Square

 

 

 

If Life really is a game, then I need to get a clue on the best way to play. Sometimes I think it’s not, but then other times I wonder. I tell myself that everything is going to be fine, then when I least expect it, we run into a spate of trouble that sends us reeling backwards. Sadly I’m the type of person that becomes consumed with worrying how we’re ever going to get ahead. (Will we ever buy a house, adopt a baby, raise some chickens?!?) Occasionally luck shines down upon us with good fortune, and then the money leaves our hands just as quickly. A pay raise at work will surely mean a car repair will spring up out of nowhere and suddenly become necessary. It’s hard not to feel as if it’s all a game of chance; for no matter how hard you try, you never really know what the day will bring. It all depends on the roll of the dice.
 

Too often I try to look out far on the horizon to see what’s coming. I’d like to gain some perspective and get a sense of what lies ahead. When I’m in despair I crane my neck to get a better view, wishing I could know how far we are from a goal or some sort of end spot. When we reach that space, it’s always a reason for a celebration. (We take them wherever we can get them, including half birthdays and first date anniversaries.) If only there was some secret knowledge that could be passed along so that I could keep my footing even while climbing that ladder and somehow avoid falling down a chute. Such a fall can be devastating, causing us to have to pick everything up and start all over again. It’s happened enough times now, that I’ve become proud of my resiliency and stubbornness. That which does not kill us… In spite of it all, I’d much rather be here than not. Each day I’m just moving my piece along, and maybe looking for a little peace as well. Most mornings I just try to wake up and be happy with the square I landed on.

~b

Cards to a Charley Harper memory game.
Living room table where we eat together and never quite fit. But we make do.
Frame. Empty.
Hole (round peg).
Picassoey side of T's Rubik's Cube.
Window.
Desktop. Not really a desk. A small table on which my laptop rests. Where I work, except when I work in the car.
Scrabble board. A possession for which I'd return to a burning house. 
Stovetop.
Cabinet doors. Mostly decorated with stickers.
Frame. Which encompasses a photo of a typewriter and the words: Real writers really write. A reminder that there is work to do.
Block of painted wood. White.
CD cases. Most of which haven't been opened in a decade.
Meals.
Homemade book from Michigan beach trip when T was one year old and L was nowhere in sight. And B was even further away.
Wedding invitation hanging by the door. A reminder, when we go out into the world, that someone is on our side.
~a

Next week's word: Butter

City

Most of what I know of cities comes from books.  I suppose this is what books are for: exposure to places (and people, and things) that we've had little chance to see for ourselves.  Unless you count Atlanta; I lived in Atlanta for a couple of years.  Plus a few summers.  But Atlanta is a city only if cities are defined by long highways static with traffic, and constant air conditioning, and radios stolen from Jeeps.  There must have been good things about Atlanta.  I do recall with a warm feeling a movie theater that played not-new movies and a used bookstore right beside it perfect for wasting the half hour or so before the not-new movies started.  And I once had an amazing brunch at a restaurant on Peachtree St.  But, jeez, the roaches?  The smell of garbage in the summer?  The careful blankness of almost every face?  I remember Atlanta as a place waiting to sneer at me.

When I was 18 I was pretty sure that New York City was where I was supposed to end up.  Instead I went to western Mass.  And then Atlanta.  And then New Hampshire, where my road is dirt and I know nearly every car that passes the house.  This morning a guy named Dave who lived in his truck for a while and rarely wears a shirt when it's warm turned up at our door at 7:30 with two fish he'd caught on a fishing trip with his dad.  This is not a guy you'd mistake for someone with a retirement account, but there he was, bearing fish.  Does this happen in cities?  It must.  Maybe not with fish, but with something, right?  Like, art work?  Fine wine?  Country mice and city mice can't be that different. 

Maybe when I'm gray and creaky I'll move to a city and shock my poor children, who'll worry about me riding the subways alone and climbing all those stairs to my apartment.  I'll be one of those women who brandishes her cane whenever she feels the hint of threat, who carries mace in each coat pocket and calls the police at least once a week to report a suspicious stranger on the fire escape.  More likely I'll be oblivious to even the obvious dangers.  Probably I'll find myself wedged in an open manhole within hours of my arrival.  Because I'll be looking up at all the concrete mountains instead of down at the street.

