neither one of them knew what it was. clearly, they both lived in a cave before i came along in their lives. but still.
“it’s a butterspreader,” i informed them. for your corn-on-the-cob. you put the butter pat in it, hold down the handle and the curved plastic screen perfectly spreads melty butter on your cob.
they stared at me as if they had just landed on plymouth rock and – supposedly – were the ones who literally discovered new land.
in unison, the choirboys said, “i’ve never seen one of those!”
i laughed. as a non-butter-user, it doesn’t matter to me if i pull the cornbutterspreader out of the drawer, but i knew that it might matter to them – one potential butter-user-depending-on-the-day and one devoted butter-user.
my sweet momma had these kind of snazzy devices. she had the yellow metal-pronged corn thingies to hold corn-on-the-cob as well. long islanders, we were pretty loyal cobcorn eaters in the summer. back then, it was all about the biggest aluminum pot in the house and boiling water. but now, my sweet momma would have loved to see 20 cut off the ends of the cob (including the stringy end), putting the whole thing into the microwave for 4 minutes. as an alternative, we could have placed it on the grill as well – unshucked – but the microwave was a little quicker.
it was a day that kind of celebrated our parents – without our really knowing or planning it.
i carmelized the onions before i added the beer – milwaukee’s best. i knew columbus was watching, laughing with glee as i put the brats in to boil. momma jeanne said they were just like his when we made them in iowa, so we have a stamp of approval. we had beans – because my momma and my poppo never had brats or dogs without having beans. and sauerkraut because, well, 20 was raised by his momma on sauerkraut. (you don’t want to know how often he eats this.) and watermelon…well, every one of our parents loved watermelon. we were our parents – wouldabeen 102, 102 today, 90, 99, still 100 and still 88.
today’s my sweet momma’s birthday. she’s the wouldabeen 102. in the way of grief, the moments sneak up and take me by surprise. suddenly, i am pitched forward into desperately-missing-her from the ever-present missing-her. it doesn’t take much.
it’s the cardinal in the backyard. it’s telling her about the new birdbath. it’s the triumphs i want to share and the failures when i wish for a hug. it’s a cup of tea or morning coffee. it’s early rising or wee-hours-pondering. it’s chicken soup. it’s rye toast. it’s upside-down shampoo bottles. it’s blue eyes. it’s hearing “to thine own self be true”. it’s her “don’t underestimate me”. it’s “i know you can do it”.
younger and he would have already figured out how to get his pride bandana off. but he’s ten today and he’s slowing down a bit, taking things in stride a little bit more, tolerantly allowing for message-filled bandanas and goofy headbands.
our dogga – today – will pretty much dictate what we do on this noisy holiday. he – like so many other pooches – does not appreciate fireworks and it hurts us to see him confused and so bothered by them. we will likely spend time in the basement or succumb to putting the old air conditioner units in the windows – the first time in three years – and turning them on so there is less outside noise coming inside.
i’m not really sure why everyone has to have their own fireworks in their own yards. there are stunningly beautiful displays on the lakefront – up and down lake michigan. sitting on the rocks or at the park you can see them north and south. nevertheless, a whole bunch of neighbors and people in the ‘hood will insist on their own well before the fourth and well after, and a whole bunch of pets will be frightened.
dogdog at ten is different from our dogdog at two or four or six. these days, his wise eyes help us center, steer us away from disagreement, prevent us from a snarky word here or there. we try not to upset the dog. these days, he gets up a little slower, jumps down a little more tentatively, lets us love on him a little longer. we try not to forget we are aging with him.
it is possible that this – the undeniable love we have for our dogs and the desire we have for them to be happy – is a good reason to have them. the simplest pleasures, the slightest touches, a little bit of attention – lessons in relationship. ingredients for a happy dogga.
it’s our second fourth of july without our babycat. it’s the second fourth tripper has had without his babycat. although disturbed by the noise, they would buddy up. somehow, one would reassure the other, telepathically relaying words of comfort, soothing, “we got this”. we know he really misses b-cat. every morning he goes into the kitchen to lay with him – our angel-cat now – in their early-morning-after-breakfast tradition. he’s kept up the ritual. it tugs at us to see him there, in the exact place they would always nap together.
