A World Watcher Bloviates – Page 2

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.

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.

Column Redux 3

Welcome to my third installation of columns written over the past year. Come celebrate coffee, make apple butter, and grab fast onto some family ties. Thanks for being here, and thanks for reading.

Java Jive
Sept. 28, 2017
Sometimes in the quiet of a solitary day, I might surf TV channels to see just what I can waste time watching. Years ago I remember coming upon an old sci-fi thriller. I don’t know what it was, or who was in it, or even how things turned out. But what I found fascinating, and what made me stop changing channels, was that 1.) The world was apparently going to end, and 2.) There was a lady in a pillbox hat serving coffee to everyone.

The characters were all in some underground bunker, all aware that the world had but a few hours left to spin. And this woman — in her tidy blue skirt and matching jacket and hat — had a tray of coffee cups, which she carried from man to man. And each man took one, as if it were any other day, having their coffee before being obliterated. That image has stuck with me for years. And I always thought — I should write about that someday. Apparently the day has arrived.

What impressed me was that coffee was still relevant, even as the planet was circling the drain. Handing it out gave the lady a task. Maybe it kept her mind off her approaching demise. And the guys grabbing it off her tray — perhaps they were satisfied for a moment, too, and able to redirect their panic. Yeah, it was just a movie. But coffee … it’s life.

The fragrance of coffee never disappoints. The rich, soul-touching scent is like no other. I can be distracted by that scent like a cat following a mackerel. Coffee is home to me. My mother is a coffee hound, with her own coffee bean grinder and her theories of how best to do it and how best to store the beans. My sister has roasted her own raw beans, and she uses a coffee press to create an intense, dark cup, with frothed milk on top. My three brothers all drink it — rich, dark, and daily. Like my mother, I have loved the flavor my whole life. She remembers well how her mom would allow her to have half a cup, with the other half milk. Used to be that little kids weren’t supposed to have that, but her mother loved it, too, and empathized enough to give her 10-year-old a little java now and again.

I begged for it early on, usually asking my dad for a sip of his, since he used milk and sugar. When I was really little, I insisted that he wait to add the milk until I could get in a good position to watch the white ribbon swirl into the black. I loved how it turned it to such a creamy color. In college, I would get coffee from a machine at the WVU Creative Arts Center. It was its own kind of horrible, but grabbing a cup before sitting through theater history (four semesters’ worth) was simply vital nonetheless. In my apartment there, I actually used Folger’s instant coffee, which today would make me scoff but then was quite sufficient. I looked forward to opening a new jar, as I think the scent would release a whole pile of endorphins for me, somehow.

Yes, coffee has always been good, except in two situations. One was when I was an antsy kid, ready to vamoose from a restaurant after a meal but then hearing my parents order two cups of coffee to mull over and talk more! Ugh! A prison of pure boredom. The second was when I was with child, and coffee was suddenly disgusting. How I could have such a falling out with my lifelong friend, I didn’t know, but it flat-out made me retch for a few months. Tea was a sad stand-in during that time. I was always relieved when we made up, a few months in. Since then, I have preferred coffee without any additives at all. Black is the best.

Two of my three sons drink it, often to the extreme, and my husband, too. If we are all home, and the fragrance wafts up from the kitchen, the comfort is real. All my life it has meant family, home, and a new day. I hope those poor people in the thriller got to have a new day, too. With more coffee.

Apples and Flames
Oct. 12, 2017
This past weekend I was transported back to years past through an activity that has been part of my life, and my family’s, for decades. Maybe a century. The event lasts about 30 hours from start to finish, and we end up with something to share and have for quite some time. But the having is not as key as the making.

We started with 14 bushels of apples — Jonagold and Golden Delicious — and we ended with about 35 gallons of apple butter. Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? But the process is arduous and such great fun at the same time, and a tradition, which as always has its own charm. From start to finish, we had 62 people lend their help.

We gather to peel and core the apples first, although my mom and I missed that part, as we made our trek to Romney, W.Va. — the home of my cousins where the event took place — a little too late Saturday to make the coring party. I was a little disappointed, honestly, but if I had made it and started in on the 14 bushels from the beginning, chances are high I’d soon be wishing I had missed it. The apples make your fingers turn brown, but only after you wash them. And the brown stays for few days.

