Ceremonial Sauce

At the end of summer, just as the nights turn crisp and mums multiply, I make my ceremonial sauce. Forty juicy tomatoes that’s what it takes. Trial and error has gone into that number. It’s enough to make sauce for two meals with some left over for the freezer. After all, these are not just any tomatoes. They are tomatoes from the garden. 

This morning as I poured over the past prime plants, picking the late blooming tomatoes, I felt the familiar struggle of the changing season. In the garden, in me. My practice plot has come to mean much more to me than the produce it provides. I've learned a lot, over the past few summers, in the garden.

Space. Plants, like people, need space. When they are crowded they either get power hungry or topple from the weight of others around them.

Balance. (Yes I’m talking to you summer of 2013!) Plants try to acclimate to extreme conditions, but at the end of the day a little sun and a little rain produces the best yield. Too much of either and everything drowns or cracks. Especially tomatoes.

Timing. Never water in high heat. The water bakes the plants and makes everything droopy. It’s the same as trying to reason with a tantrum throwing toddler in a grocery store. Let the intensity subside, and things will work out just fine.

Imperfections. Get rid of weeds before they’ve fully taken root. If you wait too long, it can be difficult to tell which is the plant and which is the weed. After a certain point, it’s better to have some weeds growing side by side with the plants than to kill the vegetables trying to destroy the interloper. And sometimes, it turns out, the plants and weeds grow just fine, together.

Freedom. Let plants roam. I try to plan out the flow of the garden so that the rambling summer squash vines don’t invade the more controlled eggplants and tomatoes but in the end, the plants do what they want. I gently nudge them and tie them together on sticks and cages. Plants like people need direction, support. But don’t give them too much instruction. They’ll find the warmth they need, after they figure out which path is best for them.

Share.  There is nothing like the taste of juicy homegrown tomatoes or the tangy punch of garden leeks except the glory of sharing something you’ve grown with a friend.  

Letting Go. There is no perfection in the garden. I love getting my fingers dirty, tending the baby plants, sowing the growing fruit. But it isn’t orderly or pretty. I am usually a sweaty, buggy mess after I’ve spent time in the garden. And despite my best efforts in May to pristinely plant seeds in perfect rows, by July the garden is a twisty, twirly magical mass of green, ready to burst with the season’s bounty. 

Then just a few short weeks later, the vines wither, the fruit is picked, and even the weeds grow weary. Summer ends. 

And that’s when I make my ceremonial sauce--to remember--summer in the garden.

(Not) Ready

“I made my lunch!” Will says, as I walk into the kitchen.

You what? I examine the perfectly made peanut butter and banana sandwich. “Want me to cut it in half?” I ask. “Sure,” he says, throwing me a mom bone.

“Just one!” John says, as I start snapping pictures before they take off on first day adventures.

Just one? Just one! He didn’t care how many I took last year...

I usually relish in this time of year. In throwing on the obligatory sweater as the first cool breeze blows. In keeping careful watch for dots of crimson on the trees. And hints of holiday in the magazines and flyers gracing our mailbox. 

But not this year. I want more summer. 

I’m not complaining exactly. We had a good, no great, summer. 

We hosted a family reunion, visited family and friends at lakes and the ocean, welcomed new little cousins...and even our very own dog Daisy.

But for some reason, I’m just not ready. 

For long, lingering, sunny days to turn short, cool, reflective.

For swirling schedules filled with scholarly expectations and practices and rehearsals and...

I watch the boys take off down the walkway, then cross the road (after looking twice just like I taught them). By themselves. Never looking back. 

And I realize it doesn’t matter that I’m not ready. They are.

T-Day

I pace back and forth “working” in the dining room. The only room in my house with a clear view of the mailbox. Today is the day. Teacher Assignment Day.

The phone rings. A reminder that someone else’s mail has already arrived. My boys, for whom the paper in the envelope holds the names of their teachers for this year, are nowhere to be found. They are on their annual summer getaway with their grandparents. They are not losing any sleep or rearranging their day, or even giving a second thought to who their teacher is this year.