and so – on this holiday – this very noisy holiday – it is to the needs of our beloved dog we will turn. we’ll skip the hoopla, we’ll skip the bedlam at the lakefront, we’ll skip the jockeying for a spot on the grass in the park, we’ll skip the rocks where people set off crackers, we’ll skip the fireworks display.
because what really matters today is celebrating this aussie-dog’s birthday, his unconditional love and care for us, and what we can do to make his day a better day.
we went back to the beach. it was only our third time there but it’s beginning to feel familiar. we know the driftwood to lean back against, the curve in the shoreline where the waves break. the sand is warm, the breeze off the lake is cool; it’s a perfect combination and we’ve brought sandwiches along. we walk with our heads down, searching for hagstones and beach glass. it’s a sanctuary minus the trappings – physical and emotional – one often finds in buildings with sanctuaries.
each rock is intriguing. there are infinite shapes and sizes, rocks of all imagination. i pick up more than i tuck away, but i appreciate the spectrum of diversity and i wonder where they have been before they arrived on this lake michigan shoreline. what’s the story behind each stone, behind the tiny bits of glass, behind the wave-beaten-smooth pieces of brick. each narrative counts.
we brought a book but we didn’t read it. we hadn’t started it yet. we do that later in the day. rebecca makkai’s “the great believers” – a good read for pride month, a profound novel highlighting the aids crisis starting early to mid 1980s. there are places familiar to us in this book – chicago, boystown, door county – we find it easy to immerse as we read aloud. we are transported in time – back to those days of early recognition of this dreadful viral infection. human immunodeficiency virus has not ceased and there are still millions of people with life-threatening and chronic symptoms. there are stories familiar to us in this book – for we are both artists and we both finished our undergrad work in the early 80s. there are people familiar to us in this book – though these are characters, in life they have been our friends and, now, they are the friends of our son, the tight-knit unconditionally-loving LGBTQ community. they are all treasured and unique hagstones and beachglass – gorgeous in human form.
the stash of rocks ended up on the dining room table, all fanned out on its worn surface. they are glorious bits of a stunning day. the stone that looked like a guitar pick with a feather beret cap stayed on the beach. i took it home in my camera instead.
we have plans for the next time. more snacks. maybe swimwear.
we have plans for pride in chicago. more compassion. maybe tie-dye.
we are merely two people walking on a vast beach, among zillions of beautiful rocks of all sorts, zillions of people of all sorts. it’s all familiar. it’s all unfamiliar. but it’s all a sanctuary under one sun.
it doesn’t seem quite possible – this time has flown by.
but 10.
our cherished dogga is beginning to show signs of age…slowing down a bit, sleeping more, not always waiting at the door, but meeting us there as soon as he hears us walk in.
i guess aussies are typically with us for about twelve years, with some maybe as long as somewhere between 13 and 15. if we could vote, we’d vote for one of those, so long as he felt well in those years. because, like you, we know that the next two years will fly by as well. and that just makes us cringe.
the wander-women-thru-hiking-superstars-in-our-book once spoke about their plans for the future. they had downsized and sold off homes, sold off stuff, bought an rv named “biggie mama”, planted it in colorado springs and now travel all over thru-hiking, exploring and adventuring. they talked about their summers, the time of their biggest adventures. last year they were going to bike across the united states, but their plan got waylaid and they decided to set it aside when they felt unsafe on the roads which had no provisions for long-distance bicyclists. they said – not verbatim – that they wanted to use their summers wisely. if they – at around 60 and 65 – had another 20 good summers or so, then they wanted to use them in the happiest of ways, feeling centered and grounded in their plans.
another 20 good summers or so.
that made me stop.
and think.
it made me wonder about my sweet momma and whether she, in the last twenty years of her life, thought about the potential of those last twenty years. she moved on to the air around us at almost-94, so those last twenty years or so started in her 70s.
in her last years i saw momma often. and david met her on nine trips we made in her last eighteen months. they became fast friends. but what about before that? what about in all that time i lived in wisconsin and she lived in florida? i wonder now.
did she think about this tiny fact: because of distance and travel expense and busy schedules and all that life places in our actual and emotional way, that if i had only been able to see her once a year in her last twenty years, she would have only seen me twenty more times.
it’s a sobering thought.
very.
and it applies to all of us. even more so because we don’t have any guarantee about the number of years – or summers – we actually have.
