Flying Dreams and Happy Landings

October 13, 2011 9:00 AM

Cathay – Marco Polo’s destination. The word whispers of ancient cultures and kingdoms. Silks, incense, temples and elephants. And we are going there, borne by Cathay Pacific Airways. For two anxious months we’ve wrestled with doubts: should we go or not? Can we take the time from work? Does Casey want us or will we impose on her free-wheeling journey? Will it be an incredible experience or an opportunity to contract malaria, polio or typhoid fever? The path scattered with those decisions and fears is behind us, and we are waiting among our carry-on bags and fellow passengers at Gate 22. I am afloat with elation. I feel daring. This is not just a trip, it’s an adventure.

Dave and I have been rendered disease-immune machines by a multitude of inoculations. To-do lists are done, discarded in the recycling bin. Research and recommendations have reaped a hotel in Chiang Mai for five nights, and a few sights to shoot for, but for the most part, we fly to Karis' and Casey’s guidance… and chance…as well as floods and monsoons.

When we made our plans, the dates dictated by when we could leave work and where the girls would be during that brief window, we knew we’d be hitting the rainy season: we have our EMS raincoats in our backpacks. Casey called two mornings ago to alert us to possible travel glitches due to flooding in Thailand. Trains are no longer running, but she assures us that they will get to us… somehow.

Control is an issue for me, yet today, I feel giddy at letting go.


In-Flight:

We are off to the other side of the world! My personal display screen and entertainment center (yippee!) flashes the time in New York and Hong Kong (Hong Kong!) in English and Chinese characters. Dave and I will be aloft for twenty some hours. Unclaimed hours! Hours without phones or email! Hours to read, write and watch movies! Twenty hours might not be enough. I want to watch movies that Dave would hate – Green Lantern, Bridesmaids, Pirates of the Caribbean, and Thor. I want to read Paul Theroux’s Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. I want to read magazines and write. I want to sleep a little.

I have time and choices. Bliss.

* * *

When we boarded, lovely Asian women with serene smiles directed us to our seats in Economy. We passed the private cubicles of business class, each with its cozy quilt, individual monitor, stretch-out seating and decorative purple orchid sprig, but even our steerage seats are roomy compared to the cramped quarters offered by Delta, Continental and their ilk. Our meals have been delicious, and during the quiet lights-off hours, a whiff of something soothing and salty led us to a woman stirring noodles with chopsticks. She grinned and nodded and waved toward the rear of the plane. Apparently, we can lurch back to the galley any time we wish to order noodles…or tea, or peanuts or crackers. Dave clambers from his seat and returns with two steaming bowls, a glass of light, fruity white wine for me, and a beer for him. Bless you Cathay Pacific!

Brunch is served a few hours later – a noodle dish and a cup of fresh fruit. Soon after, a pleasant attendant distributes drawstring bags of water, oat bars, apples and refreshing towelettes for our comfort. Heaven forbid we be hungry for even a moment. Fed! Entertained! Rested! May I recommend Cathay Pacific for your traveling pleasure?

Our on-screen flight information display tells us we have 8 hours, 55 minutes and 4386 miles to go. We are content and cared for, our circumstances clear, while all is uncertain once we land.


October 14

I had set my expectations low. In fact, I’d aimed for no expectations. With reports of hundreds dead in the flood, the potential for Karis' and Casey’s delayed arrival, and the possibility that we’d be stranded in the airport, it seemed a wise mindset. My aim was a Zen sense of calm even if our bags were lost, no one showed to meet us, and rain poured.

But ours was a joyous welcome.

First, triumph, as we spotted and retrieved our backpacks from the tumble of duffles and suitcases rattling by on the conveyor belt at baggage claim. As I slipped my arms into the straps, bent to take the weight in my knees, and straightened, I pondered that an exercise-aversive 58-year-old woman had no business carrying a forty-pound backpack. But I liked the image – the connection to the twenty-one year old Lea who traveled Europe in the seventies.

Like wistful children hoping their parents have not forgotten to pick them up after school, we pushed through the double doors into the pick-up area and scanned the crowd. An Asian couple, a young man in a coral uniform jacket and a woman in a white blouse and black pants, held a sign bearing our name. As we approached them, they beamed and bowed, hands pressed together as if in prayer. They seemed as overjoyed to see us as we were to see them.

Outside, the hotel’s van was a silver mirage of sumptuous seats, ornate mirrored décor, and frosted water bottles in cupholders. We were in THAILAND!

