Years ago while visiting Tucson I decided to go for a run in a park near my hotel. After less than a mile, I could barely catch my breath. Though hot, it wasn’t oppressive. What made the run so grueling was the air—it was as dry as the desert that surrounded me. Other runners were making their way around the loop, no problem. Clearly they were used to the dryness, their lungs easily filling with air.
Later as I sat outside with some of the local residents, I noticed that they were dressed in long pants, sweaters buttoned at their necks. I, on the other hand, felt warm in my short-sleeved blouse and skirt. Long sleeves were the usual attire for this “cooler” time of year, they said. It didn’t matter that it was 80 degrees. It was March, and for them, it was winter.
We make many adjustments throughout our lives. Sometimes it is a physical one, like getting used to a new climate or recovering from an injury. Other times it is an emotional one. I was thinking about this whole idea of adjustments as I look forward to my daughter’s visit home from college over spring break. She and I are getting quite good at leaving and reconnecting, this being our fifth such time since she left for college. Yes, we are now experts.
That was not the case last fall. Then it was all so new—exciting, but uncertain. There were many things she didn’t know. Would she get along with her roommate, make new friends? Would she like her classes? Would she miss her old friends, her family? Would she be bored in a small school in the middle of nowhere? Would she be happy? And I asked all the same questions for her, as well as another—would I be okay when she was gone?
Both of us have made adjustments along the way. Though my daughter had little in common with her quiet, painfully shy roommate, they got along well enough to live together. She liked most of her classes and, through perseverance, was able to get into a creative writing course second semester. She stayed in touch with her high school friends, even going with a group of them to visit a friend at college in Montreal. She drifted from some friends she made in the fall, and found a core group of close friends. She missed her family, but called to check in, say hello.
I, too, had to deal with changes. I had to adjust to my daughter just not being around, not hearing her voice, her laughter. I had to get used to a new way of life. Someone recently asked me how I was adjusting to my daughter being away at college. My answer was different from the one I would have given last fall. Then I could only think of that day we dropped her off, how she stood in her dorm room surrounded by boxes and blankets and bags. And we drove away wondering if everything was going to be all right. My answer was different from the response I would have given a few months later. Then I would have said I was coping, I was managing, I was “getting along.”
No, this time my answer was strong, unwavering. Though I miss her, I have entered a new state—peaceful, settled. I have reached a level of unmitigated acceptance. I am really, truly, okay. If I were in Tucson, I’d be running around that loop, no problem. I’d be pulling my sleeves down over my wrists, buttoning my collar. I’d be breathing in the fine dry air and taking in the last bit of coolness before spring.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2007)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Green With Lawn Envy
There was a time long ago when we had a front lawn. It was back in the days when our kids were little, and little feet traipsed across the yard in mini-steps chasing a ball or a butterfly or a shadow. We’d set up the sprinkler on designated odd or even days, dragging it every twenty minutes to a different part of the yard. On alternate days we’d hold the hose, thumb over the end, creating a fine mist, helping our grass stay green.
The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.
I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”
I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.
A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.
Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
The backyard was always a different story. With towering oaks and pines and the flowering magnolia tree, the grass out back never had a chance. And taking far too long to rake ankle-deep leaves each fall undoubtedly contributed to the sparseness. Our backyard has always been a haven for lawn-killing activities—Whiffle ball, soccer, football, even golf, with my son digging holes in strategic places, creating his own private par-3 course. I never minded so much that we didn’t have a beautiful backyard. After all, it was in the back, hidden away from leering, judging eyes.
I’m not exactly sure when, but at some point my son decided the front yard was a better venue for football. Every season—even in winter—it was the designated place for neighborhood weekend games. Over time, bit by bit, the lawn began to disappear, and a mixture of dirt and crab grass sprung up in its place. My husband and I debated what to do about it. Putting down harmful pesticides was out of the question. But even an environmentally friendly fix-it-up-job would require blocking off the yard to allow time for the grass seed to take. We decided even that was too much. Somehow it just didn’t seem right to make the Gillette stadium of the neighborhood “off limits.”
I was fine with my front yard, I’d really come to accept it, until this spring when I looked up and down my street and saw lawn after lawn of luscious green. Though all my neighbors’ lawns are nice, one in particular stands out. The grass is carpet-thick, and is so bright you need sunglasses to shield your eyes when gazing upon it—even on rainy days. When I’m feeling particularly spiteful, I say things to soothe myself. “It’s only perfect because they use Chem-Lawn.” Or, “they probably have no life—they’re slaves to their lawn.” I scowl when I walk by, hissing at its haughty, proud perfection. “It’s so fake,” I say to myself. “Like a movie star who gets a face lift, tummy tuck and Botox injections. Who would possibly want to do that?” And then I walk away, glancing nonchalantly over my shoulder at the brilliant, gleaming green.
A few weeks ago, my husband took at stab at fixing our mess of a lawn. He raked up the crab grass and put down kid-friendly fertilizer and grass seed. But even with all the rain, nothing took. Zilch. It wouldn’t be so bad if our poor excuse for a lawn blended in with the neighborhood, but with the lawns around ours so thick and lush, ours sticks out like a sore thumb. It is nothing but dirt and tufts of different textures and colors—like a bad hair-coloring job.