Everyone gathers, bringing food and stories. Sometimes we bring friends to experience our tradition with us. And then we commence to arguing, which is a vital part of the process. When should we put the kettles on? Who is staying up? Who is getting up for the next shift? On and on it goes, as it did Saturday, when we finally arrived at starting the kettles around 12:30 a.m., and the crews would shift around 3 or 4 or so.

Making apple butter is fairly common here on the mountaintop. Lots of families and churches do it, and everyone has their own rules and stipulations. Our family certainly does. There are so many regulations to be followed and/or shouted out during the 30-hour process. “Don’t leave any toenails in the apples!” Translated: Get the seeds and hulls out. “Don’t let the wood touch the kettle!” Indeed, a hot ember can melt through a copper kettle, or so we have all imagined with great trepidation. “Keep stirring!” Good heavens, yes, don’t ever stop, even for a second. “Figure eight is best,” says one brother. “Nah, you gotta go back and forth along the whole bottom, and then back,” says the other. “You’re dumb,” says the third.

So we add apples and some water and we keep stirring, with the fires built to the exact height necessary to keep the stuff hot, but not so hot it boils over. Stir, stir, stir; and chat, joke, laugh, and reminisce. As a kid, the act of being up in the middle of the night, outside, with the fires burning and the smoke swirling, is nothing short of magical. The stars were bright, and the air was warmer than usual. My great-niece Lydia, who is 10, was a trooper, up at 2 a.m. and learning how to stir. She loves it now, too.

*My brother Ben is at left, and brother Don is at right, I’m sure arguing about how to stir properly. Lydia is there, too. This was in the wee hours of the morning, probably around 2.*

As the day woke up and wore on, we stirred and stirred, and then we had to add sugar, and at the end, cloves and cinnamon. Those acts are always tense, as we don’t want to ruin the stuff we’ve stirred all night. There is tasting, contemplating, opining, arguing, and more of the same, until some satisfaction is reached, and only one or two are left shaking their heads a little and grumbling “too much cinnamon….” or “not enough sugar….” Stories of past mishaps are always shared, like when my cousin Gene was little and dropped the entire bottle of cloves into the kettle. Yikes!

Since nostalgia is my constant companion, I drifted back so many times to the days with my dad, who taught me how to stir by standing behind me and guiding my hands, and my Aunt Susan Williams, at whose house we usually gathered for the event, who would make fresh rolls for us to use in wiping out the empty kettle late in the day. So many more dreams of days past; so much love for those no longer here. But the present was kind, too, and the apple butter is delicious. Every taste of the sweet and smoky flavor takes me back to my reunion with my siblings and cousins last weekend, and it will always do so. Until next time, everyone.

An Enduring Cord
Oct. 29, 2017
Members of my dad’s side of the family met over the weekend to say a final goodbye to a beloved married-in, Tom Brown, the late husband of my dear cousin Jane Hanst Brown. Tom was diagnosed with cancer in the early spring of 2015 and was gone by that summer. It was a devastating loss, and it took Jane some time to finally bury his ashes. She and Tom were so happy together, having married later in life and jumped into love with all four feet. They had 16 contented years together, and then it seemed that he just disappeared. Life is so very unpredictable. We think we know what’s around the bend, but we sure don’t.

So having been forced into one of those gatherings that was never predicted, we cousins stood solemnly in the Kingwood Cemetery on Saturday as words were spoken of Tom’s kindness, sense of humor, and love of family. We stood on ground where we have stood before to say goodbye. Jane’s parents, George and Polly (Johnson) Hanst — my grand-uncle and grand-aunt — are buried there, too. Uncle George was the editor of The Republican newspaper for decades, from the 1940s until the 1970s. Aunt Polly wrote columns for the paper, too. So there we stood, with all that family around us, both under the earth and on it. I know many people don’t know where their families are. They have lost track, or have never even been on any track, with connections lost in hazy memories. But I was standing there with mine all around. And then some of us walked through that cemetery, finding the headstones of our great-great-grandparents (David Young Morris and Mary Eleanore Morris), and then our great-great-great-grandfather Charles Byrne (I think), all buried there. There is a spire for one beloved woman, Addie, the sister of my great-grandmother, who died at the age of 26 and shattered so many hearts. We have letters written by “Tay,” my great-grandmother, to B.H. (Sincell), great-grandfather, in which she tells him of how her sister is “very ill again.” So Addie wasn’t well most of her life, apparently, and only lasted until her 27th year. Her tombstone is tall, with what looks like a blanket carved into the stone, and a branch of strawberries. Born Aug. 9, 1869; Died Apr. 28, 1895.