L'Engle's New York, Byatt's London, Fox's New Orleans - these are the cities I want to see.  The real places have always been pastel in comparison whenever I've had the chance to visit.  But so have corresponding countrysides.  I'd like to vow that next time I visit a city I'll discard all those expectations bred from literary sampling.  But I've read too much.  I've gone too far.  Those two-dimensional cities are bound forever to their real-life counterparts.  I'm a country mouse at heart, but I do plan on more visits to bustling cities where food can delivered to your door (swoon) once my babies aren't quite so attached to my legs.  Because it's awful difficult to slip through a subway turnstile with boys hanging from your waist.
~a

Driving down to Boston a few weeks ago, my friend was in the passenger seat navigating. She consulted the map, advised me to turn at the stoplight, not knowing we would be going the wrong way down a one way street. I waited for the cars to pass and then quickly turned us around. She marveled at my calm exterior and remarked that I had my City Face on. I knew just what she meant. Somehow entering an area with tall buildings, a place with many people passing by on the streets, traffic and an industrial hum in the air, just arouses something inside of me. Another self I didn’t know existed.

When I worked in the World Trade Center there were definitely times I needed my City Arms. Arms to hold my pregnant self steady as the bus rounded a corner. And many muscles were often needed to lug the new baby up four flights of stairs to our attic apartment while carrying groceries or laundry. As a firsttime mom I couldn’t ever bring myself to leave him alone, so he traveled down with me each time, while I grabbed another bag or basket for the return trip up. Now that he’s taller than I am, I often wish for those days when he was small enough to fit into a car seat.

Visiting Venice required City Feet. My friend and I were only there for a day, but we made the most of it. We spent the morning walking every street and crossing each bridge multiple times in search of a certain man who made tiny glass animals. We finally found him, then we walked around trying to decide on the perfect place for lunch and then spent the afternoon looking for a glass ring. When I laid my eyes on that particular shade of cobalt blue I knew I had found the one. At day’s end, we walked back to the train station and headed out for the next adventure.

I’ve only been to Paris once, but it was a week I will always remember. The moment I set foot in the city, I was instantly reminded of my time living in New York. It was much more urban than I had ever imagined. All of that time spent lovingly poring over pictures in books and magazines, I felt like I knew what to expect. Yet it’s not gallery or a collection of places just quietly waiting for someone to notice them. Paris is a vibrant, light filled, densely populated place. There is an intensity there that I miss living here in Vermont. It may be that when I visited, I left some of my City Heart behind. Maybe someday I’ll go back and claim it.

To be honest, there is something about all cities that I love. People living side by side, and a diversity of population that is lacking here. In a city most of what one needs for day-to-day living can be found within walking distance. Tiny shops like the aptly name “Just Rugelach” are right outside your office window. Tall, tall buildings created from an architect’s vision soar into the sky. Often they are a testament to the men who painstakingly built them up from nothing.  I think what I miss most about living there is the chance to walk down the busy sidewalks  while keeping my eyes directed upward-- not looking down for fear of missing a graceful cornice or a unique window.

When I worked in New York I once went with some friends to the very top of our building. It is one of my very fondest memories. We made or way through a small (I like to think secret) passageway to gaze out at the city and the lights below. We were so high I’m sure we could have almost reached out and touched the clouds.
~b

Next week's word: Square

Tobacco

My father’s parents lived near us, a short jaunt up the road. Because of our proximity to them and because my grandmother couldn’t seem to cook a meal for just two, we spent a great deal of time there. My mother’s parents lived several towns over, and we visited them about once a month. We often went on a Sunday to sit around the dining room table and catch up what had happened since we last saw each other. Most of the year we were served hot tea, which included an ice cube for the little ones. There was always toast with butter and jam, though sometimes we stayed for dinner.