and so, i’m thinking that living like our beloved dogdog: exuberantly happy to see us each time we re-enter the room, full of love and not-even-one grudge for anything we may have done, missing us when we are apart, a curiosity perspective willing to learn any new trick, anxious to be around us simply to be around us – without expectation, eager to go along anywhere we are going, truly unconditional – may be the best way to live ANY amount of time between now and the wind.
apparently, tucked into the dried grasses next to breck-the-aspen-sapling and surrounded by fallen leaves and mulch, the mama bunny tended the nest for about a week. it was the first time we had had a bunny in the backyard. squirrels and chippies and many birds and even a fox, but no bunnies.
there was a day we saw the bunny for the first time. she hopped and scooched under the deck, hiding. we saw her at the base of the birdfeeder, munching. and we saw her nibbling on the green sprouting up around barney.
and then, there was the day we realized that this bunny, that hopped to and fro in our yard, especially around dawn and dusk -scooting away from dogga and under the back fence – was building a nest. we didn’t see her leap a binky into the air – all four paws off the ground – but we imagine she must have been about-that-happy.
and then, the day we peeked under the grasses to see two tiny bunnies scrunched together, their little bunny-bodies breathing quickly, rising and falling, rising and falling. life is amazing, isn’t it? we went on high alert for these sweet little babies and, for the next week or more, mostly went out with dogdog to be sure they were safe.
and then, the day that i looked out the back windows behind our metal frame headboard and saw a tiny bunny hopping along the fence and heard a noise. i ran through the house and out the back door to see dogga carrying one of the bunnies in his mouth. he dropped the kit, who scampered off unraveled, as soon as i said “drop it!” so i was relieved. but still. i felt a sense of parenthood for these tiny creatures. “keep them safe” became my mantra. i celebrated their little lives and kept tiny pompoms close at hand as they left the nest and went to explore the world.
it’s impossible to keep your children safe. you do the very best you can while they are in your care – growing up – but they go to school, to sports, to music lessons, to playdates, to after-school jobs, to stores and concerts and parties. you can’t be all those places, so you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit. they begin to drive and you have to learn how to let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then, they go to college maybe or move out maybe or both. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. and then they move away and your heart breaks and soars, both – even though you will only talk about the soaring – even though they know the breaking part. and you let go a teeny-weeny bit more. ahhh. it’s not easy, is it?
our daughter drove across the country last week. from the east coast to the mountain west. by herself in ivy, her suv. i remember my sweet momma calling me as i drove long-distance, alone. i both loved it and didn’t love it. i tried to remember this as my beloved daughter drove, not wanting to be annoying, as is so easy to do. i sent her texts cheering her on and held big space for her as she traveled. she was constantly on my mind. i know she knows that. “keep her safe,” i implored the universe. (and how many times have we all said that about our children, i wonder.)
she arrived without harm or incident, like the bunnies running along the back fence and zipping underneath. i am grateful. i can only keep her close in-heart.
and each and every day – my mantra for my girl and my boy is the same – “keep them safe”. my pompoms are at easy access as they explore the world. they are all-grown-up. the nest is empty but i quietly binky – like ecstatic bunnies – every day thinking of them.
at the front corner of my growing-up yard on long island was a forsythia bush. and many years, at the march of my birthday, i remember having my picture taken there. home. spring. there are few things that make me think of Home like forsythia does.
except for maybe the voice of my beloved daughter on the phone. she is forsythia for me. for just moments or for an extended conversation or – if i am fortunate – in person together, the sound of her voice, her zeal, is Home.
and except for watching the way my beloved son immerses himself in his music. his hands – now all-grown-up man-hands – moving dials and sliders, his voice and body dancing, his explanations – it’s forsythia for me. Home.
and except for the look across the room from david – the moment he touches his hand to his chest while in his gaze – forsythia. Home.
and dogga – at the door with his angel-babycat greeting me – thrilled, once again, to see us. forsythia. Home.
and the love and care and concern that are abundant in our lives – our family, our friends. forsythia. Home.
and the work we have chosen to do – create – music, paintings, many-many words, cartoons. forsythia. Home.
if the price tag had not read $9.99, i would have purchased this tiny stake sign. but, at that very moment, despite the it-made-me-pick-it-up marketing, $9.99 seemed a tad bit high for a five inch tall sign. still, ridiculously cute.
