Deep in Summer

I’ve never been a light packer. Just ask my husband who usually ends up lugging my bags to and from, asking, “What did you bring?” 

I vowed to do it differently this time for our 24 hour, just us, excursion to Block Island. A change of clothes, a bathing suit, and my notebook. (I never leave home without my notebook).

Sitting on the ferry, we position ourselves on the deck and bake in the ninety degree heat, graced by an occasional breeze. It feels like we are traveling far far away, or at least that’s what I imagine as I watch the boat let go of the mainland and all my daily responsibilities. 

When we arrive on the island, I am surprised by the volume of people waiting at the ferry for guests or to board. It is a Tuesday. Our fellow vacationers seem to know exactly where they are going. 

Not us. We walk in the general direction of where we think our B & B is, and on the way stop for lunch at an oceanside restaurant. Clams dipped in butter, glass of cold white wine. Yum.

Next we find our B & B. It is charming but quirky. We drop our luggage, don our suits and fill our little cooler with necessities. It is then I notice Rob has a book. He is vastly more prepared, than I, for the beach. The downside of “packing light.”

Luckily, as we depart our “cottage” I spot a little library across the street. Rob is busy picking two chairs from the provided pile. “Be right there,” I say, and head across the street.

Approaching the front door, I see a small cart of books and my heart flutters with anticipation. Book sale?

“There’s more inside,” a fellow rummager offers.

“Thanks,” I say.

I pause for a moment realizing I am in my bathing suit with nothing else on but a t-shirt. And, I am carrying a cooler with a bottle of wine sticking out. Classy, very classy. I just hope the expanded book sale cart is right inside the door. 

“Can we help you?” a friendly librarian inquires.

“I was told there were more books for sale?”

“Down those stairs, Room B.”

“Thanks.” So much for “right inside.” 

I travel into the depths of the public library and can hardly contain my excitement upon entering Room B. Shelves and shelves of books from every genre and time period. I wander aimlessly, a bit overwhelmed. A sign reads: Books $1.

Uh-oh. I am carrying a cooler, not a purse. I pour through the front pocket of my whale decorated bag and thankfully find a wad of three singles. 

I’d left Rob five maybe ten minutes ago, carrying our chairs to the beach and am pretty sure by now he’s wondering where I am. I need to choose quickly.

I looked at the shelf in front of me and see:

The Witching Hour by Anne Rice

Always wanted to read that one.

Then:

Cupcake by Rachel Cohn

Never heard of it but love the cover.

And,

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel

I am pretty sure I saw the movie but never read the book. (Hate when I do that.)

I make my way to the front counter and hand the dollar bills to the friendly woman. 

“We’re having a sale today, three books for one dollar.”

What? How is this possible? I resist the urge to return to Room B.

“What are those?” Rob asks, as I approach with my armload of books.

“Some books I found at the library right across from the Bed & Breakfast.”

“We’ve only been here an hour, how’d you swing a library card?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” 

“Not really,” he says.

I lay the books on my lap. Where to begin? And that’s when it hit me. It’s my turn. To play agent. These three authors will have to win the right to have me read more...in just one sentence.

Cupcake:

“A cappuccino cost me my life.” 

Great first line...want to read on, but this game has its rules.

The Witching Hour:

“The doctor woke up afraid.”

Um, okay. Why?

Like Water for Chocolate:

“Take care to chop the onion fine.”

This first line thing is stupid, I decide. New rule: Read the entire first chapter, then decide. 

Back to Cupcake:

I read about Cyd and her new life in New York City. She is having second thoughts about her decision to part ways with her high school sweetheart. She sets out in search of a truly great cappuccino and is disappointed. And so am I because by the time I finish Chapter 1, I don’t care about her search for self or her cappuccino quest. Go to Starbucks, I think and am immediately embarrassed by my judgy mid-life reaction. Let’s face it, I’m just not this book’s demographic. 

Moving on...

The Witching Hour

Secretly I know this book is my beach destiny. It’s thick and meaty and Anne Rice wrote it, for God’s sake.

But by page two I can’t figure out if the Englishman and the doctor are having a conversation or the doctor is remembering the conversation. And are they in New Orleans or California? No wait it says the California man. 

“Are you reading all three at the same time?” Rob asks, looking up from his book.