During the brief drive we learned that, yes, Casey and Karis had arrived earlier in the day. Karis, a petite, spirited blond with expressive blue eyes, was Casey’s roommate in New York for three years. She has been my daughter’s companion on this journey, experiencing the extraordinary, as well as sharing the anxieties of the utterly unfamiliar and the terror of the seemingly dangerous. They have also peed together in the dark of a rice paddy and shared a bathroom in weathering the hideous aftermath of a tainted chicken sandwich. As Casey says, “We were close. Now we’re closer.”

Borne in comfort by our silver van, we passed tented street stalls, lighted store-fronts and the swooping red-tiled roofs of temples. As we took a turn, the woman said, “And now down this road, a beautiful hotel.” I craned to see, and she giggled. “It is our hotel! Sirilanna!” And we pulled to a stop before a stairway flanked by two snarling white plaster lion-guardians and water-filled pots arranged with palms and flowers.


Our hosts would not let us tire ourselves with our backpacks. Those were whisked away up a flight of stairs as we were invited to sit, sip a chilled glass of guava juice and wipe our faces and hands with a damp, warm towel. Happiness! But where were Casey and Karis?

Hospitality is not to be rushed. Once assured that we were indeed refreshed, we all pressed our hands at chin level in that prayer-like gesture and Bow-ee, a slender girl in a white silk top and black pants, led us to our room. With as much delight as if she’d crafted them herself, she showed us the massive carved wooden armoire, a chair of sinuous dragons, the throne of a bed with its carved head and footboards. She gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors to the balcony overlooking the pool. She pushed through saloon doors to the expansive bathroom to point out the double Jacuzzi, tiled shower and folding stained glass windows with jeweled handles of amber, emerald and turquoise that opened to the bedroom. Spotless, beautiful, luxurious! Thank you Sirilanna! All for eighty-five dollars a night!


On the desk, a wooden bowl borne on the backs of elephants was heaped with pomegranates, pineapple, and what looked like a plump pink blowfish. A baggie of…hmm…yes… large stewed crickets - perhaps a daughter’s touch? - was tucked beside some bananas. An aromatic lei of jasmine blossoms twined across the arrangement. All lovely, but I could wait no longer. Where were the girls? Bow-ee smiled and said, “Right next door…”



I peeked out into the hall just as a face appeared. Casey! We hugged and danced and clapped and grinned. And then Dave and Karis trotted into the hall and we babbled and hugged and danced some more while Dave and I took in these two travelers, heroines of our favorite blog, dauntless voyagers of the Mekong River, Great Wall, and Angkor Wat, survivors of Viet Nam thefts, piddles in paddies, creepy boatmen, and tubing in Vang Vieng. Dressed in blousy Asian pants, wrists wreathed with beads and string bracelets, hair wispy in the heat, faces alight, here they were before us, in the flesh, themselves still. It seemed weirdly natural and normal to be together, but we kept shrieking, “Here you ARE!”

And for two weeks, we will be together, part of their adventure, In THAILAND!

Rolling Refuge

The other night, I drove in from work, looked over one shoulder, then the other, and backed in to the narrow parking space in front of the house. I sat for a minute in the warmth and darkness of the car and listened to the end of the song on the radio as I often do before heading inside. It was comfortable and peaceful, the work of the day complete and the chores before me on hold.

I climbed out, leaving the headlights on to illuminate the road, then crossed the street to fetch the mail. As I walked back, I gazed fondly at my car. Something about her front grill and headlights seemed to smile. The thought crossed my mind that she’d put in a lot of miles and it was time to think about getting a new vehicle.

I burst into tears.

My mid-size 2001 Caravan is a deep purple-blue: a unique color when it first came out, but now, you see it on the road a lot. After our kids left for college and our dog died, we down-sized from a Grand Caravan, but this model is still bigger than I need. While she does okay on gas – maybe 21 mpg – I feel guilty about not driving a hybrid.

I have never had my own brand new, snappy auto. When I was a teenager, I inherited a black Ford Falcon with a white vinyl top when my grandfather passed away. When my grandmother, Byeo, died, I took the wheel of her mammoth maroon Impala. Once I married Dave, we shared a car, and when the kids came along, so did the larger family vehicle. My Caravan is the first one that has felt like mine. She is matronly, but has held up well, so we are a good match.