Next week, they will be home and surrounded by friends who will ask the obligatory “Who do you have?” They’ll be happy or a little sad as they piece together their new school family. But that’s it, just another day, just another year.

So why do I care so much?

I answer the phone. “Not yet. Call you as soon as I get it.” It is my almost first grader’s best friend’s mother.

I come from a family of teachers. Both of my sisters are teachers. My parents were teachers. My grandparents were teachers. Growing up I spent weekends and vacations and pretty much every waking minute with teachers.

I have ultimate respect for the profession: for the tireless, non-stop energy and stamina it takes to shape 20 plus little minds each year. I have so much respect for the profession that I didn’t go into it. I know it’s a calling and I didn’t have it.

I also know that teachers come in all shapes, sizes and stages of life. Some are tall, some are short, some are cheery, some rarely crack a smile. They have good years and bad years. They fall in love, give birth, care for dying parents, get divorced, mourn loved ones and get sick. They are energized by the newest reading techniques and overwhelmed by endless testing. They have, do and feel it all. Because — they are human.

As a daughter and sister, I know that good teachers hold their own through it all. But as a parent, I fight the urge to crave the perfect teacher. After all, I only have two kids with one childhood. I want the best education’s got. I want the trifecta: teachers who love their jobs, get my kids and teach them things too.

My father reminded me last summer, right around this time, that “It’s good for kids to experience all kinds of personalities, to get them ready for the world.” I nodded in obedient agreement and then thought, “Ready for the world? Just let it be a good year.”

But I do want them to be ready for the world, to experience the smile of the new teacher excited by the warm glow of learning. And the mastery of the “seen it all, done it all” type who knows how to crack the “I can’t do it” code. But most of all, I want the only other person who spends seven hours a day with them to look into their eyes and see potential.

After the paper with their teacher assignment arrives, I will try to smile and be happy with whatever name it reveals. I will try not to launch through my mental database and into discovery mode seeking out parents who’ve gone this way before. I will try not to care too deeply about the sober ratings of pool parents. Or, passing parents at the grocery store who provide a vague, “You’ll like her.”

I wonder if the teachers are lighting up the phone lines on this day? “Oh no! Not her.” Or, “Fantastic! I was hoping I’d get a group of energetic boys this year.” More likely they’re swapping not so cryptic reviews of the parents, because I’d imagine, some (throat clear) are easier than others.

I hope that I am one of the good parents, the ones with whom the teachers want to work.

I also hope that someday I will care a little less and trust a little more.

And I hope my son gets Mrs. … wait … hold that thought. Moment of truth, the mailman is finally here!

This piece ran in the Hartford Courant, August 27, 2011.

Dizzney

Where can you pay thousands of dollars to wait in lines that stretch for miles in the hot blazing sun for the opportunity to get pummeled by buckets of water or risk losing your over-priced lunch in gravity defying poses? 

Disney of course!

We took our second family voyage to Disney World last week. It was a blast. Watching our boys, 10 and 8, zoom from park to park, ride to ride, declaring whatever they’d just experienced, “The best ride ever!”

Three years ago when we visited, for the first time, we were still in the hunker down years. Logistics reigned. 

“Where is the nearest bathroom?”

 “Don’t walk too far ahead!” 

“Quick get the sunscreen!”

It's a Small Small (Tired) World

But this time was different. There was the distinct feeling that they were leading us. Willing their parents, grandparents, and aunt enough energy to make it around the next bend. Challenging us to go beyond the comforts of gravity and dry clothes to catch the next adrenaline rush. For the boys, there was a “not enough time” feeling in the air.  

While we, the adult contingency, rode every wave right along side our young comrades counting down the minutes until we could plant ourselves firmly in a chair or perhaps enjoy an end-of-day adult beverage.

On day five of our vacation, Rob and I had our dreams come true when the grandparents offered to take our little Disney junkies for the day, while we languished by the pool. Aaaahhh.

