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.
