each morning now, as dogga awakens us or we just mosey out of sleep unprompted by a cold nose snuffling us, i can hear the birds. in the middle of every everything, it is the birdsong that gives me joy as i wake.
when i was growing up on long island, my birthday was serious spring-cusping-time. no longer were winter coats or down vests necessary. the forsythia was blooming and the sweaters were out. i can still hear the birds in the woods behind our house.
i’ve been watching the weather, hoping for a nice day. it’s supposed to be cloudy with a high of 54. surprisingly, though there is a definite absence of forsythia, it will be warmer today than in my old hometown. we will likely go for a hike somewhere – one of our familiar – but loved – trails. because it’s a thursday we’ll have dinner with 20 and we will probably play rummikub together.
and sometime during the day i will sit and ponder turning 66. I’m not sure what 66 is supposed to look like – physically, emotionally, spiritually, economically. i know that many people around me have had different journeys to 66, some of which are much more predictably stable than my own.
nevertheless, i plan on being in wonder. i’ll put lack of perfection aside, next to disappointments and failures. instead, i will look at abundance and think about what would be blue-notebook entries – the mica moments that glitter, the blooms that are ready to blossom, the things that can’t be contrived or spun – all those shiny times and matte times that just simply happen so that we might notice, pay attention and embrace them for all the rest of time.
i cannot tell you how excited we are about this. for, as in most things, the beginning of something is almost always glorious, full of anticipation and expectation. and the-season-of-the-adirondack-chair is no different.
even with thermals and down vests, even with warm and fuzzy boots, there is no distracting us from the advent of this time, there is no disconcert about temperature or our sedimentary layers of clothing. the possibility just seems limitless.
we easily turn our perfectly lightweight chairs to the sun. we look at each other and smile. and deep inside, we hear bob marley singing, “every little thing is gonna be alright”.
we have waltzed on this patio, sipped wine on this patio, eaten delicious dinners on this patio, played ukuleles on this patio, had band rehearsal on this patio, entertained family and friends and scores of people who are or had been a part of our community on this patio, planned our wedding on this patio, watched our dogga on this patio, had hard and hopeful and healing conversations on this patio, planted tiny farms on this patio, laughed till our bellies hurt on this patio, cried till our bellies hurt on this patio, wished on the moon and the stars on this patio, watched the flame of our firepit dance with abandon on this patio, contemplated on this patio, grieved on this patio, napped on this patio and felt finally-awake on this patio.
and now, a new time will start, overlapping all the other times, weaving in and out of all the rest, a foliated-metamorphic-conglomerate-sedimentary rock life.
and the patio greets the adirondack chairs with glee. they all face the sun. and they smile.
parsley and rosemary. in what would seem their prime, it was time to harvest, for another frost might damage them and a freeze most certainly would. we covered them – along with the basil and the mint and the lavender – but it’s november and it’s wisconsin, so it was time to make some other choices. because it’s what we do, i researched. and then, with snippers, went out and snipped off stems, laying them gently on a cookie sheet so that i might freeze them and pull them out mid-winter to use: fresh herbs in the winter from our own potting stand will remind me that spring will, yes, arrive again.
and yes, i know it’s simple to run to the grocery store and pick up a fresh bundle of parsley and one of those little plastic containers of rosemary. but there is something to be said for these herbs that we grew, that gave us so much joy to watch as they flourished this summer. we simply bought them at lowe’s, planted them in good soil in good old clay pots, placed them in the sun, watered them as needed. and we celebrated them as they grew. mighty and strong.
it’s a little like children. you try your best to plant them in good soil, in solid but permeable pots, expose them to the sun and nutrients as they need them. and they flourish. and one day you are watching your daughter fly down the biggest mountain run in summit county – one of the highest inbound ski terrains in north america – on a snowboard, her skills generously coaching and instructing others. and another day you are watching your son’s hands fly across the mixer board, spinning electronic dance music, bringing elation – even rapture – to beautiful people expressing the freedom and joy of living. and then another day and another and another…mighty and strong.
