Home

\'hom\

1. A dwelling place

2. A social unit

3. To the center or heart of something

4. Native land

5. Focus point

6. Heaven

St. Paddy's Day makes me wistful. It was one of my mom's favorite days of the year. She was proud of the Irish heritage bestowed upon her by her father, Mack McGurk. I never met him, but I feel like I know him because a little leprechaun told me that my mom got her smiling eyes from him. There is comfort in knowing they are together telling jokes and toasting with green beers.

I wore her shamrock scarf and carried my lucky charm with me all day. I felt like she heard me when I told her I missed her and cannot believe it's been eleven years. I know it's no coincidence that I pulled up her obit yesterday. She was with me. Reading it brought back the memory of writing it with her a couple weeks before her passing. It sounds macabre, but it was a comfort to us both and we laughed as much as we cried. I felt relief that I wouldn't have to write her goodbye in the throes of grief. It gave her a semblance of control. We both felt the repose of accepting what was happening. Surrender, although nothing about it was sweet.

I also made the connection between Teddy's business school application being due on this day... March 17th. I felt buoyed by clichés like luck of the Irish and third times a charm. I may have asked for divine intervention. For the love of God, this kid has gone way above and far beyond. His grades could not get any better. His professional and personal experiences are standout. It's competitive especially given his demographics. I read his essay before submition yesterday and I was impressed by the level of insight he portrayed. Things have always come relatively easy for my firstborn. This has not been easy and in this lies a valuable lesson...one of perseverance. Grit goes a long way.

He's thinking of coming home this weekend. I like to think he's missing us. I think it's his gym. Normalcy to be honest. I'm so grateful he can get on a bus and be home STAT. I was a frequent flier on the Badger Bus. I missed home as much as I loved my new life. So many of my friends were still there, my mom, my dog and the boy who broke my heart just before I was set to go.

I started feeling schmaltzy after we had a visit last weekend from a young man who lived at Casa Wags  before we did. We bought the house from his parents. He was showing the house across the street. He called his mom in Atlanta and told her he was outside. She urged him to knock on our door. We asked him in for a walk down memory lane. There have been countless times I've wanted to knock on the Idlewild house door and be invited in. I envied his mettle. He was all I had my graduation party in this room, I had the big room upstairs, is that bathroom still pink, I watched Falcons games with my dad in here. And then he told us that his dad passed in October. He passed from Covid. It wrenched my heart when he said with disbelief, I had two healthy parents in September. I know what that feels like. He thanked us and mused that the house has good karma. I couldn't agree more.

Downriver

The first thing I did when I rolled out a bed a little after 7 this morning was to open all the windows and doors. The air smelled like long ago, but not far away. I've always lived along this river. The sweet scent of dew and clover is what brought me here to share this memory of Humboldt Boulevard. On early summer mornings just like this, we'd open the front and back doors and a perfumed breeze would blow through the house. I'd be on Mrs. K. watch because first thing she'd fill all the bird feeders behind our protective gates. She was our landlord who lived in the mansion on the property. Of course, it wasn't a mansion by today's standards, but it was much larger and grander than our shaker sided box. Spending time with Mrs. K. was one of my favorite things to do when I was a little girl. She was as old as I was young and as fragile as I was sturdy. We both had white hair. Well, mine was blond. She always had her's pulled back in a tidy chignon and she only wore dresses and aprons. I adored helping her. She smiled with her eyes and laughed at all the things I said. I can still hear that laugh too. It was reserved and breathless. Often she'd reward me with a treat afterward, but time with her was the only prize I was seeking. Sometimes it was a scoop of the creamiest chocolate ice-scream, others it was a scrapbook session in her kitchen with Fanny her black and white bunny, and if I was truly lucky, it was a walk down to the river. The whole way she'd vacillate between pointing out beauties and dangers. She was afraid I'd venture down to the water's edge alone and get hurt or fall in. I'm pretty sure I only disobeyed her a handful of times and not because I was scared. Only because I didn't want to disappoint her.