our sunroom is filled with plants – everything from an exploding ponytail palm to stalwart tiny cactus twins “the dots”, to charlie, the heart-shaped leaf philodendron to snakeinthegrass sansevieria to kc, my difficult bonsai gardenia. kc is my problem plant-child. i mist kc, i use distilled water, i have fed it and keep the bottom tray filled with moisture, i turn it to face the sun. despite my attempts to have conversation, to really share life – for i talk to it every single day – kc is stubborn. next i will seek specific bonsai gardenia plant food – there are several options online. i’ll probably do some research to really determine the proper way to nurse this treasured plant back to good health. i’m not sure where i went wrong and it means so much to me that kc will be healthy and will grow – unfettered and with wild abandon. my relationship with this tiny plant has become a challenge.
you would think, had i purchased the tiny sign, that i would have placed it in one of the burgeoning clay planters. there’s a posse of plants responding to being nurtured. you would think that the e.s.p. of choice might be one that is flourishing.
but it’s not so. i, for sure, would have placed the stake into kc’s pot. for this plant – despite its complexity – is dear to me and is most definitely my emotional support plant. kc is a tiny slice of real life, a little unrooted, a little nutritionally off. when i got it, there were two buds on it. they never opened and, instead, fell to the dirt. my nurturing is not quite right yet. something is not quite right. feeling a little defeated, i keep trying to figure it out.
one of these days, i hope, i will walk into the sunroom and a tiny bud will have formed. and then – the day it begins to slowly blossom – i will know that i have done something right, something that touched it, something that let this little plant know its cherished place in my heart. its bloom will open and i will know that kc is ready and present – with me.
in the meanwhile, i will just keep on keeping on, trying to be steady and, just off to the sidelines, giving it unconditional love. i’m trying to be patient and let it do its own thing, while i quietly do everything in my heart to support it. i am rooting for this bonsai every day and i know that the bloom that will someday come will be inordinately beautiful, exquisite in every way.
that babycat would be 14 today. it’s an unofficial birthday because he just showed up and no one was there to tell us all about his birth, about the litter of kittens he was from, about his momma or his papa. february 28 was the day chosen for him and we celebrated it – and him – each year.
it’s been almost two years since he became an angel-cat. and, in the way that our sweet pets profoundly impact us, we miss him every day. our babycat had a big presence in our home and lives. he still does.
i just read an article about love written by neuroscientist Stephanie Cacioppo in which she reminded the reader that it indeed is “better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all”. all love. including our amazing animals, i’d insist.
though his own life was not nearly as long as i wished it to be, babycat saved mine. his tiny heart in the universe changed me.
roller-coaster-soap-opera-never-a-dull-moment-ever-changing life gifts us with people along the way.
some of them are in it – with us, as it’s said, for a season. we fill each other’s cups with the companionship of friends or loved ones, but time has a way of placing itself between people and proximity of place or heart push at the ability to spend time. schedules and responsibilities and changes interrupt the flow together and we drift.
some people are in it – with us – for specific reasons. they are colleagues, they are universe-drop-ins who walk alongside as we grow and evolve, in our work, on a walk we have chosen, a trail we have been set upon. they stop at waysides as we travel on and we lose touch.
others are just there. they may be constant companions; they may be in-and-out. but, whenever we wish or they wish, they are there and we are there. they ride the coaster with us, laugh with us, ponder with us, cry with us, get pissed with us, celebrate with us. we share stories, we share the truth, we share disappointments, challenges, impossible summits. it can be weeks, months, years and it is just as easy. they are touchstones in our lives and, likely, always will be. we spend time together and time apart, but they are never far away. they are our posse. and we could not do life without them.
we stopped on the trail and i sat on a bench, pulling off the boots that were making my feet beyond sore. jen offered her socks; she offered her boots. instead of rendering her shoe or sock-less, i used her bandaids. we loaded up my feet with bandaids and i didn’t tie the boots, clomping through a few miles in the snow, curling my toes to keep them from falling off. i whined about it and i apologized for whining about it. and i promised that next week – in our next hike – i would wear different boots. two times hiking in these was enough. we talked about feet most of the way back, for there is not much we won’t discuss – at length. brad yawned through my health insurance rant, but he listened intently anyway. we cheered with dark beer and brandy-old-fashioned-sweets at a neighborhood bar next to the railroad tracks. we made plans and talked about life and the previous week, another episode in the sitcoms and serial drama miniseries of our lives. right there, listening and caring. there.