it’s good dirt, a good pot, sun, nutrients. celebration.
and a whole lot of love.
maybe next year we’ll also plant sage and thyme – to complete the old folk song that goes through my mind every time i think of parsley and rosemary.
and we finished with an exquisite slice of flourless chocolate torte. it was as simply beautiful as it was scrumptious.
we never order dessert. we hardly ever order anything we don’t share. to cut to the REAL chase, we hardly ever go out to dine.
so this was a pretty special day.
we had hiked about eight miles that day, the day before about nine. all told, in three days we hiked about twenty-two miles or so. it was the day after our anniversary. we finished our hike and arrived back at littlebabyscion starving. and, completely out of our frugal character, we spontaneously went to the cool pub nearby.
in an extraordinary move, we ordered two glasses of wine and three appetizers to split – not just one and not even just two. three! it was absolutely remarkable! we could tell that the waitstaff was amused by our complete glee and they each were sweet and solicitous, filling our water glasses and checking in on us. we felt like royalty. but, really, we were just two people on barstools engrossed in an experience that is now as rare as it is wondrous.
“a little something sweet,” we spoke aloud, as the server handed us the dessert menu. we shooed away any thoughts of over-indulging. we even giggled as we ordered the torte.
a smidge of rejuvenation, a nod to our own worth, balm to troubled hearts. it was an amazing afternoon on those stools, feeling like the world and possibility were at our fingertips.
and tomorrow we will go to chicago. we’ll metra downtown and walk to boystown. there will be sooo many people. and with them, we will stand on the corner of halsted and waveland and watch our son perform on-stage outside in the rainbowed city.
to say i am overjoyed at his producing of music these days would be an understatement. his zeal is full-on and he is squeezing every last minute of every day as he works in his professional position full-time and djs edm (electronic dance music) the rest of the time.
at his condo in chicago, in his studio, he demonstrated to me how he creates. as an analog artist, it was a fascinating experience to glean this complex digital mixing of tracks, layering, feathering, a sedimentary piece of music produced with great intention. it is hard not to dance as i watch. it’s hard not to be aware of the invisible bit of baton i hold, poised to pass. and i am aware of the contagious quivering of excitement, the gift of his sharing his process, how much i understand – on a cellular, heart level – how this creating feeds him. and then…then, there’s the joy…
different genres, but i still grok how my son feels. knowing that what you are producing is resonating with someone – someones, if you will – is powerful inspiration. i won’t forget the release of my first album and, even at number fifteen years later, it was with both the same excitement and vulnerability as the first. time and study and experimenting and lessons bank courage, though, so we each keep on keeping on, growing – much like anything in life to which we give time and attention.
i’d imagine that the day my yamaha c5 was delivered into my studio felt much like the day he upgraded his decks and gear. i’d imagine the day i stood in the sitting room with the chicago radio station on – waiting – and then my music aired – the first airplay ever – feels much like his tracks being signed to major edm labels, waiting to be released. i’d imagine the applause, stepping into the apron, at the end of a piece, feels much like the exhilarated dancing and cheers of the crowds at his gigs. i get it.
you know you are merely one artist in a universe of artists. humility. relevancy. there is much to learn. for both of us. always. the arc of an artist is never really done.
we have spent nights watching our son stream from clubs. 2am is later than it used to be but it’s a thrill to watch him in his element. we’ve listened to every single track he has sent us, every idea, every gesture in whatever iteration. we’ve connected our remote speaker and played his music during our happy hour, i’ve listened with ear buds on soundcloud, spotify, iTUNES. but tomorrow…
it is with much pride we will stand and watch our son. it is with much pride that we will be surrounded by his friends and by the community. it is with much pride that we’ll dance and cheer along with the gathered crowd. it is with much pride that we celebrate pride.