The trails seemed so dense, long and steep when I was a kid. I wonder what it would be like to travel along them today. Would they be as I remember them, or would they be thin, short and flat?

We moved across the river when I was ten and my brother was seven. I remember how sad we all were to be leaving our colorful compound, but especially Mrs. Kay. At the same time I was excited to be getting my own room and going to a neighborhood school. In the weeks before we left, she always looked on the verge of tears. My mom reassured her that we were close and would come visit often, but we didn't. I think she already knew that our returns would be few and far between. She watched us grow up and then had to watch us go away.

I only recall returning a single time. My new bff, Megan, and I rode our bikes across the river and showed up unannounced. I wanted to show my friend the magic that was where I grew up. I missed it and I told her all about the trails and the raspberry bushes and the koi pond and my Mrs. K.

The photos below were taken by Mr. K. He had a fancy camera and was often snapping shots of me for my mom. I don't have a single photograph of Mrs. K., yet I haven't forgotten a single thing about her.

The irises were almost as tall as I was.

 It was a happy place...

 to grow up.

 In Mr. K's chair. That's a bust of him on the table beside me. On the other side was a huge picture window overlooking the bluff and the river.

This was my favorite area in their house. The koi pond continued from the yard into the house and the wall behind me was lined with built in fish tanks.

On my front porch. I started feeding the critters at an early age.

Mr. K. thought himself somewhat of a Hemmingway. I was obviously intrigued.

Now and Then

I went for an early morning walk yesterday. I took the river trail. I usually avoid it when I'm alone, but something was pulling me closer to the banks. Since spring is slow to arrive in these parts, the branches are still bare. The sight lines give me some measure of security when I'm alone in the woods. I forged ahead on familiar paths listening to my book, but I kept finding myself distracted by the longing ohr ohr ohr of the morning dove, or the blue jay's angry jeer, or the chip cheer of the cardinal as I moved deeper into their territory. I was noticing things. That's not always my modus operandi. Many days - many more than I prefer - I barrel through my busy life the taskmaster with tunnel vision, but not yesterday. Yesterday, I was present.

It was a smell that stopped me dead in my tracks. A familiar smell that brought a memory back to life. And then memories. I was deluged by a flood of intense emotion. The kind that builds endlessly and then rolls over everything in an instant. It's akin to your life flashing before your eyes in that telltale moment only instead of images, it's sensations. Feelings not facts. Samskaras waiting for just the right stimuli to rise up and out ebbing and flowing like waves. At first it was faint, a trace, but unmistakable. I silenced my book to get a stronger whiff. It was a fecund scent. Loamy and lush. It was fertile earth and bursting buds and metallic river water. It was what was to come, but also all that had ever been, and it sent me back to my childhood along the banks of this very same river. I remember it as the smell of spring mornings. That first nostril-chilling trace of the world as you open the door to the new day. It's a commonplace smell that stirs some things deep within me. So deep I cannot get to them, and yet, I know they are there. They will always be there. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

March, 1974. Just such an early spring morning. Humboldt Avenue, our compound on the river. My brother and me with a random cat. A cat that Mrs. K. would surely catch and relocate if she caught sight of it. She was a birder. Cats eat birds. It was one of those days you bundle up in the morning and then shed layers as the day gathers steam. I distinctly remember the smell from that morning over forty years ago. It's a smell that made me feel quite a discernible way. A feeling I now know as wistfulness. It's the smell of growth and decay: some things are rotting and some things are maturing. A smell that hints of longer days, raspberry bushes bursting with fruit, dirty feet and bare arms. A smell that suggests soft breezes through open windows, Big Wheel races down a driveway that seems never ending to my 6 year old self, and walks through the gardens fragrant with irises and snap dragons and roses down to the river. The smell...it's called Promise.