While I never named her or anything, she has been a good friend to me. She has held me through some hard times. I slumped, sobbing, in her gray velour seats in the parking lot after visits with my father-in-law, Colombo, at the nursing home. She was womblike and warm, ready with heat, old favorites on the radio, and the reassurance of my own independence, my own abilities to punch buttons, turn the wheel and go, even though Colombo had lost his.

When I received my cancer diagnosis, she was the first to offer comfort. I’d held myself together as I walked through the waiting room of the radiology center and crossed the parking lot. But I couldn’t wait to get to my car, buckle in and break down before assuming a brave face for my family and friends. And throughout that year, en route to scans, hospitals, doctor’s appointments, and surgeries, she was my refuge. I cried a lot behind the wheel, but I also knew that as long as I was in her seat, I was safe.

Living in the moment got me through that time. As my car and I made our way to whatever needle, stethoscope or prodding awaited, I would tell myself, “Right now, you are fine. Right now you have control. Right now you decide on your music, heat, mood and destination.” And it helped.

In my car, I had no need to be cheerful, or self-conscious about my scarf. In fact, the small square of the rear-view mirror framed only my eyes, so I looked the same as before the cancer. Well, maybe a little sadder.

I will miss my Caravan. It will seem like a betrayal, to park her in a lot somewhere and drive away.

A Night at a Country Carnival

Two decades ago, my husband Dave and I stood among the parents waving and grinning as our kids whirled in a silver Scrambler car or spun by in an oversized teacup. Easton’s Fireman’s Carnival has expanded since then and our children have grown up and left home, but the scene is still gloriously familiar. Bells clang, neon lights flash. Kids kick off their flip-flops as the Rip Cord ride rises slowly up a glittering shaft, then – whoosh! – drops its cargo of shrieking passengers. Indulgent dads squeeze into tiny compartments next to their gleeful little ones within a winged serpent for the Cobra’s gentle, undulating version of a small-scale roller coaster. Tan, lithe-limbed teenagers saunter and flirt with much self-conscious hair tossing (girls) and elbow-nudging (boys) as they enjoy a summer’s night out. Wafting over all is the whiff of grilled hamburgers and the sweet, sweet scent of sticky cotton candy.

Dave and I are the rare adult couple strolling without children in tow. For us, this is a chance to wander, hold hands, and catch up with friends and folks from earlier life stages. We spot parents of our children’s school friends, and even some of their former classmates, their second, third and fourth grade faces still recognizable in thirty-year-old bodies. But our memories are not what they used to be; periodically, one or the other of us furtively whispers, “Name?” as someone familiar, but not immediately identified, approaches with a smile.

We make our rounds of the rides remembering when we had the stomach for the lurch, spin and soar of Zero Gravity, the Dodgems, Ali Baba, and Dizzy Dragons. No longer. Dave owes me my annual stuffed animal, so we head to the games and stop at a baseball toss, a likely choice because Dave was a pitcher in high school. We chat with Irv Snow, who is one of those on duty at the booth. Almost every tent, game, and attraction is manned by one of the town’s volunteer firefighters, putting in still more hours on behalf of Easton’s fire department. I’m surprised how many people I know who are wearing firefighters’ blues tonight.

Dave’s pitching prowess wins me a stuffed purple turtle to add to last year’s Chihuahua, and the dolphin and long-legged brown bear of years past. As is our tradition, next we slip into the baked goods booth to savor a slice of blueberry pie in a flaky, buttery crust. Delicious. We catch up with Carol Mulligan who has volunteered here for as long as I can remember, then Dave and I beeline for the Bingo tent: for us, the high point of the carnival.

The place is jammed and we scan the tables for two open seats together. We recognize Kyle Haines, the Kushnir brothers, Jon Davis and the Sabias among the uniformed firefighters serving as Bingo ushers. We grab two seats next to Bill Bartosik (whose math-tutoring savvy helped our daughter through quite a few math tests as well as the SATs) just as the next game begins.

Used to be a dollar bought one cardboard playing card and a handful of corn kernels to mark off numbers. Now, that same dollar buys a three-card sheet. I can barely keep up as I hurriedly scan the appropriate columns when a number is given and, with a magic marker, place a splotch of brilliant red when I’m lucky.

The caller, Joe Puchalski, is a kick. His patter rolls with the fluidity of a stand up comic; if Bingo weren’t thrilling enough, he brings an energy that keeps us in our seats far longer than usual. “Keep your eye on your card, a hand on your dauber and another hand on your seat,” he advises. “Things move fast here in the Bingo tent!” His expression gives nothing away as he reaches for the next number. He intones, as if it were a moment of high import, “Whoa – another ‘B’!” and draws it out, the suspense palpable – how many are waiting for just…this…number for the five-in-a-row or all four corners that would win the pot?