boomerang betsy was shot out of the bulgarian sky on the way to the ploesti oil fields in romania. it was 79 years ago today. i’m grateful for the tenacity of my sweet poppo, taken prisoner-of-war and missing-in-action to everyone back home for months. he survived and came back home to – one day – tell the harrowing story and combat the unnamed ptsd that became part of his strong fabric as a man, a husband, a father.
without our knowing it, the veterans administration named my dad #VeteranOfTheDay on july 19, 2019. i stumbled across this a couple days ago and wondered how it was we did not know this. he was – and is – our hero every day, but it was a thrill to see a day devoted to him and his dedicated service, celebrating him, seven years after he moved on from this plane.
today we arrive in iowa. david’s family is gathering to celebrate columbus/aka chuck/aka charles/aka his dad. a time put aside to inurn his ashes in his little hometown in the farmlands. we are in a farmhouse – one with a back porch, a working silo, green grass on which to play bocce ball. the family will come here for dinners, to reminisce, to play and laugh and, likely, weep a bit. i know it will be a time rich with moments.
these dads of ours were like great white trillium. somehow – despite everything – growing easily in the world, faithful, not-too-picky, gently spreading seeds of wisdom.
the chicago botanic garden says, “in the constellation of singular spring flowers, there are a few stars that shine more brightly than the rest. perhaps the fairest of them all is the great white trillium.”
on this day – ten years ago – i was in anticipation. after about six months of letters via email, we were about to meet in person. we talked about it over glasses of wine on bar stools in a real bistro last night.
i can remember wondering. what this guy – who i had virtually shared my days with – would be like. would he be sincere in person…would he be fun…would he be as easy to talk to side by side as he was in writing and, the big one, what he would look like, what i would see in his eyes. i had seen the tiniest of tiny photographs – a thumbprint size – and that was it. i was looking for a man in the great big baggage claim of o’hare airport who, in all likelihood, i would not recognize.
and yet…
there he was, jeans, boots, black shirt, backpack, rollybag. i knew him right away.
it hasn’t been a piece-o-cake ten years. there have been roiling rapids in the river and hidden boulders of challenge. we have faced down storms and weather systems. we have had our share of loss. we have gone from truly-middle-middle-age to a-wee-past-middle-middle-age. our bodies show it. our priorities show it. we haven’t the shared luggage of a journey before this decade together; instead we have separate baggage of tens-of-years long before we met. we have learned the skills of listening to all these stories, to generously entertain redundancy, to compassionately help each other sort. we have learned the complexities of a middle-age relationship, for there are many. you arrive where you are and that is a little further down the road. we have learned that dancing in the kitchen is tantamount to happy-making. we have learned that cooking – together – is affirming and feeds us in more ways than we realized. we have learned that walking arm in arm – with a skip every now and again – centers us.
time will continue to fly by. our dogga will soon be ten and we all miss our babycat. together we have seen my sweet momma on to the next and we have seen his dad on. we have moved children and criss-crossed the country to see them. there will be loss and there will be elation. the ribbon we carry in our pocket ties us to gossamer reminders of each and of our capacity to adjust.
there are those of you out there – who are trying this all on for size. trying on middle-age relationship, trying on new relationship at any age. there are times that it may seem insurmountable, maybe even sooo-not-worth-it.