“I’m conducting a test. These authors have the first chapter to win me over. It’s like I’m the agent and they’re the client.”

“May the lightest book win.”

“Ha ha. I’m taking them all home.”

I continue reading The Witching Hour. It is interesting but requires more brain power than I have on this day. I find myself thinking of our dinner reservation. Do I have time to shower? Do I need to shower? Where is my literary dedication?

Moving on...

Like Water for Chocolate

The first page is full of descriptions about food and cooking. It is pleasant and magical, and then:

Tita knew perfectly well that all these questions would have to be buried in the archive of questions that have no answers.

I read the line again and then stare at the ocean. I think of Room B. Of all those books on the shelves. Of my own, not yet on the shelf. 

I read on (and on and on).

“We’d better get ready for dinner,” says Rob, looking at his watch, quite a while later.

“All I need to do is throw on a skirt,” I say, still reading.

“I guess you found the winner?”

“Yup. Just ten more minutes,” I smile.

And for ten more glorious minutes, I am lost. Buried, actually. In the archive of beach reads from seasons past. Pondering questions that have no answers. 

Deep in summer.

To Each His Own (Tomato)

“What’s the point? By tomorrow they’ll be back,” says my eleven-year-old after weeding a row of tomatoes, in our garden.

“Yeah but in the early weeks we have to show them who’s boss. The weeds get less ambitious as the summer goes on.”

I’m not sure if that’s true, but that’s what I tell myself, and now, my son. It keeps me going. It is slightly illogical, after all, to toil over an amateur patch of dirt hoping tomatoes and squash and peppers will spring forth.

He’s been out here, with me, from the very first year. Listening to my stories about gardening when I was his age, digging the holes, harvesting the fruits of our labor.

Last year, he asked me point blank. “Mom, are you sure this is worth it?”

Every year I vow that I’m going to add it all up: the hours, the supplies, the water...and see in quantitative terms, if it’s “worth it.” But I never do. Because, well, who has the time when there is so much weeding to be done. And, if I did I’d most certainly come to the conclusion that it’s more economical to just march myself to the grocery store. 

But...

Can you put a price on a homegrown tomato? Or, a sunshine yellow squash? Or, a piece of pumpkin art from your very own patch? Don’t think so.

I garden because I want to. It’s that simple. Call it a post-forty right of passage. Suddenly the fact that nothing is guaranteed, including time, becomes crystal clear. And choices on what to do with free-time do too.

I would never choose to camp my way across the country. But each year millions of people do just that. To each his own. 

Finding “what we want to do” with the time we are given, is no easy task. But most of us, if forced to rate our daily to-do list in the same manner in which our eyes are examined at our yearly check up, “number one or number two?” would know in an instant, what tugs at us. 

And then the work begins. 

Degrees are earned, books are written, gardens are grown, one course, word, and plant at a time. It’s a buggy, weedy mess, pursuing what pulls. But it sure is worth it, most of the time.

It’s a life lesson I’d love my offspring to learn sooner than later. 

Currently their life’s landscape is largely defined for them. They don’t get to choose whether they do math or read each day or learn a foreign language. But someday, they’ll decide if any or all of those things, matter, to them. 

Already my youngest son chooses to play any sport that involves a ball, spends countless hours learning jump rope tricks, and is teaching himself the ukulele. 

My oldest, the (hopefully) aspiring gardener beside me would rather perform for hundreds of people, ride his bike by the hour, and watch re-runs of Murder She Wrote.

“One more row?” I plead. 

“We better get some good tomatoes this year,” he says.

He already knows. There’s no guarantee that the tomatoes will ripen. And even if they do, they could have the dreaded blight like two years ago. But odds are at least one or two plants will ripen on cue, sprouting the unforgettable taste of summer. 

And I know. With each weed conquered, he’s one step closer. To a garden of his own. 

Spring!

Last summer I tried, more than usual. To make my flower beds flourish.

As is well documented in this blog, I am a vegetable gardener. I like getting my hands dirty, watching my food take shape. Flowers require knowledge of what goes where. They’re finicky and bring out the perfectionist in me. And so I choose vegetables. 

But last summer we hosted a family reunion. My clan was slated to spend many hours over a three day period in August, cross-generationally catching up in my back yard. Full flower beds were a necessity. 