we’ll have snacks at happy hour – though it will be followed shortly by a huge dinner together. but we all love to eat and the up-north gang does it well. we’ll talk about everything under the sun and we’ll laugh. nothing is off the table as we all age together, listing the things we are concerned about. we are an all-inclusive in-service about all that stuff, comparing notes, making recommendations, giving advice. it’s totally reassuring. we know who to call if – any time of day or night – there is water in the basement or if the tv antenna falls or if we need new tires or a pair of glasses. there. they are right there.
the perch a couple nights ago was done to perfection, as were the potatoes and cabbage slabs. 20 was in his glory; his wheelhouse includes fishhhh (as he says it) and cabbage. we eat together twice a week. every week. we take turns cooking and every meal includes wine and chocolate. he goes way back – 30 years almost – and his presence is a rock for us. through thick and thin he has remained steady. we keep track of the week by our mondays and thursdays together. there.
and there are those people – who can call on the phone from far away or across town – and with whom we can pick up as if no time has passed. we can laugh about the seinfeld episodes of mutual time, we can pine for time spent, we can rue how quickly time has passed. the thing we know – no matter what – is that they – and we – are there. whether we see them or not, no matter if it has been a long while, these people are always part of the very fabric of our lives and they are vital. they remember who we were, how we changed, what we went through. they know the gumption it took to get us to where we are now. they recognize us. they are from our elementary schools, our high schools, our colleges, our first jobs, our professional ladder rungs along the way. they are the people we met on airplanes, while shopping, at tennis tournaments, across the street. they are random and superbly unique and we celebrate meeting them – wherever it was. they are in our mind’s eye standing aside us through it all, whether in person or in spirit. their souls entwine with ours.
and then there are the beloveds. people whose dna is connected to ours in some way, people whose curve-of-face resembles ours, whose expressions we know by heart, without whom we would never be who we are. they are scattered, too, around the world and, though we wish – yearn – to see them often and more often, it is not so. nevertheless, they hold the prime spots in our hearts and are always right there, a breath away. our families.
so many chances to love, to feel love. so much time spent together. so much gratitude on the coaster.
“my do!!!!” he insisted. there is nothing like a two-year old insisting – with all his might – that he will do it himself. he is extremely capable – strong, smart, wily. somehow you forget how much energy a tiny child has…it just goes on and on and on until it suddenly stops and sweet sleep takes over. amazing stuff. my little great-nephew’s curiosity is divine and his giggle contagious. his stubbornness makes me laugh, but mostly because i can stand back and watch his momma and daddy handle it. their turn. and i am thrilled for them.
even though he was figuring out how to climb the jungle gym in the playground, we were there to spot him. as he learned, our hands were firm, guiding him. as he figured it out, our hands were lighter, still there, but just poised and ready. much like all of parenthood, i’m figuring out. you hold on tightly, then just firmly, then lightly, then you let go, but you are poised and ready. and, just like j, they don’t turn around to see if you are there. they just keep climbing the jungle gym steps, anxious to get to the slide, anxious to explore the rest, anxious to play with the other kids. you are simply the spotter. somewhat invisible but always there.
at the end of the days there – with this marvelous two year old – we were really tired. his spurty focus of energy staccatoed our day as well and, now that my own children are grown-up adults, was something not as familiar to us. our days are more linear with less punctuation, if you will.
but i laid awake at night anyway. i rambled through thoughts of the days when my daughter and my son were little ones with “i do” on their lips. it brought me to places i remembered clearly and places that had slipped into corners of my memory. i missed them and wished that thirty years ago cellphones had had cameras and the ability to make videos. carrying around the 35mm camera and the vhs/8mm videocameras was cumbersome; today’s parents have so many ways to remember every single thing that happens.
my niece and i talked about how motherhood has changed everything. and i told her that will never change.
she will always – now – wake thinking about this little person. and she will always – now – go to sleep with him on the blink of her eyes. she will hold tightly and then firmly and then lightly and then – in achingly beautiful and hard moments – she will let go.
but she will always be his spotter, visible or invisible, noticed or not. he may not turn around to see her there, but she’ll be there.
reverse threading 