Beautiful

We are on vacation, and life is... beautiful.








~b










~a

White

Most of the time I was the lone child in a house of old people, but a few times a year there were cousins. And aunts. And uncles. Once both uncles came to visit for a cook-out wearing white. All white - pants, shirts, maybe even their shoes. Both dressed all in white without having planned a color scheme. One was visiting from California, the other lived only half an hour away but far enough that visits were occasions. The two uncles grew up together in that same house. They were boys who occupied the attic where their parents rarely ventured, where decades later you could still trace evidence carved in the short walls: so-and-so loves so-and-so. They were boys who rode motorcycles with kittens tucked into their leather jackets, who teased their younger sister, my mother, far past the point of tears. They were boys who drove their father to loud anger and their mother to sweet exasperation (familiar). One of the uncles died a dozen years ago. I think of him when L scrounges through my jewellery box and holds up a certain necklace or a certain ring and asks "Can I have this?" and I say, "Not until I'm dead." My uncle made those, I'm going to keep them. I think of him when I make iced coffee. Which is almost every day in this soporific heat. That's a moment of him I remember: in his kitchen making iced coffee to bring with him on the drive back to the house we both grew up in, different lifetimes. His, I'm not sure, but I make mine overly sweet with lots of cold, white cream.
~a



This has been the Week of Imperative Goodbyes. We have hugged friends leaving for extended vacations, relocating, and visiting relatives. One family, four dear sweet friends, are headed to New Zealand and Beijing before making their way to Oxford for the next year. Our parting was extremely tearful. Today we took T to camp for the next two weeks. I shouldn't be sad; he's juggling, clowning, dressing up and having the time of his life at Circus Camp. Still, I approach each farewell armed with a handful of tissues. These bundles eventually find their way into pockets of shirts, shorts and skirts. On Friday at the laundromat we were greeted with a surprise - a few overlooked tissues. M shook out the wet clothes and scattered the remains over the floor. He remarked that it somehow put him in the mood for singing a few carols. Indeed, this Faux Snow brought a smile to my face. Yet I find I am in dire need of a Jane Austen hero right now. Perhaps extending me the offer of a crisp white handkerchief; for these longings and certain turns of events have left me full of sadness and distress.
~b

River

When I was a kid I spent hours rowing our neighbors' dock. Which never moved. The dock was held fast to the river bank with four fairly solid posts, but I rowed like hell towards whatever destination I'd decided upon. And then I stopped to fish for clams. You fish for clams by laying on your belly and peeping over the side of the dock with a stick held ready; when you spot a slight gap in the mud - a mouth waiting for easy breakfast - that's where you shove your stick. The clam will clamp. Lift it out of the water - slowly, slowly - and pry out the stick to use on the next victim. It's an art, and at ten I was a master. And then I'd row myself home, full of clams, smarting with sunburn, singing loudly over the sound of water passing by. I've visited that dock a few times since sauntering through the invisible gate of adulthood, and every time I'm distracted from conversation by the wispy layers of years that slide and tease with memory and potential. We don't all get to visit a place that was once vital and purely created by our child selves. I'm lucky. But also I'm wistful. That girl was always certain of her destination, even when she had none, and firmly confident in her ability to row that dock far enough and fast enough. Not since age ten has my ego been so intact.
~a




M and I met sixteen years ago when we lived in Pittsburgh. The three rivers defined that city - the Ohio, Monogahela and Allegheny - and our routes to our respective bookstore jobs. Moving to Vermont we found ourselves in the midst of another three: the White, Connecticut and Ompompanoosuc. Our first house here had a tributary of the river running near our backyard. There were stone steps leading down to it, and the thaw always caused it to overflow and rage like a wildman. It was so loud you could hear it rushing past when you were in the bedroom; it meant that Spring had truly arrived. I automatically look for the nearest body of water whenever we view houses we may be interested in buying. A few years ago a friend in a nearby town was selling her house. The most attractive feature was that it abutted the river, and the bedroom had full glass doors that could be opened wide. In just a few short steps you were in the water. There was even a boulder with a space worn away by time and pressure - a perfect spot to sit and read. I dream of it still. The most wonderful aspect of the Green House we almost bought was the view of the river. I found it breathtaking and tried to imagine my writing desk in a place that would allow me that view while I worked. The train tracks in the backyard were less desirable, but surely worth the trouble. Alas, we'll never know. Someday there will be a house and with luck a nearby stream or brook. This is on my list of Must-haves and Cannot Be Compromised. When I am near water I feel my heart searching, the blood coursing through my veins in sync with the flow of water. Rushing, sometimes slowing, never stopping, ever onward.
~b

Wish

Loose eyelashes, striped stones, dandelion puffs, fountain coins and birthday candles; the list of wish-upons in my family seems endless. We are not ones to let the chance for something good slip by us. Serendipitously, this week I came across a book on the library cart that details the way in which children around the world make their wishes. On kites, stirring porridge, throwing flowers and hair combs into the sea - each country has their own tradition. Soon children in Japan will be tying their wishes to bamboo at the Star Festival held each year on July 7th. We recently celebrated several birthdays in our family. I wrapped up a year's worth of good thoughts into the paper, ribbon and handmade cards. I love birthdays and always enjoy the ritual of the wrapping. I don't know if the recipient is aware of the good tidings I'm sending, but I know that they are there. This past weekend's celebration was extra special, capped off with an evening of fireworks. My favorites are the ones that remind me of a dandelion puff - warm and fuzzy, yet sparkly and fizzy as they brilliantly streak across the sky. Each time I see one, I close my eyes and silently offer up a wish: that next year we will all still be together, a little older, (some of us) a little taller; with the warm air enveloping us, the cool grass below, faces tilted up to the iridescent show in the sky.
~b



I posed the question to a carload of captive kids: "If someone gave you three wishes, what would you wish for?" B: "Go that way!" (He hasn't quite gotten the grasp of contemplation of the hypothetical.) L: "I would wish to be able to fly, and I would wish to be an airplane whenever I wanted. And...nothing else." T: "Well, first I would wish for the entire world, including me, to be poor. And then I'd wish that everyone was, you know, more nice." T's wish for global poverty caught my attention more quickly than than the fact they each made two wishes when the instructions called for three, perhaps because most of the imaginary wishes I've squandered have more to do with gaining in net worth than losing. I wish for all the bills to be paid without impressive effort on my part. I wish for enough money to pay off our house, and our parents' houses, and the houses of close friends and relatives, with maybe enough left over to rent a wee cottage on the shores of some large body of water, somewhere. But really, T's way makes more sense. If nobody had any money, we could all quit worrying about it and share whatever we've grown in the garden. Because it turns out money is a lot like wishes: when we have it, we waste it; we tend to dwell too often in the fantasy; even if we do have it - money or a wish - it can disappear in the briefest moment, like a bubble popped by the reaching hand.
~a