But the little girl in this picture already knows that promises aren't forever or even for better. She has her first pang of nostalgia as she grasps that winter is ending and spring is coming and then it will be summer. It's the first time she thinks of her August birthday not with excitement over where the party will be, but rather with a sense of sadness that she'll be taking another turn around the sun. She doesn't know what it means to long or yearn, but she pines nonetheless. In a couple months, she'll cry herself to sleep after a candid conversation about death with her mother. Now it's not just childhood that's impermanent, but life itself. Soon she'll watch her dad disappear down the front walk a suitcase in each hand. Love can be elusive.  Some day she'll hold her mom's hand as she exhales for the last time grateful that she understood the promises of this life from such an early age.

We exchange vows and rings, we pinky swear, we cross our hearts, we put up collateral, we make pacts, we sign guarantees, we take oaths, but in the end, the only certain promise is that we are one day closer to death. Knowing this can and should inform the way we live.

Pay attention. Notice things. Stop and smell the roses, or breathe in the first spring air. Be.here.now. Fully. Only. Laugh, cry, hold hands. Forgive. Don't give up trying every day to be better than the person you were the day before. Promise me this.

Late Winter Inventory

I started out strong. Read Cutting for Stone. The fifth time was definitely a charm. That's right...I started this novel no less than 4 times prior. I cannot explain my road block nor my tenacity, but I was so rewarded by this story and these characters in the end. Next I picked up Salter's Light Years. It's not light reading, but it sure is beautiful writing. I was put off by Nedra and Viri initially, but drawn in by Salter's storytelling from the start. I dogeared practically every other page for some exquisite description or blunt truth. I'm grateful I didn't give up on this little gem. I started Chef Eric Ripert's 32 Yolks only to get notice from the library that A Little Life was waiting for me. Yanagihara's novel is not a little book or an easy read, but it was captivating and raw and well-told. I had to pace myself because I was tempted to devour the 760 pages as quickly as possible, but it was also draining. I was warned and it is true: this novel's impact makes everything else feel trivial and trite. I have not read much since I finished it. I'm halfway through a few in this stack and gearing up for the rest. Ultimately, it was The One in the Million Boy that wooed me back. Wood's YA novel is quirky and charming, and it also tugs steadily on the heart strings.  

Wondering what it would be like to be a cat. I've had some serious cat envy going on in these days of late winter. Days that seem designed for curling up in some soft spot for hours that turn into days.

Hoping that I can plan and host a beautiful Easter brunch. There's nothing better than a houseful of people. And also that we get to Mexico without any incidence. I'd be a strong candidate for teleportation. I like the going places just not the getting there. I suppose I'm in good company.

Thinking about the past and legacy. The things we leave behind. These musings were mostly sparked by a visit to my Grandma's house. It's being prepped for an estate sale. So many memories. This Albert the Alley Cat hat reminded me of the time my brother and I made the evening news. We were playing in the snowbanks on the street in our matching hats in the middle of a snowstorm. Albert was the mascot for the station so we were PR in our cat hats. I thought about what good friends my brother and I were growing up, and how the snow banks seemed big as mountains when we were small, and how I had dreams that we would be such good friends for all our lives.

I remember collecting these glasses myself. I don't think my Grandma ever used her set. She had so much stuff she could never put it all to use. She probably didn't even know much of what she had, and she never used the good stuff. I Thought about how important it is to use the good stuff and not to have too much stuff.

This picture hung in her living room. I was spooked, but also mesmerized by this depiction of Jesus with the crown of thorns. I Thought about taking it, but I knew I wouldn't hang it. I drove down the alley we used to walk together to church instead and then I paused in front of it long enough to say a prayer.

Watched The Affair. This season felt a little like a tease. I wanted a couple more episodes at least. I was annoyed by the ending, but now that I'm thinking back on it, it may just be perfect.  We're also getting caught up on Billions and Homeland as we have Showtime for the late winter. I'm lukewarm on both show's seasons right out of the gate.

Listening to lots of Gypsy Kings and mariachi music in anticipation of our trip.

Eating pretty clean and with Michael Pollan's wisdom in mind: Eat food. Mostly Plants. Not too much. We're still restricting gluten, sugar and dairy. In the past week, we've had some of our favorite Irish fare. I don't think I'll be making soda bread though this year.