Standing on that ground, I knew that my great-great-grandparents stood there, too, bereft, so long ago. And then their children said goodbye to them there, on that same spot. Strange traditions we human beings have. But somehow comforting all the same.

After we bade Tom farewell on Saturday, we gathered at a big Deep Creek area house my cousins had rented for the weekend. There we remembered how funny we are, and we laughed a lot. The place was abuzz with kids running around, the WVU football game blaring, people preparing food while shouting conversations over their shoulders, and so much laughing. The place was alive. Awake and breathing, heart beating. We looked again into those faces we have always known, and listened to those voices again, and the familiarity was a comfort and a saving grace. There was joy and such warmth. And so it goes.

I like to imagine that those of us who love one another, family or friends, are bound by an unseen fiber… a band of some sort… connecting us all, even as we fall through the cracks of the world, or take unwise turns, or when our footing is shaken by one of the countless outside forces of this random universe. That band stretches and twists, adjusts and holds — always tethering us together, no matter what the outside pressure may be. Even through death. And we come together again, and there is cheer, and there is peace.

Blessed be the ties that bind.

Column Redux 2

What follows are three columns I wrote for the Garrett County Republican at various times during 2017. For the love of a tree, the honor of my father, and the celebration of singing — read on.

Ode to an old friend
Aug. 31, 2017
A great tree grows in my mother’s yard in Mountain Lake Park. It’s a hemlock with long sweeping branches and thousands of plumb-bob-shaped pine cones the size of TicTacs. The pine looks tired, leaning slightly with limbs askew. A hole has opened in its trunk, about five feet up from the ground, and inside is a lively world of insects. Ants file in and out, bringing sawdust with them, or moving their offspring from one level to another. Smaller holes created by birds’ beaks encircle the larger opening. Great piles of sawdust lie around the base, and it’s obvious that the dear old tree is dying. But life is flourishing inside and around it, and its history is rich.

When I was a little kid, the tree was a destination. While it is really just about 25 feet from the back door of Mom’s house, the distance seemed much greater when I was three feet tall. The real draw was the playhouse that Dad had placed at the foot of the hemlock. A press was delivered to the newspaper office sometime in the early 1960s. Dad unpacked it and brought the crate home. He cut a door and a window, and then built a pitched roof and covered it with a rough reddish material to keep the rain out. He placed a flat, flagstone rock at the entrance. I like thinking about Dad doing that, when he was 30-something, seeing a simple crate and thinking, “I could make that into a playhouse for the kids.” And then actually doing it.

We played in that house so much. I remember using a toy broom to sweep hemlock needles out — a futile effort, as the half-inch spears were absolutely everywhere, creating a carpet on the ground and filling the air with that sap scent. For a long time, we had a little table and two chairs inside at the window, and a wooden box in the other corner. When I read the Boxcar Children series, I imagined living in the playhouse like those children in their train car — just one reverie that little house inspired.

Close to the playhouse was a rope swing. It hung down from what seemed an impossibly high branch of an oak. The seat was a board with notches cut out on either end. We would just slide it onto the looped rope, and then hop on. When it rained, the rope would shrink. That made the seat high, and I would have to jump to get onto it. And then my sister Kathryn or one of our many neighbors might spin me, twisting the rope all the way up to the branch, and then let me go. Around and around I would fly, faster and faster, my feet out, my hair wild. When it released from the twist, it would go the other way, and we liked to see just how far we could get it to twist itself back. I don’t know how we avoided nausea, but we did.

Being the youngest of the family, I ended up playing on my own after everyone else had outgrown the playhouse and swing. My cat, a Siamese that Dad miraculously produced from under his raincoat on my 7th birthday, was my pal then. Sahib. He loved the playhouse, and we often engaged in a game of “chase me around the corner.” He would lie in wait as I crept around, and then he would tear into a run, either away from me or straight to me, or right up the hemlock — whatever his cat brain told him at that split second. Such fun!