It didn’t matter that the dark clouds hovered by mid-morning or that torrential rain set in around noon. We lingered, under cover, looking out over the resort infinity pool, doing absolutely nothing and loving every minute. 

By the next morning we were refreshed and ready. To turn the corner on our final day of amusement park adventures. 

It’s true what they say: Youth is wasted on the young. 

Except at Disney. Disney is made for the young. And I don’t mean the young at heart. I mean the true blue young. 

But for those of us no longer in that category, it’s still magic to go back. To a place where mice never age and parades spontaneously erupt under a castle lit sky. 

To make little dreams come true.

Abracadabra

7:45 am Wednesday morning. One of those days. An impossible, set-myself-up-to-fail, but I’m giving it the old college try kind of day.

A quick jaunt (okay it’s at least five miles out of my way, but it’s MY place) to get my morning cup of adrenaline, then to work earlier than usual so that in two hours I can make it to Field Day to watch my two growing up way too fast buggers ride around in a wagon and take turns wrapping their teacher up with toilet paper.

(What ever happened to Field Day anyway? When I was in elementary school we’d sweat it out with the 50 yard dash and the 1 mile run. Survival of the fittest literally. But that’s a whole other blog.)

Still, Field Day is an important milestone. It marks the ending of another school year and a day of pure fun for my second and fourth grader who barely slept due to extreme excitement.

In order to get there however, I have to make four phone calls and finish two updates for a Board Meeting at 4 o’clock. And, I have to figure out what to leave the babysitter to feed the boys because when Rob walks through the door, our relay continues with one kid going to lacrosse and the other golf.

8:00 am With any luck, I’ll be in my office by 8:15 am. I love my commute. Long enough to mentally wind through the day, not long enough to get too wound up.

8:02 am Uh-oh. Massive traffic. What the hell? Is this Hartford or Boston?

8:09 am I call a co-worker, get a project underway and momentarily feel better until...I realize that during the seven minute phone call I’ve moved maybe 10 feet.

8:15 am Might as well catch up on what’s going on in the world. I turn the radio on. A song is blaring, I start to switch the station to news but then I don’t. Because it’s Pat Benetar. 

“You’re a heartbreaker, dream maker, love taker, don’t you mess around with me. No! No! No!” 

Is there anything better than a good Pat Benetar song? 

8:20 am “I heat up, I can’t cool down, you’ve got me spinning round and round. Round and round, round and round it goes where it stops no one knows. Abra abracadabra...I wanna reach out and grab you...”

Luckily it didn’t stop. 

8:30 am “I was dreamin’ when I wrote this. Forgive me if it goes astray. But when I woke up this mornin’ could of sworn it was judgement day. Yeah they say two thousand zero zero party over, oops out of time. So tonight I’m going to party like it’s 1999.”

From there I lost track of time. When I finally did reach the office it was 1989 and it didn’t matter,“No! No! No!”

The day no longer felt insurmountable. Thanks to the 80s at 8.

“Round and round, round and round it goes, where it stops no one knows...”

Unc Unc

It’s a fact that we all wrestle with, in varying degrees of unrest and resolution. We are all going to die, someday. But sometimes someday is way too soon and a person’s departure leaves a void that is unimaginable.

Unc Unc, Holly & Dad
At Uncle Harry & Aunt Jane's Wedding, 1977

My Uncle Harry, my Dad’s only sibling, passed away suddenly last month at the age of 61. 

He was known to us as Unc Unc. The name suited him perfectly. He was a man of many sound effects and a laugh that kept us swimming in a sea of silly.

But what I remember most is how he made me feel. Special. How he looked at me. With admiration. And how it was to be with him. Fun. 

Growing up, when something of note would happen, I’d think, “I can’t wait to tell Uncle Harry.” It may have been months before I saw him next, but when I did, it always felt like he was anticipating, looking forward to my ramblings. He’d listen and listen, interject a bit and then listen some more. 