Drinking margaritas de patron, and lemon water and tea.

Wanting a big snowstorm all season. It arrived yesterday so I took a snow day. It was a gift to myself.

Enjoying Crabtree & Evelyn lotion, Teddy's new-earned independence, Amazon Prime (although it is a bit dangerous), brushing up on my Spanish and amping up the frequency and difficulty of my workouts.

Loving the Yiddish word mishegas and the French bete noire, the fact my cousins are coming for Easter, fresh flowers at the end of winter, a fresh haircut and feeling like I can wear some pink again.

I Can Handle The Truth

I heard Leaving on a Jet Plane the other day, and suddenly I was four years old again.  It was a sunny almost summer day.  I have short hair just like a boy.  I wish I could ask my mom what that was all about.  I'm wearing bell bottoms, a gauze flowered tunic and no shoes.  I know what that was about: it was the 70s.  The gold shag carpet feels groovy on my bare feet as I blaze a trail between my dad and my grandma.  I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad.  My grandma is visiting from Salt Lake City, but my dad is leaving.  Leaving not on a jet plane, but with a suitcase.  I'm not sure whether I've been told or just overheard that he won't be coming home soon, but he won't.  No, he is moving to a new home on Brady Street, but it may as well be Utah to me. 

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The day my dad moved out is my very first tangible memory.  I see him walking down the iris-lined front walk alone.  I smell the yard filled with so many happy blooms, the acrid steely scent of the screen and something my grandma is cooking in the kitchen.  Stroganoff?  Chicken ala King?  I feel the cold mesh leaving impressions on my cheek as I press harder and strain to see my dad disappear from my view.  I also feel my heart breaking a little bit, and maybe some relief too.  And I hear this song.  Or do I?

*********************************************************

I asked my brother about this Peter Paul & Mary number over the weekend.  Did it remind him of Mom and Dad?  Anything?  It doesn't.  To be fair he was only two then, but it got me thinking about memories.  They're so subjective and suggestive.  I wonder how much of that day was constructed after it occurred by stories and pictures.  I can barely recall what happened last week with any detail so I have little faith I can remember an event forty plus years ago palpably.  And yet I do.  I do. Does how I remember it matter any more than the fact that I do?  What I claim to know has affected who I am today, and at the very least it's part of my story.  An integral, often visited part.

*****************************************************

There are so many stories I tell myself.  She betrayed me.  He broke my heart.  My friendship wasn't reciprocated.  I deserve better.  You deserve better.  I always wanted this, that, you.  I'm weak.  I'm strong.  I was right.  We were wrong.  There are so many things I am sorry for.  My life has been hard.  I am blessed.  There are times I wonder where the narrative ends and the truth begins.  And then I wonder...what does truth even mean?  Matter?

**************************************************

What do you absolutely know to be true?

***************************************************

Exactly.

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Five minutes in my basement yielded this evidence.  It's a storyboard.  Random photos tossed in a box that come together to suggest my memory of that day forty-two years ago is at least somewhat true.

1. Family before.

2. Iris-lined lane.

3. Short hair, bell bottoms and screen door.

4. Gold shag carpet.

5. Family after.

Did I pick and chose to make a memory?  Enhance a memory?  Understand a memory?  I'll never be able to answer that, but I can say with conviction that I am sure it isn't important.  It's a defining memory of my childhood however it came to be.

two day pass

this weekend we went back to where it all began.

**************************************

mike and i met in madison in 1987.

we lived in the same dorm but liked different people.

we were friendly for years before we started dating.

in 1990, we had our first kiss after a badger game.

we were at the same frisby floor reunion long after the day's game.
it was a party i almost skipped to have a date with a different mike.

it was a beautiful fall night.
the air was electric.
of course, later it would storm and we would go home drenched.

i'm not sure if the team won or lost, but i know i went home happy.

we haven't been to a game together in years.