I walked around the hemlock last Friday, and I smelled the pine and gazed at the places where we played under those boughs in the always-muted sunlight. In my mind, I went inside the long-gone playhouse, and let my memories of it wake up and stretch. I love that tree, and all that went on in and around it. Here’s to you, old hemlock. Thanks for everything.

Bob Sincell
Nov. 9, 2017
My dad died in 2003. I really do think of him every day, as I am certain others do of their own parents who have gone on. There is a picture of him on the wall across from my desk at work. I can look up and see his face at any moment of the day, and I do it a lot. The passage of time does ease the immediate grip of grief, but, as we all know, there is no “getting over” a loss. We learn to live with the absence, and our ever-mending souls adapt. Life is full of joys and fun, and I’m positive that Dad wouldn’t want any of us to linger on the wistful longing that comes in waves sometimes. Then it recedes, like the surf.

Robert B. Sincell Sr. was a veteran of the United States Navy. He was sitting in his tree house Dec. 7, 1941, listening to a radio he had rigged up there. He heard the breaking news about a place called Pearl Harbor. From that moment, at age 15, he was determined to join the fight. He begged his parents to let him go at age 17, and, with great dread, they did. I cannot imagine what my grandparents felt. But they knew he was determined to go and would not rest until they signed on that line. As a mother of three boys, I’m not sure I could have done that.

But he went, willingly, offering himself up as an able, intelligent, patriotic young man. And his experiences, in the end, were mostly safe. He endured dreadfully boring stretches of time, punctuated here and there with heart-stopping moments, like when a bee stung his elbow as he walked along a trail on Tinian, a Pacific Island, and when he looked down, his foot was an inch from a bomb trip wire. Or when he heard or saw the occasional crash-landing of his friends’ planes at the airstrip. Or when he learned of his company’s near demise in the Philippines, which he missed because of a sudden onslaught of “cat fever,” a respiratory illness that rendered him deathly ill. He felt guilt about that, I think for the rest of his life. However, those of us who loved him felt gratitude. It seemed he was meant to survive. And I believe he knew that, too, as when he came home, he offered himself up as a hard-working, dedicated member of the Garrett County community.

Dad was one of the co-founders of the area’s rescue squads. He was the first National Ski Patrol instructor in Garrett County. He was the first Emergency Medical Technician instructor, too. He was a Sunday school teacher and an active singer in choir and in the Garrett Choral Society. He married my mother, one of his best acts, and they had us, my four siblings and me. They kept us safe, they fed us, they made us laugh, they showed us the world. They reared us with the understanding that we could always, always come home. The door stood open, no matter what. It still does.

My father was a gentle and kind human being. He trained squirrels to take crackers out of his hand, and he routinely saved little animals that had fallen in our pool. He adored slapstick comedy, and M.A.S.H. He taught us that if you can take a spider or a bat out of your house without killing it, for heaven’s sake, do it! You don’t have to kill something just because you can. Being the youngest, I think I might’ve been extra fortunate, as he had time to talk with me. We would watch the news together and then chat. And I learned so much. He was, I believe, a dove. A gentle, sensitive, deeply intelligent human being. He was shy about his service in WWII because he felt he had it easy for the most part, always saying that “other guys” were the real heros. I disagree. He was a hero to me, and still is.

As we commemorate our veterans this weekend, I will think of my dad. I believe that for him, and for millions of others, the very best thing we can do to remember and honor them would be to stop warring. War isn’t romantic. It’s horrible. We absolutely must evolve to the place where violence is no longer a recourse, so that all people have the chance to live life fully, without fear, without injury. That is what I wish for all vets, and for the world.

Robert Benjamin Sincell, pictured in Hawaii during World War II. He was 19 or 20 years old in this picture. I love him so. I wish I could hear his voice again. But in his face, I see my siblings, my sons, my nephews and nieces… all.

Let the harmony commence
Sept. 21, 2017
With the shifting of summer to fall comes another special interval for some of us — singing season! The Garrett Choral Society rehearsals have started, and our church, St. Mark’s Lutheran, has started choir practices, too. After a summer break, the singing always resumes around now, and being back at making music with friends is lovely.

