls.
And in our hearts – did I say that? He is in our hearts too….
We miss you, Labs… and we worry.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Remorse
As soon as I returned to my car, I regretted what I’d said. I’d lost an opportunity, a moment I’d not even recognized as an opportunity. But of course, that is what every moment is.
I’d almost passed the service station when I remembered I needed gas. I cut the wheel sharply and drove in. One pump was free, but because my tank’s on the driver’s side, I had to pull around the other pumps to align the hose and tank. By the time I was in position, a young man in a white sedan had scooted in from the other side. Grill-to-grill we idled, eyes locked through the barrier of our windshields, waiting to see who would back down.
I’d been in high spirits when I swung into the station. I’d finished a big project at work, the air was soft through my open window, and daffodils beamed yellow against pale green grass. I’d received the results of a clear PET scan the week before and was still basking in that joy, in the promise of a future newly confirmed.
If that wasn’t enough, K.C. and the Sunshine Band were rockin’ on the radio and I was tappin’ my boogie shoes right along with them.
So I felt strong, a feeling rare enough that I relished it. And this little showdown at the pump roused a cockiness that felt good. I did not toss my head defiantly or jut out my chin in a show of obstinacy, but I felt that energy and it was as glorious and novel as the spring evening. I was there first. He could move.
But he didn’t. Beyond our two windshields, he appeared young and muscular, with short, dark, curly hair, a handsome youth of twenty or so. He looked a little tough in fact, and I read his expression as saying, “I’m stayin’ right here, lady.”
As a rule, I am easily cowed, and would have wavered almost immediately – out of timidity or graciousness, it’s hard to say - but on this occasion of spring air, new hope in the future and boogie shoes, I had a right to that pump and was not going to be intimidated.
But I’m also fifty-seven and it became clear the kid was not going to budge. Staring him down made no impression, so eventually, I shifted into reverse, gave him the pump, (take it, brat!), and wound up one stall over. We emerged from our cars simultaneously. Loving the brazen, fearless, boldness bubbling within me, I met his eye and said in a tone too close to a sneer to make me comfortable now, “I’d wondered if you were going to be a gentleman, but nooooo…”
I’m not proud of that, but I wasn’t finished. The boy smiled sheepishly (he probably wasn’t a bad sort) and walked toward the Medi-Mart. I called at his retreating back, “What would your mama say?”
It sunk in quickly, my poor behavior, and I winced as I slunk to my seat behind the wheel.
I fuel myself regularly with the wisdom of self-help books about being loving and kind. I know, very well, that everyone has a story and a hard life or a sad morning can lie behind pursed lips or shadowed eyes. I am mindful of ripples, of how the good or ill in a moment flows on and outward, a continuing current of impact. So how had my joy and energy so misfired? How did feeling strong become cocky and snide?
As I drove away, I wished I could re-wind. What if I’d stepped from my car, and said with quiet humor, “Okay, this time, you win”? - a jolly encounter to send us smiling on our way instead of this mutual shame.
My husband, Dave, is ever my defender. When I confessed to my lapse, he said, “The kid should have backed down. Maybe he needed the reminder.” But I know better: this wasn’t for the boy; it was for me. It felt good to snarl, to say exactly what I felt, and I hate that, unguarded, I was a bitch.
I’d almost passed the service station when I remembered I needed gas. I cut the wheel sharply and drove in. One pump was free, but because my tank’s on the driver’s side, I had to pull around the other pumps to align the hose and tank. By the time I was in position, a young man in a white sedan had scooted in from the other side. Grill-to-grill we idled, eyes locked through the barrier of our windshields, waiting to see who would back down.
I’d been in high spirits when I swung into the station. I’d finished a big project at work, the air was soft through my open window, and daffodils beamed yellow against pale green grass. I’d received the results of a clear PET scan the week before and was still basking in that joy, in the promise of a future newly confirmed.
If that wasn’t enough, K.C. and the Sunshine Band were rockin’ on the radio and I was tappin’ my boogie shoes right along with them.
So I felt strong, a feeling rare enough that I relished it. And this little showdown at the pump roused a cockiness that felt good. I did not toss my head defiantly or jut out my chin in a show of obstinacy, but I felt that energy and it was as glorious and novel as the spring evening. I was there first. He could move.
But he didn’t. Beyond our two windshields, he appeared young and muscular, with short, dark, curly hair, a handsome youth of twenty or so. He looked a little tough in fact, and I read his expression as saying, “I’m stayin’ right here, lady.”