Though disheartened, I try to focus on the positive. Having no lawn has its advantages. There’s hardly any mowing to speak of, and no need to haul out the sprinkler on hot summer days. There’s no need to obsess about the weather, no losing sleep over a drought or worrying about the stretch of rain that makes mowing impossible. When I think about it, there’s really only one drawback to our skimpy lawn—it looks really, really bad.
I suppose I’ll just have to wait for the fall, when our dirt patches and crab grass tufts will be mercifully hidden under brown and yellow and orange oak leaves. And I’ll pray for a hearty winter—the treacherous snowy kind we’ve had in year’s past—so our lawn will be covered in a blanket of white, blending in with all the others.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
First Lines that will Last and Last
First lines in stories are like first impressions. Good ones intrigue. They pull us in, make us eager to get to know the story, to learn what happens next. Here are some of my favorite first lines from great classic and contemporary stories I’ve read over the years. Some are simple, others elaborate. All of them are unforgettable. Except for the first one—my hands-down favorite first line of all time—they are in no particular order.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” —Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” —Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
“The grandmother didn’t want to go to Florida.”—Flannery O’Connor, A Good Man is Hard to Find.
“ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”—E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” —Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
“There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”—Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
“Maggie and Ira Moran had to go to a funeral in Deer Lick, Pennsylvania.”—Anne Tyler, Breathing Lessons.
“In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.”—F.Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned.
“I am an invisible man.” —Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man
“The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal.”—Kurt Vonnegut, Harrison Bergeron.
“Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” —Charles Dickens, David Copperfield
“This blind man, an old friend of my wife’s, he was on his way to spend the night.”—Raymond Carver, Cathedral.
“I am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice—not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person I ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother’s death, but because he is the reason I believe in God; I am a Christian because of Owen Meany.”—John Irving, A Prayer For Owen Meany.
“Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.”—Margaret Mitchell, Gone With The Wind.
“It was a pleasure to burn.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
“On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.”—Wally Lamb, I Know This Much Is True.
“I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.”—Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome.
“First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.”—Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
“124 was spiteful.” —Toni Morrison, Beloved
“ ‘Yes, of course, if it’s fine tomorrow,’ ” said Mrs. Ramsay.—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse.
“It was late and every one had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light.”—Ernest Hemingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place.
“Theodore is in the ground.”—Caleb Carr, The Alienist.
“I am a sick man . . . I am a spiteful man.” —Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground.
“In the next room Pavel Romanovich was roaring with laughter, as he related how his wife had left him.”—Vladimir Nabokov, A Slice of Life.
“Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in East-Central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn’t yet met.”—Dave Eggers, We Shall Know Our Velocity.
“This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Offshore Pirate.
“Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board.” —Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God.
“Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.” —George Eliot, Middlemarch
“In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
“The telephone rang, and Richard Maple, who had stayed home from work this Friday because of a cold, answered it: ‘Hello?’”—John Updike, Your Lover Just Called.
“Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.”—Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady.
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.”—Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
“In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked across the river and the plain to the mountains.” —Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms
Monday, April 2, 2007
A Too-Quiet Summer
Summers tend to be more relaxed, less hectic, quieter. This is the case in our home, especially this year with our son at overnight camp for the summer. I’ve noticed lots of changes. Trips to the grocery store have been simpler—less frequent, with far fewer items to purchase. Cooking, too, has been a breeze. And there are long stretches when I can hear the ‘quiet sounds’ of crickets, birds, even the gently blowing wind. As much as I welcome the reduced shopping and cooking load, and savor the quiet moments, I’m feeling a bit out of sorts without our son. Yes, things are quite different around here without him.
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
It’s been weeks since I’ve bought things like Boar’s Head Cajun turkey breast and sub rolls, Gatorade and Gushers. I can’t remember the last time I bought double-stuff Oreos or Restaurant-style salsa and Tostitos. And while we’ve had a carton or two of ice cream in the freezer over the past few weeks, there has been no cookie dough ice cream purchased in a very long time.
In addition to different grocery purchases, things just seem to last longer. I haven’t had to run out between grocery-shopping trips for a gallon of milk or carton of orange juice. There has been no dwindling of our Ovaltine supply. Dinners have been different too. I haven’t once made shrimp-meat combo tacos or grilled chicken wings with special spicy sauce. I haven’t, as times in the past, made two different spaghetti sauces to cover everyone’s tastes, nor have I cooked my son’s favorite “good kind” of pasta—the expensive brand with the squiggles.
And there’s another thing about life in our house these days. It is just so, what’s the word?—Quiet. Too quiet. I miss the drone of all those ESPN shows—Mike & Mike in the Morning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, Stump the Schwab—and all the other sounds of TV sports. I miss the piercing screams drifting from the basement following a clutch play on Madden Xbox 360. I miss the basketball bouncing on the driveway, the tap of the Whiffle ball in the backyard. I miss the horde of boys rushing in and out of our house, raiding our refrigerator, going through our cases of bottled water, leaving muddy tracks on the kitchen floor (and the door open behind them). I miss the sounds of their arguments—who fouled who, who was safe, and who was out.