**************************************

so when my brother, a fellow alum, scored tickets, i was excited to visit bucky.

walking down regent street was a virtual stroll down memory lane.

the landmarks are completely changed,

yet the sea of red and the party in every parking lot felt familiar.

we did a lot of reminiscing.

there was the time neighboring tailgaters knifed our football.

there was the time (or few) we stayed at jingles drinking miller lite for the whole game(s).

there was the time when we used to sit in section p or o.

there was the time we ate la bamba twice in 24 hours.

now the boys are too old too avenge pig skin murderers,
 jingles is an apartment building,
 we're too old (and on time) for the student section, and o sucks,
 and la bamba is out of business.

i loved being back at camp randall, and i got downright weepy when arm in arm we swayed while singing varsity.

i really don't think the day could have been any better.

well...except for a badger victory.

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sunday was stellar too.

it was the perfect broody fall day for being busy in the kitchen with extra coffee and lots of jazz.

i made harissa and wondered how and why i have never before, assembled the algerian Lasagna, and mixed a red wine vinaigrette.

lily peeled and chopped apples happily, and then mixed and rolled out dough proudly for her first ever apple pie.

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incidentally, the first and last time i made an apple pie was shortly after that first kiss so many badger saturdays ago.

mike was slow and shy.

october turned into november and we had yet to have a date.

so when he finally asked me, i said i couldn't because i had to make an apple pie.

ludicrous right?

i believe that was my point.

i called my grandpa and he shared his recipe.

that night i did indeed bake a pie much to the delight of my neighbors, adam and erik.

the next day, i received a card and a dozen roses from mike.

whatever he said on that enclosure, made me finally take him seriously.
i accepted the next time he asked me out.

**********************************************

lily's pie was a delish beaut.

the best part about her culinary passion though, is what happens when we're side by side cooking.

we talk. we tell stories.  we share secrets. we listen.

we connect.

*************************************************

so a badger game is never just a badger game and an apple pie is never just an apple pie.
they are portals to the past, and sometimes life changing too.

On My Mind Monday

I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me. I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.

Meryl Streep

She took the thoughts right out of my head right down to her sentiments on animals, and that's exactly why I would love to have coffee with Meryl. 

Synecdoche

Synecdoche: a part representing the whole.  A sail representing a fleet.  A crown representing a king.  A dinner representing a mother.

Poser

Claire Dederer 

As I drove along the lakefront this morning, I was taken aback by the cool slate color of the still icy water.  I was struck by how the ripples appeared to be devoid of color...completely colorless.  Our lake has been quite the chameleon this week changing from blue as sky to green as grass to gray as...really what is gray?  Just like that and the shimmery hope of yesterday's liquid expanse is today's vast vacancy.

The rain clouds stalled out over the lake were releasing their moisture.  I could see sheets not drops falling from them.  Along my route, some roads were rain soaked and others bone dry.  It was rather hit or miss.  The sun was straining to make an appearance.   Despite rain and cold, I was not stuck in a somber mood. 

Au contraire...I was singing along to You Are The Sunshine Of My Life and feeling rather warm and bright.  Everything about the decades old ballad is happy and joy filled.  I was humming and remembering the first time I recall hearing this song.  I'm stretched out on the floor of the living room at the end of a hot summer day.  The sun is still streaming into the room, flooding it so that the gold shag 70s carpet looks like spun precious metal.  I'm fresh out of the bath dressed in a pair of shorty pajamas covered with bright flowers.  My Mom is in the kitchen making a late dinner after a long day at work.  Something light and simple on this humid night I am sure.  I'm listening to her sing along as drawers open and dishes clang.  I feel safe and happy...warm and bright.

This image of my 7, 8 or 9 year old self is a treasured synecdoche of my childhood in the same way that this morning's scenery...today's back drop...is of life's landscape. Today this little part...this song...most definitely represents my Mom, and it just happens to do so beautifully.