Singing has been part of my life since before I was born. My parents first met as members of the Potomac State Singers. At a practice, Dad came through a back door a little late. A young woman named Shirley Grubb leaned over to my mom and said, “That bass Bob Sincell has the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen,” with which my mom had to agree. (Altos are always leaning over to one another with intriguing news like that, by the way. That’s just what we do. Choir directors love it.) Soon my dad had noticed the pretty blue-eyed second-soprano from Springfield, W.Va., too, and asked her if she’d like a ride home. She declined, as she was perfectly able to walk. But eventually they did go out, and they did sing together for the rest of their union. Some of my earliest memories are of resting on my mom’s lap, my head against her chest, listening to her sing. My ear would be right against her, and the sound was close and muffled, familiar, and most comforting.

Singing was a thing we did in our house. Harmonizing and having fun with the piano was a fairly regular occurrence. My sister and I took piano lessons for years, so there was a lot of practicing (and fussing about practicing). That many years on the piano bench — plus another several playing saxophone — taught me how to be a pretty good sight-reader of music, which helps a lot in choral singing. When singing with others, sight-reading through a piece for the first time is a fun challenge. Well, sometimes it’s fun. Other times it’s annoying and/or daunting. But after going through a piece once, I’m always amazed at how much easier it is just the second time.

Rehearsals to me are much more fun than any performance. Working out the music with the four usual parts (soprano, alto, tenor, and bass) is similar to figuring out a crossword puzzle. “This goes here, this goes here…uh…. this goes here — Oh! Cool!” And that’s how a line of music comes together. On and on we go, working through a piece, discussing key changes, tempos, and how hard it is to sing fourths sometimes.

Those in the various sections tend to have similar characteristics. Sopranos behave and follow directions, altos already know the directions and are happy to repeat them drenched in sarcasm, tenors adamantly want to go over the directions again please, and basses… oh, basses. They ask, after the concert, “What directions?”

I jest. Sort of. In all, we have fun as we make music in this most unique fashion. I don’t think any other animal does what we do with vocal sounds. Throw in a great composer, some excellent directors, some regular rehearsal and you come out with a pleasing work of art.

After months of practice, singers form friendships, especially those who sit together. My decades-long church choir mate has been my sister-in-law, Suzie Sincell. We take breaths at exactly the same time now, no matter how hard we try to stagger our gulps. We rely on one another to help find the notes and learn the part together, and to keep our inside jokes alive and well. In choral society, my partners in chime (yeah, I did that) are Heather Roth and Karen Winkelvoss, without whom I simply can’t sing as well. Ah, I’m glad we’re back. Let’s sing some fourths, girls — with confidence!

Through all the tumult and the strife,

I hear that music ringing.

It finds an echo in my soul.

How can I keep from singing?

We Are They

I walked out of the nursing home the other day like I always do — with big strides, reveling a little in how my legs still work, how I can breathe and I can move, and I am free to walk away from that place when I feel I have spent enough time there. I can just make the choice, get up, put on my coat, and head out. I pass all the folks in the hallways… the attendants and caregivers in their coordinated smocks and white shoes; the other visitors sitting with their people making conversation or just sharing the space; and the residents, the patients, the inmates…. some walking along the hallways silently or mumbling, others in wheelchairs sleeping or maneuvering about. In those mobile chairs, inching out a doorway or listing toward the wall, creeping on with no discernible purpose or goal, sometimes the folks make me think of timid, indecisive June bugs.