My mother had several sisters who lived nearby, but their brother lived several states away. It was always a special occasion when he came to visit, bringing with him his wife and two daughters. Each time he came was like a reenactment of the prodigal son returning home. Given that my grandfather was a dairy farmer, there may have been the slaughtering of the fatted calf, but I have most likely blocked those scenes from my memory. These cousins were a little older than I was but we shared so much in common that I thought of them as sisters. Being the oldest in a family of girls, it was fun to pretend to be a younger sibling. Having them come to stay was a real treat and after dinner we would “retire to the sitting room.” This was a special room behind the kitchen that was rarely ever used. The rest of the time the couches just seemed to be there with their starched pillows silently begging for someone to sit on them. Sadly it wasn’t even an option, lest you run the risk of not being allowed to run around outside with the cousins. At that age I would much rather climb a tree then sit on a prissy, doily covered couch.

But when my uncle came to town we always gathered in that room to hear of all the latest adventures. I remember sitting on the floor amongst the cousins, all eyes and ears focusing as one. In my mind he is a great storyteller, much like an explorer arriving home with tales of foreign lands, plants and spices. Before he started he would always fill his pipe with tobacco and smoke it as he went along. I remember the smell and being rich and earthy, somewhat sweet even. He spoke eloquently, of what I can’t recall, but we hung on every word.

I can’t imagine how this scene would play out today. The world has gotten smaller and people have the opportunity to stay in contact in ways that weren’t possible years ago. And ironically if I saw someone smoking a pipe, I would certainly head the other way--I would surely cough from the smoke and the speaker’s words would be lost. I guess my lungs aren’t what they used to be. Still it is the ritual of these events that I miss the most. Letter writing, filling a pipe or making the pilgrimage to a relative’s house, they all carry with them a sense of tradition. There is a certain way of carrying out that action that can only be replicated intentionally and thoughtfully, with a particular mindset and mindfulness. These memories and others from my childhood patiently sit and wait for me to notice their beauty. I occasionally take them out and share them with others. Some are polished from so much use, I touch them often like beads on a necklace. Others are almost half-forgotten, buried in the muck until something triggers their ascension to the surface. As tarnished as an old tin, they are waiting for the day I take them out and hold them to the light for everyone to see.
~b




When I was eight years old I wanted to be Ramona Quimby. Remember Ramona, from Beverly Cleary's books?  Boisterous, outspoken, brave, annoying, insatiable...  I've always been more like her big sister Beezus - responsible, contemplative, cautious. Ahem, boring. But I'm no fool. Ramona is where it's at. So I taped a Ramona name tag to my shirt and started begging for tin-can stilts. But our house was low on tin cans. Didn't my parents drink coffee? Didn't we recycle back then? Anyway, I found a couple of plastic tubs that worked find, except they collapsed around my eight-year-old feet and turned into a kind of leg trap that was difficult to get out of. And the noise on the pavement was tamer than it might've been with tin. But I was happy. I was just like Ramona, except my hair was long. Except that I never talked back to adults. Except that in my family there was one girl and hers had three.

The plastic tubs, before they became my tin-can stilts, held my grandfather's tobacco. He smoked a pipe - you'd never see him without a pipe. He smoked while he watched the Solid Gold dancers on the television, while he drove, while he painted at the picnic table in the backyard under the maple trees that made our world cool even while the rest of the world boiled in July heat. I can't tell you the name of the tobacco. The tubs it came in were white with black lettering. There may have been a picture of an old English cobblestone street. I used these same tubs to make paper mache pumpkins with a babysitter. Stranded bolts and nails wound up in these tubs and were forgotten on ancient windowsills in the big red barn. Grandpa's tobacco tubs ran their own highly successful breeding program and as a result we were never for want of a container.  Who needs tin cans?

What I could use these tobacco tubs for now: toys, compost, pens, dog food bowls, tomato plants. Tin can stilts.
~a

Hammer

Every year the fair comes to our town, just like in Charlotte's Web.  There are some differences: there aren't any animals.  The pickup trucks parked in the dirt are  - most of them - built after 1990.  But the smells, the sounds, the expression on kids' faces - these are lasting images of the fair that I don't imagine have changed much since the 1940s.