“B-4!!!” Joe calls to hoots of relief when no one shouts “Bingo!” He pauses to announce, “My Chief Financial Bingo Officer tells me we have $50 riding on this game. Yes folks, here in the Bingo tent you get the biggest bang for your entertainment dollar. It’s not just the winning, but the unbridled excitement of the game!” We players crack up and remain in our seats for round after round, earning us Joe’s commendation. “This crowd will go down in Easton Bingo history…In fact, some might say in world Bingo history!”

Eventually, Dave and I lay down our daubers, still grinning. We stroll across the firehouse green to await the shuttle bus to the parking lot at the middle school. We line up behind chatty teenagers, heads bent as they text, weary adults and sleepy little kids clutching their trophies – stuffed frogs, mustachioed bananas (!?), and fuzzy dogs with floppy ears. Everyone is smiling, everyone is happy, after a great night at the carnival in Easton.

Zombies Beware

Video games. Please. I have never understood the appeal. In fact, I’ve worried that they spell the end of literate society as my husband, Dave, and my son, Tucker, seem to have abandoned the joys of absorption in a good book in favor of provoking angry birds, meddling with a pond full of hungry fish, and knocking off Egyptian pool balls.

A few weeks ago, Tucker came to visit. After dinner, instead of a family gathering of Scrabble or Scattergories, my son introduced Dave to a game with defensive gardening as its goal. In Plants vs. Zombies, the player must fortify his virtual front lawn with shrubs that shoot peas, catapults that fling butter pats, peppers that fire flames and grumpy squashes that squish intruders. All this to defend one’s home and brains from zombies.

Zombies? Yes! Well might you smirk! I did too. “Are you kidding, Tuck? A smart guy like you?” But my son merely smiled and tapped the screen of his iPad.

A simple, swaying, cheerful - and yet vaguely foreboding - melody played, a synthesized piano and violin instrumental. I was reminded of the mesmerizing strains of a snake charmer urging a cobra from a basket, except this time it was zombies lurking off-screen. “Ready! Set! Plant!” flashed an urgent red alert. Tuck tapped a round-faced smiling sunflower and “planted” it in the yard between a house façade and rickety fence. Periodically, a sun popped from the sunflower and with another tap, Tuck earned points toward plants. The music hummed as my son planted sunflowers, pea-shooters and mines. “The zombies are coming!” rumbled a threatening, throaty voice and I felt a mild unease because the pea-shooter seemed slow on the draw as cartoonish, bug-eyed zombies lurched toward my son's "house."

My book remained on the end table by the couch in the living room as I stayed on my stool, perched behind Tucker with a view over his shoulder. He lives in Boston and I don’t see him as much I’d like, so I hovered, an observer, as he fought off the undead.

As I said, I was concerned the pea-shooter was too slow and my boy’s brains were at stake. “How about the purple plant, Tuck?” I suggested. (This particular flower lunges at zombies, snaps them up, chews them with a gratifying crunch and swallows them.) “Sweetie? Maybe the cherry bomb? Watch it! Zombies in the upper right!”

A mad fray ensued - leaping zucchini, exploding cherries, flying peas, zombies losing heads and arms and finally falling. I watched with my heart pounding (yes!) until a harp-like trill of triumph signaled the game’s end and the zombie defeat. Exhausting! Exhilarating! Fun! Still, when Tuck swung around in his seat and offered me his iPad, I snorted dismissively. At first.

It was so stupid. But I wanted to play.

So, I did. And I’ve been playing too often since. Sometimes until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning. The other day, I announced I was going on a zombie sabbatical – a “Zombatical” - just to prove that I could.

But Dave lures me in. He turns it on, I hear that snake-charmer music and I’m drawn as sure as that sinuous cobra. And I get it now. Fun feels good! Dave and I usually play together, taking turns, reaching over to tap the screen when the odds are too overwhelming, laughing aloud at the antics of shifty-eyed water plants, spore-spouting mushrooms, and zombies on pogo sticks, ladders and bungee cords. Who thought of this stuff? I can only imagine the self-amused glee of the brainstorming team behind Plants vs. Zombies.

