Author: Mary McEwen

Mary Sincell McEwen is a writer, editor, and proofreader. She is a graduate of West Virginia University, where she earned a bachelor of fine arts degree in theatre (playwriting). She and her husband John have three grown sons.

A Besties’ Reunion

I’ve spent the weekend and yesterday recovering from four days away. The weariness that follows such a jaunt is surprising to me now, and only getting more pronounced. Apparently that has to do with how many days I have been alive. The longer we’re here, the harder gravity pulls us down. So it seems. But I am edified and satisfied to have gone on a trip, and to have spent hours with some people to whom I have been connected since I was a kid. Not everyone can claim having nearly lifelong pals, but the four of us can and I am grateful for it. One of these folks became my friend when we were both 5 years old. “Rostosky” was very close to “Sincell” in the record book, so Barbara and I were seated near one another in kindergarten. We became fast friends, spending time at each other’s houses, doing Girl Scout stuff together, and talking on the phone (which had a cord into the wall, by the way, and was our family’s only line, causing a lot of fussing when we talked for too long). We went to each other’s first slumber parties, and she was in our pool when she was just a little thing. We skied together, too, and both were in band throughout our school years. We went to Girl Scout Day Camp near Crystal Spring and Mountain Lake. When we were in Charlotte Ward’s first grade class at Center Street, we had to change from our snowy boots into shoes just outside the room. I can remember being out there with Barbara as we shoved our boots off and put on our little shoes. I was jamming my foot into mine, bending the back of the shoe down. “Ooooh, you shouldn’t do that. My mommy growls at me if I bend my heel down!” I didn’t know what she meant by “growl,” and could only imagine a mother grimacing and growling like a dog. I’m certain now that Helen Rostosky didn’t do that, but I had just never heard the word growl used for “yell at.” I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I can picture that exchange and how I felt just like me in my brain, but we were first-graders. So we were very little and new. But I was as aware in my brain as I am now. Little kids know what’s up. We have to remember that. But I digress.

The next in the line-up became my friend in the 7th grade. Jane Carroll was my savior in that year when the posse of Mean Girls booted me out of the clique. My position in the group was tenuous at best for a few years leading up to the big “you’re out” moment. I distinctly remember one of them marching up to me at lunch and saying, “We don’t want you to sit with us anymore.” Textbook mean-girl maneuver. But Jane and I had discovered one another and decided we were both hilarious, which of course we were, and she immediately invited me to sit with her. And what a relief. We began walking the halls together in the morning, too — a regular thing kids did at Southern Jr.-Sr. High in those days. We talked on the phone, laughing ourselves simple. When it came time to hang up, we played a game to see who would hang up first. “You hang up,” one would say. “No, you,” the other replied. Then Jane would say, “Click. Buzzzzzzzzzzz.” Oh, yes. We were hilarious.

Jude is next. My dear confidante and pal. We met in the 8th grade, specifically in Pat Filsinger’s art class, which I loved. Stover-Sincell — once again, our names played a role. We discovered quickly that we, too, cracked each other up. Judy was painfully shy at first, but had started giving up that old shell when we began to forge our bond. She was so funny, and so straight-forward about so many things. She still is. I have always liked that quality in a person. One day in art I was feeling awful. I had a cold. Without meaning to, I put my head on my arm and went right to sleep. Ms. Filsinger came by and stood next to me, arms crossed. “Mary,” Judy whispered with urgency. “Mary!” I jerked awake. I said something like, “I wasn’t asleep,” and Judy, her eyes wide, nodded vigorously and said, “Oh, yes you were!” Which seemed to amuse Ms. Filsinger a little. Judy and I have remained quite close ever since. We were in each other’s weddings, we talked each other through our pregnancies, and we have made a point to visit one another at least a time or two each year. We text a lot and can start a conversation as if we have just walked back into the room. I cherish our connection.

So the four of us met up for a few days in Atlantic City, N.J. Judy and her husband have a second home there that they generally rent out through AirBnB, but this week it was open. So we grabbed it. The planning started months ago, of course. Of course it is a herculean task for us all to be able to gather at the same time. As it was, Barbie could only be there for about 24 hours. But she made it. Jane and I rode together, with her at the wheel because she is a much better driver than I. Judy was coming down from New York City, where her daughter now lives and where her son was visiting. It’s hard for us all to remember how old all the kids are that we begat. We all swear each other’s kid is still teething when he actually just got his master’s degree. Well… maybe it’s not that pronounced, but three of us were shocked when Barb showed us a picture of her “little” Adam, the baby of our group, who is now 16 and well over six feet tall. Good grief. And Jane’s daughter is getting married in just about 10 days. And my son just got a job as a middle school band director. And Judy’s daughter is well on her way to be a talent agent in NYC, something we all knew she wanted to do but bugged our eyes out when we realized she is achieving her goal, already finished college. So yeah, we all had some “Oh my gosh, really??” moments. Our babies are all growing up. All eight of them — Judy’s two, Jane’s two, my three, and Barb’s one — plus her six step-kids. Most of them don’t really even know all of us, and they certainly don’t know that we love them all. But we sure do. Funny how that is.

We all piled into the house on Monday, stiff and clumsy from being in our cars for hours. We had a lot of complaining to do about being in our mid-half-centuries. Muscles and tendons just hurt out of spite, telling us we’re really too damn old to do much at all. But we defied that and launched ourselves into quite a long walk that first evening, strolling along the Atlantic City boardwalk while talking a mile a minute. While the scenery was mostly pleasing, minus the troubling folks who looked like they had seen better days at the craps table, I do think we were paying way more attention to each other than to the Atlantic Ocean view. The sound of one another’s voices sent us all back to a familiar and comfortable place. Hanging on to the past can be risky and sort of futile, but sometimes it’s good to travel back as best we can to days when life was less serious, and when the future was clean and unspent. Laughing together, remembering old times and telling of new times, and just being with one another again brings a sense of coming home.

Atlantic City is certainly an experience. That’s about as gracious as I can get about it. Now, some of the architecture is astounding. We marveled at the Ocean Hotel and Casino, and spent some time there. It is an amazing building. All bluish glass, with towering walls that curve and seem to undulate like the sea. Inside, the place dazzles with floor after floor of casinos and restaurants, bars, pools, gardens on each expansive terrace, and simply luxurious furnishing and decor. While I took it all in like a bona fide hillbilly, mouth open and “wow” coming out of it every now and then, I also could not have felt more out of place. Gambling does not lure me. Not in the least. I can be attracted by bright lights and music, at least for a moment, but with the end result being row after row of slot machines, vague clouds of cigarette smoke (allowed in certain areas), and the vision of a lot of people seeming to be a little desperate… it depressed me a little. I do understand that heady moment of winning some cash. I put $20 in a machine and watched it go down to $9, and then back up to $17 and I got excited. And then I remembered I had started with $20… not so exciting. Then I kept playing a little more and finished with $9. I cashed out and walked away with more than enough gambling experience. It’s just not for me. Now Jude fared better, much to her glee, having also put in $20. Suddenly, for some reason that none of us knows, the machine went bonkers and kept adding money to her ante. When it got up to $65 and paused for her to keep betting, she promptly cashed out and bought us all margaritas. Gambling doesn’t lure her, either. If it did, she would’ve kept playing, of course, maybe winning more but most likely saying goodbye to all of it. Even though it doesn’t lure me, I do understand why it does to others. Winning does release those endorphins, and makes the player feel lucky. So he hits it again, seeking that same rush. It might happen and it might not, but the intermittent reinforcement keeps that player sitting there on the stool, hitting “spin” over and over. I was surprised at how much that whole scenario got me down. But it did. So I was a happier girl when we went to the beach.

Ah, the beach! The place where the Atlantic finally coughs up its waves onto the sand and then rolls back into itself. We humans sure flock to it. Of our foursome, though, I was the only one who really wanted to get in there and roll around in the waves. My companions were more of the sun-worshipping type, baking on the sand like cookies. Not that I don’t enjoy that, too, sort of. But I can’t ignore the draw of the sea, even though I am constantly imagining what it would be like to be swallowed whole by a shark. I love going out there and being ready for those swells, diving under them or riding on top. I love being knocked around like a rag doll and then finding the sand with my feet again. I was playing alone this time, so my busy brain conjured up so many memories of past ocean excursions. All the trips with John and our boys… I missed them as I dove and kicked and floated. And farther back, I recalled how was probably 9 or 10 when I first I ventured into the waves. We went to Ocean City with Mac and Mary, two relatives after whom I am named (Mac’s real first name is Ruth. My name is Mary Ruth). I remember that long trek in the sand to the seaside, and that dizzying vision of the water rolling up and over my feet, and then back, crisscrossed. The sand disappears partly under the feet as the water rushes back, and heels sink in farther than the front of the foot. I remember venturing out there, the waves sometimes gently rolling up, making that cold water go higher on my sun-baked skin and making me squeal. I was mesmerized by the whole thing, being at the ocean that very first time, feeling the power of that surf. And I fell in love, for life. I can never just lie on the sand. I have to get in. So I played for quite a while as my girlfriends roasted themselves to a pleasant brown. Barbara promised she would come in, and I was like a little kid when she got up and said, “Okay, I’m coming in now.” She walked in, also squealing, and made it to her waist when a wave came up to her neck. Then she said, “Okay, that’s enough” and she went back out. Sigh.

Later we walked more, still talking, remembering, laughing, sharing. I think we actually could’ve been anywhere — our location is almost inconsequential when we finally get to share the same space for a while and spill our guts about life. We’ve all been married a long time, and we talked a good deal about that, how hard it really is, how complicated, how familiar and comforting and frustrating all. We discussed our emptying nests and relationships with our offspring, the condition of our parents — those who are still living — and politics (exhausting topic). We played board games, too. Exploding Kittens first, and then Labyrinth. Great fun.

Making the effort to get together is significant. We all have to leave our lives behind for a few days, and that can be very tricky. Once we are all there, the dynamic is so different than most of the situations we are in these days. To disconnect from our familiar and go to a place on our own, and then to connect with lifelong friends, is renewing and enlightening. As we wander on through this odd life journey, we are given opportunities to think about our own selves… our needs and desires, our passions, our true sadnesses and joys. I am beginning to think that 50-something women are almost forced onto a path of self-discovery because in some ways we are left behind. We are no longer as needed as mothers, we are in quite defined ruts in our long marriages (which is simply both good and bad), and society tends to deem us inconsequential. According to the National Center for Health Statistics, the highest rate of suicide among women is with those in the 45-64 age group. Understandable. We have to make an effort to be heard and to be valued in some ways, so we have to find the path to self-value first. We must remember that we are indeed valuable, in so many ways. Our life lessons have provided us with wisdom and sense, and we are so very capable. I think it’s easy to feel useless or spent at this point in life, and to get rolled hard by those waves. But we are actually quite beautiful. We have a great deal yet to offer, and in some ways are just now coming into our own. Being with my dear friends helps me to remember that, because I do see in them all these lovely qualities. So much value, wit, and savvy… so much deep and lasting beauty. I love them all, and I hope we continue to find one another among the waves for the rest of our lives.

Barbie, Jude, Jane, and me

Finding a Type

The two-year anniversary of the sale of our newspaper and the closure of our printing company was July 1. I keep doing the math to be sure that is right. It’s right. My brother Don, his wife Suzie, my husband John, and I released our family legacy two years ago this week, altering our very sense of ourselves with the move. The newspaper had been our identity for going on five generations. To sell it to another company was a difficult decision to make, of course, and we didn’t know for years how it would all go. We did know that we would probably have to sell — for a wide range of reasons. First, the industry was (and still is) changing with such speed that it was nearly impossible to keep up with the technology. After doing things pretty much the same way for decades, we were faced in the last 10 years with changes every few months in how we created the paper, obtained enough advertising to stay afloat, put the info together, and published it — every week, without fail, no matter what. And second, as a family, we had no one coming up in the generation after mine who had any interest in keeping it going. As we struggled along over the past years, our offspring saw firsthand how trying the business could be. They knew about the relentless deadline and the growing stress over machinery, technology, and staffing issues. It was hard work, every week, with little respite. None of the fifth generation wanted that, and none of us blamed them. So we knew. We were going to have to either just let it die with the three of us who ran it — Don, John, and me — or we had to find a buyer.

For the sake of our community, we wanted a buyer, and yes, for our own sakes, we wanted that, too. And after a few years of angling about, a buyer did float to the top. Brian Jarvis, a 30ish man who already owned a couple other papers, was very interested. After some haggling and figuring, we agreed on the sale. A whirlwind followed as we informed the staff (they knew something was up), separated out our assets and resources, and severed the Sincell ties with ownership of the newspaper bought by our great-grandfather in 1890 when he was 21. All through his adult life, then through his children’s lives, chiefly his son Donald (known as Mose) who worked at the paper all this life; then all through my dad’s life, Bob Sincell, and all through my siblings and my life… it was our industry, our company, our lifeline. And two years ago, we said goodbye to it.

The transition has been long and strange. It was like we were all shoved into this deadline box for so long, with just enough elbow room to move a little as we created a product every week, slowly on Monday, much faster on Tuesday, writing stuff to fill the first section to be printed that day — usually the smallest section of the week. Then Wednesday morning the pressure was much more intense as we worked to figure out how much news we might have, how many pages we should do on that day’s section… all elbowing each other in that little box. Then Thursday would come again… and we would shove that front section together, still writing that morning the news that would hit the streets that afternoon. Then we would all fly downstairs to the press room to get the whole thing together and out. Always pressure, always stress. It was a dance, every week, and everyone knew their steps. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Then we would be finished. Thursday evening was the quietest. Friday was sleepy, too, although the edge of the next week was always visible again. Round and round.

I must say that it was an interesting job, for sure. I was well aware of the goings-on in the county, whereas now I am not much at all. It is strange to be disconnected, to not leap at the idea of a story for the paper, or to get a few details of an event so I can throw it into an article. Not anymore. When we sold, we were all released out of that cramped box. We floated up and out, no longer tethered. No longer operating every day with the next day on our minds. The freedom was odd and uncertain, as if we might just float away. In a few months after the sale, Brian moved the company to a building he bought two doors down. And our office, built around the turn of the 19th century by my great-grandfather and his two brothers, was suddenly silent. Today, there are a million items still lying around, as if some folks have just left. Scissors, pens, tickets and posters and programs printed in our back shop, phones, wires, fans, desks, chairs, shelves, and so much paper. It’s all still there, mostly because it has been too hard for us — especially Don and me — to go in and start sorting. When we walk into that empty place, the lifelong memories roll in, and it’s so hard to even come up with a plan for organizing it all. We need to sell stuff, throw other stuff out, save some things, refurbish others…. there is just months and months of work in there. And we stand there looking at it all, at a total loss as to where to begin, thinking of Dad, and of his dad Mose… and all those people. All those folks with whom we worked all those years to push out a county paper every week. So many people.