This year we were minus a boy - T spent the weekend with his grandparents, one boy alone with all that love - his birthday gift.  Back in New Hampshire, two kids and two parents equals an easy outing; I'm always shocked by the difference it makes, having a one-on-one ratio.  I took L to the bungy jumping trampoline thingy while M took B on the rearing motorcycles.  Well, tried to take B - who was having none of it.  Four rides attempted, four rides that had to be stopped so hysterical B could be plucked from the carousel horse/miniature train/motorcycle/honking car.  He did make it through the fun house, though there a few tense moments in the clanging forest of metal bars and I had to carry him through the great spinning wheel.  And he found the huge yellow slide to be just fine, as long as he could ride in Daddy's lap.

L had no fear and would ride even the teenagers' toys if he were tall enough.  My favorite part of the fair is watching him on the bungy jumping trampoline thingy.  He leaps, he does splits in the air, he somersaults forwards and backwards.  Last year the power cut out partway through his turn and he was stuck up there for about 20 minutes; by the time he was released he'd drawn a crowd of spectators who clapped and cheered at his flips.  My seven-year-old boy, who knows all the words to both Simple Gifts and We Will Rock You and can make surly carnival workers grin with his own joy at being high in the air.  And upside down.

While L was reaching greater and greater heights a little boy ran by with hands linked to a much older brother who had a giant, plastic blown-up hammer under his arm.  The hammer was stored under rickety metal steps while the two scrambled into the Tilt 'O Whirl ride.  The little brother - made powerful by a superman cape hung from the back of his shirt - got to choose the best cup. His face told the world: this is the best. night. ever.  The fair season is short - get a piece of errant cotton candy caught in your eye and you'll miss it.  It won't be very many years until M and I can sit on a bench and send the boys on ahead to win their own giant hammers and make themselves dizzy on gravity-defying rides.  I bet we'll follow along behind, though.  I bet we'll make a few tries for our own goofy hammers.

Two kids are easier than three but I missed my three last night.  I hoped they missed each other, too, even just a little.
~a

Twain once said “To a man with a hammer, the whole world looks like a nail” I spent a few years of my life-- the ones right out of school--fumbling and flailing while trying to make sense of the world on my own. There was a time when I was too shy or maybe too defensive to let myself experience what was around me, blinded by what I thought to be true. Instead I chose to play it safe and, ever the conservative, I made my way somehow.

This past week we made the journey to the middle school gym, along with friends and family to celebrate the last day of classes with our eighth graders. Come this fall they will be attending the high school, though it seems like just yesterday they were starting kindergarten. This particular evening was a chance for us to relive memories of the past year and rejoice in friendships and all that they have learned. The principal spoke about his experience with this set of kids and he likened their time in middle school to a roller coaster; which seemed very apt given that their class trip was to an amusement park and for some it was their first experience riding on one. Once you do it’s easy to understand how slow it can be to ascend before hurriedly plummeting to the depths. It’s enough to make your head spin. True, middle school can also have that effect on some. Mr. N also talked about the tools they were given these past few years, and how these skills would serve them well as freshman. My hope for all of the graduates is to possess the ability to differentiate between those tools. To know when to use self restraint and when to indulge, to know that language has a hierarchy and when to show some control in word choice and when to let it all fly. To have the realization that there is always a choice; an advanced technology is not always necessary, a simple one can often do a better job. To quote that old scholar Albus Dumbledore: “There may come a time when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy.”