As a rule, I am easily cowed, and would have wavered almost immediately – out of timidity or graciousness, it’s hard to say - but on this occasion of spring air, new hope in the future and boogie shoes, I had a right to that pump and was not going to be intimidated.
But I’m also fifty-seven and it became clear the kid was not going to budge. Staring him down made no impression, so eventually, I shifted into reverse, gave him the pump, (take it, brat!), and wound up one stall over. We emerged from our cars simultaneously. Loving the brazen, fearless, boldness bubbling within me, I met his eye and said in a tone too close to a sneer to make me comfortable now, “I’d wondered if you were going to be a gentleman, but nooooo…”
I’m not proud of that, but I wasn’t finished. The boy smiled sheepishly (he probably wasn’t a bad sort) and walked toward the Medi-Mart. I called at his retreating back, “What would your mama say?”
It sunk in quickly, my poor behavior, and I winced as I slunk to my seat behind the wheel.
I fuel myself regularly with the wisdom of self-help books about being loving and kind. I know, very well, that everyone has a story and a hard life or a sad morning can lie behind pursed lips or shadowed eyes. I am mindful of ripples, of how the good or ill in a moment flows on and outward, a continuing current of impact. So how had my joy and energy so misfired? How did feeling strong become cocky and snide?
As I drove away, I wished I could re-wind. What if I’d stepped from my car, and said with quiet humor, “Okay, this time, you win”? - a jolly encounter to send us smiling on our way instead of this mutual shame.
My husband, Dave, is ever my defender. When I confessed to my lapse, he said, “The kid should have backed down. Maybe he needed the reminder.” But I know better: this wasn’t for the boy; it was for me. It felt good to snarl, to say exactly what I felt, and I hate that, unguarded, I was a bitch.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Fortified by the Other Side
Dad was warming up to the punch line of his story. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. His eyes were bright as he described an auction in which he bid on a portrait of a distant relative on behalf of the board of the Drexel Foundation. He was successful in his charge, he told us with relish, but at significant cost. Significant cost. So, he was called before the board “to explain the bidding process.”
It was a tense gathering held at the Drexel University Art Gallery. On the walls, above and behind the severe individuals ranged about him, were portraits of my father’s mother and grandparents. When Dad told the trustees of this relationship – and Dad laughed when he said this, a choked chuckle that let me know he was near tears – they cheered.
At first, I thought Dad meant his relatives cheered, and I had a momentary image of Gaga and Grammy and Granpa Mills beaming and rooting for my father. I wanted to think Dad sensed their exuberant support from the Other Side as he justified his actions to the board.
On the wall in my bedroom hangs a small oval watercolor of my mother's mother, my grandmother, Byeo. Auburn curls frame her face and she wears a pale blue dress adorned with pink roses. At some point, she sat before an artist, smiling her small smile, as he mixed colors and dipped his brushes. At times, I feel, in a shivery prickle along my skin, the poignancy, the presence, in that moment, when Byeo was warm and young, posing, alive.
Where is she now? I want to believe that the soft flush in my skin while standing before her painting, remembering her, is her touch.
Particularly during hard times, I imagine her, sitting by my side in the passenger seat of my car, striving to assure me all will be well. Can she, like air, meld with my molecules, travel within me, as fluid as blood, sparking memories and feelings to sustain and comfort?
When my mother faces trouble, she appeals to her parents, hoping they are vigilant from their heavenly perch. Years ago, as she and Dad spun in a three-sixty on an icy road in Vermont, she begged them to hold off on-coming cars. When my nephew, Jared, was little, doctors feared he had a rare disease that would cause unbalanced skull growth, so Mom sought Byeo and Poppy’s intervention. And I know they heard from Mom when I had cancer. Apparently, they have us all covered.
Dad’s mother, my Gaga, lost her firstborn son, Hobie, when he was eighteen months old, a tragedy that haunted her life and that of her children. When my sister’s son Campbell was about the same age, he fell backwards, face up, into a glass cupboard. Dagger sharp shards scattered with the force of the boy’s fall, but he sustained not even a scratch. After desperate hugs and tears of relief, we all whispered, Gaga: she was not going to lose another baby boy.