At long last, I have mustered the strength to push on a bit. Some lovely moments of serendipity led to my meeting a professor from Towson University who is a print-maker artist, and who teaches print-making at the school. She has visited twice now, diving into the vast resources left in our print shop by all those generations of hard-working Sincells and staffers. She is over the moon about some of the equipment, and is leading me through a learning process. I know now what is valuable or at least sale-able of much of our inventory. Seems there is a market for some of that dusty old stuff, and she — Val Lucas — has jumped in to help us figure it all out. I’m so grateful for it. She is a small woman with auburn hair and sparkly eyes. She stands with her hands on her hips, assessing the various dusty piles. She knows so much. Every little piece of printing equipment, strewn about on old desks and printers’ blocks, she knows. “Oh, this is a [insert name]! And it’s in good shape! Wow, that’s great…You’ll want to clean that up with mineral spirits…”

Val is helping me makes lists of what we have, and she has taught me some cleaning methods to get a lot of it ready to sell to other print-makers. She finds such joy and fun as she roots through dusty, dirty type drawers that have not been opened in years. She examines a piece of type and in a moment announces what font it is, and what size. She smiles if it’s a good one. I think it must be a real treasure trove to her, and her appreciation of the stuff is contagious. As she handles these bits of steel or metal or wood, giving sound to their names and smiling at her finds, I feel such relief. We aren’t going to just let this stuff rot. We aren’t going to just throw it all out. We are going to find avenues right to print-makers who will love it all, too. I think of how my great-grandfather must have obtained some of those things — probably through great effort and cost. And he used them, publishing a paper every week, like we did, and printing booklets and programs and invitations, like we did. I love that we can respectfully hand this stuff on to people who will clean it, use it, and most importantly, appreciate it. I know it’s just stuff, just things. But in this wrenching transition of leaving behind such a significant part of our family’s heritage, I am finding great peace in the knowledge that a good bit of it will live on through this effort. We can spread out the wealth of that shop to those who will value it and give it new life. I’m grateful.

So I will now set in to work, back at the office, by myself. I will gather up those letters of type, learn what font they are and what size, and I will bind them up with string as Val showed me. I will prepare them for the Lancaster Printers Fair in September, where avid print-makers will come shop and, I hope, be wowed by what we have to offer. All the while I will keep my forebears in mind, thinking of B.H. when he bought his first Linotype (the many parts of which I will be sending to perhaps the country’s last Linotype repairman, who happens to live in Maryland); and of Mose, my dear grandfather, who was gentle and kind, and who I remember most standing in the back at the printing presses, always ready to hand me a quarter with a smile and a chuckle. I will think about Dad, a printer who operated with precision and expertise, and who could design and print lovely pieces with all that equipment. I will think of my grandmother and great-grandmother, and my grand-aunts — all of whom either worked at the paper, or had great influence over it in their day. I will remember my great-uncle George Hanst, who steered the ship as associate editor and then editor-in-chief for nearly half a century. And of course of my own mom, who was there for many years, and my siblings, and so many dear friends. We have all had a common experience, working together in that place with all those things that now lie unused and quiet. As I clean type and gather fonts together, moving farther on through the adjustment to this jarring life change, I will think on all of them. The personalities, quirks, humor, kindnesses, intelligence, artistry, determination, constancy — all of it — because in the end, of course, it is the people who matter anyway. All types.

In Defense of the Night Owl

I do love a pretty morning, there’s no question about that. That first light is refreshing and portentous, full of promise and all that. The birds do that morning song thing, the dew lolls about on the grass, and there is a pleasant quiet to be savored. Yeah, I get it. Mornings are nice. I understand and value that sentiment. However, I am a night owl. I always have been and always shall be. As a kid, I would leave my light on into the night, reading big chunks of whatever book I had going. The time would slip away before I was aware of it, and I would often be surprised that the next day had arrived. I was and am almost always reluctant to turn off my light and settle in for sleep. I love the night.

So today I will take a stand for the night owls out there. I know all about the taunting, the shaming, the eye-rolling by those smug early risers. “You’re not up yet?” an early caller will say with surprise. “Whaaaat? Why, I’ve been up since 5 a.m.!” Well, good for you. You have landed on your circadian rhythm and that is just great. Hurray. But ahem…. I, too, have found my own daily beat, and my eight hours in Sleepy Town are not your eight hours. That, my morning friend, does not make you a better human. I know that goes against what you have always been taught and have touted, but seriously… you gotta stop thinking that night owls are somehow irresponsible or childish or lazy. We just live our lives on a late night, late morning schedule. It’s allowed.

Now, the schedule of the society is more in tune with the early risers, I am well aware. When I was working full time at the newspaper, I was to be at work by 8 a.m. That’s basically the middle of the night for an owl. But I lived with an adjusted schedule for all those years, forcing myself to turn off my light at least by midnight in order to get up at 7. Now that I am in limbo from a “real” job and spending these precious months writing and writing and writing, my body has slipped back to its own rhythm, and I love it. I generally sleep seven to eight hours, probably just like an early riser. So I’m not lazy. I just ride a different train to Slumberland. It’s all good.

I have always looked toward the night hours as a respite. When my boys were little, the evenings were taken up with homework, baths, reading before bed, and long thoughtful talks. I fully admit that when they all had truly drifted into their own little snoring sleeps, I stretched with relief and looked toward the rest of the evening with comfort. No more phone calls. No more talking. No more having to put on a happy face or moderate any arguments or fuss with a kid about one thing or another. The evening always seems to stretch out with this delicious freedom. As a partial introvert, I adore alone time. I need to shut the heck up and contemplate the universe fairly regularly or I get fussy. The evenings and nights give me that quiet and peace. I am aware that morning people say, “You could have same thing starting at 5 a.m. No one is going to call you then, either.” Yeah, I get it. But it’s not the same. The morning is full of expectations and portentousness. The night….ahhh. It’s just a slow, gentle ride to eventual sleep. There is nothing ahead but my wonderful memory foam and down pillow, so I can just ease into the quiet expanse without expectations. The night is special. I love to step outside and just feel it. Gaze up at the stars or moon, and listen for muted sounds of all the nocturnal creatures. The night is smooth and soft, quiet and serene — but full of life, too.

When John and I were first together back in 1985 and ’86, he was living in North Carolina and I was here in Garrett County at my parents’ home. We would plan trips to see one another, and spend several days together. In High Point, N.C., where he moved in the fall of ‘85, we often took night time walks. We used a Walkman (remember those?) with split headphones so we could both listen to music, usually stuff from Windham Hill, like George Winston. Soothing and cool… We often walked on the High Point Golf Course. Such a lovely place, with a waterway where geese huddled at night. The moon would shine on the water, and our pupils would adjust to the dimness. We would hold hands and stride along, breathing in the cooled air and chatting about life. Ah, to be 22 again… John worked for Domino’s Pizza, so he was often at his job until the wee hours of the day. He, too, was a night owl, especially then, so our circadian rhythm matched — along with much of our personalities. The night was especially romantic to me then, spending those quiet, intimate hours with just him and just me, while the rest of the world snoozed.

Time moves differently at night, maybe slower, or maybe more smoothly. The minutes tick away, but they don’t pester me so much. Time is more of a pal in the dark, nodding in my direction like a friend. “Hey, sister… it’s about 1 a.m. Hope you’re enjoying that…” And I answer, “Oh, sure. I love it. I’m good. I have nothing pressing in the morning, so we’re all cool.” And on we go together, with no stress or worry. My cats do sometimes seem to wonder what I’m doing. Miles will leap up onto my desk and bump my face with his, making raspy meow sounds. He will sometimes then settle down right between my arms as I type, so that I have to reach around him to get to the keyboard. He purrs and nudges me, finally settling his head against my forearm and drifting off. Other times he just keeps getting in my face, bumping me and pestering, and I think that’s when he would like to get settled in bed but only if I am there as well, so could I please hurry it up? Cats are great. I love them entirely.

As I write these very words, the clock says 11:10. That’s p.m., of course. My initial reaction is, “Oooh, still early.” The next two hours are all mine. My lamp makes a perfect pool of light in the midst of the night. It’s a comfort, this warm light pushing out just enough of the dark so that I can see to work, and feel secure. My little boat of light, floating in the soft, warm night. This is a magic time, when so many are tucked in bed, reading or watching a late night show, sleepy and disengaged from all the day’s hubbub. They are getting ready to untie their boats and drift off on the soft waves of sleep, that mysterious need we all have. Isn’t it strange, really, that we do this every day? That we lie down and adjust our bodies, and then we let our brains switch tracks, leaving our awareness and moving to the unknown — to that strange place of intentional unconsciousness? It’s weird. While we feel that we “drift” to sleep, it is actually a distinct switch that flips when we “fall” asleep. The brain changes, one moment to the next, awake to sleep. And then… those synapses start to go a little wonky. Faces and feelings of the day or the week or the year float by, and we have conversations and visions and such a range of emotion. Apparently our brain has to sort of purge every day, to squeeze itself out and shake a bit before reengaging itself for the next day of wakefulness. It has to defragment and get all its machinery cleaned up and in working order before we can wake in the morning and survive another day of this utterly bizarre human existence.

When I was a student at WVU, I took a journaling class. We learned about our dreams and how they are unique to each person. Our prof maintained that dreaming of a snake for one person doesn’t necessarily mean the same for another. Probably never, really. Our brains are amazing at creating our own unique symbols for the components of our waking lives. For instance, I like snakes and am not afraid of them. I think they are fascinating creatures. So my brain isn’t going to use a snake to freak me out, which may be the case for another person’s brain. We did an interesting exercise of writing down all the nouns of a recent dream — maybe a nest of birds, a man, a car with dents, a bagel with mold — all the nouns of a dream. And then we wrote out what those particular things meant to us personally. In this way we could determine, at least we thought, what our brain was working on in its synapse cleansing time while we slept. You should try it. Sleep, dream, wake up, write all the nouns, and then later look at the words and think what they each mean to you. Bet you’ll find something cool that your brain was working on. But oh my… I have digressed. And made myself sleepy in the process. Whoops.

Where were we? Oh, yeah. Championing the night owls of the world. I saw an article some time ago that stated intelligent people tend to be night owls. While I would like to latch onto that and say, “See?? We’re just extra brainy!” I must resist. I think perhaps those who are night owls might tend to be smarter, but I don’t think that means that only those who stay up are smart. I know plenty of early-to-bedders who are smart, too. But the article pointed out that staying up late is a relatively “new” development in our evolution, as our ancestors didn’t have a convenient way to have enough light at night to do much, so sleeping was usually the go-to. And thus formed the early-to-work societal norm, too. But being a night owl is apparently genetic and natural, and now humans can roll with it since there are light bulbs and shining computer screens available for vision, and pestering cats for attention. So those who operate on a late night, late morning schedule are deemed “evolutionary progressives.” Woo-hoo! I think I’ll put that in my resume.

Now the clock says 12:13 and I admit the sleepiness is encroaching. My soft bed awaits, as do my cats. To all you late-lovers out there, I say happy night to you all! Enjoy that quiet, dark peace that some never understand. Take it in and feel gratitude for your late-to-bed life. I sure do. We are not lazy. We just prefer a later train.

Good night, all!

Miles settles in for another late evening.

Tales on a Clothesline

There were sheets billowing about on my clothesline the other day, and I heard my son’s girlfriend Emily say, “I wish we had a clothesline.” I looked at my sturdy steel T’s holding the line, and I let a little wave of gratitude roll through me. My mom has always said that of all her chores over the years, she has most tolerated hanging out clothes. She has gone so far to say she enjoys it. I don’t know if it’s because she liked it or because it’s genetic or if I just like it all by myself, but I enjoy it, too.

One of the first things I think about clotheslines is a family story that gets told when we gather, and although we know it, we still love to hear it. My sister Kathryn and I both carried around “security blankets,” as Charles Schultz dubbed them, when we were tots. When I was either not born yet or not more than a bland, squishy wad of an infant in a bassinet, my sister had the blanket thing going on strong. She carried the yellow, silk-edged blanky around everywhere, hugging it, cuddling with it, and sucking her finger while touching the satin edges. This sort of practice obviously invites in families of germs, so there comes a time in every blanket’s life that it must surrender to the washing machine. Mom would have to coax the blanky out of Kathryn’s little hands. The tot anguished while the blanket swirled around in the washer. Then Mom hung it out on the line. Kathryn missed it so much that she dragged her little rocking chair out to the clothesline and settled under the damp blanket, sucking her finger and rocking. It must have been quite the scene, this pretty blonde child lounging in her rocker, holding fast to her blanket. The girl knew how to relax.

A bit later, our line was the go-to throughout the summer months, especially since my dad built a swimming pool for us, which he opened with some ceremony in 1966 when I was 3. The pool has a “hopper” deep end, meaning that all four sides go down to a flat, three-foot-square floor. There is a safety step all around the deep end, and the shallow end is three feet deep. I vividly recall the day Dad started filling the pool with the garden hose. All seven of us were down in the hopper as the water inched upward. We all had on our swim suits, and I remember patting around in the absolutely freezing water when it was just a few inches deep. Mom was wearing her bathing cap. Such a celebration! After that, it seems that we went swimming every day. All summer long, I bolted out the back door and went to the clothesline, jumped up to grab the edge of my bathing suit and yank it off the line, and thus knocking a bunch of other things off simultaneously. On many mornings, it was straight from pajamas to the bathing suit — now that is some summertime living. Our pool towels decorated the line all the time, making a colorful design. I remember one of my towels had a sailboat on it. I would grab a corner and drag it off the line, too, making the wire bounce back up wildly, which, as noted, would often swing anything else right off. I was a whirlwind.

Everyone in the neighborhood had clotheslines when I was little. Clyde and Mary Lyle Gnegy were our neighbors, and their line was close to our yard. Mary Lyle would hang out her sheets, and they would billow and snap in the breeze. Another neighbor had the “umbrella” line, which was circular and did look like an inside-out umbrella. I liked that one because it reminded me of the one in a Little Golden Book titled “We Help Mommy” by Jean Cushman and illustrated by Eloise Wilkin (one of my all-time favorite illustrators). I loved that book. Published in 1959, it was a staple of my childhood, and I sought it out for my boys, too. It’s a sweet and simple book that shows how the little girl and little boy help their mommy and daddy with chores. The girl, Martha, has a doll, and she and her mommy wash the doll’s clothes, and then Martha hangs them on her own miniature umbrella clothesline! I wanted that clothesline! And those little doll clothes! And heck, how about the doll, too! Martha and her mommy made pies, and Martha made her own miniature one with a cherry on the top. I loved baking with my mom, too, so it was very familiar.

Mom did laundry every Monday. Every single Monday. She would wash our sheets and hang them out. I have never washed our sheets that regularly, I fully admit. But Mom did. We didn’t even own a dryer until after I was born, and she didn’t use it much. On Monday night, often after a bath, I would slide into those crisp sheets and breathe in the fragrance that only comes from clothesline drying. So fresh and clean. Mom would say, “Don’t they smell good?” And I would answer by taking in another long inhale. I’m grateful for knowing that smell, and for the sensation of comfort it brings me. I’m also grateful for having a mother who took a moment to bring my attention to it. She always says she is no artist, and that my siblings and I didn’t get any artistic talent from her. But I believe she has the sensibilities of an artist through and through. Artists notice things like the scent of line-dried sheets. They notice such beauty and long to share it with other people. I think my mom is an artist at heart.

When I moved to my first apartment on my own, I really missed having a clothesline. There was a laundry room, of course, with a line of washers and dryers. I did learn that handy thing of starting a few loads at once in a few machines, and then using one or two dryers at the same time, too, thus finishing up my laundry in about 90 minutes — unlike when you own the equipment and have to do everything one load at a time. But that was the only real plus to having the laundry room at the Ridgewood Apartments in Carrboro, N.C., the site of my first place. There was no way to air-dry anything really, and that was frustrating. When John and I moved into a little house together soon after, I was so excited to have a yard, and not in small part because I could set up a clothesline. Back to air-dryed sheets! Woot! But it took a few lessons in physics for me to understand that a successful clothesline requires more than just being tied to two trees in order to suspend 50 pounds of wet sheets and jeans. Yeah, I learned that lesson pretty quick as I watched the thing sag with each item I hung, and then struggled to lift it all off the ground as it gave in to gravity. I soon learned that I could tie one end to the tree and drag the other end in through a window, where I anchored it with our piano. A rather hilarious set-up, really, but it worked. Well, it worked after the first time when it gave out and I was stuck inside holding the one end with no one home at the time to help me. Quite a Lucille-Ball-type conundrum, as I recall. I did figure it out at last, though, and we had fresh sheets again. Anything to get that fragrance back.