It took me a great many years to see the power tools wield both figuratively and literally. I am constantly amazed at the effect the right pan, pot, or cutting implement can have when I bake. I try to be resourceful and substitute when I don’t have when the recipe calls for, but sometimes sticking to the printed sheet in front of me gets the best results. On Monday I had the chance to see for myself the beauty of Dale Chihuly’s glass sculptures when I visited the MFA in Boston. In each room of the gallery there were quotes from the artist on the wall. One sentiment that really struck me was when he spoke about hitting the glass to shape it as he knew he should, but it wasn’t until he worked with the fire and flames, using them as a tool as well, that he began to create such beautiful works. Touring the
rooms I was gripped by the desire to touch everything, yet knowing one wrong move could send it all crashing to the floor. Chihuly addressed the issue of fragileness at the beginning of the exhibit when he referenced a time when he purposely threw his works into the river to test their resiliency. They surprised him by being stronger than he imagined. As my son walked across the stage to receive his diploma in the midst of his friends and classmates, I could see how these kids were stronger than we think, yet at the same time as fragile as a teacup. With every teenager there are moments of striking out with mean words, hands and fists, and the next moment wishing desperately for the comforting arms of a hug. No matter how old he gets, T will always be my child and that gives me the right to hug him whenever I please.

It’s sometimes hard for me to acknowledge how much he’s grown. At the end of the celebration I realized that the next time we are gathered together it will be for his graduation from high school. And then the whole world will be opening up to him. I can see myself helping him pack, making sure the car is chock full with bits of this and that he will need in his new life, including a hammer to hang a photograph or two on the wall. He could probably use an old shoe, but this way the nail is sure to go in straight.
~b


Next Week's Word: Tobacco

Bitter

Today was a gathering to celebrate the 40th wedding anniversary of two dear friends. Amidst the salads, sandwiches, cheese, crackers and cans of seltzer we chatted with those we hadn’t seen in quite some time and were introduced to others we hadn’t yet met. It was a lively, festive affair, made more perfect by the beautiful weather.

As a surprise, the feted couple came out wearing their attire from that beloved day decades earlier. Though the pants were updated, the shirt, belt, dress and veil were all original and making an appearance after years of being tucked away. When the couple began to dance there was a look that passed between them, one that said “This moment is the one we’ve been working towards. How happy I am to share it with you.” And that’s true of all of us. All of the tragedies, dire health issues, moments of anger and betrayal are included in what we stand upon to gaze at the future. Reaching out to hold on to that hand when the tsunami of heartbreak hits is what makes it possible for us to go on. And every day that we last as a couple or a family is a testament to the love that we have for each other.

As the evening progressed there was bocci to be played, bubbles to be blown and extreme jungle crochet for the brave and daring in the crowd. After a bit a friend decided it was time for her to be heading home. Though the fire had yet to be lit, she insisted she wouldn’t miss it.  “S’mores,” she said “are overrated.” I told her she might have to taste my s’more whoopie pies someday--with graham cookies, marshmallow icing and a pile of hot fudge hidden between. “In the south,” she said “they call them Moon Pies and I had one once.” Then she emphatically pronounced, “It was a bitter disappointment.” Fortunately the day with our friends was anything but.

Finally the three of us made our way home on the tiny dirt roads, and a feeling of summer enveloped us. We stopped for deer crossing our path and marveled at their beauty; fireflies greeted us when we
reached our driveway, as if welcoming us back.  Though the afternoon couldn’t have been more perfect, I look forward to tomorrow. M and I will be celebrating 17 years since the day we met. If we can just hold each other tight enough through good times and the bad, it will be our 40th before you know it.
~b

This is not a good day to write about "bitter." The sun, it shines. The breeze, it plays with hair and keeps bugs from landing long enough to bite or sting. The garden, it reveals a tomato blossom. The grass, it gets cut. The children, oh the children - they play together for HOURS with minimal argument about which super powers are displayed by which boy. The weeds, they get whacked. The groceries, they do not get shopped for; the day is too sweet for me to travel to the store for an extended period of air conditioning. The husband, he has been mine for twelve years. My world, it is pretty damn close to perfect.

Even this is a relief: it's the last day Carly the horse needs her pills. Have you ever tried feeding pills to a smart horse? Geesh. But she ingested enough medicine over the week that her leg is no longer twice its usual size and now Molly the pony no longer needs to be tied to a tree during meal time to keep her away from Carly's tainted bucket. Molly is a hoover - no worries when she needs meds in her food, she'll eat them because they're there, no matter the bitter taste.