I go to the nursing home regularly, several times a week, to see my uncle Dan Wagoner. He is 86. A retired modern dancer and New Yorker, he is certainly a fish out of water in his little room now decorated with his own paintings and antique straight-back chairs. Photographs of dancers are pinned to his personal bulletin board, along with miscellaneous “thank-you” items mentioning his military service. It’s odd to think of him being a veteran. To me, he is a dancer. A lithe, whimsical, incredibly talented artist and teacher. We all went to New York to see him dance on stages there, and to Washington, D.C., and Pittsburgh. His stage presence was undeniable and wonderful. Now my brothers, mother, and I take turns bringing him medicinal cannabis every day to help ease the effects of Parkinson’s Disease. He had a knee replacement a few years ago that left him nearly immobile for a long time, and the Parkinson’s invaded. My mom, who is now 90, tried so hard to keep him at her house, and she cared for him longer and more strenuously than she should’ve. It was too much. So we moved him to the home, and there he has remained for about two years. I didn’t visit him often in the beginning, I admit. It was easier to not go, especially since I was working so hard. But then I left my job, and there were no excuses. We discovered around that time that medicinal cannabis might help him, so he applied for and got his certification to use it, and I got my caregiver’s card to be able to go to the dispensary in Cumberland to get it for him. The next hurdle was getting it delivered to him every day, as we learned that the nursing home staff was disallowed by its policies to provide the stuff to him. So, with no other real choice, we divvied up the days of the week between my brothers Don and Ben, me, and Mom. He sees one of us every day. We take him an elixir to help with tremors, and we bring him a brownie to help with anxiety. Mom and I make the brownies… No time in my earlier life did I expect that someday I would stand in my mom’s kitchen figuring out a pot brownie recipe with her. “Okay, put the pot in now,” she’ll say. I had no idea that was in the cards, for sure.

The effort is paying off in a few ways. Firstly, the cannabis is obviously helping Dan. The tremor he had developed in his hands is gone. He can get up from a chair with ease now, and he moves fast with a walker. His cognitive processes seem to be clearer, too, and he is cheerier. Don’t get me wrong — he’s pretty depressed most of the time. His life is not his own anymore. His body, his instrument, does not obey him well. He sits in his room watching TV most of the day, and listening to the other residents in the hallway. He feels his life is finished, and that he should be allowed to go on. But the marijuana, as my mom always calls it, does seem to lift him a little bit. And, secondly, I’m pretty sure seeing one of us every day helps, too. It helps him, and it helps my brothers and me. We can talk about his childhood with him, recalling hilarious stories of our other aunts and uncles or our grandparents. We can talk politics or art. We can bust him out once in a while to go to a movie or out to dinner, too, which is always nice. The time we are all spending together is definitely a perk in all this.

Being in the presence of the elderly and infirm is also a surprising perk. I find myself fascinated sometimes by these folks. In their faces, I can see them as children, or young adults. I can see the remnants of a middle-aged, active human who didn’t know he or she would someday be in such a place. Sometimes I wince upon seeing a face that seems anguished. There are a few of those. In a room close to my uncle’s, a woman sits in a wheelchair next to her bed. Every time I pass her, she is holding a blanket against her face, hiding her eyes. Every time I see her, that is her position. What is on her mind? How does it help to shut everything out? She doesn’t seem upset. She just always has her face completely covered. And I should add that this is a good place, as nursing homes go. The staff members are kind. Today I went by a room where an aide was blow-drying a resident’s hair. It seemed a gentle and kind process. Sometimes a staffer will be standing in a room, her hand resting on her hip, chatting with a resident. Often the exchanges seem familiar and friendly. So I think in general this is a good place to be, if one has to be cared for in such a way.

I am bothered when I hear people talk to the residents as if they are children. They really aren’t children. They are the exact opposite. They have walked the Earth for decades. They have experienced work and family strife, love and sex, disappointments, heartache, joys, travel — all of it. When they look in the mirror, they are surely bewildered. We see that aged face today, but they don’t feel it. Age creeps up in a hurry and takes everyone a little by surprise, I think. And the naïveté of the younger set is ever-present. The young refer to the old as a separate use of the word “they.” “They” don’t sleep well at night. “They” can’t taste like they used to. “They” do better with a schedule. Always referring to the elderly as if they are in a category that is removed and not of the rest of us. But indeed, they are us, and we are them.

I saw a man as I was leaving. He was small and thin, and bent over. But he glanced up at me, and we looked at each other for a moment. His eyes were sunken and small, and his head was nearly bald. But I could see in the face what he once was. I could see the youth there. His DNA has failed to repeat itself completely over the years, but the visage of his younger self is visible. And I was struck, as I so often am, with the fact that he was indeed once young; he was a healthy, capable human with all his hair and bright eyes. And it was probably not all that long ago, in the whole scheme of things. Time marches on, with a relentless beat. Our bodies fight to stay alive, but barring an early exit, we all become “they” in the end. We need to remember that, and remember to treat the older crowd with the dignity and understanding that we will crave when we get there.