Insecure about my flower growing abilities, I started early. I planted and prodded, and kept careful track of the balance of annuals and perennials. Of proximity and color families, of timing and then...

About two weeks before the festivities, the dog days of summer set in. A heat wave cast its magic spell, flowers drooped, many bit the dust. My beds lacked their intended pops of color and were decidedly unimpressive. 

I began frantically taking-out and shoving-in new plants, finally following advice that had been given early-on by an accomplished family gardener, “Plant three times what you think you need!”

And it worked. My flower beds, if only fleeting, were a vibrant backdrop to “days of yore” conversation, lawn golf, and many many meals. 

Fast forward to this year, early May. 

As I wait for the kids to get off the bus, I stare at patches of green, starts of stuff, not a color in sight. I have no ideas what’s what. And, thankfully this year it doesn’t really matter.

It’s like after you wake up from a long sleep and yesterday’s coifed hair-do is a haphazard beautiful mess, that works. Until it doesn’t. (Which for me is usually about an hour after I decide a shower isn’t necessary).

Weeks from now, with the sun beating down, this season’s plants will be purchased, watering regimens analyzed, and weeds will inevitably emerge.

But for now, my flower beds just are. Growing slowly. And I get to watch and learn. What took hold, what didn’t survive the winter. And it’s beautiful, in a green nothing and everything kind of way. 

It’s ( finally) spring!

Poscript Pic:

What a difference three weeks make!

(Not) In Vein

“Where are you going?” I ask. 

“The lab for blood work,” he says.

“It’s 6:45 am.”

“Lab opens at 7.”

“What blood work?”

“From my physical yesterday. Routine stuff. Want to come?”

“Sounds fun.” Who wants to get blood work at 7 o’clock in the morning or any time for that matter? 

“I’ve had the same slip, you know, from my physical three months ago,” I say with snark. 

“Who doesn’t get blood work done when a doctor orders it?”

“Me. I hate getting blood drawn. They can never find my veins.”

“Come on, it’ll be a date.”

Worst idea for a date I’ve ever heard of. 

“What about the boys?” 

“They can handle an hour here by themselves. You know you want to.” He floats me a flirtatious, goofy look, then takes matters into his own hands.

“Boys, your mother and I will be back with bagels in an hour. Call us if anything comes up.”

I throw my coat on in disbelief, over what I’m not exactly sure. Maybe the fact that we have an eleven and nine year old that can actually be alone for a little while. Or, that I am like a horse being led to slaughter to get my blood drawn. Or, that after fourteen years of marriage, getting blood drawn now constitutes a date.

Before long, we are in the car. “Which one are we going to?”

“Downtown,” he says.

“The one on Western Boulevard is less crowded.”

“Baby we’re going downtown.” He leans in, “It’s closer to Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Alrighty then. 

Soon we are “downtown” climbing the stairs to the second floor clinic. A familiar nervous pit now fills my empty stomach. He opens the door to a half-filled room of kindred early birds.

“Told you,” I whisper. We get in line.

“Good morning,” he says, to the white coat wearing human behind the counter.

“Sign in please,” she says.

I follow behind him, ready to sign too but I see he’s written Holly & Rob Howley.

“You’re a real Romeo.”

“Play your cards right and I’ll buy you a coffee.” 

Five minutes later, a woman holding a clip board calls, “Holly & Rob Howley, Room 2.”

Wow--is this a thing? Couples getting their blood drawn in tandem?

“That’s us,” he says, taking my hand. I follow him into Room 2 where he proceeds to get into a full-blown conversation with the woman who is about to poke us with needles. I sit silent. He is done in what seems like four seconds.

His new friend turns to me. “You’re up.” She cracks some corny joke about being extra careful labeling the vials. “Imagine if they drew your thyroid levels off your husband’s blood?” She and he laugh. Blood humor.

“Okay, I’ll see you in the waiting room.”

Seriously he’s choosing this moment to abandon me?

“Your husband’s a nice guy,” she says.

“Yes, much nicer than me,” I say. 

She laughs.

Ice broken, I add, “I hate having my blood drawn. They can never find my veins.”

“No problem. See this?” She taps her name-tag. It says Sue, Phlebotomist. “Veins are my specialty.” She then goes on to tell me all about how the word ‘phlebotomy’ means to cut a vein in latin and how latin is a dying language and then something about today’s SATs...and then:

“Okay, we’re done.”