Throughout my life, I’ve been lavished with love and endearments. While Byeo called me “Lambie,” Gaga preferred “Moosie-dear,” a variation on the widely used “Lea-Mouse.” For a while Dad opted for the questionable “Lea-lice,” I assume for the pleasing alliteration as opposed to some connection with the vile bug. I’ve saved boxes-full of letters closing with “oceans of love,” “oodles of love,” and countless “X’s” and “O’s.” With this foundation, I should have the sure-footed durability of a pyramid, but often I’ve felt timorous, unsure of myself. Lately, however, I realize I am stronger. Family and friends, age and post-cancer wisdom have played a crucial role, but also, I smile and stand a bit straighter when I think of my ancestral cheerleading squad.
It was a tense gathering held at the Drexel University Art Gallery. On the walls, above and behind the severe individuals ranged about him, were portraits of my father’s mother and grandparents. When Dad told the trustees of this relationship – and Dad laughed when he said this, a choked chuckle that let me know he was near tears – they cheered.
At first, I thought Dad meant his relatives cheered, and I had a momentary image of Gaga and Grammy and Granpa Mills beaming and rooting for my father. I wanted to think Dad sensed their exuberant support from the Other Side as he justified his actions to the board.
On the wall in my bedroom hangs a small oval watercolor of my mother's mother, my grandmother, Byeo. Auburn curls frame her face and she wears a pale blue dress adorned with pink roses. At some point, she sat before an artist, smiling her small smile, as he mixed colors and dipped his brushes. At times, I feel, in a shivery prickle along my skin, the poignancy, the presence, in that moment, when Byeo was warm and young, posing, alive.
Where is she now? I want to believe that the soft flush in my skin while standing before her painting, remembering her, is her touch.
Particularly during hard times, I imagine her, sitting by my side in the passenger seat of my car, striving to assure me all will be well. Can she, like air, meld with my molecules, travel within me, as fluid as blood, sparking memories and feelings to sustain and comfort?
When my mother faces trouble, she appeals to her parents, hoping they are vigilant from their heavenly perch. Years ago, as she and Dad spun in a three-sixty on an icy road in Vermont, she begged them to hold off on-coming cars. When my nephew, Jared, was little, doctors feared he had a rare disease that would cause unbalanced skull growth, so Mom sought Byeo and Poppy’s intervention. And I know they heard from Mom when I had cancer. Apparently, they have us all covered.
Dad’s mother, my Gaga, lost her firstborn son, Hobie, when he was eighteen months old, a tragedy that haunted her life and that of her children. When my sister’s son Campbell was about the same age, he fell backwards, face up, into a glass cupboard. Dagger sharp shards scattered with the force of the boy’s fall, but he sustained not even a scratch. After desperate hugs and tears of relief, we all whispered, Gaga: she was not going to lose another baby boy.
Throughout my life, I’ve been lavished with love and endearments. While Byeo called me “Lambie,” Gaga preferred “Moosie-dear,” a variation on the widely used “Lea-Mouse.” For a while Dad opted for the questionable “Lea-lice,” I assume for the pleasing alliteration as opposed to some connection with the vile bug. I’ve saved boxes-full of letters closing with “oceans of love,” “oodles of love,” and countless “X’s” and “O’s.” With this foundation, I should have the sure-footed durability of a pyramid, but often I’ve felt timorous, unsure of myself. Lately, however, I realize I am stronger. Family and friends, age and post-cancer wisdom have played a crucial role, but also, I smile and stand a bit straighter when I think of my ancestral cheerleading squad.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Another Chance
The narrow path to the feeders is lined with mounds of snow, four feet high. With a flutter of wings, two hungry chickadees, alarmed, fly to low branches as I trudge forward lugging a bucket of seeds. Gluttonous squirrels and messy birds dined well this morning and scattered a fan of sunflower hulls, black as the sweep of a crow’s wing, over the snow. I lean down to scoop out some seeds and …what’s this? Three holes in the banks surrounding the foot of the pole. Squatting for a closer look, I see curving tunnels littered with the leavings of rodent breakfasts.
“Are they stocking up for the Snow Ball?” I wonder wistfully.
When my kids were small, snow days meant snuggling up with cozy stories, and Jill Barklem’s tales of the mice of Brambly Hedge and their grand winter celebration was one of our favorites. If little Tucker and Casey had seen the tunnel entrances at the foot of the feeders, they would have been wide-eyed envisioning an apron-ed mouse matron bustling in a kitchen crammed with crabapples on shelves, dried thistle hanging from beams, and mouse children nibbling popcorn.
