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

Slow

School for me is finally over. After having spent this past semester researching the effects of Slow Media, it was ironic that I was never allowed to slow down myself. Every day was spent working, caring for my pets and family, and spending as many moments as I could possibly squeeze in studying. I knew that when I finally turned in my last paper I wanted to do two things. One was to read Aimee Bender's new book, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake. I had been waiting several years for her to finish it, and these past few months had been filled with too much required reading. When I finally was able to immerse myself in her words, I was treated to this little gem: "Once, we'd arrived home to a snail at the doorstep and she said it was a sign to slow down, and she took a walk around the block at a funereal pace, saying there was something in there for her if she just took her time. She came back just as vivid-faced as ever. Thank you, little snail, she buzzed, lifting it up and placing it in the cool shadows of a jasmine bush." The other treat I wanted was to take my family out for ice cream. I had heard that our local shoppe had concocted a new creation which involved filling the center of a soft-serve cone with a hot sauce of your choosing. M and T finished their bowls quite quickly; I ate my cone ver, very slowly. At each bite I kept expecting to hit the center. When I finally did, it splooshed everywhere, including all over my shirt. I didn't care in the least - I knew we were doing laundry the next day. I was quite content to sit there and savor each and every bite, no matter how messy it made me. Happy Summer!
~b


"What do we do," asks L, "during the daytime in the summertime?" He's swinging in the chair hammock strung on the porch by his dad barely half an hour before. He isn't complaining, isn't worried, reveals no sadness that school came to an end a short week ago. He's curious. Only that morning, we had returned from three days of camping with friends. Lego robot camp had ended the Friday before. What comes next? "We do this," I say. I sit in my porch rocking chair with an open book, M gathers supplies for a just-down-the-road fishing trip, T pretends to battle various demons upstairs in Boys' Room, and B stomps around our blow-up pool, naked as the embarrassment he is far too young for. In the summertime, we slow down. We feel the heat. We watch the garden grow leggy and then squeeze out miraculous vegetables; we follow the flowers through bloom and rot. We go to bed late. We lay in hot, sticky, vapory soup wishing for breeze. We think about winter and can't quite imagine snow and frozen roads. That evening, with the oldest boy in the tub and the younger two arguing over which movie to watch for Family Movie Night, I try out the chair hammock. It's almost uncomfortable. My neck is stiff from sleeping on the ground; leaning back feels like a threat. But I risk it. I relax into the weave. I slow to a near stop. I glance up at the hanging flower pot above me, on fire with bright orange blossoms I don't know the name of. Until a boy calls for me to come.
~a

Cold

Saturday was our wedding anniversary: eleven years. Eleven years ago we stood in my parents' yard while a plane flew overhead and drowned out the vows we spoke - only M and I could hear each other's words. A tiny black bug crawled up my creamy dress, unperturbed by witnesses. Afterward,M and I hugged in the front yard. "We did it," we kept saying, as if we'd finished a marathon when we'd only really just begun. Marriage suits me. I like the comfort, the dog-eared jokes, the plans we make for far into the future. I like having someone around willing to take off the cover of the septic tank, dispose of trapped mice bodies, and assemble furniture. The top of our wedding cake still sits in my parents' basement freezer, just a couple dozen feet from the patch of grass where we were married. I brought it out to the lawn for a picture and steam rose off the white butter frosting, off the flowers forever in bloom. After remarking on its durability and swatting many small fingers away from what would surely be a gastronomic disaster, I wrapped it back up in its tinfoil bed and replaced it in the freezer. Tradition dictates you eat your frozen bit of cake on your one-year anniversary. We missed the deadline, but I like the idea of a small piece of that sweet day surviving in the dark cold. Still lovely when you bring it out into the sun.
~a



For so much of the year in Vermont we battle against the elements: wrapping out hands around a hot mug, throwing a shawl or two over our shoulders, wearing layers upon layers to keep out the chill. But for those all-too-brief summer months when the temperature seems to skyrocket, then a reversal is in order. Everything must be cold, cold, cold. Our tea is iced, coffee cups contain cubes, and our soup is made with tomatoes, peppers pulped to perfection. I love gazpacho, and in the summer our blender is our best friend. Wait a minute, maybe I should say the ice cream maker, because home-made ice cream is luscious and lovely. Or maybe I should say something more basic and necessary like the freezer. In the summer the freezer is absolutely essential. If we're really desperate we can just open up the door and stick our heads right in. It does a great job of keeping our popsicles cold - which must quickly be eaten before they drip everywhere in the warm summer sun. The taste is like coldness encapsulated, making you instantly reach for another and then another.
~b

Woman

A phantom Andi, a notandi, roams New York City. This woman wears heels with no lingering pain, she instinctively knows how much eye shadow is too much, and she makes a lot of money. For notandi, alone time is not something marked in red on the calendar with lots of underlines; alone time is the norm. Except, of course, when she feels like company and then a packed rolodex - wait, notandi owns a blackberry - provides a list of names and numbers to call, people who can meet at bars without long, complex negotiations with their spouses. Notandi has no idea what to feed a chicken. The last time she cooked a meal it was to impress her mother four years ago. If someone handed her a baby she'd jiggle it for a minute or two and hand it back with a barely disguised smile of relief. Before I fell in love and moved to a dirt road and surrounded myself with children and animals, I had Big Plans. New York City was my oyster and I was going to smother it with marinara sauce and swallow in one gulp. I love my dirt-road life, but sometimes I wonder how notandi is fairing, if she wishes she could go barefoot more often, if she's eating a tad too much ice cream and drinking a wee too much wine. This is not a story of regret. The boys and I saw the last Shrek movie yesterday and while I recognize the temptation, I am not about to sign a contract for a day of freedom in exchange for the life I have now. But. Sometimes, as I'm refilling water buckets and sippy cups, tossing hay and smearing peanut butter over bread for the millionth sandwich, I envy notandi. I envy her freedom, her confidence, her money, her certain type of success. And then a boy hands me a lopsided heart and a good man kisses my forehead and I ease away from thoughts of a parallel life that seems so glamorous, so easy compared to what can feel like never-ending clogged toilets, weekend rain, garden weeds and boiled noodles for dinner again. There is beauty in boiled noodles, there is comfort in feeding the creatures you love so very much. And the rain makes the onions grow tall.
~a



Most mornings on my way to work I pass by this certain woman on her daily run. I have never actually met this woman, though I always look forward to seeing her determined face and the way her long ponytail swings out behind her in sync with her stride. She has become a familiar part of my daily routine; she runs in rain or shine. From the comfort of my car I can only guess what she is like, but I feel as if I know her well. When she runs she is her true self, leaving behind the aspects of life than can weigh her down. For a finite amount of time she is free from constraints, there is a lightness in her step. I only wish I could stop the car, get out and join her. There would be no talking or pleasantries, perhaps only a smile and the sound of our shoes hitting the pavement as the road stretches out before us.
~b