Citizen

T is a cub scout. T was born a cub scout. The checklists, the parades, the vows of effort, duty and faith - the whole process appeals to his acute sense of order and justice. When he first brought home the brochure - pictures of grinning boys in wooded settings, hanging from ropes and lugging canoes - he slapped it on the dining room table and asked, "Can I do this?" And I winced. I've nothing against camping. Or even weekly meetings. And I'm happy to go for a six-mile Family Fun Hike in the cold rain. But BSA is notorious for being unfriendly toward certain...types. The gay type. The atheist type. And I like to think we foster a sense of inclusion in our family. But when your oldest son looks excited about uniforms and derby races, you make some room in your schedule, you recalibrate your moral compass, to gather with members of an organization that won't allow some of your friends to join. You let go of the worry that another cub scout will notice your permanent absence in church, that your son will overhear a predatory remark. Instead we offer our time, we show up to meetings, we give rides to kids who need rides. Mostly the people we meet at cub scouts are like us, only with more church. We all want our children to learn, love, overcome fear, and find their way, to become good citizens and great people. If I had said no to T that day he asked to be a cub scout, I'd have been basing my judgement on politics and fear; instead we'll be open and learn. And we'll go camping.
~a




Summer for us has a certain rhythm and tempo different from the rest of the year. Unlike our friends who dust off their passports and visit other countries, we often stick close to home. In July we always venture north to take part in a camp that's located in the community where we used to live. T has been going since he was 5 years old and I often lend a hand in the kitchen, making grilled cheeses for the masses. This is the fourth year T's also gone to sleepaway circus camp. There he juggles and clowns to his heart's content. Often towards the end of summer we plan to attend one of the local Circus Smirkus performances. We've been to see them in Burlington and Montpelier, but this year we wanted to see the final performance in Greensboro. T and I made plans to meet M there for the first Sunday show. Due to unforeseen circumstances we arrived late and ended up rushing into the tent, only to be seated in the back. I was furious. I couldn't see the kids performing and I didn't feel like clapping for anyone. Instead I sat and silently fumed. Then came intermission and the chance to sit on the ground with the little kids for the second half. I felt all my anger slipping away as I watched the jugglers, aerialists, kids tumbling and riding unicycles. After the show ended I wandered outside, a movement caught my eye and caused me to look up. Somehow I had never noticed the flags around the outside of the Big Top. Several countries were represented, which made perfect sense. In the years that we've been going, we've seen kids from Spain, France, Poland and Mongolia perform. When they get in the ring, though, it's their talent that shines, not their nationality. After many weeks together, I'm sure these kids feel as if they were in their own country, one where race, gender, age and background don't matter. No wonder people want to run away and join the circus. Too bad we can't take up permanent residence there. It's rather like a good book or special place in your mind's eye, we're happy to immerse ourselves while we can, pleased to have the opportunity to visit. No matter how we enter the tent, we always leave smiling - eager to be good citizens and stewards, spreading the whimsical word of the circus to those who haven't yet heard of this magical land.
~b

Rough

Last week B got his first splinter. "My foot HURT," he said. I was washing dishes, cooking dinner, sipping wine, and trying to explain the concept of infinity to an eight year old who is pretty sure he already knows everything anyway. "Poor foot," I answered. I bent down and brushed the top of his foot with my lips; usually a Mommykiss is the best first defense. But no. "MY FOOT HURT!" he calmly explained again. I took a better look and there it was, a sliver of wood piercing the tender skin of his still-new arch. This called for tweezers. B was patient. He likes tools, and tweezers count. As a reward for patience and stillness he got to play with them and thus they are missing. Our new porch, not yet two years old, delivers few splinters. Our old porch was infamous for its poor treatment of bare feet; I got quite adept at pulling out bits of it from the pink skin of sleeping babies. The roof of our garage has gone the opposite way, rougher instead of smoother. Ten years ago M threw several pieces of stale bread onto the shingles for the birds - that bread has decayed into patches of lichen in which the birds show no interest. Enough grass grows up through the cracks to make me think of mowing and those asphalt shingles sport more and more jagged canyons every year. We all do. Some parts grow smooth, some rough. Smooth: finding a hot cup of coffee on the kitchen counter made by the man who got up earliest. Rough: being woken several times during the night by two different children. All we can do is be patient and still and hope we can find the right tools.
~a



Years ago I worked for a short time at a small publisher. I was there over the holiday season and I remember a co-worker telling us the story of shopping with her boyfriend for a present for his children who were now living with his ex-wife. They decided upon a rock tumbler for the boy. Turns out that a gift such as this is quite loud and it runs continuously. (This part may have spoken with the teensiest hint of glee.) Needless to say, the toy was relegated to the garage where it could do its work in solitude. I often think of it out there, tumbling and tumbling, making the rough edges smooth; only to be opened later to reveal a tiny treasure. Come to think of it, the loudness shouldn't have been such a surprise; making something smooth is never simple or even quiet. Rough hands, rough drafts, rough patches - they all take hard work and discipline to get through. There is much construction in our town at the moment, most of it involving the creation of a sidewalk that spans most of downtown. It's a project that has been going on for quite a while, from idea to sketch to near-completion. I'm longing for the day when I can ride my bike from the library to the park, the smooth, unbroken surface under my tires stretching out in front of me clear and unobstructed. If only difficult times in our lives came with warning signs. Caution, rough patch ahead. It wouldn't matter for some of us, we'd just keep plunging ahead. It's true: often the only way out is through.
~b

Window

This past week has been restorative, and magical in ways I couldn't even have begun to imagine before we arrived. There has been much reading, writing, knitting, napping, biking, chatting and walking on the beach. I'm writing this on our last day here on this beautiful island. I think what I will miss most are the windows. They let in the wind, the sounds of geese, children laughing and the waves crashing in the distance. And the view of the sky and the water below, it's enough to make you catch your breath, repeatedly. I think Frank Lloyd was “wright” when he set about designing and building houses, the best should be a part of Nature not in opposition to it. The windows here make me feel as if I am connected to everything going on outside of the house. There are 30 windows in this house-- I counted cause I was curious-- and the view out of each is memorable. One evening I ran upstairs to the upstairs bathroom to catch a better view of the sunset. After fiddling with the screen and leaning as far as I could go, I caught it; at least enough to remind me of it when I gaze at these photos in the years to come. When I get home I want to be able to conjure up the view from our diningroom table whenever I need it most: flowers swaying, birds flying, bunnies hopping, swans swimming and the slow steady movement of the water calling me home. Now close your eyes, can you see it...
~b



My room at the beach had bars on its window. To keep people out, to keep people in? Whether it was the bars, the lack of distraction beyond flitting birds and curious wild bunnies, or the wish to not waste this unexpected gift of wide-open time, I did stay in my room, quite a lot, and finished a project I've been working on for six. damn. years. When I started this project L was an infant, we still had Bay, Baba and Tupelo, and writing time was devoted exclusively to my own files. Now there are three little boys, new horses and dogs, plenty of freelance work to take precedence, and the ever-present whisper "never going to finish" ghosting in my ears. But I did. I finished. And then I looked out the window and said hello to the spider. And goodbye to the house where I had felt peaceful for a week. Goodbye to reading on the chaise lounge with a glass of wine, watching the shadow of the house spread over the porch, over me, over the yard. Goodbye to leaning against one of the many windows while drops of rain streamed down, close but unfelt. Goodbye to the view above the sink which made the dish washing painless and fast. Goodbye to my own characters I've lived with for six years who know the importance of the sea air and the sound of the ocean.
~a

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