Column Redux

For a year and a half, I wrote regular columns for the Garrett County Republican, formerly known as just The Republican and formerly a company owned by my brother and me and our spouses. I thought it might be fun to post those columns over the next several days. They are more than a year old, so don’t get hung up in the events that I say are happening. They are past, of course. The first few are from summer days, and in this time of slush and cold and snow, maybe it will be fun to think of summer for a little bit. Or it will be annoying. Prolly that. Ha. Either way, I hope I can bring you some imagery. For whatever reason, that is always my goal.

Savor the here and now
July 7, 2017
In this grand journey we are all on — being alive on this particular planet in this particular universe at this particular time — we have but one path to carve for ourselves, one revolution to make. There are side roads, back tracks, main streets and some crazy paths. With every step, we create our destiny choosing this way and that, sending our trajectories in a new direction with every pace. We think we know where we are headed, but that is simply not true. None of us knows what lies just ahead, not one second into the future, not one step along our own unique trek.

I often consider the turns and side roads I have taken in order to be where I am on this day and the series of events has been, at times, logical and orderly and then jarring and seemingly wrong, followed again by smooth sailing for a bit. As I lay awake the other morning, with the windows open and daybreak doing its thing, the scent of dew-soaked, mossy earth wafted in. That fragrance of a July morning in Garrett County is distinctive. Wood, dirt, and water — mixed with moss, onion grass, and hemlock —with clay and summer roses mingled. That bouquet spawns a flood of memories — from the time I was small in Mountain Lake Park when my Julys were ever so long, with endless swimming, biking, and sleepovers in tents. The years when I was tired of mountaintop living and packed up to leave for a while (eventually to become homesick for that old scent), and on to when I returned and had my three little boys to follow and clean, feed and cuddle. And now, when July is entirely too brief, this glorious month when we — even we — have days of warm sun, blue skies, shorts, sandals, cookouts, and campfires.

July on the mountaintop is a dreamed-of time, as the year marches by with frigid January and February, March of ice and rain, utterly unpredictable April and May and even questionable June. July comes at last, appropriately launched by fireworks over Broadford and Deep Creek, ushered in with relief and high expectations. We cram our festivities in. We gather with friends for picnics and boat rides. We plan family get-togethers, we swim, bike and hike — all to take advantage of this month of warmth.

As that morning scent of rain-soaked dirt and summer leaves permeated my bedroom, I considered how fortunate I am to live in a place like this. I think human nature causes most to wonder if the steps taken have been right. Maybe some are secure in where they end up, but I’m certain that many of us consider, at times, just how different life would be if a left turn had been taken or a right turn had not. In this time, seeing others display their every move on social media, the tendency to compare grows, which causes more to fret over choices.

But I think the answer lies in what comfort one finds in the moment in the here and now. It’s July in Garrett County. Breathe in the scent of summer daybreak, where one can travel a few hours to reach several major cities or go just a mile or two to see the most stunning natural sights in the world, or go even fewer steps to find a kind face or an old friend. I am content that my steps led me to this lovely place, where July has arrived at long last. Happy summer, all.

August 3, 2017
The Reunion
The first weekend in August is upon us. The first Saturday and Sunday of this summer month have always been important in our clan on my mother’s side, as the Wagoner family reunion takes place over that weekend every year. Our kin will cook and bake, pack and plan, and travel in cars, trains, planes, and possibly even on horseback to a lovely tract of land near Fort Ashby, West Virginia. Those acres of rolling green hills, alive with cicadas and bees and scented with thriving mint, were granted to our Wagoner forebear in the 1700s in return for his service in the Revolutionary War. My grandfather’s first cousin, Mary Largent, after whom I am named, and her mother, Ella Wagoner Largent, started the reunion in 1922, and it has carried on since, always at the family farm.