John and I bought our house in Oakland in 1991. Attached to the back outside wall were two circular, metal disks that held clotheslines. The lines were retractable, and could be pulled out and attached to something solid in order to create the line. For me it was reminiscent of all those many scenes in films when dresses, nightgowns, socks, and underdrawers are hanging across narrow city streets of crowded, noisy neighborhoods. I figure those lines were retractable, too. And people had to work together to have successful lines, right? I mean, how else could the lines traverse the street unless two apartment dwellers got together and made plans to do it? How did that work? “Hey, let’s have lunch and discuss our clothesline strategy.” Like that? Maybe. But I digress. The disks were not hugely successful or convenient. After a while, we took them down. Around that time, Mom told me the clothesline at Clyde and Mary Lyle’s house was coming down, and it was offered to us. Clyde had died and Mary Lyle wasn’t hanging out laundry anymore. I must say I was touched to receive such an odd gift. These laundry posts are not messing around, let me tell you. They are heavy steel, and we poured concrete for the base. They are solid as rocks. I can hang quilts, blankets, jeans, and any other damp thing on those lines and they stay up like champions. If we ever leave this house, I’m going to want to dig them up.

I have hung out a lot of laundry on that line over the years. John has, too. There are certainly a variety of techniques in hanging stuff, that’s for sure, and I don’t know if anyone agrees on them. I could swear a million times that I hang sheets like my mom showed me, but anytime she has ever witnessed me doing it, she says, “Why are you doing them like that?” I got to the place of betting that she would say that next time she saw me doing it, and I always won that bet. I don’t ever do them the way she thinks she taught me. I don’t know which one of us is right. As for John, he hangs things with such precision, as he does everything. He can hang a sheet in a way that lets him fold it off the line with such even and square corners that he could probably cut a chunk of butter with the edge. It’s the same as pie crust. I showed him my recipe for crust, and he did it on his own. I had been doing crusts for much longer, but my edging is always sloppy. It doesn’t matter how much I try to have a neat and crisp edge, it always looks like I did it while wearing boxing gloves. Not John’s. His pie crust edge looks like it was done in a factory. I don’t understand it…. But again, I digress.

In the days when our three monkeys were all under three feet tall, I would hang out several pieces of clothing, thus saving on electricity as well as infusing their wardrobes with outside air smells. But nowadays I generally just hang out sheets and blankets, and sometimes shirts on hangers. The time is past of having six or eight pairs of little jeans strung along the line sharing clothespins, or 12 T-shirts taking up one entire row. When I did have all those little boy clothes to wash and hang out, I shared my mom’s tolerance for that chore. I liked shaking out the wet undershirts and shorts, getting whiffs of the detergent. I loved how quickly it would all dry on a hot day. And I felt I was cutting the job down by folding stuff right as I took it from the line. I could be outside, too, in the sunshine and warmth. When our youngest began struggling with allergies, I was dismayed when his specialist said I should not hang out his things, filling them with the pollen of the gazillion plants to which he was apparently sensitive. I did stop hanging out all his stuff, but couldn’t help hanging out a blanket or two occasionally. I hope he did not suffer from that. I like to think I helped him with immunity. Yeah, that’s it.

Every cat I have ever had seemed to like the whole clothesline process. Sahib, Zoe, and Molly — all long gone — and now Miles, Rex, and Pig…. all of them seem pleased to spend time with me at the clothesline. They like the basket, and rub their faces against it. They sit nearby, squinting in the sun and looking satisfied. Rex tends to express himself with his long, buff-colored tail. When he is particularly jazzed to be alive and to be sharing space with someone he loves, his tail switches about, left to right, in the shape of a question mark. He whips it back and forth so fast, while rubbing his face on the clothes basket and then against my legs. He flops down on the grass and rolls onto his back, his four paws pointing North, South, East, and West. He gazes up at me, legs lolled out, and appears to be chock-full of contentment in this shared moment we two are having in the sun, amidst the fragrance of the outdoors. This adventure of living this minute is all right, Rex says, especially since I am with you.

The chore can be a meditative one, too. It’s usually quiet, and takes a while if there are many pieces to hang. Mom has told me about a time she was hanging out laundry soon after her mother’s death. My grandmother did not live to be old. Having rheumatic fever as a child left her heart damaged. Nowadays she could have a valve replacement and live on. But it was the 1950s and there was no such technology. So she became sickly and was frail and weak until finally dying at age 66. Mom was only 27. I think that is young to lose one’s mother. Mom said she was hanging laundry and was beset with missing her mom so much, and she yearned to know exactly where she had gone. “Where are you?” Mom said she asked the air. “Where did you go?” Her anguish was real and pointed. One can have all the faith in the world, but when faced with actual loss, the actual end of a life, a relationship — the disappearing of a person so loved, so important, now silenced utterly — the questions loom large and desperate. I think Mom was experiencing “saudade,” pronounced sow’-da-chay. Taken from a Brazilian dialect, it is described as “the love that remains” after someone is gone. Saudade signifies the emptiness experienced by a person when a loved one who should be there is missing, but also the happiness once felt when the person was alive. Both sad and happy feelings mix together: sadness for the missing, and happiness for having experienced the past. As my mom stood at the clothesline doing her chore taught to her by her mother, her mind was screaming out in angst to the vast and mysterious void — “Mom, where are you?” Saudade.

My three sons are men now, all in their 20s. My job of hanging out their clothes has come to a close. But I did find my way to the clothesline a few weeks ago, knowing that they were all going to be home soon. I washed sheets and blankets and hung them out, once more infusing them with the scent of home, of comfort, of peace (and probably of pollen — sorry, Michael). I don’t know if they notice, but I like to think it’s all part of the whole package John and I still wish to give them when they come back to us on occasion. I want them to be wrapped in the familiar, and to be assured yet again of how much they have always been loved.

What are your clothesline stories? Tell me in the comment section. What do you recollect? Good or bad, write your memories. I want to read them. Go!

The Arc of a Lilac

My mother-in-law Alice was a interesting, complicated, gifted person. She had many layers, and was often unpredictable. When I was first getting to know her in 1985, the time John and I started seeing each other, she was unsure of me and hesitant to become my friend because John had recently broken up with a longtime girlfriend and Alice missed her. I used to be offended by that, but now having lived that reality, I have more understanding. That was the beginning of our 33-year relationship from that spring until her death last year. There were definite peaks and valleys in that time, but in all it was a truly loving friendship. I miss her and think of her often, maybe especially in the spring when the blooms open and the scene grows green all about. John and I started dating in May — Alice’s birth month — and I learned quickly that Alice was a flower and plant aficionado. She knew so much, and had a vast vocabulary in that brain of hers. One of those earlier springs, she came to me holding a bloom — I have been trying so hard to remember what it was. I think it was a lily, but it might have been an iris. Anyway, it had been broken off its stem prematurely, and it was limp in her hand.

“I just hate it when they break,” she said. “They are already so ephemeral.” At the time I wasn’t sure what that word meant. I thought she might mean frilly or dainty, but then I looked it up and learned that it meant “temporary.” What a lovely word for temporary. Ephemeral. It is an elegant word for an elegant process, at least with a flower — from budding to wilting, with all the lovely in between. Now spring is upon us, and for those who live in relatively high elevation locales, this season can be fickle. There’s a chance the temperatures will gradually and steadily move upward, on toward summer. More likely, though, we will have frosts and snow maybe as late as May or even the first of June. We never know. So far this year, the air is holding steady. We have not had a frost, and the flowers have been free to open and stretch, bending toward the sun, showing us their brilliant colors and fine details. Their heads bob, attracting the bee and catching our eye. The scent of lilac is about, making me think of being a kid and of my dad. He loved the scent of lilac. We had several bushes of it in our yard, and I loved shoving my nose into the blooms to breathe in that fragrance. I still like to do that. Scent is a powerful trigger for memories.

Spring is energizing and fresh. After months of cold and ice and mud, the ever-deepening greenery is a true relief, and radiates hope. Spring used to mean different things. A lifetime ago, when I was a kid, it signaled exciting changes. Once Easter had come and gone, the end of school was not far off. I would push spring as much as I could, venturing outside in bare feet that first time, digging out my shorts and T-shirts even when the mercury was still hanging around 50, and finding my sandals in the back of my closet. Spring was always the time for piano recitals and band concerts. All those rehearsals and practices while snow swirled outside and boots stood at the ready next to the door; always having mittens shoved into my pockets and a scarf around my neck. All that time, playing the piano and saxophone, preparing for those spring shows. As the dates of the performances approached and the days grew sunnier, I would begin to think about what would come after. What would summer be like this year? As the apple tree in our front yard sported its little white and pink pre-apple buds, and the lilacs curled open their tiny clusters of fragrance, I would wonder about summer and remember what it felt like to sit in the grass, or to dive into the pool, or ride my bike all over Mountain Lake Park.

Spring is ephemeral, like all things. Those tender blooms are here only briefly, so long-awaited, especially when winter has been particularly stark. The dogwood flower begins as a wee teacup, just noticeable. Over the days it grows larger, and begins to open, showing its spiky center flecked with red that matches the spots of color on the notches of each petal. At last, in earnest, all the petals lean out, opening wide to the world, surrendering. That is the tree’s most magnificent show, when its flowers are fill-tilt open and cheery, bouncing in the spring wind, splashed with the rains that bring more green. For a few days we can take in the sight, but it is temporary. Even now, just days after we have been given that gift of sweet spring color and art, the dogwood blooms are being consumed by leaves on a growth spurt. The petals will be overtaken by the green, and they will flutter away, ending the show for another long year. But we will remember it, and wait for it with hope.

Spring is like a new romance. All the newness and the unpredictable turns, the energizing joy, the lightheartedness. Romance is ephemeral. Yes, a semblance of it can last, and can even grow into what many perceive as even better than those first heady weeks and months when everything is thrilling. But truly, the beginning of love is so like those lilac and dogwood flowers, tender and rich, and fleeting. We wait for it, we dive into it and stretch out, open and willing and free, and it is the most amazing thing. Laughter bubbles up and out so easily, and thoughts of one another are unrelenting, distracting us and causing us to smile while getting groceries or brushing our hair. All things seem easier and more fun. Just like spring. If all is in sync, romance grows into that sturdy, lasting green, its petals overtaken; remembered fondly, but never revisited in the same way. Such is one of the arcs of life, with a beginning, a thrilling middle, and an end, to be overtaken by the next arc. On and on.

Spring — with its magnificent colors, lusty wildlife, and scattering pollen — is passing quickly, to be replaced by the hot days of sunshine and blue. On the steamier days, those dark, gray clouds will surge across the entire sky and thunder will rumble and crack, bringing the rain and the distinct fragrances of soaked earth and brand new ozone. We’ll sweat and squint, bike ride and hike, and lounge on the porch with drinks, swatting flies and watching the birds. We will sail on that arc through to autumn, and winter, and spring, and summer. Changing. Always changing, expected and sometimes predictable, but new — and always ephemeral.

Imagine if things weren’t. Really imagine it. It’s hard because we are born into all things temporary. Our very lives are arcs, not straight lines. We all face the end, the saying goodbye, the final separation. We bring animals into our homes and care for them, feed them, and love them, fully knowing that we will most likely outlive them. We take that risk. Some of us go farther and dare to have our own children. That risk is phenomenal, given that our hearts are bound to our own offspring in a way that cannot be described or known until those beings are in our arms. Yet we make that leap with the full knowledge that all is temporary. The value of these risks outweigh the inevitable heartache. At least that is what we think at the beginning. Perhaps when the goodbye comes and the ache is raw and deep, the risk seems foolhardy. There may be a time when we regret it, but I think that, too, is temporary.

What if there were no arcs? Imagine no flower ever faded, no romance ever soured, no bird ever stopped singing. What if no one ever died? If the seasons did not change, if the apple blossom never dropped away. How bland it would all be, how expected and predictable, how safe and dull. That’s the beauty of the ephemeral. Rich and valuable and rare. Momentary. Something to look forward to, to love, to miss. Then to rediscover and feel again. Sadness is ephemeral, too, and illness, and a broken heart. Things mend, and we can rely on recovery most of the time. The nature of life on this planet gives us the gifts of momentary pleasure.

I went on a birding hike last week, and was struck by the giddy excitement of the veteran birders, which was contagious. What childlike glee we experienced at the sight of a bobolink and a meadowlark, a blue heron and a pair of scarlet tanagers. We would see them, shout to the others to come, and then watch and listen. Off they would flit, disappearing into the trees. We would sigh with contentment, so pleased to have seen the elusive little prize. An ephemeral joy for sure. We have so many of those. We listen to a piece of music, view art, visit friends, share meals, sing together, take hikes, on and on — each with its own arc, its own lifespan which is born, exists, and passes.

Springtime is skittering by. Go outside and see it, smell it, touch it — use every sense you have. The scene is awash in brilliance, like a sunset that paints an evanescent collage across the sky and bathes the very air in pink — for a few moments. In my soul I feel deep gratitude for these gifts, these crescents of time. I hope I will always remember to wait, watch, experience, and hope for the next one.

Confessions of a Yamaha Sax

For the first time in nearly two decades, I have a ridge dug into the inside of my bottom lip. It’s sore, and I keep fiddling with it with my tongue, checking out the different feel to the flesh there. It was caused by folding my lip over my bottom teeth and putting a saxophone mouthpiece against it, and then playing music for quite a long time. Non-musicians might be surprised to learn that there is sometimes pain involved in making music. Guitarists have to toughen up their fingertips, and brass players have to strengthen their lips and cheeks. We saxophonists have to get a sort of callused area on in the inside of our bottom lip, and I haven’t achieved that callus just yet. I’m tender as a newbie, even though I had played for a couple decades BC (Before Children). But I’m back at it, after being relentlessly coaxed by friends already involved in the Garrett Community Concert Band. They needed saxophones, and they knew I played back in the day. I gave in and joined about a month ago, and I’m still not sure that was the best decision. I’m not entirely sure they think it was, either. Ah, well. It’s good to branch out sometimes, even if you get a ridge in your lip.

I plum forgot how fun it is to play an instrument along with others right there next to you. There is a unique camaraderie that blooms in a band, and I am having a good time realizing it once again. The task of explaining that to non-bandies is hard. I know how bandies are often perceived… sort of nerdy, willing to sit in front of an audience and blow air into some instrument or pound a drum with a stick, coming together to create a melody that the listeners might recognize, or at least enjoy a little. Bandies lug their instruments around in big old cases that are sometimes all battered or covered in stickers. They put pieces of their clarinet or trombone together without even looking, chatting with another player who is doing the same. They have reeds to pop in their mouths or valve oil to slop onto their keys, and neck straps for the heavier instruments. They have no worries about turning their instruments upside down so that all the spit will roll out onto the floor. (There’s a lot of spit in band. I’m sorry, but there is.) They wear white shirts and black pants when they perform, making them seem even a bit nerdier. But on the other side of the coin, they are also pretty cool. They know how to read music. They can look at the paper and the little black dots and know what they mean. That’s knowing another language. They know how to count out the time and to come in precisely when they should. And they can talk to each other about all of it, pointing to the music and discussing the math of the measure or the composer’s tempo markings. So nerdy or not, bandies have some secrets about things, and a leg up on people who don’t know the language. It’s just a fact.