“stay young by continuing to grow. you do not grow old, you become old by not growing.” (wilferd a. peterson – the art of living)
we would like to be like frank. he will be 90 this month and his busy life could make many people feel like couch potatoes. he is interested and curious and makes himself available to volunteer for a wide variety of organizations. he is our go-to excuse for sipping apothic – “it’s such a drinkable wine,” he says. he’s not afraid to try new things. the art of staying young – he has this down pat.
today is eileen’s birthday. she is 100. one hundred. it’s quite the life you’ve lived when you were born in 1923 and it is now 2023. always interested, she loves the chicago tribune. her desk has stacks of issues, piles of stories she has read or, at this stage of health, it counts to even just simply touch the newsprint. 20 talks to her about current events, encourages her to think, to discern, to learn – even at 100.
we celebrated her birthday with butter-creme-heavily-frosted layered chocolate birthday cake, hyacinth and tulips, catered sliders and quesadillas and apothic. frank would have approved. we studied boards with photographs of a little girl named eileen, eileen and duke as young marrieds, the sassy and spirited and fashionista eileen, a mother named eileen, a grandmother. i’m certain it seems to her now that the 100 years have flown by, for indeed that’s how time is. as she was wheeled into the party room her words were boisterous, “i made it!”
my own sweet momma would be 102 this year and my dad 103. my dad always said he was going to be 100. he did not make it. he died when he was 91. my mom never stated those aspirations but she, as well, was not a centenarian, crossing planes at almost-94. my dad, never one to turn down any dessert would have devoured a big slice of eileen’s cake. and my mom would have sat at the table with eileen asking questions and telling stories. i wish we were also having their cakes, most definitely chocolate ganache, but soon now those crossing-over anniversaries will come again and i will burn candles and blow kisses into the universe.
it’s all a mystery, this life. how long we get to live it, how many desserts, how many sips of toasting wine. seems like – once again – there’s no time to waste.
maybe today is a good day for some cake.
“tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”(mary oliver)
the thumb-push-up-puppet collection sits idle in a basket…those characters and animals with a wooden platform and a button underneath the base that you push and they collapse and rebound and dance and, if you practice enough, you can keep the beat with just one appendage without moving the rest – talking from experience, of course. but playing – literally playing – with dasher and blitzen have made me want to unearth the basket and dust those babies off.
there is not much that’s funnier than watching six adults racing wind-up reindeer across a coffee table racetrack. each of us cheered and sneered at our reindeer, watching them spin and go the wrong way, teeter off the table, fall over and race for the finish line. you would think that dasher might have an advantage – with his name and all – but dasher was my reindeer and must not have self-actualized yet. he never won a race. but there’s still time. he will not be limited to holidayseason2022. when it’s time, we will store him away – with blitzen, so he is not lonely – until next year’s festivities. maybe by then he will be ready, his confidence will be restored, his winning juju amped up, his luck turned upside down, like a frown to a smile. oh yes. i still have hope.
more than anything else in this season, my favorite gift has been laughter. the kind of laughter when your ribs begin to hurt and your cheeks are sore from your face in smile-mode. i have loved any play – so generative, so rejuvenating, so rooting, so opening. the reminder to not take yourself so ridiculously seriously. each of these moments of this short and so-fast life count and i’d rather remember laughing with beloveds and family and friends more than much of anything else.
i’m thinking the push-up puppets need to see the light of day.
and we will give thanks over costco rotisserie chicken and homemade mashed potatoes.
and we will play favorite cds in the happy-lit sunroom as we set a table, thoughtfully choosing cloth napkins, deciding which place, which memories we want to evoke.
and we will speak of others gathered around tables and tv trays, spilling into family rooms from dining rooms and kitchens filled with light and food and conversation.
and we will call and have chit-chat, maybe even a facetime visit.
and, if the rain holds off, we will take a hike in the woods. it will be slightly warmer and there are few dishes to wash.
and it’s possible we will watch a movie or two, with a duraflame log burning but not stressing the fireplace and chimney.
and we will dessert on brownie bites, perhaps a dollop of whipped cream, perhaps a few raspberries. or ice cream from our yonana, still a dollop, still a few berries.
and we will miss those not here…those gathered with others, those too far away, those on other planes. we will speak of them in our gratitudes and hold them all close.
and we will sit – and stand – and maybe even dance – in the day, even in its liminal space.
and we will begin to decorate with fluff and pine to welcome the season, earlier than usual.
reverse threading 