He was a universal, unconditional listener. That was obvious at his funeral as a line of people wrapped around the church several times, just waiting to get in. 

The day felt more like a reunion than a funeral. As family and friends struggled in shock and sadness, there were endless stories. Of Harry’s kindness, sense of humor, wit, athletic prowess and loving presence. He was simply an amazing friend, son, brother, husband, father and grandfather. And Uncle.

A couple days after the service, my sister had a dream that she saw Uncle Harry and told him how many people were there to honor his memory, his life. In her dream he said, “Well what else do people have to do on a Thursday morning?”

We laughed. Because that is something he would have said. Never once acknowledging that those people would have waited in a snowstorm, because he would have done the same for them.

On this day of remembering, we remember Unc Unc. You are here in our hearts, never to be forgotten.

Smile

I read a lot of parenting paraphernalia when John was little. Most of it I don’t recall, but there was one piece of advice that stuck: 

“Whenever you look into your child’s eyes: smile.” 

I remember thinking the message was profound. A simple way of letting my budding little life know he was loved, appreciated. And, who doesn’t like a smile thrown their way? I was also fairly confident it was something I could pull off while wandering around in my then sleepless stupor.

And so after naps, during diaper changes, feeding time, car seat transitions, I’d try to remember to: smile. Not a big toothy “yippee” smile but an “I’m so glad you’re mine” smile. 

Two things immediately happened. 

John started to smile back. And, I realized the smile regimen was as good for me as it was for him. 

Smiles are catchy.

Ten years later, I no longer consciously think to smile when my boys walk in the room (I hope by now it’s a habit). And let’s face it when cooing babies turn into tantrumy toddlers and precocious pre-teens, all that smiling can be a little more...um, challenging.

Last weekend John performed in his first musical theatrical production. For regular readers of this blog, this was the performance that I kinda sorta had him audition for without him knowing. He is after all, my reluctant joiner, who prefers school and home to “out there” endeavors. 

John loved his time at the Children’s Theatre. Every Saturday he happily attended rehearsals, without ever once saying, “Do I have to go?” And he was excited to share his production with the steady stream of family and friends who attended.

Knowing how happy he’d been rehearsing and how excited he was to be part of the production, I was a little surprised to see how timid he was as we watched the first production. It was clear he was having a good time but he wasn’t his usual self.

I approached the subject delicately on the way home in the car.

“How did it feel to be up there?” I asked.

“Great!” he said, then after a long pause. “Mom can you sit somewhere different for the next show?”

“Sure, why?” I asked.

“The people in front of me weren’t smiling and it made me wonder if I was doing a good job.”

“Some people are smile-challenged John,” I responded.

“Smile what?” he asked.

“Smiling isn’t their thing,” I said. 

The next afternoon I arrived an hour early with John. Before he left to join his cast mates, John directed me to the area where he wanted me to sit. Second row, stage right. 

Forty minutes later a familiar face walked through the door. It was Mrs. Bankers, from John’s school. Seeing her always-present smile, made me smile, for so many reasons.

Mrs. Bankers routinely lights up the Buttonball Lane Elementary School office. She is the kind of person that notices, everything. She’s never too busy to say hello or offer comfort. She senses when a child (or a parent) is lost or not feeling quite right. Her joy is contagious. 

“Thanks for saving me a seat,” she said with her trademark smile.

Thanks for bringing your smile, I thought.

As the lights dimmed and the music began, I could see John’s big blue eyes poke out from the back of the curtain. As soon as he saw us in our strategically appointed seats, I could see him smile. 

Over the next hour and a half we sat in the little theatre watching children ranging from seven to seventeen sing, dance and act their hearts out while we laughed, clapped and shed a tear or two.

I could see John’s confidence grow with each passing song. With each passing smile.

I know I won’t always be able to be John’s surrogate smiler, willing him through every nerve wracking endeavor. But I hope he’ll always remember: Smiles are catchy. And like good advice, they never grow old.