“Done?” Even with the vein cutting latin explanation, that was quick.

“Yup, you are good to go. If you have time,” she hands me a small card with a web site. “A survey.”

“I’ll give it to my husband, he’ll actually fill it out.”

She laughs.

“How’d it go?” he asks, looking up from the paper.

“Coffee, please.”

We drive to get the boys bagels and us coffee, and then begin our trek home. I am in disbelief when I see the car clock and realize it’s only 7:37 am. “Wow that was quick.”

“Quick is my speciality,” he winks.

Oh brother.

“We could make this an annual thing,” I say.

“I vote for more frequent,” he says, eyebrows raised.

"That's what all the men with big veins say.” I smile.

Aaahhh life at forty. Full of mixed metaphors, phlebotomists and fun. And coffee, lots of coffee.

Unconditional

“I will love you unconditionally....”

“What’s it mean?” I ask, as Katy Perry’s Unconditionally ends.

It’s a little game we play on the way to and from, in the car. After a song we’ve hummed along to (or brazenly belted), is over I ask them: What’s it mean?

“When you have to pay a price for love. Like if I wanted to marry a girl you didn’t like. If I have unconditional love, I’d marry her anyway,” says John, my eleven going on twenty-seven year-old.

Ouch. 

“I wouldn’t marry a girl Mom didn’t like,” says eight-year-old Will, without missing a beat.

Atta boy!

“I would!” John shoots back. “I mean if you love someone that much and Mom doesn’t like them that shouldn’t matter. Right Mom?”

Is he kidding?

I love being the mom of boys. But I do sometimes have a worry, or two, about twenty years from now when I am attending the weddings of friends with girls, who hang on their mom’s every word, looking for direction and approval. Will I be consulted on the daily decisions my boys make? I fear I already know the answer.

“Well John, that depends,” I swallow hard. “If that person brings out the best in you and is kind, then that is what is most important. Of course it doesn’t hurt, and can be lots of fun, if they like Dad and me.”

“But you’re okay if I end up with someone you don’t like?”

Way to beat a dead horse John!

“Yes. But you do have to promise me one thing.”

“What?” John asks, with pre-teen edge.

“When it comes to big holidays and events, like Christmas, you have to spend time with Dad and me. I can’t imagine not having you two around.”

“But Mom,” John says. 

“Yes John?” 

“We always spend Christmas with your family.”

Should have seen that one coming.

In my defense, I adore my mother-in-law (and I’m pretty sure she likes me too). But we live closer to my husband’s family and see them more regularly. My family lives five plus hours away and...and...we always spend Christmas with my family.

“You’re right. Maybe I should ask Nanny if she wants us to spend Christmas in Boston next year. A mom always wants to spend time with her kids,” I add for good measure, then switch to the news channel.

That’s enough unconditional love for one day.

Let It Go! Let It Go!

(Please...)

Over holiday break, we ventured to see Frozen with extended family. We don’t go to the movies much and so it was pure pleasure to experience the enchanted story-line of sisterly connection and a duplicitous prince charming.

In fact, by the time main character Elsa began to sing the now Oscar winning lyrics: “The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside, couldn’t keep it in, heaven knows I tried...”

I think there may have been a tear or two trickling down my cheek. 

“Let it go! Let it go!” 

The message was powerful: accept who you are, stop running, be brave. 

An hour later on the drive home, while listening to my real-life sister debate something (the content of what I don’t honestly remember), I blurted: “Let it go! Let it go!” on key. The car erupted in laughter.

Over the next thirty minutes, I set out on a personal mission to work the refrain in whenever possible. 

Family member: "So what should we have for dinner?"

Me: "Let it go! Let it go!"

No one was finding me funny or inspirational by the time we pulled into the driveway.

You know the saying, "Payback is a...?"

Well, later that week, I found myself reclined in the dental chair for an overdue cleaning, the kind where the dentist suggests a series of X-rays and pokes your gums for signs of receding. 

Mid-poke procedure, with time traveling at the speed of molasses in March, there Elsa was, belting her truth: “Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be...”

There’s something about being captive in a little room with stark fluorescent lighting and peach colored walls to render even the most compelling lyrics annoying. 