When I was little, my sister started playing a clarinet. I was so intrigued by the reeds…. Why did she put them in her mouth? What did they taste like? And what was that cork grease stuff? She had a cloth connected to a string, too, with a little weighted ball on the end. She would drop the weight down inside the clarinet, and then pull the cloth through to clean out the spit. I was fascinated. When I was in the fourth grade, we decided I would play the alto saxophone. That was a big deal. I don’t remember really choosing that instrument myself. My mom really liked the sax, though, and she urged me to take it up. What did I know? Sure, I’ll play sax, I said. Just give me a reed and some cork grease — I’ll do anything. And so it came to pass that my parents, in the year 1972, purchased a Yamaha alto saxophone for me, for a grand total price of $425. I remember that number because they told me over and over how much it cost, always cautioning me to stick with it, to take care of it, to keep playing it, to clean it with the cloth, and to remember that they paid $425 for it! That was a pile of toadskins for that year and for my family. I was the youngest of five, and four of us played instruments. We were not rolling in the money in any way, shape, or form, so $425 was not a little.

I remember opening that black case for the first time. The sax was shiny gold, with mother-of-pearl keys. It was nestled in a form-fitting sea of bright blue shag fabric. The neck piece was in its own bed, as was the mouthpiece. There was a little compartment for other things, and in there — oh my gosh — were a neck strap, a cloth for cleaning, and cork grease! So exciting! I learned quickly that playing the sax had a few drawbacks, with the first being how heavy that case was. I had to lug it to the bus stop, which was two full blocks from my house. At age 9, I wasn’t big, so that was a challenge. Someone told me early on that I should always carry the case with the clasps closest to my body, in the event that the clasps would for some reason come open. Then the lid would be against me and I would have a better chance of catching that $425 sax. I don’t even remember who told me that, but I have carried it that way ever since — nearly 50 years.

That fall I was in the fourth grade at Dennett Road Elementary School, and my band teacher was Herb Lambert. I began lugging this new and exciting thing to school every few days. We practiced I think three days each week on the stage there. Mr. Lambert had two bands: A band and B band. B band was the younger, less experienced kids. I was in that to begin with, but my parents also put me in lessons with Rick Clever so I could learn exactly how to play. In a few weeks, Mr. Lambert asked me to start coming to A band. I was surprised and excited. But I remember that first day, and it didn’t turn out as planned.

I was seated next to Pam Bittinger, who remains my friend to this day. We first met there, with her on my left and at the end of the row — right on the edge of the stage — because she was a year older. For you non-bandies out there, that seat is called “first chair,” and it means that the person is the leader of that instrument’s particular pack. I don’t remember if there were other sax players. I don’t think so. So perhaps Mr. Lambert needed another one, prompting him to invite me even though I was so new. We began to play that day, and I was quickly overwhelmed. I had taken piano lessons for a year and a half by then, so I did know how to count and what measures were, but I was still very new at fingerings and reading music. My whole life I have been so easily knocked down when faced with something new. I want to be able to do things immediately, and when I can’t, I can despair. So as we pushed on in A band, I got lost. And then the tears welled up, and I sat there fighting with them about whether or not to roll down my face. My cheeks were hot and in my storm of confusion and inadequacy, I felt as if I were being covered up with a too-heavy comforter. When you’re little, you don’t know you’re little. And when these big feelings come barging in, it’s so difficult to know what to do. When I see a kid now who is vulnerable and overwhelmed, I try to remember that feeling. And I strive to help stem that rush of panic or despair. It’s very real to a little kid, and we should never, ever dismiss their emotions. Luckily, Mr. Lambert was aware of that. After class he called me to his desk, which was back against the wall of the stage. He was kind and patient, but not overly parental. He told me to stop worrying, and that I did just fine. He said I would catch on quicker than I expected, and to relax. And what he said was all true. Within a few more rehearsals, I was much more at ease, and Pam and I had initiated our lifelong relationship of making each other belly-laugh. And thus my band life bloomed.

There are moments I remember at Dennett Road during band, like when Sue M., a trombone player and big 6th-grader, fell backward off the highest riser right before a concert and broke her wrist. That was exciting. And I recall Pam being so happy one day to tell me she had a new baby sister named Laura. Being the youngest of five, I was taken aback at the thought of my older friend having a baby sibling. But I was delighted, too. And I remember that odd experience of coming back to the school for an evening concert. I would wear a dress, although playing saxophone while wearing a dress is not easy and I stopped that in a few years. But how thrilling to be in the school after dark! And to have our parents there, too. We would gather in another room first, and everyone would be running around in their formal clothes, giggling and smacking each other. Some of the girls would have very new and noticeable hair styles, and the boys would be wearing ties. Sometimes they would be their dads’ ties, which were too long. We had our horns and our music folders. Such a flurry of excitement. So much giggling. Mr. Lambert often wore a face of weariness, but his hair would be brushed, too, and he would have on a suit or at least a button-down shirt and tie. How different and odd! Somehow he would corral us into a line and we would tromp onto the stage, each going to our own chair, glancing out to find our moms and dads. Repressed giggling was the theme of the evening. We would open our music folders and get out those tunes that we had been practicing for what seemed ages. And then the concert would commence. At the end of each piece, our parents would clap, and it was so heady and fun. On the one hand, we were a little embarrassed, just because we were certainly not used to being the object of applause. It’s a weird sensation. But on the other, we were pleased with ourselves a bit, having learned this language of music, following along with our eyes to the pages and our fingers to the keys, knowing what to push when. I’m sure when other little kids watched us, there were at least a few who envied us, the band kids, in our formal clothes and our smoothed hair, making music together somehow with these clunky instruments that seemed so large against our 9-year-old frames.

Pam and I sat next to each other for two years at Dennett Road, and then she went on to Southern Jr.-Sr. High School, as she was a year ahead of me. I was an old hand by the time I was a sixth-grader, of course. I could swagger onto the stage with the best of them. I knew my way around a music stand and a piece of A Band music, by golly. I am not sure who sat next to me after Pam had gone on, but I did take over First Chair, of course. When we performed our concerts — one at Christmas and one in the spring — I was the bandy on the end, right there for the audience to see. “No big deal,” my body said to the crowd as I casually took my spot. But wow. I had visions of my seat going off the edge, like Sue’s had done those years earlier, so I kept an eye on my chair legs as much as possible.

All this was only the beginning of my band odyssey. That saxophone has had a life, let me tell you. It is the same saxophone that caused the current ridge on my lip, in fact. Yes, it’s still with me. I mean, it did cost $425, you know. That sax took me to Southern Middle School, then on to Southern High School. I played in concert band and marching band and stage band. So many reeds, so much cork grease. And more importantly, so much fun. I made more lifelong friends, and we worked hard together. Tami and Blair, LuAnn and Billy, Steve and Scott, Lois and Barbie, Wally and Crystal, and yes, Pam — among so many others. The stories from band adventures could take up an enormous chunk of internet here, and someday I will write about them. But let’s sail on a bit with The Adventures of Mary and Her Sax. That saxophone got on a plane with me in June 1981 — it was a first for both of us (at least I think) — and we flew to Europe for a three-week tour with the United States Collegiate Wind Band, a group that involved high school players from several states. We went to six countries and played concerts in each. I didn’t know a soul before I left, and I had never flown. I saw Paris and London, Lucerne and Chamonix Mont Blanc, Bonn and Rudesheim, Amsterdam and Dijon. Now, all these years later, I remain friends with Tony, Sherry, and Andy — three pals from that journey.

That August I went on to West Virginia University. My mom and sister-in-law Suzie delivered my stuff to my dorm and then drove me to the old Mountaineer Field, where that year’s band camp for the Pride of West Virginia was getting underway. They said goodbye, and I was left to walk on alone. Once again, I knew no one. I ventured onto the old field and searched for the altos. I found them. Someone handed me a pack of music and told me to sit down. I did, holding my sax close. Good old sax. Soon I knew my section members, and then my “rank,” which was ten bandies who all marched together on the field for every show. They were my first friends at WVU, along with another girl named Mary, who became my roommate and another lifelong friend. I marched with the Pride for two fall seasons, and played in the concert band one spring. The sax and I went to the Peach Bowl in Atlanta on New Year’s Eve, 1981. WVU was supposed to lose that game against Florida University. The Gators’ band was staying in the same hotel as the Pride. Some of their members mocked us continuously, boasting of their band and of their team and how West Virginia didn’t belong there against them. How sweet it was when our band wowed the crowd first, at pre-game and again at half-time. Their band was far smaller than ours, and not nearly as polished. We absolutely dominated. Then wonder of wonders, WVU won the game! We went wild. We were giddy with the day’s events when we all gathered in the hotel ballroom for a New Year’s Eve party with an open bar. Hmmm….. I’m not sure that was the best plan. But it sure was a blast. We left early the next morning, bleary eyed and, yes, a bit hung over. We rode all the way home, hour after hour. After about 11 hours in the buses, we pulled into the Creative Arts Center parking lot and began to disembark. I went to get my suitcase from underneath the charter bus, and then — and only then — I realized that I had left my $425 saxophone in the hotel room. The chill that rolled up my body to the top of my head was sudden and sick. I had to tell my parents that I left it…. I left it in Atlanta. Good lord! Poor old sax. Forgotten after an award-winning performance, forlorn in a hotel room. Luckily, I had a cousin living in the city at the time, and he offered to go get my horn. And luckily again, no one else had lifted it. Soon my dear sax arrived in Mtn. Lake Park packed in a box with scuffed tape all about. I was happy to have it back, and so were my parents. I apologized to it. It was silent, but probably pretty mad for a while.

As I finished with a second season of WVU marching band, my sax was given a rest. I played in our local fire department’s Oktoberfest Genuine German Oom-Pah Band for several years each fall, but that was the extent of my playing. I got married, and soon after commenced to birthing children, and the sax was put away. But…. not for long. Our oldest son Rob started playing it in the fourth grade. He began lugging that old case with him, also to Dennett Road Elementary. Soon his desires turned to percussion, and my old Yamaha was put away again. But….not for long even again. Our middle son, Alex, showed musical talent, too, and he began playing the sax. A new life was given the old horn, along with an overhaul. With all new pads and some other tweaks to the now not-so-shiny finish, the sax began to sing again. It went back to the middle school, and on to Southern High, where it was a member once again in Alex’s capable hands. Alex went on to WVU, too, and yes, into the Pride. My $425 sax from the fourth grade was being jogged out onto the Mountaineer Field once again for that famous 220 pregame run, this time without me. Alex marched for one season.

I think about 18 years had passed from the last time I played that horn until I started again last month. But it came back to me, mostly, and I have fallen into the fun of band yet one more time. I’m sitting next to my first instructor and high school band director, Rick Clever. We are having a good time making harmonies on our old horns. We mess up and point out accidentals and laugh a lot.

In thinking back, that horn has marched at Kennywood Park, Disney World, Epcot, all over Europe, in Yankee Stadium (with Alex and WVU), in Philadelphia and Baltimore and other places I know I’m forgetting. It has played music of every genre, hundreds of composers, so many styles. It’s had an interesting and long life, which I am now extending once again. In fact, I need to stop this and go practice. This callus on my bottom lip isn’t going to get firmed up by itself.

The Garrett Community Band has a concert this Saturday, May 4, at Garrett College, beginning at 7:30 p.m. Come on out. Give us a listen. Meet my sax. We’ll be happy to see you.

A Bee on the Window

When I worked at the newspaper all those years, there were times when I was needed “in the shop,” which was the section of the building where our commercial printing operation was housed. We — the staff — were all needed back there on some days to help put together big jobs, like calendars for the local schools or various documents that were in triplet, which we had to stack one on top the other in order for them to be connected properly. The word we used as a catchall for that process was simply “collating.” Don or Dad would say, “We need some hands in the shop for collating,” and people would moan a little and try to figure out what they might be able to say they had to do instead. But usually a crew of us would trudge back and settle in to the tedious process. It wasn’t so bad. Dad used to joke the work required “a strong back and a weak mind.” We would all find a “station” and start in on the job, with thousands to do usually. Thousands and thousands. Pull this paper, put it on top of or inside of this paper, maybe add a third thing, then “jog” it, or rattle it downward on the table to straighten it out and line it up. Then stack it neatly on top of the last one. Over and over. On and on. For hours.

The work was indeed tedious, but it was also a time of freedom. Freedom to dream, to figure out problems, to create stories, to remember times past. Repetitive work can be meditative. In just a little while, I could be a million miles away. And time would pass before I even realized it. Of course, that can be a problem if you somehow get out of sync and start collating incorrectly. Then you just keep doing it wrong, on and on, until someone shakes you awake. “MARY! You are putting two of the same pages in those!” Then you look at your finished pile and see that you have done that for the past 373 documents. Sigh. Of course catching the mistake then is way better than having the customer come storming in holding up 500 pages that are collated all wrong, screaming for a refund. So one simply takes the mistakes back, un-collates them, and starts again. Nowadays the machinery is far fancier, and does most of the collating itself. But back in my day (said with proper old-person, hands-on-hips, eye-rolling disdain), it was on us.

One day I was collating calendars, which is pretty tiresome as there are a number of pages to pull together. But I had a long open tabletop for my work, and I slipped on down the line, over and over, inserting May and June into April and July, March and August into February and September, and so on. I was facing a window, across my table. So I could look outside as I shuffled by. But what I noticed was actually on the inside of the window. A bee. I think it was a little wasp or some other small buzzy thing. It was flying into the window, bump bump bump, over and over. I figured it was trying to get outside. The kicker was that the window was open to the air just above where the bee was bumping. The insect was literally an inch away from freedom, but it kept bumping, bumping against the glass just below where it should. On and on it bumped, each time I shuffled past, collating the calendar. I kept willing it to just go up a little bit, just venture onto the window frame and then it would be out; Out, free and able to fly as far and in whatever direction it might desire. Just a few bee steps upward and it would make it. But no. Instead the bee went farther down the window, and into a corner, full of dirt and cobwebs. It bobbled around in the filth for a while, getting dust on its legs, and continued to bump, bump, bump. So fruitless an effort, in vain. It climbed back upward then, and I was wishing it all the positive vibes I could create with my brain, willing it to go onto the damn window frame and then find its way out. Its furry, dusty leg even touched the edge of the frame, but then it leapt back, as if the bee needed to be able to see the outside in order to get to it. If it went onto the window frame, the site of freedom disappeared. So it shied away from the very place it would have to go if it wanted out.

At this point I figure you are asking, “Why the heck didn’t you just shove it out, you doof? Or squash it?” Wow, two questions there, and derisive to boot…. As for shoving it out, I did. Eventually. After I had watched it struggle for some time. And out it flew, without so much as a wave or nod, into the blue sky, free. And I didn’t squash it because I grew up with a father who carried every creature out of our house intent on keeping whatever it was alive, from spiders to snakes to bats. Everything has a right to be alive, and we don’t have the right to squash stuff just because we can. See what I did there? Plugged in a little preaching about not squashing bugs. Pretty slick. And I don’t mean the bugs.

Anyhoo….back to collating. I mentioned that it is meditative, and it is. So after freeing my bee friend, I had a long reverie about how humans are a lot like that. We always think we know the pathway to our freedom and happiness, but often we are only shoving our faces around in cobwebs and antique dirt, unable to see how to get out, and totally unaware of how close the answer really is sometimes. I could see because I was clear across the table, watching the insect struggle, able to visualize its remedy. But it couldn’t see it.