Life is tidal - the joy of one weekend is not likely to last the entire month. Storm clouds will return, both inside and outside. Tempers will flare. Children will resort to physical violence, mild only because of their smallish size. But for today the boys are all on the same side fighting a battle I can only catch quick glimpses of. Animals are healthy. The air is sweet.
~a


Next Week's Word: Hammer

Child

 

 My children - more than the sum of their parts.  Love you, babies.

~a

Summers when I was a child consisted of Books (obviously!), Berries, Bikes, Bugs and Board Games. We often played for pennies--uncles, aunts and cousins all vying to win the pot--but there was always ice cream. Always.  It came in a huge container brought by the Schwann man. And occasionally I got to pick the flavor.

~b

Word for next week: Bitter

Whiskey

To the excited boy who stopped at my desk,

You were so enthusiastic when you asked if I wanted to hear the semaphore alphabet. Please forgive me for thinking that what you meant was somehow associated with trains. Thomas the tank engine was a favorite around our house many years ago, so this inclination and assumption was a natural one for me. But once you started saying, “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie” I suddenly remembered these words being recited by a friend when we were in college. The chance to fly a plan was somewhat of an obsession and learning to communicate this way was considered a necessity. I was also assigned the job of Listener back then. Before every test I coached and directed, which meant that afterwards I shared in the sweet victory of the (hopefully) many correct answers on the examinations. I never actually got to fly in one of those little planes, still I often think about what it must have been like to be so close to the clouds.

The next few letters you uttered came as a surprise to me, obviously they had not lodged in my brain as thoroughly as the “A, B and C” had done. As you continued, there was a look of intense concentration on your face, though I knew you had it in you to finish. When you came to “M” I chuckled, realizing it must have been an obvious choice for the person creating the alphabet, at least as far as my friends and family are concerned. “Q, R and S” presented you with a bit of a problem, or this is what I surmised when you slowed down and calmed yourself by putting your fingers behind your two front teeth. All the better to help you think.

When you got to “W” a great big smile crossed my face. I don’t think you noticed, perhaps you thought it was me cheering you on to the big finish. Once the word “Whisky” left your mouth I could only drink in that serendipitous moment. It felt warm and smooth going down, as it often does when the exact right people, time and place collide. I had been presented with a gift, as surely as if you had wrapped it up and tied it with a beautiful bow.

The last three letters seemed easy. You finished with a grand flourish and then left my desk, moving on to whatever grabbed your attention next. A few weeks ago you counted for me in Greek, this week was an entertaining alphabet, who knows what type of recitation will soon follow?

Thank you for making my Library such an interesting place to be and for showing me (again) how lucky I am to be a Children’s Librarian. Where else could I possibly have this much fun?
~b

Whiskey and I have failed to achieve any type of beautiful friendship. We're not enemies. But we have different goals. I'm a wine woman, with an occasional taste for beer; more rarely I'll have a refreshing, slightly sweet cocktail, especially if I'm on a restaurant patio with friends who share my sense of humor. Whiskey has always struck me as an indoor drink, the kind of drink you have in the winter to warm up your core, often drunk off a sticky surface in a dim bar. Whiskey reminds me of bonfires barely kept in check by scruffy men with long sticks. Whiskey makes me think of tragedy; when disaster strikes a man down, you don't revive him with a fruity sip of Chardonnay. My own meager disappointments, however, respond well to a delicate Pinot. Brave people with more to lose drink whiskey - comfortable people drink margaritas. I err on the side of comfort, or maybe willful blindness. Don't fall to the floor in a faint in my house; the dogs - greyhounds, about the quarter of the heft needed for rescue dog status - are not prepared with barrels around their necks. We may have a few drips of whiskey left in a bottle high on a back shelf, but reaching it will take desperation and step ladders. Best to laugh with us, sip with us, nibble your almost well-paired cheese and stay upright. A toast, to bull-headed well-being.
~a


Next Week's Word: Child