Simply Summer

Summer is in full swing and yet it seems almost impossible that next week we will celebrate July 4th. There really is no predictable routine to many of our days these days, but I'm trying and mostly succeeding at embracing the unexpected, the unplanned, the unforeseen. That freedom is the glowing gift that is summer.

It's striking how different my erstwhile childhood summers are when compared to those of my children today. As I dropped T. Bone off at camp Monday morning at the elementary school I myself attended, I honed in on the playgrounds already filled with boys and girls. Many a free day I made my way to these same stomping grounds via bicycle for games of kickball or tennis or capture the flag all loosely organized and very well attended. When I rode off without a helmet on my head, I went home to make lunch for myself and my younger brother. If we were lucky, the house across the boulevard would put the flag out that signaled open swim, and friends for a several block radius would convene and cool off for a lazy afternoon. I was 11 and my Mom was at work. Most moms were at work. We didn't have a glut of organized activities, calendars with inked in play dates, chauffeurs or cell phones, and truth be told...we didn't need them.

I guess it's fair to say that I'm nostalgic for that simpler life I seem to so fondly remember. I have friends who are already complaining that their kids are bored with summer. I'm sorry, but I just don't know what to say to that. I know that I'm blessed that my two have not spoken that surprising sentiment. But is it really surprising when we look through an honest lens at the lives we lead? How we are always on the go? Multi-tasking? Plugged in? Tuned out? Waiting to be entertained and amused? Faster, louder, bigger, better, more, more, more.

This week Miss Bit is attending theater camp and she's a bit flummoxed and not entirely happy that she's committed to camp all 5 days...Monday through Friday folks...that's Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday. That girl of mine is so very much digging her down time. I am too so I feel her pain just not as poignantly perhaps.

But that being said...I've enjoyed some quality one on one time with T. Bone (when he's been home that is to say.) He's more my mover and shaker. Tuesday morning we spent some time shopping for new cleats and such and then had lunch before his presence was requested at the club with his friends for a swim, followed by a must-see semi-final ball game, followed by a spur of the moment sleepover. Today I had much fun playing "ball mama" on the tennis court. We played a little round robin with one of his friends and they were so impressed by my skills that they questioned whether or not I ever played at Wimbledon. I surmise they didn't see the cob webs attached like super glue to my faded racket cover or the grip literally disintegrating in my hands. Silly boys. That fine flattery earned them butter burgers and malts for lunch with sides of fries. Smart boys.

Miss Bit and I managed to steal away for a couple exclusive dates this week too. I knew she so needed them when she sobbed on the way to camp each morning about how much she was going to miss me, and how she would try to focus on all the happy times we have had, and did I have a Kleenex or 5 to spare. And just for the record...she is very much loving this acting camp. Her enhanced dramatic flair is the finest evidence that we are getting our money's worth out of this week. The truth is my girl would rather be eating ice-cream on a shady park bench, making new friends on the playground whose names she cannot for the life of her remember and probably will never see again so it doesn't really matter, figuring out new monkey bar challenges, and rooting through the shelves at the library for books she hasn't read but wants to than working on inflection and improv and expression.

At Casa Wags we're all about finding the balance. Next week there will be no camp or work or have tos. We won't be going anywhere or doing anything special either, and I'd be willing to bet it will go down as one of the best weeks of the summer. A jewel, a nugget, a treasure.

Spring is in the Air

This morning the air smells like spring. It’s this distinct earthy, fecund smell that takes me back to so many a March of my childhood growing up on the river. I can still taste the metallic residue from pressing my chubby cheeks hard against the screen as I strained to watch the world around me wake up after a long winter. I can see myself in my pigtails sitting on the still chilled cement steps with a bowl chock-full of peanuts waiting for a courageous chipmunk. By the end of the summer, they’d all be eating out of my hand and the whole yard would be a sea of beautiful blooming buds. Irises in every color of the rainbow, tulips, roses, daffodils, forget me nots, peonies and pansies to name just a few. There were so many birds feasting at Mrs. Kay’s feeders all day long that their chirps and squawks became subtle background noise almost as soft as the summer’s breeze yet to come. I felt safe here in this little fenced in haven on the outskirts of the city on the banks of the lazy river.