The everyday news of this world is getting me down. I think social media is partly to blame, as I tend to keep my eye on it a lot and it can be so depressing. But I don’t want to hide from everything just because it’s depressing. I want to be aware of what is happening in our world because it’s the only world we have, and it’s a fine mess right now. And like the bee, we are all off in our messy corners, bumping about, seeing what we perceive to be the right path, but blind to the whole picture. I often imagine what it would be like to rise above everything; to literally rise up and see the world like I could see that bee. We’d witness all the effort, all the work, all the striving. And we’d see all the futility, all the pain, all the failure. What would seem so huge to the little people down there would seem lost in the wideness of the whole world, the whole picture.

Today our world is full of passionate debate, of reaction, of judgment. There is despair and frustration, and there is weariness. Such a weariness. A heaviness that pulls us down. Which reminds me of a hilarious story. (Segues are my specialty.) John and I took his mom to a percussion concert one time at West Virginia University. Our son Rob was in the show, and we decided to bring Alice (John’s mom) even though she had grown rather infirm and foggy-brained. Percussion shows can be wonderful. On the other side of the coin, they can be excruciating. Or a little of both. Generally I enjoyed the shows over the years Rob spent in school, but there were just a few times when I wanted to crawl out of my skin and slither away, like when a drum solo would go on for 25 minutes (yes, that happened), or when a marimba piece with no discernible melody but with the same note being struck one gazillion times would drag on until I wanted to stand and squeal at them to wrap it up. At this particular concert, there was a piece that did go on a bit. Alice then said she needed to go to the ladies’ room, so John popped up and escorted her out. He said when she came out of the bathroom, she asked him something, at first gently, then with a bit more emphasis. “Do you suppose everyone in there is like me?” she asked. “AT THE END OF THEIR ROPES?” We still laugh about that.

But I do think that a lot of people are like that now… just like me, at the end of our ropes. The animosity and venom rage on. Comment sections are like Wrestle Mania, but real. People are figuratively hitting each other over the heads with folding chairs without so much as a “hey, let’s talk about this.” They are leaping off the third rope onto people already lying on the floor, and gauging them with elbows to the spleens. It’s brutal. A man is shown to be too handsy and he is crucified for it. And then those who defend him are ravaged by one camp, and those who condemn him are ravaged by the opposite. There is no view of freedom in sight. It’s just the dirty, gross corners where we all wallow about, with no effort to look up or out. We just keep looking right where we think we should, and ignore any notion of casting our gaze elsewhere.

Empathy. I love that word. I love how it looks, and I love how it is spelled. It’s a pretty word. It is spelled nearly the same in most of the Romantic languages. Empathie in German and French, empatia in Spanish, empati in Danish, and, uh… сопереживание in Russian. Wow. Anyway, it’s a good word. And its meaning is integral to our existence. To experience the feelings and thoughts of another being; To tread the path of another while wearing her shoes; To see through another’s eyes. I have been on the planet for 56 years, and I have learned some things. One of the most important has been realizing that some people do not utilize empathy. Some do not tune into the “how would I feel if…” place, and I think that is because it’s hard. It’s terribly hard. If one is not taught that practice as a child, then that heart is hardened. If a wee one is not shown empathy, how can he learn it? And if he is not shown it, how does know if what he feels matters? We parents and aunts and uncles and teachers and mentors must listen to the wee voices. The personality is in there. It’s whole. A child needs to know that he matters, and he needs to know that others matter, too. If he learns it, then it will be there. He may fight it when empathy casts its sting, but it’ll be there.

As we float above the Earth and all her creatures down there bumping against windows, how far do we have to rise in order to see how some things simply don’t matter? In this vast picture, this open and majestic view of life, what will stand out to us? As we gaze from our new perspective, I would hope some things would be diminished, as would only be right. The obsession with our bodies might go away. Not with health, mind you — I think being well is vital. But our looks, our presentation to the world of these vehicles that carry our souls about. How important is it that we dress these things so well, or that we place such importance on how well we are keeping them in absolute tip-top shape? Do we need to spend ages on discussing our latest exercise endeavors or our best makeup techniques? We are slaves to our worry over our visages, that is for sure. We get cut with knives to fix our faces, to find the younger one there under the aged places. I do understand that entirely. But I hope as we rise up, we can forego our fretting over this part of our lives. We spend so much time on how we perceive the appearance of others, even though appearance has nearly zero to do with the person, the mind, or the soul in there. So let’s pretend we will disregard that part. What else can we disregard? Maybe we could scurry about a little less, reduce our busyness, purge our calendars that are packed with so many things that there is no room to sit and think. Everyone needs to sit and think. Kids need to sit and think. We schedule their days like they are in military school. And we rush about, driving here and there, gathering up kids, dropping them off, volunteering, making food, comparing our lives with other parents, fretting…. all the fretting. Bump, bump, bump against the window we go.

From our new wide view, maybe we would be able to better see this amazing blue dot of a planet out here in the middle of nowhere. How was it that a spark of life took off so very long ago, and our ship became capable of sustaining life? In this vast, cold, silent space, life somehow snapped awake on this rock, and over the millennia it has thrived and teemed. What kind of magic is that? How often do we pause to think on it? We are living miracles. Life is a miracle, a mystery, a journey with every possible fascinating turn. But when we are lost in its minutia, we forget. So easily. In the play Our Town by Thornton Wilder, there is a poignant scene of the young character Emily, who has died. She is given the opportunity to relive a day; just an ordinary day. She chooses her 12th birthday, and finds herself being called to breakfast by her mother, who to Emily seems so young and lovely. While her mother and father go about their daily tasks, Emily tries to halt the scene and take it all in, and she begs the living to see it, too, and to cherish all of it. She is so completely overwhelmed by the beauty of every moment that she can’t bear to stay. She leaves, bidding farewell to her Earthly existence: “Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover’s Corners . . . Mama and Papa. Good-by to clocks ticking . . . and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new-ironed dresses and hot baths . . . and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you’re too wonderful for anybody to realize you.” Indeed.

If only we could drag ourselves out of those dark corners, even for a little bit, to take a new look at this world, like Emily did, and to relish the magic of being alive in it. How lucky we are to stroke our cat’s head as he purrs, or to wrap our arms around our dog’s fine neck and rest our head against hers. What magic allows us to get up onto a horse and feel its strength beneath us, and ride off with abandon? How perfect are our tongues that can taste chocolate, or can make a kiss so suddenly and urgently passionate? Our fingers and toes are so perfectly designed, with the bones and sinew so aligned that we can hike or dance; play the piano or make a pie crust; or braid the fine hair of a child. We can use these vocal cords and make music right in our throats. We have adapted to life on this planet in ways that none of us ever truly realizes. So many ideas and inventions, so many conveniences. We are fantastic creatures and we can do so much. We can look into the eyes of our lovers or our babies, and we can sense the comfort of love there. The touch of one hand to another gives us solace. We can hug. We can laugh. All of it.

If we stepped up the window just a little, maybe we could see our dear Earth more clearly. Perhaps we could detect the changing colors of the water, the sea’s unhealthy rise, the hillsides too brown. Maybe we would be inspired to be more careful — to turn off the spigot sooner, use fewer plastics, recycle our stuff — any of that. The planet is not invulnerable. Oh, she’s tough. Tough as can be. But if we don’t treat her with some understanding and kindness, she’s going to stop being as hospitable as she’s been all these gazillion revolutions ‘round the sun. She doesn’t have much of a choice. We’re getting to be a problem. Like a rash. An itchy, relentless rash that is spreading and not responding to remedies very well. I mean, we’re a cute rash, sure. Our babies are to die for. And we’re funny and clever and ingenious sometimes. But we aren’t very nice to our planet these days, and we take her for granted 100% of our time here. We should try not to do that so much.

I readily admit that much of this I am writing for myself because I feel so defeated in this world sometimes. As the bizarre, surreal politics play out every day, I feel the noose of unenlightenment tightening. Human beings driven by fear or by greed can be a scary lot. As the axe of division continues to chop away, people seem to find it easier to simply categorize those they don’t understand. The “dems” or “libtards”; the “repuglicans” or “magats” — names for those with whom we disagree. We put these people into a box, and then we can easily strip them of any humanity. We lump them into one pile and declare that pile to be worthless. My mom has always taught me that everyone has some good. Everyone. And we have to work to find it sometimes. But in this time of instant updates and a hawk-eyed social media public, we have no time to breathe, let alone find the good. So our boxes of disregarded humans just get more packed. We don’t remember that they are more like us than not. We just remember to hate them. We hide them and check them off our “friend” list. We avoid them. When a person randomly holds a door for me or exchanges a brief kind word with me, I wonder sometimes if we would be as kind to one another if we knew more. I hope so, but I am certainly not sure.

As we stretch our wings up here above all the complications of this wearying world, perhaps we’ll stop seeing borders on the land. Maybe we’ll just see land, as it is, with no man-made lines of separation. How freeing that would be. Goodbye to tribalism and nationalism — those -isms that bring such hardship. We are intent on building walls and fences to keep the “other” out. Why? What is the point of staking out a spot and then fighting to the death over it? Why are we compelled to seek out more land and shove others away from it by force in order to have it? Why are we convinced that the way we live is the right way, and all should fall in line or be gone? All of this leads to nothing but pain. Over and over, on and on, bump, bump, bump.

In our little arcs of existence on this planet, we sure do spend a lot of our time fretting about how others live their own arcs. I don’t think it is the best use of our time to police others, and to make laws based on how a certain portion of people perceive how one should live a life. I believe we must protect our children, of course, and protect one another from those who may harm us. But when it comes to who people choose to love and to be loved in return — why would we fret about that? If we are finding our own comfort and building our own unique relationships, I see no reason at all to step out of that pursuit in order to complain, penalize, and actually enact laws to restrict how others find their own contentment. Fear drives much of that, I think. Humans fear losing the familiar and of having to adjust to the unfamiliar. The idea of losing one’s footing, of being proven wrong, of being unsure of how to proceed — those are powerful tools for the fear-mongers who feed the flames of insecurity, convincing followers that they must rise up against the new. Then deep-seated sexism and racism are validated and fanned to raging flames. Fear leads to more groups of people being shoved into the boxes stripped of their humanness, and the divisions deepen. Such a vicious cycle.

In the embattled existence we all have to varying degrees, there is only one true remedy to all that ails us. We can have all the money in the world, or the most splendid mansion, or the most followers on social media, or a dizzying stack of awards won. But what comforts us more than any of this? The comfort of another living thing. The security of knowing we matter to someone. And as we slip away from this planet and go on, I truly believe the only thing we take with us is love. Love is our buoyant, warm transport to the next step. We are sent off by all the souls who hold us dear. I am pretty sure we will feel that blanket of care as we head out. And those who mourn our exit will rely on love to heal and to go on without us. So in the end, nothing is as vital as love. Nothing is as lasting or as real. If we could step up on that window frame and look out, I think love is what we would see. If we behave as if that is all that matters, then we find more patience, more acceptance, more ease, and less stress. When we look at others with at least a semblance of love and a moment’s worth of empathy, seeing them as actual living beings all trying to make their way along this bizarre and magic path of life, the heaviness in our own hearts lifts. It just does. And we move closer to the way out of those bleak, useless places where what we do and the energy we expend is all futility.

Over the many years since I collated that calendar, I have thought about the bee. When I finally realize at times that I am wallowing in the filthy corner doing nothing but getting tired, I do try to turn around and aim for the window frame. I’m not sure at all if I am very often successful, but at least I give it a go. I hope I keep trying. You’re welcome to give it a whirl, too.

Serendipity

         [Writer’s note: This “slice of life” piece — or maybe more accurately “several slices of life all wadded up like a pile of dirty towels” piece — is a fun little exercise in layering and imagination. It may be seen as a bit of a departure from my usual style, but I’m at a place now where I can experiment and stretch and try things. So come on along with me for a little ride. The language is a tad racy in places, as is the content, so beware. It may not be your cup of tea, but hey — you can always spit it out. Then again, maybe it’ll suit you. Have a look and see…]

The seat belt was locked again. Anna pushed it away from her chest, but it didn’t move. She fought the urge to shout about it, knowing an outburst would make her parents even more uptight. They were in the front seat arguing about where to turn. That was always the worst, the two of them fighting over directions. Even at 9 years old, Anna could see the futility in their exchange.

            “Did you mean right or left? You can’t just say ‘that way’ and shrug one shoulder and goddamned expect me to understand, Pam!” her dad said in an ugly voice.

            “Christ! I thought you understood that we were at least trying to go east, Adam!” her mom shouted. “Now we have to go around the damn block again! If we miss this appointment I’m going to lose my shit!”

            “We have 20 more minutes — calm the hell down!”

            They did that all the time. They never seemed to learn. Anna wondered at that because they were smart otherwise, and generally kind to each other. But not when directions were involved. She sighed, pushing against the seat belt that seemed to be holding her with some kind of malevolent delight now.  The air conditioning unit had gone awry, so the car windows were all down. The air wasn’t cool, but it sure was dancing around. Her hair flew except for at the back of her neck, where it stuck in sweat.

            While Pam and Adam bickered, Anna watched the city sidewalks. The car stopped at a light, and she spotted a man out there. His legs bowed like he was perpetually straddling a pipe, and his hair was a white mess. He wore a striped polo shirt that was once blue, and cargo shorts with a torn pocket. In his hand was a Styrofoam cup. A large one. Anna watched as the man appeared to talk to the cup. He held it with both hands and earnestly mouthed words she could not make out. His eyebrows were high on his forehead as he implored the cup. Anna sat up more to see and the seat belt bit her shoulder. Staring at her parents, she stealthily unclasped the buckle, loosened the belt, and reconnected it, all undetected. Victorious and relieved, she leaned up to reset her gaze on the white-haired man. He seemed to be finished talking, but was still staring into the cup with such angst that Anna felt it. He had stopped his bow-legged pacing and was simply holding the cup, still with both hands. Then he set it down against the trunk of a small tree that was one of three lining the street. He didn’t straighten back up, as if he were not sure he should leave it there. Slowly he stood back. He walked three unsteady steps away and then turned back to his cup. He put his hands on his hips and was still.

            “Oh my god, why is this light taking so long?” Anna’s mother spat. “I’m burning up in this damn car!”

            “I don’t know why the air conditioning blew,” Adam said, fiddling with the AC button. “Just another stinking thing to fix. I am supposed to go left here, right?”

            “Yes. Left. Left. Left!” 

            “All right!”

            The light stayed red, though, so Anna could still see the man. He hesitated. He said one more thing to the cup, and then threw both arms up in apparent defeat. He turned then and walked away on those bowed legs. He rubbed his head vigorously and glanced back once at his abandoned item. Then he went on.

            The light changed at last and Adam stamped on the gas. The air whipped about the car again, like a windy oven. Anna twisted her head around as far as her neck would allow to watch the bow-legged man continue on his hesitant way. At her last glimpse, she saw a biker pass him. Did they speak? A woman with sacks of groceries passed him, too. Did she ask him anything?

            Anna slumped back in her seat. What was in the cup, she wondered. Why did he have a fight with it and leave it?  She rolled the questions around in her brain as the city street slipped by.

            “Is the next apartment somewhere close?” she asked.

            “Yes, I think so,” her mother said, and fiddled with her phone to review the directions once more. “We just have a few more turns.”

            “So this is where we will live, right here on these streets?” Anna asked as she scanned the line of parked cars and apartment building doorways.