I miss my little ones desperately, and I miss the world I was allowed to re-enter through them: a world of bright colors, bubbly tub times, baby-doll tea parties, forts, silly songs and happy endings. A world where a hike around the yard could be an adventure because onion grass and sticks were the makings of stew, acorn caps were fairy hats and a tumble of boulders was a giant’s castle. Instead of schedules, experience shaped each day. A parade of ants might bring us to our knees to watch in wonder the struggle to haul a crumb to a nest in a rotted log. A rock overturned would uncover a hidden haven for tiny bugs, squirming salamanders and writhing worms: a chance to teach compassion and gentle quiet instead of stomping and shrieks.
Now my kids are twenty-seven and thirty. I love the people they have become. But I miss grubby little hands, kissable cheeks, goofy dances and feet pajamas.
After storing the seed bucket in the shed, I stomp the snow off my boots before going into the kitchen. It used to be such a production to wrestle little kids out of parkas, sodden mittens and wet socks. Lots of whining and giggles. Lots of mess. Lots of noise. It is silent in the house as I slip off my boots and place them neatly side-by-side by the back door.
Tea might be nice. And I want to read some cozy stories.
Many of our children’s books are stored away, but I’ve kept some in the shelves in the living room. I know exactly which books I want and where they are: Jill Barklem’s Winter Story and Happy Winter by Karen Gundersheimer, right there on the left side of the top shelf. Often little hands reached for these books so their jackets are faded and torn. Happy Winter is still sticky, as a matter of fact, because it holds the recipe for our first-snow-day tradition, Happy Winter Fudge Cake. If I were to call Casey, who turns twenty-eight next week and say, “Happy Winter! Rise and Shine!” She would say without pause, “I love the early morning time,” so beloved and well-read was this book. And as I turn the pages slowly, with love, each picture, every cheery rhyme, is achingly familiar.
And because I want to immerse myself in the mood and the memories, I climb the stairs to the second floor, open the hall closet and pull out the small jacket wedged to the wall by the press of adult overcoats. Fleece lined brown corduroy, zippered front and hooded, with "Osh Kosh B’Gosh!" on the inside label - it was Tucker's. I am doing this to myself on purpose, fueling the tears, but it feels good to hug that little jacket close and remember, so easily, the small boy who wore it.
So, I settle in with a cup of tea, Tucker’s jacket and a book, and smile as mice dig snowy tunnels, carve ice columns, and prepare “hot soups, punches and puddings” for their Snow Ball.
Winter Story by Jill Barklem, Philomel Books, 1980
Happy Winter by Karen Gundersheimer, Harper & Row, 1982
“Are they stocking up for the Snow Ball?” I wonder wistfully.
When my kids were small, snow days meant snuggling up with cozy stories, and Jill Barklem’s tales of the mice of Brambly Hedge and their grand winter celebration was one of our favorites. If little Tucker and Casey had seen the tunnel entrances at the foot of the feeders, they would have been wide-eyed envisioning an apron-ed mouse matron bustling in a kitchen crammed with crabapples on shelves, dried thistle hanging from beams, and mouse children nibbling popcorn.
I miss my little ones desperately, and I miss the world I was allowed to re-enter through them: a world of bright colors, bubbly tub times, baby-doll tea parties, forts, silly songs and happy endings. A world where a hike around the yard could be an adventure because onion grass and sticks were the makings of stew, acorn caps were fairy hats and a tumble of boulders was a giant’s castle. Instead of schedules, experience shaped each day. A parade of ants might bring us to our knees to watch in wonder the struggle to haul a crumb to a nest in a rotted log. A rock overturned would uncover a hidden haven for tiny bugs, squirming salamanders and writhing worms: a chance to teach compassion and gentle quiet instead of stomping and shrieks.
Now my kids are twenty-seven and thirty. I love the people they have become. But I miss grubby little hands, kissable cheeks, goofy dances and feet pajamas.
After storing the seed bucket in the shed, I stomp the snow off my boots before going into the kitchen. It used to be such a production to wrestle little kids out of parkas, sodden mittens and wet socks. Lots of whining and giggles. Lots of mess. Lots of noise. It is silent in the house as I slip off my boots and place them neatly side-by-side by the back door.
Tea might be nice. And I want to read some cozy stories.