Getting news from camp helps. This summer, our son has been a top-notch communicator, bordering on prolific. Clearly, having access to e-mail has made writing home far less painful for him. We’re getting real news this year, unlike in past years when we were lucky if we got a four-line note, three lines of which were requests to send things (i.e. home-baked chocolate chip cookies, a bag of Swedish fish, another can of tennis balls).
This year we’re hearing about all kinds of activities like waterskiing and knee-boarding. We’re hearing about the drives, points and assists in basketball, the catches and runs in softball, the goals in Euro (European handball). We’re hearing about the tennis matches, including the 6 foot 3 inch opponent who hit winners up the line. We’re getting word of the late-night 5 on 5 basketball games in the Rec Hall. We’re not just hearing about the soccer goals, we’re hearing about the left foot finish off a cross, and the one kicked in the corner from 16 yards away. Basically, we’re getting a complete play-by-play analysis of all his league sports, up to and including final scores. This is quality reporting right up there with ESPN.
Given our son’s particularly fine palate, we’re also hearing about the non-camp food treats—the pizza, the Caribbean jerk and teriyaki sauces on spare ribs, steak, shrimp, calamari, and mahi-mahi (from a special trip to a real-food restaurant.) I’m sure our son is taking mental notes to share with us upon his return, with suggestions on sauces and spices to enhance future home-cooked meals.
This year, we get to take our son out of camp on visiting day. We’ll probably take a trip to a north shore beach. Though we won’t be doing any knee-boarding (I think you get pulled by a motor boat for that), we’ll bring the boogie boards and keep our fingers crossed for some decent waves. And we’ll be sure to treat him (and us) to a delicious non-camp meal, like those famous fried clams and onion rings at Woodman’s in Essex, topped off with some homemade cookie dough ice cream (for him). Yes, that sounds like an excellent plan.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com July, 2006)
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Graduation and the Wings of Time
Time flies. Like most clichés, this saying, though tired, common and trite, is also in many ways true. But not all time soars like a bird across the sky. Only some time does. When we anxiously await an outcome, time goes slowly. When we are bored, time creeps along. When we ache, worry or feel sad, time stands as still as a flag on a windless day.
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
When we are creating, working, doing - time goes fast. When things are going well, everything's over in an instant, before we even realize we were happy. Just when we yearn for more, time picks up the pace, sprinting in long, fine strides. The time at the end of things seems to go most quickly. When desires and dreams come true, time spreads its mighty wings. Such is the irony of life. When it goes along as we want it to, it just slips by.
Somehow it's happened to me - the living, the slipping. My daughter, she is wearing a white gown, square cap perched on her head. It is not her style, not at all. She likes worn jeans and striped shirts and layers and flat shoes. She likes colorful knit hats - orange ones, red ones - worn slightly askew. She likes 'different.'
But I see her beneath the flowing drapes, behind the tassel that swishes and sways. I see her sweet round face, glistening eyes, wide smile. I see her life - chances and choices and possibilities - floating before her, within her.
She will soon leave for college. This summer, I know, like the end of all good things, will go quickly. She will live away from home, far enough away that we will have to drive several hours to see her. As hard as this is, nothing should be different. There should be no adjustments or modifications. There should be no hesitation or remorse. It hurts, but it is okay. Everything is just as it should be.
Though time is responsible for all of this, time will also be my friend. It is when I'm immersed in the slower passages of it, when I think and worry and wonder, that I will get used to it all. In these quiet moments I will come to terms. I will remember, and I will smile.
I see a toddler, curls bouncing, clutching her own hand while trying to cross the street. Is this really going to keep her safe? She thinks so. She knows it. I see a little girl writing a story about a patch-eyed pirate, carefully drawing its face on the cover. I see backyard birthday parties and family vacations to Puerto Rico and Nova Scotia and the Cape, to Montreal and San Francisco and the Grand Canyon.
I see her with her friends, laughing and singing and borrowing each other's clothes. I see a young woman -adventurous, unafraid - pleading to go to the beach, to a Guster concert, to New York City, to visit a friend in Florida.
I see her on the high school stage dressed in black like the others. I watch the movements, hear the chants, see the lights brighten and then dim. I feel the power, the pride. I listen as she sings her favorite Broadway tunes from Ragtime and Les Misérables, serenading me as we head down the highway to visit another college. At home, I see her tapping on computer keys, lost in thought, immersed in her made-up world. I watch an incredible creation in the making.
There is bustling and laughter as we gather in the dining room, putting out plates, settling in our seats. I hear the dinner table debates and squabbles, the clanking and clearing of the dishes. I see my daughter with her younger brother - how very different they are - teasing, fighting, growing close, caring about each other. I feel the quiet warmth of these moments of just being together.
I remember all of this. I remember, and I smile.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2006)
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