            “Yep,” her dad answered. “That’s the plan anyway. It all depends on if we can find a place to live. Easier said than done so far.”

            “Turn right at this next light,” Pam said.

            “It’s weird to think this will be home now,” Anna said. Her mom looked back at her. Anna watched as she pushed aside a piece of blond hair that had fluttered across her eyes. Anna loved that face. She reached out to her mom with a sweaty hand. Her mom squeezed it and smiled.

            “It’s going to be fine, honey,” she said.

            “Okay,” Anna replied.

*

           Fran stepped outside and was hit with heat. The Piggly Wiggly was air-conditioned too much, really. The women at the registers all wore sweaters and their fingers were icy. Fran opted not to bring her sweatshirt this time because it just seemed so ludicrous to need it anywhere today. But the drastic difference was not good for her, she was sure. At 55, her whole body was changed. She didn’t even know it anymore. Since the eighth grade she had been close friends with it. She argued over the size of her thighs of course, and wondered why she was beset with so much errant hair on her chin, but in general, the friendship had been a good one. Now all was in flux. Before this past year, she had been aware each month when an egg was produced in her Fallopian tubes. She could feel it.

            “That’s ridiculous,” her doctor scoffed. “I really don’t think it’s possible for you to feel that or know it.”

            “Well, you aren’t a woman, either, are you?” she said. He rolled his eyes.

            Of course she knew when it happened. It was a regular and constant thing, and she was comforted each month a little, assured that she was still a viable human. The system worked for her, too, resulting in two offspring ­— the joys of her life. She had dedicated her whole being to them, and they were well for it. Both were on their own now, living with at least some happiness. But as with her body, her life seemed lost now, too. Purpose was allusive. There was no more cycle in her belly. All was static. The months went by and she didn’t even know it. Adding to her state of listlessness was the demise of her marriage. After years of co-parenting with her best friend, the partnership petered out. It ended quietly and agreeably; yet for Fran, the change was steeped in sadness and defeat.

            The five plastic grocery bags were a little heavy, and would be way heavier by the time she got back to the apartment. But driving had seemed dumb, since it was only a few blocks. She glanced up the sidewalk and saw a man in her path. Her self-preservation alarms sounded, built up from birth. Women are prey. Always. And if a woman doesn’t heed that fact, she is responsible for any harm that may befall her. Fran’s new reaction to such alarms was indignation. She was angry to be forced on guard at all times, especially now that she was alone. She was tired of being a bug, fearful of spider webs and brooms. Or a skittish mouse perpetually on the lookout for the next predator. The hell with them all. If this wobbling man was intent on any wickedness, so be it. She readied herself for a fight and strode on, keeping him in her sights, full of silent fury.

            But the man seemed to be involved in something else. He was speaking, unintelligibly, and holding a cup with both hands. He would have to drop that cup to come after Fran, she knew.

            “Go ahead and drop it,” she thought, seething. “Come after me. Do me in, in fact. Go ahead, you drooling fool.”  She kept walking, upright and with purpose. 

*

            Martin glided his bicycle to a stop at a red light. It was really too hot to be biking today, but he could not afford any more gas this week. He had budgeted one tank for two weeks, and with his jaunt to Ella’s house over the weekend, the car was already fussing for more. He had learned enough about himself over this past year of grad school that he could either stick to his budget or fail miserably. Being late for the rent or utilities would not do. After living at his parents’ house for too long and blithely opting to go to school 700 miles away, Martin was thrust into adulthood more harshly than he would’ve guessed.

            “You really can’t come over to see me?” Ella had asked with such childlike disappointment in her tone. “But I want you to.” She lived a half-hour away, this new woman in his life. Martin thought of the gas gauge that was already hovering close to E. So he could either be annoyed by her adorable wretchedness, or he could acquiesce. Of course he had acquiesced. With some annoyance.

            “All right, all right,” he said. “I’ll drive over.” And not that he regretted it. But now it was to be the bike and only the bike for the next week.

            He put his foot down to balance, stopped at that long red light on his path to the library. He unhooked his water bottle and popped it open. As he was taking a drink, he saw a man walking strangely along the road. In his hands was a large Styrofoam cup. The man was talking out loud, seemingly to no one. Martin knew he would be biking right next to this guy when the light changed. He strained to hear what the words were, but he could not decipher anything above the noise of the city street. He swallowed the warmish water and thought again that he needed a better bottle — one that would actually keep his drink cold.  He glanced at the traffic beside him as he swiped the sweat off his forehead. For a brief moment, he made eye contact with a woman in a car with the windows down. She was sweaty and sad, he thought. Or maybe mad. He took another drink. Looking between the edge of the lid and the rim of his helmet, he watched as the limping man set the cup down against a tree trunk. He seemed to eye the arrangement with some concern and then express exasperation, and he limped away.

            “Strange,” Martin thought. “What the heck is in the cup?”

            The light changed and he pushed down on the pedal. Balanced and settled back on the seat, Martin pushed a few more times and coasted along the bike path. He saw the cup coming into view and considered stopping to look. But how silly would that be? He had work to do, and for all he knew, there was vomit in it, or something worse. And there was a woman nearby, too, loaded with grocery bags. He didn’t want to cause any alarm or embarrassment. So he glided past the tree with the cup, and in a moment, went by the white-haired man, too. He nodded kindly at the woman as he passed. Martin always tried to be polite. She did not nod back, but only looked straight ahead and kept walking.

            *

            Jewel opened her eyes. The sun was out, bright and burning through the curtain. She watched the dust dance in the beam and knew she was breathing it in. All the time. So much dust. She pulled the quilt up over her shoulder and pushed on her pillow to make a good spot. The sheets should be changed by now. She had grown up with a mom who did laundry every Monday. Every single Monday she stripped all those beds and did all that laundry. Jewel was perplexed by that. She hadn’t washed these sheets in probably two months. But she liked it, this nest. And she didn’t know where to find the motivation to break out of it anyway.

            She stretched and looked at the clock. Almost noon.

            “Buddy?” she said. “Are you here?” No answer. He must’ve gone out. Today was the day. The day of decisions. What would he choose, Jewel wondered.

            “You have to stop,” she had said, over and over.

            “I know, baby,” he said. “I will. I swear to god I will.”

            But each day he failed. In Jewel the futility grew and the hope waned. Why couldn’t he win? Just for once?

            Her phone vibrated and she fumbled to grab it. Seeing it was her sister, she nearly didn’t answer. But she had to.

            Ella didn’t even say good morning.

            “This is it, right? This is the day?” she said.

            “Hello to you, too,” Jewel replied. Her voice was rough.

            “Are you not even up yet?” Ella asked.

            “Oh my god, Ella. How many times do I have to tell you? I tend bar. I stay up late,” Jewel said. She searched for her vape pen in the quilt folds. “I don’t get to bed until 3 a.m.”

            “Well, it’s almost noon. That’s what… nine hours! God, I wish I could get nine hours!”

            “Then you should tend bar,” Jewel said with weariness. She breathed in the vape and savored the almond nicotine. She blew out a cloud of white that hung heavy around her for a moment.

            “Uh, no thanks,” Ella scoffed. “I’m happy with my work right now. In fact, I’m going to get a raise next quarter, they say. All the state employees are supposed to.”

            “Nice,” Jewel said.

            “So is Buddy there?” Ella asked. Jewel sighed.

            “No, not right now,” she answered, braced.

            “Oh my god, Jewel! Then it’s done. He’s not going to stop. You said today was the day!”

            “Ella! Shut up! I know what I said! It’s only noon, damn it! Now lay off!” Jewel’s outburst made her cough. Ella waited.

            “Are you okay?” she asked in a changed voice.

            “Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t like to be attacked the second I open my eyes for the day, you know?” Jewel cleared her throat hard.

            “I’m sorry,” Ella said. “I’m just worried. This has gone on long enough. You have to hold to it. You have to be strong, Jewel.”

            “I know, I know, I know. I got it.”

            “I want you to be able to come see me. Just you, you know?” Ella said. “I want you to meet Martin, too.”
            “He’s that grad student guy you’ve been seeing?” Jewel asked.

            “Yep. He’s great. I really like him a lot. He was here on Sunday for the whole day. He’s nice, Jewel. I mean, really nice.”

            “Ah, that’s good, Ella. I’m glad for you. You deserve someone nice,” Jewel said. “And yeah, I would like to meet him sometime.” She pushed the covers off and put her feet on the floor. “But right now I need to get up and move.”

            “Okay,” her sister said. “But….”

            “I know, Ella. Today is the day,” Jewel said.

            “Yes,” Ella replied. “This is it. Let me know.”

            “Yeah. I will. Bye,” Jewel said, barely listening for Ella’s reply before disconnecting. She peeled off her nightshirt and sleep pants. Even taking a shower took more energy than it should. She sat on the edge of the bed, nude, thumbing through messages on her phone. She tossed it aside and heaved herself up. Maybe Buddy would be back by the time she was finished in the shower. Maybe he would poke his white head in the bathroom and say hi. So young to have all that white hair. Just 41. And he had been white since he was in his early 30s.

            “At least I never get carded,” he would say with a smirk.

*

            Anna was hungry. Her stomach felt absolutely empty. As she followed her mother into the restaurant, the aroma from the kitchen caused noise in her belly.

            “Is this a sit-down place where we have to wait and stuff?” she asked Pam.

            “Well, it’s a regular restaurant, yes,” her mother answered.

            “Ugh. I don’t want to have to wait,” she fussed. “I’m so hungry right now. I wish we could just go to McDonald’s. They’re faster.”

            “Well, sorry, honey, but we’re meeting with my new boss here,” Pam said. “She’s taking us to lunch, so that’s nice. Maybe they can bring you some crackers or something.”

            The idea of a stupid cracker wasn’t very satisfying to Anna. She was hot and sticky from the car ride, and the last apartment visit was another failure. The hallway to that place was dark and the stench of cigarette smoke made Anna sick. The exit sign was yellow and crooked. It looked like a botched jack-o’-lantern and she didn’t like it. A young woman in shorts and a university T-shirt showed them around the place. By going up in tone every time she said anything, she seemed to speak in all questions.

            “This refrigerator is on the blink? But it will be fixed before you move in, if you take the place?” she said with a smile that looked just like the grin on Anna’s old Barbie doll. “The rent is due on the first of the month, but there’s a week grace period? The garbage comes on Tuesdays? There’s a burn hole in the carpet but it’s at the edge? The last people put their couch over it.”

            Anna knew they were not going to be living in this place simply by looking at her mother’s mouth. It was a flat, thin line, and her eyes were half closed. Adam saw that, too. There was no way Pam would sentence them to live in this dump. And now they weren’t going to see another place until after lunch with a woman none of them knew. Pam had brushed Anna’s hair too roughly, and then wiped her face with a cloth from the cooler. That part felt good. Then she made Adam change his shirt because she said he smelled. Anna felt bad for him, because that would’ve hurt her feelings. But he just sniffed his armpit and said, “Wow. You’re right.” And he dug in his suitcase to find another one.

            The restaurant was crowded and loud. Anna slipped her hand into her mother’s. A woman at a table in the back stood up and waved.

            “There she is,” Pam said, tugging Anna in that direction. Adam followed. The woman’s name was Rebecca, Anna knew, and she was a newspaper editor. She had hired Pam as a reporter for the city government. Just the thought of that made Anna want to sleep, which she could probably do right there at the table if she weren’t so hungry.

            “Hello, hello,” the Rebecca lady said, “and welcome to our pretty city!”

            Anna watched her mother come to life, with a wide smile and sweeping gestures. She didn’t even seem like herself, and Anna squirmed a little. Introductions were made. Adam reached out with his big hand and shook the lady’s, and Anna was directed to do the same. Both parents seemed off-kilter and nervous. Anna wanted to leave. Just when she was sure she would have to bolt out the door, the waitress came and saved the day by asking her what she’d like to eat.

            There was just nothing quite like the satisfaction of a grilled cheese with a pile of pickles, Anna knew for sure. With just a few bites into it, her spirit lifted. The adults kept talking, but Anna paid little attention, at least until she got most of the sandwich down. When she did refocus, she saw that her mother was much more familiar now, calm and sure. She and the lady were talking easily, like they knew each other. By the time Anna started listening again, they had passed from the newspaper office onto their own lives. Rebecca’s face was serious.

            “Yes, my parents split after 27 years, if you can believe it,” she said. “My dad seems fine with it, mostly. He has been dating again already, which is weird.”

            “I’m sure it is,” Pam replied.

            “But my mom is not great. She let him keep the house and she moved into a little apartment. My brother and I tried to get her to buy a house or something, but she wouldn’t do it,” Rebecca said. “It’s just hard to see her there. And she walks everywhere because she is right in the city. We worry about her doing that.” 

            Pam nodded. “Maybe she just needs some time,” she said. She had finished her salad and was folding her napkin into a fan with careful, even creases. She looked up at Rebecca. “She has to heal, I would think.”

            “Yeah, I think that’s true. She is just so angry. Really, really mad, you know?” Rebecca looked so sad.  Anna could see it. Pam reached out and put her hand on Rebecca’s arm.

            “She’ll get better. You’ll just have to wait a while.” Anna recognized that voice of peace. She wanted to go curl up in her mother’s arms and rest against her and smell her smell. She loved her so.

            Adam cleared his throat and pointed to his phone.

            “I hate to interrupt you all, but we have another place to look at in about 20 minutes,” he said.

            “Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Rebecca said, smiling again. “Well, I am just so thrilled that you’ll be joining us, Pam. I think we will work well together.”

            “I do, too, Rebecca. Thank you so much,” Pam said. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

*

            Jewel wrapped her wet hair in a towel and put another one up against her front to leave the bathroom. Not that it would matter if Buddy had returned, but sometimes he brought people with him. That was part of the problem. Since he had moved in, too many people had been in and out for reasons unknown. Jewel was tired of it.

            “Today is the day,” she said to the mirror. In it she saw her thin face with little pouches beneath each eye. The night life did its damage for sure. But she preferred it over any daytime job. Ella talked of her days in a closed office, wearing dressy clothes, fighting traffic to get there and fighting it again to leave, and catering to all the grad students. Jewel could not imagine it. She knew her being a bartender embarrassed Ella. But Jewel chalked it up to chronic immaturity. Ella was much younger, and her childhood was a world apart. They were half-sisters, and their mother had chosen a much better man when she opted for Ella’s dad. Jewel’s father left when she was 2. He came back a handful of times, and then tried to hold up a grocery store. He was serving time now, and would be for the next several years. Ella’s dad was an insurance salesman who played the bagpipes. His only fault was a rabid need to collect salt and pepper shakers. He had thousands, and they littered her mother’s house. Other than that, he was a gem.

            Jewel pulled on the same jeans she had on two nights ago. Letting her jeans rest for a day helped to air out the bar smell. A small pile of neatly folded clothes was on the chair. Buddy did that. A pang went through her. Buddy was nice. He did the laundry and folded her clothes more carefully than she. He slept in the spare room, but sometimes would creep over to her room. It was funny when he tried to tiptoe. His legs were so bowed that he looked like a rodeo clown. He would tap on her door and then come crawl in bed with her. She liked that. She loved it.

            Jewel put on a T-shirt and combed her wet hair. She fluffed it with her hands and the strands rolled into natural curls. A box of chocolate covered cherries was on the coffee table. Buddy had brought those to her, too. She dug one out and bit, cracking the chocolate and letting the sugary goo roll onto her tongue. Cherries were her favorite. And almond flavoring in anything. And bourbon, of course. And sex. Crazy hard, vigorous sex.