The truth is, Dave and I do plenty of fun things, but for the most part, silly and goofy went out the window a decade ago, and it’s silly things that make one giggle or laugh until it hurts. Laughter is a balm in this grown-up life and for some reason, battling a zombie horde does the job.

Problem is, we’ve developed strategies too tough for the zombies – rarely do they breach the doorway to eat our brains. Tucker says there’s another game we should check out – something about covering oranges?

Rainbow Black Out

How could anyone grow up in the fifties without watching Dorothy dance down the yellow brick road? My husband and I had tickets to see “Wicked,” but Dave revealed he’d never seen “The Wizard of Oz.” We compared notes on childhood TV viewing and, as expected, “The Wonderful World of Disney,” “The Flintstones” and “The Ed Sullivan Show” made both our lists. The absence of Oz was a surprise.

Dave grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts in a duplex on St. Nicholas Avenue, a neighborhood where, on nice evenings, Dave’s father, Colombo, and his friends strung a net across the road to play volleyball or coached the kids during pick-up baseball games. Sundays were spent with Colombo’s parents for suppers of slow-cooked sauce over pasta and peppers stuffed with anchovies, garlic, olives and breadcrumbs.

There was little contact with Dave’s mother’s family. Ma avoids speaking about her childhood: the alcoholism, neglect and abuse as she was passed from one aunt to another. I never learned why her mother didn’t keep her, and she says she doesn’t remember much. “To tell you the truth, darlin’, I don’t even want to go there…”

She knew she wanted a very different life for her boys and was fierce in her devotion to them. But she’d also learned to shield herself from hurt, and when her sons disappointed her, they knew it, for she withdrew, face closed, lips tight, sealed off from painful feelings. For years, Sylvestro gatherings included roars of laughter at tales of Dave’s efforts to win her back as he scurried about at age four or five, washing ashtrays, hoping to melt her with each swipe of his cloth.

Recently, those stories have not seemed so funny.

Dave was a smart little guy and he can list every teacher he had, the subjects they taught and what he learned in each class. When I marvel at his mastery of facts from geography to history to science, he says, “Didn’t you learn them in grammar school?”

Perhaps, but they elude me now. In fact, all of my second grade year is a blank except for hunching over the toilet, feeling sick every week-day morning. Mom says my teacher was mean to me, but my brain has blocked that memory. How amazing, the mental power to deflect or conceal.

Around the age of four or so, Dave developed a stutter and attended speech class for three years. It was a difficult time. When kids teased him, his older brother Steve came to his defense, but when, in sixth grade, the bully was Mrs. Wiley, his teacher, there wasn’t much a brother could do. Once, Dave had barely begun his oral report on rockets when Mrs. Wiley stopped him and made him start over. He re-stated the title, but the teacher interrupted again, her voice stern and unforgiving. In front of his classmates she said, “You’ll have to do better than that, David, or you’re going back to speech class with the second graders.” Apparently he’d not mastered “r’s” to her satisfaction.

I’d have pled illness for weeks after such humiliation, but Dave says, “That kind of experience shapes a person, shaped me and heightened my sensitivity to others. I know how it feels to be teased, how it hurts to be different.”

Anyway, our date to see “Wicked” was approaching. We rented the classic film for our trip to Oz, prepared pasta for dinner, poured some wine, and inserted the DVD to watch Miss Gulch of the beaked nose and glinting eye pedaling her bike furiously, with Dorothy’s dog Toto in her basket.

We twirled our spaghetti as Dorothy fled with Toto to a haystack behind the barn. Why oh why are there cruel people in the world? Where can you go to escape them?

Somewhere over the rainbow is where. As Dorothy sang, I sensed movement at my elbow and turned to Dave. His hands covered his mouth; his eyes were wide. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was crying.

“My god, honey! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” He snuffled, took deep breaths and said something about the song.

The song?

I hit the pause button and onscreen, Dorothy froze, mouth open, eyes dreamy.

“Give me a minute,” Dave said. He went to the sink, washed his face and returned to the couch. He took a deep, chest-filling breath and said, “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s try this again.”

I reversed the DVD and Dorothy stepped back. I pushed “play” and she resumed her post by the haystack. “Somewhere over the rainbow…” she sang, and the couch shook as Dave burst into tears.

My husband is a psychologist and once he’d composed himself, he was intrigued. The song was a trigger – why?

Thank goodness for Google; few questions need go unanswered. He looked up the first televised broadcast of “The Wizard of Oz” and called his mother. When she answered the phone, he blurted, “Ma, why do I cry when Dorothy sings ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow?’”