A couple times a year, Mrs. Kay would pack a picnic lunch for my brother and me, and we all hiked through the woods in search of the perfect cool and loamy spot on which to rest. Once found, she’d spread out the red checked blanket and we'd settle in to eat cold fried chicken, fresh fruit and warm cookies. It was these times that we couldn't even fancy whether we were fairies and gnomes or kings and queens, but we felt the palpable magic and privilege in the fresh air that we breathed, and we both secretly wished that we could share every meal just this special way. We knew that we were forbidden from making the trek down to the river without our trusted guide. We only snuck down the paths solo a couple of guilty times. Mrs. Kay told us that it wasn’t safe for us to go alone, and we believed her because she adored us.

Can you even believe she came to love us as her own grandchildren? My parents moved into one of the cedar shaked, tidy houses on Mr. & Mrs. Kay’s property when I was a few weeks old. Mr. & Mrs. Kay never had children of their own and didn’t want someone else’s children upsetting the grounds or the critters so it was decided that we would need to move once I could walk. Then the agreement was amended to when I could run, and again to when my brother could walk, and it went on and on like that until my Mom decided it was time to move. Even then they tried to convince her to stay. They wanted us to stay despite the fact that we had grown into active kids who would traipse all through the yard playing hide and seek, statue maker and red rover red rover, tear up and down the driveway racing our big wheels and render ripe raspberry bushes fruitless in a few sneaky seconds. Over the years, we all came to think of each other as family. We came to know each other as not only friendly neighbors, but also connected kin.

Spring is in the air today and Mr. & Mrs. Kay are on my mind. I'm remembering them just as I always do when I get that first fertile whiff of this season of rebirth. This single powerful scent calls forth so many potent childhood memories. How is it so? It has to be true what they say about our sense of smell...it has to be our strongest sense.

A Sunday Drive Up and Down Memory Lane

I dropped T. Bone and Miss Bit off in their Sunday school classes after church. My hubby was in the middle of a grueling Little League draft and I just didn't feel like solo small talk in the parish center so I decided to take a drive. I had no plan, no route, no direction...what I had was about an hour. I found that each block held memories. I found myself remembering, reliving, laughing and even shedding a tear or two.

I drove up the lakefront and thought about all the times I spent on Bradford Beach with my friends getting burned to a crisp. Back then we lathered up with baby oil...forget the SPF anything. You can barely see the sand beneath the snow right now just like the time Jack and I climbed along the icy caverns huddled together for warmth, or like when I brought my friend Matthew who was visiting from Connecticut to see the frozen shores of Lake Michigan in early Spring. We took pictures of each other climbing over the the slippery, sharp ice caverns and killed time until it was time at last for him to head back East. It turned out that we weren't on the same page with regard to the nature or future of our relationship. I don't think I ever had the pictures developed and I haven't talked to him since.

I turned up the winding, tree-lined road that cuts up the bluff. My Dad, brother and I spent many a Saturday playing hide and seek in the woods that flanked this road. When I was little, the woods seemed so magical and vast and now at the tail end of winter I can see straight through them. It makes me sad. I pass the sign for the Bistro and I am taken back to a summer's night a few years ago when we were there celebrating someone's birthday over steak frites. Mine? My Mom's? Does it really matter?

As I drove along Downer, I smiled when I saw the coffee house that hubby and I often visited pre-kids for a Sunday breakfast. We lingered luxuriously long over lattes or mochas and the paper. A little further on down the road and I saw the candy wagon with the red striped awning that was the delight of my youth even though it's been replaced by a parking lot and now exists only as a figment of my imagination. It was the kind of place where you stood in line to get your penny candy on a hot summer night when life was so much simpler. I could almost taste the gritty sugar mixed in with a little leftover paper from a sheet of dots. My kids have never had those.