            The door opened. Buddy crept in quietly, not looking up. Jewel watched him and waited. He turned and was startled.

            “Oh! Hi! I thought you were still sleeping,” he said. He walked to her. He was going to kiss her, but she leaned back.

            “Where have you been?” she asked. His expression changed ever so subtly. But she saw it.

            “Just out for a little bit,” he said.

            “No,” she replied. “No. You went, didn’t you? You put it out there. Again. Even though I told you it has to stop.”

            Buddy went to the kitchen and got a glass. He filled it with water and picked up a small towel from the sink to wipe the back of his neck.

            “You really need to answer me, Buddy,” Jewel said. She folded her arms. Buddy looked at her and the guilt was all over him.

            “Why? Why do you care what I do out there? Why does it matter to you?” he asked. “I just don’t know why you hate it so much. It makes me happy, it helps me.”

            “No, it keeps you. It keeps you in debt and in its clutches. It ruins everything!” she said.

            “But I tried, Jewel! I tried so hard to keep it, to not put it down,” he said. “I really fought it, but I lost.”

            “Today is the day, Buddy!” Jewel yelled. “I told you! If you don’t stop, you have to leave.” Her voice wavered.

            He turned to her and took three steps to be standing inches from her. He grasped her shoulders.

            “Aren’t I enough for you, Jewel? Just like I am? I’m good to you, aren’t I?” He refused to let her go. “And we’re good, together, here in this place, and in that bed!” He nodded toward her room.

            “Yes, you are good, Buddy, yes, and we are good sometimes,” she said. “But you just can’t keep doing it. I’m good, too, you know. I take care of you. I let you come here and stay! I’m good.”

            He let go of her and stood back. He buried his hands in the pockets of his shorts and looked at the floor.

            “Yes. You are good. That’s true. Good to me, and to everyone. I really don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for you.”

            There was silence. Buddy rolled the change in his pocket. Jewel leaned on the back of the sofa.

            “Then you have to quit,” she said finally. “Go get it back before they pick it up, Buddy. Go now. They’ll pick it up soon, so you have to go. This is it.”

            Buddy stared at nothing and swayed a little.

            “Okay,” he said.

*

            Anna stretched hard, straining against the bedeviling seat belt and lengthening every muscle with delight. The air was deliciously cold again. Her dad turned the AC back on, and by some miracle it was healed.

            “By damn, that gas station guy was right,” Adam said as he put up all the windows in the car. “I guess we’re low on refrigerant. He said the coil freezes up when the refrigerant is low, and then the airflow is blocked. Makes sense that it thaws when we turn it off.”

            “Yep, I figure he was right,” Anna’s mom said. “Thank goodness!”

            The aura in the car had turned a full 180.  Anna basked in the cold air and the warm reconciliation.

            “So what do you think, Anna Banana? You okay with our new place?” her dad asked her. He was using the voice saved for the best of times.

            “Yes, I think it’s great,” Anna replied. “I’m glad we’ll have a little yard.”

            “Yeah, me, too,” Adam said.

            “And your room has a nice big closet,” her mom said.

            “Oh, yeah, it does! It’s almost as big as my room now.”

            “It really is,” her mom agreed, laughing a little.

            The relief was real, Anna knew. Finding a new place to live was exhausting. This was the third time in her short memory.

            “I hope we can stay here a while,” she said. Her mom glanced back at her.

            “I think we will, honey.”

            Anna breathed in the chilled air and settled back. She looked out as her dad slowed to a stop. This street, she thought. What is it about this street…. She gasped.

            “Oh my gosh!” Anna shouted. Her parents started.

            “What?” Adam asked, annoyed that she made him jump.

            Anna looked toward the tree to see if the cup might still be there, and not only was the cup there, but the bow-legged man was, too.  He was hobbling toward the tree as they sat at the long red light. Anna watched him anxiously, wondering if he would do what she thought he might. Her parents were still waiting for an answer.

            “I just…” she began. “I saw that man earlier.” She pointed at him. “Like two hours ago, before lunch and before we got to our new place. He was right here, when we were. He… he put down a cup. And there was a biker and a lady there, too.” She trained her eyes on the white-haired figure.

            “He put down a cup?” her mother asked.

            “Yeah….” Anna didn’t know how to explain. She watched as he slowed his gait. He stopped at the tree and looked down. “Go ahead,” Anna said aloud.

            “Go ahead and what?” her dad asked.

            “Just wait a second….” Anna’s voice trailed off. 

            “I do remember this damn light,” Adam said. “It takes so long.”

            Anna wanted it to take long. She wanted to see what would happen. As she watched, the man stooped. He picked up the cup and seemed to speak into it. He stood still for a moment, and put his other hand on the cup, too, and put it against his chest. Then he walked on.

            “He did it! He picked it up! I wanted him to pick it up!” Anna said.

            “What? Why?” Adam asked.

            “I saw him put it down, and he was sad to put it down. So I wanted him to pick it back up. And he did. And I got to see it,” she said. Her parents were quiet.

            “Well, okay, honey,” her mom said.

            “It was way long ago today, and I saw him do it, and then I got to see him again, just now,” Anna searched for a way to explain.

            “Ah,” her mom said. “Serendipity.” Anna didn’t know what that word meant.

            “It was probably drugs,” her dad said. That had not occurred to her.

            “No, Dad. No, it wasn’t. It was something important. I know.”

            “Well, okay, Bananny. Whatever you want,” Adam said, which annoyed her.

            She refocused on the bow-legged man and watched him go on, cup to chest.

            “I wanted him to pick it up, and he did,” she said again. “And it makes me glad.”

            The man turned the corner and left Anna’s sight.

Up the Steps

I was upstairs the other morning, stumbling around like I do at that time of day, clawing the cobwebs off my brain to start thinking straight. Our house is so quiet these days, with all three sons off living their lives elsewhere, and their bedrooms generally unused, except for when the cats are in need of a new soft spot in the sun. As I shuffled along to the bathroom, I heard John at the bottom of the steps. “Miles,” he called. Miles is one of our three cats. “Come eat.” As odd as it may sound, his voice gently urging a cat to come downstairs for breakfast was comforting to me. I thought of how he used to call up to the boys, and how I did, too, coaxing them downstairs for food or travel or homework or whatever. Then I thought of my own mom calling up our stairs at home. “Mary Ruth! Kathryn! Ben! Wake up!” That was our alarm clock then. My mom’s voice, sprinting up the steps and into our ears at 7 a.m. And so the day would begin, with our competition for the upstairs bathroom starting out the morning. That voice at the bottom of the steps, those words, that particular tone… that’s how our day started for years.

The steps in my childhood home as well as my home now have played pivotal roles in the growing up of all these offspring. The steps at home go straight up, with a banister on the right. As the climber ascends, the view of the living room is gradually obscured by the line of the second floor. The steps are wide with generous treads. They are comfortable stairs, built by my dad in the 1950s. There is a small landing at the top, with three bedrooms and a bathroom all branching off. That spot was where we five kids would congregate on Christmas morning, after Don had wakened us with a blaring trombone solo, or Ben had torn into his trap set to send us all straight up from our pillows. We would gather at the top of the steps, as we weren’t allowed to go down until Mom and Dad said okay. And Dad would drag it on so long, wandering around down there doing who knows what, with us begging, “Can we come down yet?” And him chuckling… “Noooo, not yet. Stay up there. No looking,” he would say, enjoying the power over our crazy yearning to get on with the gift-ripping frenzy. Kathryn and I would sit on the top step. Then we would inch down to the next one, trying not to look but wanting to so much. At long last, from the bottom of the steps, Mom would say, “Okay!” and we would thunder down those stairs with such giddiness, turning to see what might have appeared under the tree overnight. That moment of seeing what is there, but not knowing, and of anticipating how well our own gifts to our parents or sibs would be received, but holding fast to those secrets for just a bit longer — that is perhaps the absolute very best moment of the entire day, or even the whole season.

The bottom of the steps at home is also a particularly historic spot for me personally, and not for something all that good. When I was six years old, my mom began her job at the family newspaper business. I wasn’t happy about it, according to my mom. She only worked two days a week, Tuesday and Wednesday, but that meant that on those two days, I had to come home from school and be there with just my sister Kathryn and brother Ben, and sometimes Don, I guess, but it seems he was off doing things by that time. I apparently guilted my mother in the way only a 6-year-old can do, and she still remembers it. (She’s 90. Yeah.) So it was not helpful to her sense of parental guilt when I had my moment with the bottom of the steps. I remember it still. The TV was on and Kathryn and Ben were watching something. Probably Adventure Time with Paul Shannon, which used to be on right after school. I wore a dress to school most days back then, and I had taken my dress off and I guess was going to go up to the bedroom Kathryn and I shared to put on my after-school duds. I was wearing a white slip and white tights. A lot of white. For a reason long forgotten, I was in a hurry and was planning to run up the steps. I slammed my right leotarded foot on that first smooth step, and it slipped hard to the left. Down I crashed to the right, my head bashing into the newel post, which had a rather sharp corner. That sharp corner sliced open a gash about a half-inch from my right eye. Now, a deep cut to the face can be minor, but it is most likely going to produce one spectacularly gory mess. This was no exception. I rose up to see great splotches of blood splashing onto my white slip and white tights. I was utterly stunned, and horrified. I remember screaming, and then Kathryn yelling for Ben. My brother came running to me and picked me up. I was six, so he was 14. He carried me into the bathroom, telling me I was all right. I bled all over him and all over the floor. I was absolutely terrified, but I do remember Ben settling me on the little footstool in the bathroom and talking to me with such calm. He seemed so old to me at the time — I am always impressed to think that he was just 14. He got a four-by-four-inch bandage out of the medicine cabinet and pushed it against my gash. He told me I would be all right. Then Kathryn stayed with me and he went to the phone to call Dad.

In what seemed only a few minutes, Dad was there, arriving in his signature trench coat and man hat. I do recall him being slightly taken aback by the gore. It was a mess. And I was his six-year-old daughter, so I’m sure it was a little daunting. But he was a ski patroller and a patrol instructor, so he knew what to do. Off we went to the hospital, and all this time, no one had told Mom a thing. I remember being on a table in the emergency room, and Dr. James Feaster preparing to stitch up my cut. I was lying there crying, now unable to see out of my eye because it was swelling. Dr. Feaster was known for his bedside manner. And by that I mean he was known for being flat-out rude to patients. He looked at my cut and then barked, “Why are you crying?” I had to think for a minute. “Because I’m scared!” I said. “Well, there is no reason to be scared. Stop crying.” And I did. Thinking back on it, I do wish I would’ve said, “I’m six years old, you know. I just watched blood flow out of my head. So how about backing off?” But I did stop crying. Then I remember hearing the thread as he pulled it through my flesh. I couldn’t feel it, but I did hear it. Five stitches, he announced.

“You will have a black eye,” he said brusquely. That was exciting. A black eye! And I had stitches! And it didn’t even hurt that much. Dad and I left the hospital, and he took me to the newspaper office. He said, “Go say hello to your mom.” I immediately obeyed. I found her at the Line-o-Type machine, typing away. “Hi, Mommy,” I said. She turned to me and I remember her mouth dropping open. “Oh, Mary Ruth! What happened to you?!” It was delicious. I looked pretty beaten up, I guess, and truth be told, it was getting sore. I suppose the numbing agent was wearing off. But wow, to see Mom’s face was pretty cool. She grabbed me in a hug and demanded to know what happened. Everyone demanded to know that for the next few weeks, in fact, because I sure did develop an impressive shiner. I worked so hard to remember the word “newel” so I could tell the tale properly.

About two years ago I saw an eye doctor for a check up. He was looking and looking at my right eye. He said he saw what looked like a cataract, but it was not that.

“Did you ever have a head injury?” he asked. “You seem to have a small scar on your right eye.” I thought for a bit, scanning my memory… then I recalled the splashes of blood and the sound of thread. “Yes!” I said. “Yes, I did have an injury, and I shall tell you all about it.” And I did.

I wore white on those steps some years later. John and I were married at Mom and Dad’s house, and I put my wedding dress on in my room. Kim Sanders styled my hair there, and I put on all my jewelry and makeup. Then I came down the steps, just minutes before we were to head out to the yard to do the thing. I remember my little nieces all standing there, ready to escort me as a gaggle of flower girls. Sara, who was about 9, gasped and said, “You look beautiful!” and Lori, who was about 7, joined in. “So beautiful!” she squeaked. And it was so sweet, these dear little girls, all dressed up, with flowers in their hair. And my dad there to give me his arm, my dear sister to walk with me, and my best friend Judy, too. Mom had worried it would rain, but the sun was beaming in a brilliant blue sky, and she was so relieved. My friends were there, and my family-to-be. Everyone. So happy and light. And there was my dear John, so handsome in his dark suit, waiting for me under the apple tree, smiling. Wearing white on the steps that day was warm and joyous, with no gore at all.

When John and I bought our house some years later, we knew our steps would have to be replaced. They were squishy in places and so ugly. But our first baby was on the way, and he was followed up in short order by two more, so the step project was put much farther down the list. (Many years sped by before John got to it, but he did manage it at long last.) The steps in our house are in three sections. There are three, then there is a landing. About seven more then go up at left, and there is another landing. And then five more, also at left, finally end at the second floor. We were amused when one of the boy’s teenaged friends came into the house for her first time and said, “It’s true! It is just like the Weasleys’ house!” I thought that was both funny and a tad disconcerting, considering the mess that the Weasleys seemed to live in most of the time. “Who says that?” I asked. She continued to gaze up our stairwell as she answered dreamily, “Everyone.”

When Robert, our oldest, was a toddler, he was fascinated with the steps. He adored climbing up, but then had no idea how to get down. I have heard many parents report the same. We tried to block off the steps, but the first three are rather wide, sort of opening into the front foyer. It was hard to find things to completely obscure the entire opening. He would find a way, and before we knew it, we’d hear him at the top of the stairs, fussing. I remember hearing him there, and trying to move the furniture and cardboard and other obstacles out of the way to get to him. But I was too late. He tried to come down and lost his balance. His little toddler body was rolling, clunking, slapping, and bonking down the steps and there was nothing I could do about it. Terrifying. He cried, I cried… but he was fine. And I do think he was a little less likely to start back up, at least for a while.

The top of the steps in our house is the same on Christmas morning as that spot at my childhood home. Our boys still congregate there as John and I wander around downstairs, annoying them by plodding about, making coffee, yawning… “Can we come down yet?” “No….. not quite….” But then we say it, up the steps, and down they fly, like puppies. Nowadays it is mostly a perfunctory process done in honor of years past. But when they were little, it was a true exercise in the value of chomping at the bit.

When the boys are home these days, which is rare, I do take some comfort in hollering up the steps when dinner is ready or when it’s time to play a game or go for a hike. Up the stairs my voice goes… and down they come. A simple thing. As simple as my husband now calling up the stairway to our 13-year-old cat with hyperthyroidism and anxiety, coaxing him to come on down for his food. There is kindness in that. Kindness and care for another living thing.

I am grateful that a voice drifted up to my room all those years, and I am just as grateful that my boys had that, too. They knew there was going to be someone’s voice rousing them from those sometimes strange early morning dreams. Someone was going to reach into that fog and pull them out for another day. And there would be enough food to eat, enough clean and warm clothes to wear, and affection in abundance. They knew they were loved, just as my siblings and I did; and just as John’s family did. We all landed into families of compassion, and that is something to cherish, and to pass on in any way possible. Everyone deserves a gentle nudge from the stairway.