Many of our children’s books are stored away, but I’ve kept some in the shelves in the living room. I know exactly which books I want and where they are: Jill Barklem’s Winter Story and Happy Winter by Karen Gundersheimer, right there on the left side of the top shelf. Often little hands reached for these books so their jackets are faded and torn. Happy Winter is still sticky, as a matter of fact, because it holds the recipe for our first-snow-day tradition, Happy Winter Fudge Cake. If I were to call Casey, who turns twenty-eight next week and say, “Happy Winter! Rise and Shine!” She would say without pause, “I love the early morning time,” so beloved and well-read was this book. And as I turn the pages slowly, with love, each picture, every cheery rhyme, is achingly familiar.
And because I want to immerse myself in the mood and the memories, I climb the stairs to the second floor, open the hall closet and pull out the small jacket wedged to the wall by the press of adult overcoats. Fleece lined brown corduroy, zippered front and hooded, with "Osh Kosh B’Gosh!" on the inside label - it was Tucker's. I am doing this to myself on purpose, fueling the tears, but it feels good to hug that little jacket close and remember, so easily, the small boy who wore it.
So, I settle in with a cup of tea, Tucker’s jacket and a book, and smile as mice dig snowy tunnels, carve ice columns, and prepare “hot soups, punches and puddings” for their Snow Ball.
Winter Story by Jill Barklem, Philomel Books, 1980
Happy Winter by Karen Gundersheimer, Harper & Row, 1982
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Sting and the Blessing
The fridge held plenty of leftovers, but Dave wanted grilled salmon for dinner. So, despite falling snow and the required hat, scarf, parka and gloves, my husband geared up and headed outside to the grill.
He was in the mood to cook. I was in the mood to write in front of a cozy fire in the dining room. As always, I felt some guilt over this. I would benefit greatly from his mood. He would gain little from mine.
The industry involved in preparing dinner was evident in the repeated opening and closing of the back door, the chopping sound of knife on cutting board, the hollow tap of wooden spoon against steel. The scent of toasting sage and simmering onions competed gloriously with the woodsmoke of my fire.
“Anything I can do to help, Hon?” I called, hoping for a negative. Pleased to get it, I resumed typing.
Dave’s way is to scurry, mine to be still.
When I was growing up, time spent writing or absorbed in a good book was viewed as a pastime important as schoolwork. Now it is a guilty pleasure. It’s hard to feel at ease with indolence when Dave strides by, drill or hammer or spatula in hand. I always feel better if I leap up and clean a closet or organize a drawer, but I wish I didn’t feel the need to strive for equal worthiness.
The products of his efforts benefit us both: delicious meals, cut firewood, home repairs, freshly-baked bread. Mine, less so: an orderly house, bills paid, errands run. Guilt is neither necessary nor constructive, I tell myself, and yet, I’m not convinced.
The pressure to perform does not come from my husband; even at age fifty-seven, I am sheepish to admit, it stems from my need for approval. Through Dave’s long career as a school psychologist, he has earned respect and love in counseling kids and their families. My path has wandered, a reflection of my own lack of clarity and purpose. But even in college, when first we were dating, I recognized the responsibility, the challenge, of attachment to one so good. Friends would tell me, “The guy’s a saint! Don’t blow it!” And I have continued to feel I stand in the shadow of that goodness; that Dave’s abilities, his work, and his character have set a bar that I, like a puppy after a stick held teasingly out of reach, can not hope to attain.
Years ago, when mothering was my primary role, the kids and I were playing on the lawn at the school where we lived. A pretty young thing of a teacher passed by and observed, “Must be nice to have such an easy life. Time to hang out with your kids in the sun.”
I flushed with anger. “Easy life”? I’d like to see her deal with ear infections, carpools, diapers and croup. And yet, her comment touched a chord. I did feel guilty. If Dave came home from work to find me watching a video of “The Goonies” with the kids instead of folding laundry or making dinner, I’d tick off a list of whatever chores I might have accomplished earlier in the day to justify my sloth. He’d make no comment and I knew he thought nothing of it, but I did. The sting and blessing is that Dave was the perfect husband and father. Beyond his work at the school, he helped with vacuuming, cooking, dishes, and the kids. Some (myself included) might say, “What are you whining about, for god’s sake?”
Whenever I mention to Dave my discomfort over his flurry of activity while, I, say, read in bed, he responds, “And we’re both doing exactly what we want.” Just the right answer. A soothing answer. A psychologist’s answer. And he means it.
So, on this snowy evening with the fire warm on my back and Dave bustling in the kitchen, I file guilt away. The window before me looks out over the backyard. A spotlight mounted on the roof illuminates the dance of whirling flakes, the path to the bird feeders Dave shoveled earlier, and the tangle of spindly branches traced with snow.