“Let it go, let it go! Can’t hold it back anymore!”

Without the visuals (not to mention the delicious popcorn that had no doubt reaped havoc on my aging gums), the song grated my tender nerves.

I started to laugh. The hygienist stopped. “Sorry,” I garbled. She continued.

The very next morning while waiting in a long line at my favorite coffee shop, I couldn’t believe my ears. The shop’s musical selections are usually acoustic or alternative, but not on this day.

“No right, no wrong, no rules for me. I’m free. Let it go, let it go!”

The song was following me. And apparently I wasn’t the only one. The twenty-something barista abruptly left his post and unceremoniously switched the Pandora station.

When I finally reached the counter, I leaned in, “Thank you, for changing that song.”

He smiled. “It’s everywhere.”

This morning, deeply transfixed by my in-need-of-a deep-clean kitchen floor, I was removing a blueberry stain that had led me to a coffee splotch that had pointed me toward an unidentifiable specimen, when my son yelled from the living room:

"Mom, know what this is?"

At first it was faint, barely recognizable.

“It’s funny how" (clunk, clunk)

But with each passing stanza, the melody was focusing into full view.

"Some distance makes everything seem (clunk, clunk) small...”

Will was teaching himself the song, at our piano.

“Let it (clunk) go. Let it go!” 

It was clearly a sign. What else was there to do? I left the ooey glop of who knows what on my floor and joined in:

"Let it go! Let it go!" 

Dirt never bothered me anyway...

Snow Stories from Winters Past

My brother and sister-in-law have lived in Jackson, Wyoming for twelve years. After retiring a few years ago, my dad and stepmom bought a snowbird retreat near them in Victor, Idaho.

We talked for years about making the trip. Since my father is only out there in the winter months, it seemed fitting the excursion would involve skiing, something both my husband and I grew up doing but had barely exposed our boys to yet. By the time we arrived in Jackson, Wyoming John and Will had skied a total of six times. 

I was vaguely aware that skiing “out West” was different than the serene hills of the Berkshires or family ski mountains in Connecticut. “Less chatter,” according to my father. 

Day one of our ski vacation, I was encouraged by what I saw, opportunity for skiers of all abilities, not to mention unseasonably warm 70 degree weather. We were skiing amidst snow covered majestic mountains in sweaters.

Day two we signed the boys up for an all day lesson. They were in heaven as Yeti, their instructor, proclaimed them “Coyotes” the not beginner but not quite intermediate level and they were off. And so were we, to the “big mountain.” 

However, as we began the climb up, up, up, 10,000 feet, I began to crave the softer slopes and the parental obligations of playing it safe with the boys. 

The view was breathtaking, until the reality of “Hey, I have to get down from here!” hit. We soon realized that while the slopes were narrow the inclines were manageable. The first few runs we spent as much time taking pictures as we did skiing. It felt like we were in a scene from Mary Poppins, that somehow Dick Vandyke had painted an impromptu Ansel Adams, and there we were, embedded in the grandeur of the Great Teton Mountains.  

After an enchanted couple of days skiing, we took a break to check out sites in the valley. We saw elk, moose, eagles, and bighorn sheep. We witnessed the national finals of a snowmobile competition where racers plunge UP the mountain. We rode a horse drawn sleigh to a yurt where dinner was prepared over open flame ovens. 

On the last day of our visit, we decided to hit the slopes one more time. We needed one last fix and had promised John and Will a trip up the big mountain. They were confident and ready.

It was colder than it had been all week. But still not that cold. We’d heard a weather report, “Chance of rain in the valley and snow in the upper elevations.” I’d questioned whether to wear my thick jacket or go with a more modest covering, opting for the latter.

On our first trip up the big mountain with the boys, a wall of sleet began to move through. A wet mixture of rain and snow that hurt as it hit the face and neck. It had been such a mild week, I strained to remember if I’d even packed the neck warmers and extra layers in our ski bag that was safely stored in the lodge.

Soon though we were all traveling down the mountain, taking the pelts of precipitation in stride. Echoes of “Pizza wedge, French fry. Pizza wedge, French fry,” could be heard as we coached John and Will down the hill.