A Trip Back to the Nutty ‘90s

At the risk of being too nostalgic and perhaps a little lazy as I populate this blog with stuff, I am now including some columns FDGB (from days gone by). These are a few of my favorite ones, reminding me of how life was when our three sons were still just a litter of rollicking, messy puppies. Three boys in four years was one of the more daring risks John and I took, that’s for sure. And it has worked out quite nicely. But I am now not at all certain how we managed all of it, and these columns remind me of those busy, noisy, sticky days. So welcome to the circus, on a camping trip, and into the world of three very young men. Have fun.

Under the Big Top
Published in The Republican newspaper in June 1997

Eight years and three kids later, I think it was quite apropos that I spent our wedding anniversary at the circus. And this was no necessarily a bad thing —this production was pleasant enough. The acts were funny and entertaining, the animals appeared to be well cared for, and the performers smiled a lot. They didn’t have that bored, depressed expression that circus folks sometimes acquire after performing 80-trillion shows for 80-trillion screamin’ meemies. I would most definitely get bored and/or depressed. Probably suicidal.

As it worked out, John kept baby Michael at home and I escorted Rob (5) and Alex (2) to the affair. Alex was just bursting — “We’re goin’ to the circuth, aren’t we, Mom? We’re goin’ right now, aren’t we, Mom?” Robert kept himself under control, being a circus vet. “I’ll show you where to go, Alex,” he said with authority. “I went last time.”

I thought Alex might come up out of his car seat as we drove along. “We’re almos’ there, aren’t we, Mom? Jutht a little bit more,” he chattered. Rob actively repressed his own excitement, determined to refrain from such a display. “Yeah,” he said, his voice heaped with sugar, “we’re almost there, Alex.” When Rob isn’t whacking Alex on the head, he’s really quite loving toward him.

“We’re gonna th’ee — th’ee — we’re gonna th’ee tha elephanth,” Alex blathered. “An’ tha’ hortheth and tha’ tha’ tha’ clowns and get balloons an’ an’ an’…!” His vocabulary gave out about then and he resorted to simple catchall squealing.

As we parked the car, the looming striped tent became visible to the boys and even Robert nearly lost composure. I demanded that they hold my hands as we walked through the parking lot, which for me was similar to holding onto cats headed for the bathtub. We entered the vacant-field-turned-wonderland and I called the boys’ attention to the elephant standing several yards from us. They both shouted, “Oh, yeah!” but I could see that neither of them was actually seeing the beast. Rob was furtively scanning the whole area and Alex was looking at the motorized pay-a-quarter ride at the door of the Treasure Island store. I risked letting go of Rob’s hand to physically manipulate their heads toward the elephant, and they finally saw it. As we got closer to her, the boys’ excitement was somewhat subdued. A real live elephant is staggeringly big to persons who stand about as tall as a yard stick.

We entered the tent and found seats in the front row, which actually rested about an inch off the ground. That’s fine for little ones, but Mommy was not terribly comfortable. Oh, well. We could see the ring so well and the boys were okay with it, so I accepted the role of martyr. A clown stood almost directly in front of us, and from his dripping wet hands blew soap bubbles — huge, wobbling orbs that bumped sluggishly over the crowd of grasping hands until some tots tackled them. He was funny — Rob was immediately rapt. The spotlights were sweeping the place, their beams crossing and uncrossing in time with the lively music. The clowns were yelling their acts and the kids were matching that noise. Several men carrying a dizzying number of sodas and other pricey snacks strapped to their chests traipsed through the crowd, stopping often to accept wrinkled bills in exchange for their wares. As I studied the scene around me, I became conscious of a growing pressure against my side. I looked down to see Alex, his sky-blue eyes the size of quarters, tightly hugging his chest and leaning into me. In a very small voice he said, “I want to go back home.”

I had to stifle a laugh, bubbling up unexpectedly, pitying him and being amused at the same time. Just then, the lights went down completely and the place grew quiet. Alex literally climbed up my torso and clung to my neck like a baby orangutan.

“I want to go back home now,” he implored. I assured him that everything was all right while Rob patted his back. Finally he ground his head around on my neck just enough to see out of one eye. He stayed there for quite some time, and I, sitting on that board holding a panicky 40-pound kid, knew I was strongly in the running for the Martyred Mother Award of 1997. As he relaxed his grip a little, I tried to put him back down on the bleacher, but it was like trying to put down a yo-yo. He was back up against my neck in less than a second. He stayed there for probably 20 minutes, finally conceding to edge back down to the seat as long as he could keep most of his body pressed against mine.

The circus was fairly free of the usual sales pitches, but at one point the ringmaster did announced that peanuts were being sold and several packages contained a coupon for a free balloon. I actually won a balloon last year with Rob, so he naturally assumed we would win again. I bought two bags — a buck each — and neither contained the winning ticket. Robert struggled to stay calm. A frown crossed his brow, but he regained his poise amazingly well. I was very proud of him and gave him a quick hug. He smiled at me and said, “We can just buy one, right, Mom?” I sighed and responded as the parent I am: “We’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Alex had discovered the peanuts and was requesting that I open them for him. About every third one was edible; the rest were roasted nearly to oblivion and tasted like tar. I busily cracked them and reported the burned ones as “yucky” and handed the good ones over to him. Growing impatient, he paid next to no attention to the grinning tightrope performer, who was simultaneously giving Rob the willies. “He’s going to fall — that’s dangerous,” he kept saying. I could hear my own warnings in my son’s voice. “I wonder if I’m creating a worrywart,” I worried. My attention was drawn to the death-defying guy, too — okay, so there was a net, but he could’ve missed it — Rob noted that fact. I quit nut cracking and watched the show, noticing after a few moments the lack of Alex’s demands. I looked to see him digging in the grass, picking up discarded peanuts and popping them in his mouth.

“Dis one is not yucky, Mom,” he said indignantly, pinching the blackened goober between his tiny thumb and forefinger. “It’s good.”

The show’s finale featured no fewer than three elephants, performing amazing balancing and daring feats, and coming close enough almost to touch. The boys were duly impressed and left the arena full of news to tell Michael and Daddy. Of course, they also left with a ridiculously priced light-up sword and a tiger-shaped balloon. So I’m a softie. The circus only comes once a year.

Alex and Rob around the time of the circus adventure.

Sleeping Bags, Mess Kits, and Tense
Published in The Republican newspaper Aug. 13, 1998

As I lay grumbling in my sleeping bag, ruing the day I decided we’d go camping for vacation, I did keep thinking to myself, “At least I’ll get a column out of this.” So here we are, having survived another summer’s week of adventures with three young males of the species, and I’m ripe with things to tell. (Our tent and other camping items are also ripe, although in a somewhat different fashion.)

Vacation defined: “Freedom from any activity, rest, respite, intermission; a period of rest and freedom from work…” And archaic definition of the word is “the act of making vacant.” I think that second one best describes the result of our vacation —the following things have been left vacant: our bank account, our sanity, and our yen to camp ever again.

Actually, it was not all that bad. The boys loved it, I think, and will probably remember it for a long time. John and I will, too, lemme tell ya. Camping is a good alternative for vacationing, since staying in a hotel for several nights is not really feasible for a growing family of yard apes. If we really want to “get away” for a while, we have to aim at what we can achieve, at least monetarily. Campsites are pretty cheap, especially if you go rustic (and by that I just mean no electricity —we did have bathrooms a short walk away). We set up camp at grounds in Hershey, Pa., where the air truly smells like chocolate. The campground was great, complete with a pool not far from our site and a general store that had absolutely everything you could possibly need. I’m sure the hard-core campers would roll their eyes in disdain at the whole deal, but I bet most of them wouldn’t be toting along three imps, either.

So the two-room tent went up just fine, and the boys were tickled to romp around in their new “house,” almost to the point of tearing it back down. They fought over who was going to get to use the mess kit, argued about who was going to get to spray bug repellent into whose eyes, and got in fist-fights over the flashlights (that sounds like a country song). The boys had no real mattress —just a bunch of blankets piled up. John and I, however, had thought far enough ahead to purchase an air mattress for ourselves. We didn’t, however, think quite far enough ahead to get an air pump, so a great deal of time was passed as we took turns filling the double-bed-size air mattress with our own carbon dioxide. Not a fun task, especially on a hot afternoon, and especially when three little boys are running around like wild animals asking question after question and whacking each other for no apparent reason. After a long, sweaty two hours of setting up, we were actually able to retire to the pool, which provided an extremely pleasant respite.

Then came bedtime —that transition from circus to sanitarium. They always tell you in childbirth classes that in labor, transition is the worst time of all. You are in pain, you can’t think straight, and you think you’ll never get through it. Hate to break it to ya, new mommies, but that transition thing continues throughout childhood. Bedtime can be really tough, as we force these young humans to change gears from Full Speed Ahead to Full Stop. It’s sort of like trying to make a cat settle down at the vet’s, or brushing down a cowlick. And when the kids’ beds are in a tent, for pete’s sake —well, let’s just say the whole transition period definitely ranks in the high stress range long after childbirth, and especially while camping.

A family of what seemed to be about 83 children was camped next to us, and those weary parents kindly told us that the first night is always the toughest. “After that, they’re so tired they’ll drop into bed and snore ‘til morning,” the father assured us. I’ll be forever thankful for those words, because I probably would have left at about 11 p.m. that first night if I thought the next night were going to be the same. The kids argued over who was going to sleep where, they fought over their pillows, and then they began a series of “giggling-to-crying-to-giggling” episodes, during which Michael, the “baby” (he’s almost 3), caused most of the crying because, boy, he really likes to kick. He and Rob (6) did finally go down, but Alex (almost 4) lay awake for quite a while, telling John and me through the mesh that he just wasn’t tired. John and I had planned to play a game together by the campfire while our angels slept. Funny thought, that.

At last the sandman bagged Alex, and John and I retired to our squishy bed. I would have fallen asleep immediately, but a family camped near our was apparently holding a Yahtzee tournament. That game, as most people know, involves a cup with lots of cubes in it. You shake the cup and then dump the cubes out, twice per turn. I lay there listening, shake shake rattle, shake shake rattle, until I thought I’d lose all sense. By about 1 a.m., I was desperate to rush out of that tent and scream, “If you don’t stop playing that game, I’m going to set fire to your picnic table!” I don’t know when they quit, but I spotted that game on their table the next day and I told John I was going to go get it and pitch it in the river. He told me to go ahead. (I didn’t.)

The rest of the time was really a bit better. The boys did get supremely tired and fell asleep more readily. And the trip to Chocolate World was fun (and free, so we did it three times), and the day at Hershey Park was, well, a day. The kids loved it, although Alex was in turmoil about greeting the many walking advertisements (human-sized, living versions of every Hershey’s treat you can think of). He wanted to say “hi” and hug them freely, like Robert did with ease, but he was torn and afraid once he got right up to them. John was happy to report to me that when I was off with Michael somewhere, Alex had actually beaten his fear and hugged the chocolate syrup. There was much rejoicing.

On our final night, we had decided to retire to a hotel. Three nights in a tent was really enough. “I think camping must be an acquired taste,” John said gently. While we drove to another point of interest in Pennsylvania, we searched for an inn. I was desperate for anything, pointing and shouting, “There’s one!” Once John snorted. “Mary,” he said, “there was a guy at that place with no shirt on, drinking a beer and using the corner of the building to scratch his back. No thanks.” Okay, so I had seen him, too, but I just wanted a bath and a bed. I could ignore the guy.

We did finally make it to a satisfactory hotel and our rest was good. There’s more to tell, but the laundry is waiting and our tent smells like a sock. I’ll be back.

Tot Mentality
Published in The Republican newspaper in the winter of 1999

Observing the growth of three little boys is an eye-opening experience, to say the least. My husband and I glow with pride over our first-grader’s good report card, we get lumps in our throats when the 4-year-old tells us he loves us, and we laugh out loud at the 3-year-old’s dancing technique. We also make noises come up out of our necks that are unrecognizable (known as “yelling at the children”), we literally grind our teeth as we tell them for the gazillionth time to stop hitting each other, and we get into what seem to be important conversations about why one should not put Milk Duds in the fish tank or balance one’s full dinner plate on the back of the couch.

So as this life unfolds, I’ve been thinking about human behavior. What if we never changed our ways of dealing with life? What if we all still acted like 3-year-olds? (Okay, I know everyone reading this knows an adult or two who does indeed act like that, but just disregard them for a while.) If we did continue our childish behaviors, a day could go like this:

Mr. Smith, a clean-cut, 30-ish, tall businessman, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, comes in to work. There are doughnuts on a plate for everyone to share.

“Awwww! I don’t like peanut butter ones!” Smith wails plaintively. “Are they any plain ones?” Someone informs him there are no plain ones and he might really like a PB one if he tries it, but he screams back that he knows he doesn’t like peanut butter, he HATES peanut butter, it makes him THROW UP, and he slides down the wall, making himself boneless, until he is a crumpled pile on the floor. He sits there frowning rigidly for about 15 minutes until he forgets why he’s mad.

Later in the day, his secretary comes into his office.

“Mr. Smith?” she starts.

“I’m not Mr. Smith. I’m the blue Power Morpher,” he informs her.

“All right, Mr. Blue Power Morpher,” she says, resigned to play along, “you have a visitor.” Another man enters, says hello, and holds out his hand in greeting. Mr. Smith eyes him for a minute, frowns, and announces “I don’t like you.” The secretary blushes. “Oh, now, Mr. Smith, you don’t mean that!”

“I am the blue. POWER. MORPHER! Smith yells. The man, Mr. Jones, responds by pushing Smith down by the face and calling him a doofus. A wrestling match ensues, ties flying and jackets jostled. A table is knocked over and a lamp shatters. Jones and Smith say simultaneously: “He did it!” and at least one of them starts to cry.

Later. The two men are working at a computer, perhaps designing some great building or mapping out some great plan. Their elbows brush against one another’s by chance.

“Quit touching me.”

“Shut up. You touched me.”

“You shut up. And give me the mouse. It’s my turn.”

“Please don’t say ‘shut up,’” the secretary says quietly from the doorway.

“It’s not your turn. You had it for a long time and I just got it.”

Jones then pushes Smith down by the face again and Smith whacks Jones with the mouse. Both cry. The secretary says they are going to drive her completely insane soon.

Still later. The men are joined by a third guy. Jones and Smith suddenly become very close and work to exclude the newcomer, whom we’ll call Mr. Doe. Doe reacts to the exclusion with apparent calm, and then walks past both of them with his arm out,
unabashedly cracking them both on the forehead. They shout “HEY!” and rub their heads. Doe smiles. “You guys are really dumb,” he announces. He then produces three Power Morpher action figures from his briefcase and shows all indications of sharing them. Jones and Smith are now his very best friends. The secretary rests while she can.

The three men go to the bank to discuss lending options. They are informed that they will have to wait a few minutes to see the representative. They complain lustily and Jones lies down on his back on the floor. Smith takes this time to systematically strip down to his underwear and T-shirt, claiming his clothes “hurt” him. Meanwhile, Jones has become invisible lying there on his back, apparently unable to hear or see anything. When the banker can see them at last, Jones remains motionless. Doe nudges him with his foot, to no avail. Smith grabs his arm and tries to pull him up, but only drags him around in a circle. Jones is evidently in a trance of some sort. Then the banker cagily offers fruit gummy snacks and Jones wakes up immediately, fully recovered.

The banker’s secretary crosses her arms and whispers to another secretary that if those three were her bosses, they’d never act like that in public. Smith, after regarding her for a moment, asks her if she meant for her hair to look like that.

Can you tell I’ve been home a lot this winter? I think I need a nap.