“Hey darlin’. I don’t know. That is odd.”

“It first ran on TV in 1956. In the fall. I was four. Think.”

“I have no idea, David.”

“Try to remember, Ma. What happened around that time, traumatic enough that I would repress it?”

“Well. Hmm. That might be the year I had a D & C. You and Steve stayed with your grandmother. The doctor said cancer was a possibility, but you knew nothing of that.”

He might not have known, but a small boy so tuned in to his mother’s moods, a boy prone to washing ashtrays to make things right, such a boy would have sensed fear. Might have thought it was anger. Might have thought he’d done something wrong. Did Dorothy sing as Dave tried to bring his mother back, tried to make her well with his washing?

“Besides, I was fine, so that can’t be it,” said his mother.

For forty-five years, Dave avoided the movie, his brain protective, directing him, “Don’t even go there…”

“You never seemed troubled by it…” his mother added. “Except, now that you mention it, when I came home from the hospital, you’d developed that stutter …”

Romance in Ice

Dave and I had known it was coming. In May, our son, Tucker, called us, his grandparents, and his sister to let us know he was planning to propose to his girlfriend, Lisa. He wasn’t sure when he’d make his move, but it would be soon. He said he had a couple of ideas, but was having difficulty acquiring permits.

Permits?

Times have changed. Dave asked me to marry him in a parking lot on Cape Cod after a party. He was dear and loving, but the only permit required was bestowed by my dad. Dave offered his much sought-after Bloody Mary recipe hand-tooled on leather and mounted on a wooden plaque in exchange for my hand. Dad thought he was getting a great deal.

Tucker, clearly, had something more in mind. Spring passed. A trip to Spain passed. (A combination of business for Lisa and pleasure for them both and, we thought, an excellent opportunity for a proposal… Not so.) July arrived – stultifying, steamy, debilitating. Still no word.

Dave and I departed for Italy. Much as we love that country, it was hard to fully appreciate Florence as the heat bore down, suffocating and heavy. It would not have been surprising to see Michelangelo’s David spin his legendary marble sling in an effort to stir a breeze.

To accommodate the time change and snag some cell service, Dave and I climbed a small hill one night to check in on our kids. When connection with our son was established, he crowed, “Tonight’s the night!” He was off on his mission – whatever was permitted - and would not divulge details. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said.

As much as we wondered what he might do, it was astounding to realize our boy had found the girl with whom he wanted to spend his life. “When you know, you know,” he’d said. In the way of mothers, or this mother at least, I flipped through a mental slide show: his birth, toddler Tucker sucking his thumb and stroking the ear of his beloved stuffed pig, Bacos, little Tuck in his corduroy Osh Kosh jacket, barreling toward me for a hug, adolescent Tucker, tight-lipped and reserved, and then the blessed transformation when his spontaneity, kindness and humor re-surfaced as he grew in confidence, grew into his Ingersoll nose, grew into himself.

Dave and I were standing above a vineyard in Tuscany when Tuck’s call came. We huddled close to the cell phone blaming faulty service and inadequate satellites when we thought we heard Tuck mention snow in Boston.

“Sorry, Tuck. Once more? Stupid phone…”

“I had 800 pounds of snow trucked in to the Esplanade!” The Esplanade is a park that runs along the Charles River, cooler than some spots, perhaps, but ice cubes in a drink were a fleeting pleasure on these sweltering days, so we were incredulous. Snow? In Boston? In July?

“I tried to get a permit for ice sculptures, but the city wouldn’t allow it. The 4th was out as the Boston Pops perform their annual concert on the Esplanade. Then, a movie was being filmed on the site. What a process! Finally, I was able to get a permit for this date and the snow. Lisa loves to ski,” he explained. “We joke about her being a ski bunny and I knew she’d get a kick out of this. So I had a guy build a ski slope with a family of stuffed bunnies perched on it. The words ‘Will you marry me?’ were sculpted on the bottom in ice.” I could hear his grin, so gleeful was his tone.

In today’s world, one need rarely speculate or imagine for long. By the time we returned to our room and Dave’s computer, Tuck had posted a photo gallery documenting the delivery of bags of snow, the creation of the snow sculpture, Tucker and Lisa’s arrival on the scene, and my boy on one knee. There were pictures of the kiss, a brief snowball fight, and Lisa’s “yes!” written in snow on the ground.

Such a romantic, our Tucker. Who knew!?


Link to Pictures

Into the World

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.