When we arrived at the bottom I could tell my husband thought we’d pushed our luck. Something was clearly moving in, the sky was now a slate grey. Still the boys were on a “we did it!” high and this was our last hurrah. “One more run?” I said out of ear shot of the others. 

“I’m going in,” he said. We exchanged looks and I held a finger up to indicate I was planning to take one more run with the boys. “Be careful,” he said with that knowing familiar look, the one that said, “You’re crazy but I love you anyway.” 

Meanwhile the boys had already joined their grandparents in the lift line. Contemplation was not part of their equation. We were off. 

Halfway up the hill, to put it plainly, all hell broke loose. The chairs on the lift started swaying. I was riding with John, my oldest, who is cut from my cloth. Moxie in moments but hardly a daredevil. For some reason (fear mainly), I decided not to acknowledge the Armageddon that was erupting around us.

Three quarters of the way up, John said, “Mom the snow hurts.” I nodded. “We’re going to be okay,” I assured, “We’re on an adventure.” 

As we approached the top of the mountain we were in a complete white out. “Get ready John,” I announced with seconds to spare. “Tips up!” 

Soon Will, Dad and Cheri cut through the marshmallow sky. My father looked like an abominable Rip Van Winkle, snow stuck to his face and beard. All I could think to say as he approached was, “Holy shit.” 

The kids were a few feet ahead with Cheri, which might as well have been a mile because I could barely see them. The wind was picking up and now the sleet had turned to snow, a wet, thick rapidly accumulating snow.

He shook his head. As if to say, Holly, Holly, this is no big deal. But instead, he said, “I’m going to take Will, Cheri will take John, you follow behind. We’ll be fine.”

I could see John in his blue helmet starting to panic. Suddenly I saw the wisdom of my father’s assignments. Cheri is calm in difficult moments. My father is all coach, the tobacco chewing, “What’s the problem?!” type.

I could see Cheri assuring John that he was okay, instructing him on where to turn as she used her pole to mark the edge of the trail. Will, on the other hand, was forging ahead “bull in a China shop” style, my father close behind.

Soon John and Cheri were out of site. I had to trust they were okay as I stuck close to Will who was either oblivious or ignoring the blizzard that surrounded him. He was bombing down the hill one stretch at a time, with his glowing red helmet and goggles lighting the way. We’d taken to calling him the Red Baron because of his helmet, and in this moment, the name fit.

We reached the wide part of the trail and I held my breath because I knew what was coming next. A more narrow stretch where snowboarders shot in and out from the trees. On the first run we’d found a family friend clobbered by a snowboarder who clipped her skis in this daunting stretch. She, like Rob, had the common sense to sit this run out.

Just as we were about to enter the section I was dreading, as if anticipating my apprehension, Will took a nose dive. Falling is, of course, part of skiing but somehow the boys had avoided any major tumbles the entire week. Now in the middle of snow gusts, Will was lying horizontal. 

My father was ahead of us down the hill and stopped, straining to see if things were okay. When I reached Will, he was mad and beginning to tear up. “I didn’t fall,” he said insistently. Something had “made him” fall. 

That’s my Will, most kids would have been wailing in fear. Not Will. He just wanted it known that the tumble was not his doing. What can I say, he is aptly named. 

“Will, let’s get your skis back on and go meet Grandpa,” I said, attempting confidence.

We struggled for a minute, maybe two and were greeted by my dad who had climbed up hill to help. I took a deep breath, relieved he was handling things. 

As I looked around, I realized we were the only people on the hill. How was that possible? Where were all the skiers and snowboarders, not to mention ski patrol? Had everyone made a collective decision to sit this one out except for me, the mother of two “Coyotes?”

Soon we were up and running. When we hit the narrow trail there were no annoying snowboarders to be found, only Cheri and John hovering under a tree waiting for us. 

We joined forces and continued, even slower than before, down the remaining connector trails. Many many minutes later the lodge was in sight. As we approached, I could see Rob standing outside, in the driving snow, staring up the hill. 

I could also see the ski lift, motionless. So that was the reason no one was on the hill. They’d closed the lift. Turns out in addition to rapidly accumulating snow and sleet, lightning had joined the mix making it unsafe to be on the mountain.

“How was it?” Rob asked helping us to eject from our skis and poles and helmets.

“An adventure,” I said shaking my head.

The boys filled in the rest.