“We’re just about ready,” Dave calls from the kitchen. I add another log to the fire and move my computer aside to make room on the table and then head to the cupboard to fetch plates and glasses. In the sink, a soiled whisk, wooden spoon, platter and saucepan soak in soapy suds.
I will wash the dishes after dinner. Truly, I will.
Dave serves up the salmon with a glaze of mustard, honey and Jack Daniels barbecue sauce. I spoon helpings of herbed potatoes and collards onto our plates. If we’d spent the afternoon together, reading in front of the fire, followed by a dinner of eggs or oatmeal, I’d still be content.
But that salmon looks pretty good too.
He was in the mood to cook. I was in the mood to write in front of a cozy fire in the dining room. As always, I felt some guilt over this. I would benefit greatly from his mood. He would gain little from mine.
The industry involved in preparing dinner was evident in the repeated opening and closing of the back door, the chopping sound of knife on cutting board, the hollow tap of wooden spoon against steel. The scent of toasting sage and simmering onions competed gloriously with the woodsmoke of my fire.
“Anything I can do to help, Hon?” I called, hoping for a negative. Pleased to get it, I resumed typing.
Dave’s way is to scurry, mine to be still.
When I was growing up, time spent writing or absorbed in a good book was viewed as a pastime important as schoolwork. Now it is a guilty pleasure. It’s hard to feel at ease with indolence when Dave strides by, drill or hammer or spatula in hand. I always feel better if I leap up and clean a closet or organize a drawer, but I wish I didn’t feel the need to strive for equal worthiness.
The products of his efforts benefit us both: delicious meals, cut firewood, home repairs, freshly-baked bread. Mine, less so: an orderly house, bills paid, errands run. Guilt is neither necessary nor constructive, I tell myself, and yet, I’m not convinced.
The pressure to perform does not come from my husband; even at age fifty-seven, I am sheepish to admit, it stems from my need for approval. Through Dave’s long career as a school psychologist, he has earned respect and love in counseling kids and their families. My path has wandered, a reflection of my own lack of clarity and purpose. But even in college, when first we were dating, I recognized the responsibility, the challenge, of attachment to one so good. Friends would tell me, “The guy’s a saint! Don’t blow it!” And I have continued to feel I stand in the shadow of that goodness; that Dave’s abilities, his work, and his character have set a bar that I, like a puppy after a stick held teasingly out of reach, can not hope to attain.
Years ago, when mothering was my primary role, the kids and I were playing on the lawn at the school where we lived. A pretty young thing of a teacher passed by and observed, “Must be nice to have such an easy life. Time to hang out with your kids in the sun.”
I flushed with anger. “Easy life”? I’d like to see her deal with ear infections, carpools, diapers and croup. And yet, her comment touched a chord. I did feel guilty. If Dave came home from work to find me watching a video of “The Goonies” with the kids instead of folding laundry or making dinner, I’d tick off a list of whatever chores I might have accomplished earlier in the day to justify my sloth. He’d make no comment and I knew he thought nothing of it, but I did. The sting and blessing is that Dave was the perfect husband and father. Beyond his work at the school, he helped with vacuuming, cooking, dishes, and the kids. Some (myself included) might say, “What are you whining about, for god’s sake?”
Whenever I mention to Dave my discomfort over his flurry of activity while, I, say, read in bed, he responds, “And we’re both doing exactly what we want.” Just the right answer. A soothing answer. A psychologist’s answer. And he means it.
So, on this snowy evening with the fire warm on my back and Dave bustling in the kitchen, I file guilt away. The window before me looks out over the backyard. A spotlight mounted on the roof illuminates the dance of whirling flakes, the path to the bird feeders Dave shoveled earlier, and the tangle of spindly branches traced with snow.
“We’re just about ready,” Dave calls from the kitchen. I add another log to the fire and move my computer aside to make room on the table and then head to the cupboard to fetch plates and glasses. In the sink, a soiled whisk, wooden spoon, platter and saucepan soak in soapy suds.
I will wash the dishes after dinner. Truly, I will.
Dave serves up the salmon with a glaze of mustard, honey and Jack Daniels barbecue sauce. I spoon helpings of herbed potatoes and collards onto our plates. If we’d spent the afternoon together, reading in front of the fire, followed by a dinner of eggs or oatmeal, I’d still be content.
But that salmon looks pretty good too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