For some people, a family reunion is a chore, only just tolerated. But we look forward to ours all year. There is such familiarity and comfort in it. Humans like for things to last, and our reunion has lasted through wars, droughts, the Depression, tragedies, and other strife. We have our bumpy years in between, with all the ills and all the good, and we return again to check in and gab with folks, with whom most we share DNA. More than that, though, we share our histories. We share the fabric of family, which in this hard life can sure provide some treasured peace.

We will come together Saturday for a noon meal, and there will be about 200 of us by the time the first plate is loaded with everything from fried chicken to crab cakes (we have lots of Marylanders), from fresh homemade rolls to my sister’s incredible peach pie. The food is always amazing. And we will sit around the picnic tables talking about how amazing it is, and we will all eat until we can’t anymore. We will have a business meeting, with motions and even a semblance of Robert’s rules, to make decisions about upgrades to the farm or improvements to the meeting place where we’ve all been coming for almost 100 years. We’ll see who the youngest member is, and point out the eldest, too. And who came the farthest, and who has the most kids present (my mom has won that more than once). The proceedings are usually punctuated with a lot of humor and ribbing that only family can give and take.

Then there will be games for the kids, who by this time are usually covered in sweaty dirt. The reunion turns tots into grime magnets. They roll around in the dust, making friends with their cousins. After a full day Saturday, we’ll go back on Sunday to keep it up a while longer. And the kids will find their friends from the day before, now remembering each other’s names. The relationships form early, and each year are revisited in this homecoming ritual. Even if there are few words exchanged some years, the mere presence of one another is nearly comfort enough. The familiarity is key. And the cost of that comfort comes in the losses we experience, looking around each year and assessing just who has finished his or her arc in this world. The absences are felt most keenly, and certainly come more quickly as we age. Life doesn’t really last that long in the whole scheme of things.

But while it does, we should make some music, which we will do this weekend, and we should tell stories, which we will do. At the reunion grounds, we’ll laugh and play games. And another day will be made sweet, to be remembered next year, and the year after that.

Changing leaves and katydids
Aug. 17, 2017
A maple tree along our street has started to turn. Its green is edged in orange, and I’m not happy about that. It’s too soon. Yet there is little I can do but watch the leaves go, listen to the katydids creak their evening end-of-summer song, and say goodbye to my sons as they stride off, again, on their own paths.

I join many other mothers and fathers whose hearts ache a little this time of the year. While those with young ones may rejoice for school to begin, giving their busy offspring a schedule and things to do, my peers with grown children may be more wistful about the slide into autumn. When our boys were little, we would stand with them at the bus stop for the first few days, and occasionally my throat would tighten as their little legs climbed those steep bus steps, lugging huge backpacks and the year’s new lunch boxes. But they always came home a mere seven hours later, and the house would come alive again.

Time certainly has a way of stealing by, though, and the years fly. That’s just how it works. Our sons were home together for a bit of precious time this summer, and I basked in the rare comfort of all three sleeping under the same roof. Rob left last week to return to his teaching job in Myrtle Beach. Back to his quiet apartment, without his brothers or girlfriend; back to meals for one. But he also returns to his little elementary school kids, who make him laugh, and whom he engages and inspires as their world music teacher.

Michael will head off for Towson in a few weeks to start his senior year in English education and theatre. He is a writer, and is beset with the same inner nagging all writers have — being inspired by his surroundings and wanting to take notes just about 100 percent of the time. I share that with him, as does his dad. Writing is our jam, and it’s fun to gab about it.

Alex, our middle one, has the newest adventure. Just last weekend, we traveled all the way to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with John and me in a bouncy U-Haul to deliver him and his furniture to his new home and his new life. He is a grad student now at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, getting ready to teach three physics labs to undergrads, and to further his pulsar research, ultimately to earn his doctorate in six years.

While unpacking the truck, I kept looking at the grown man who is embarking on this academic journey, and who is going to be leading about 75 other students in a few weeks. Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the little boy I knew before. As an optimist, I try never to pine for the boys as children, but the occasional wistful pang still strikes in these brief moments. For just a second, I think how I so miss that little person, and how I haven’t held him or heard his small voice for such a long time. The pain is exquisite, but only for an instant. Time just smirks at me and keeps going, and there is my man-son, deciding where to put his printer and how to arrange his closet. And it’s all okay.

The tree down the street is turning, and the katydids are singing. Parents, I’m thinking of you.