It struck me that my brother and I used to follow this same route when we would take the bus to spend the day with our Great Grandma at the Catholic Home. She'd be waiting for us all eager in the lobby. We'd spend the day being introduced to all the residents in between games of Yahtzee. Pearl's been gone for almost 17 years, but the home looks the same.

A little further south and I couldn't miss my Mom's favorite pizza place. Actually, it's a favorite of most people who have experienced it. Last winter we got into the habit of going to Saturday evening mass and then we stopped there for an early dinner a couple times. We'll have to do that again soon.

Before I knew it I was passing one of the coffee places my hubby and I frequent for this hour every week, and then I was back at church. The kids wanted to know what I did while they were in Sunday school. I told them I just took a drive. Miss Bit smiled and said more than asked, "Alone in the peace and quiet." Yes, alone with my memories.

Promises

Make new friends, but keep the old...
One is silver, the other is gold.
A circle is round, it has no end...
That's how long, I will be your friend.
A fire burns bright, it warms the heart...
We've been friends, from the very start.
You have one hand, I have the other...
Put them together, we have each other.
Silver is precious, Gold is too...
I am precious, and so are you.
You help me, and I'll help you...
And together we will see it through.
The sky is blue, the Earth is green...
I can help to keep it clean.
Across the land,
Across the sea...
Friends forever we will always be.

Last night was full of promise...the Girl Scout Promise, the promise of friendship, the promise of our youth and their budding friendships...beautiful futures. The 21 girls were proud and excited to be welcomed as Daisy Scouts, and also rather thrilled to run around the school after hours exploring, which explains the the rather rosy cheeked, cherubic faces in the pictures above. I really do have a place in my heart for each and every one of them, but especially my Bit. I admit, I was a tad verklempt as I attached her daisy pin above her heart. My Mom wasn't able to do that for me because she was working, and I'm just so blessedly thankful that our whole family was there for Miss Bit. (Ok...T. Bone was with his band of boys playing dueling DS's, but he was in the same room.)

I couldn't help, but remember my own short-lived stint as a Brownie. We met after school every other Wednesday at a neighborhood church. Of course, it wasn't my neighborhood because I rode the bus to a better school that was not in my neighborhood. My Mom knew it was a smart choice. My "memory" reminds me that I was "expelled" from the troop because I never paid my 10 cent dues. No doubt, my Mom placed them safely in my pocket every other week as she was a stickler for details, but Monifa manged to steal my dime every time. She was the class bully, and believe me when I say that she would still make me shiver today. Today I know that my paltry dues (or lack there of) weren't the reason that the Brownies and I parted ways. I still remember my leaders with kindness, and I know that they would have found a way to include me at all costs. And I hope that the 21 girls in my troop remember me the same way...with kindness and the knowledge that each and every one of them matters. I have a suspicion they do...many of them were waiting in my rather long line to get pinned last night.

It is my promise to them to always give them warmth, understanding and acceptance. Cross my heart until I die! Pinky swear promise!

Let it Snow

Let it Snow
It was snowing when I went to bed last night, and it's still snowing this morning. There has been little accumulation, but T. Bone, Lil Bit and Miss O. are all beyond convinced that they will wake up tomorrow only be told to go back to bed: SNOW DAY! I remember when I was school age and the winter weather would throw my Mom a curve ball. She would get up extra early and listen painstakingly to the never ending list of school closings as reported on the radio. As a single, working Mom, unexpected days off of school were a challenge no doubt. Now we receive a mass generated computer call in addition to an email blast and often we get notification the night before. How things have changed!

I had a dream about my Mom this morning. In many ways it was the same old same old...she was on her death bed and I was helpless. This time though I saw her healthy and happy and vibrant again as she transitioned, and I felt...I feel...light like the snow falling from the sky today.

Now since I've got lots of places to go...I better go before we get even more snow.

Sunday & the 70's

I took my kids to sunday school this morning and then I had an hour to kill. My husband had to study for an graduate school exam he has tomorrow so I was on my own, which was actually a welcome respite...we had 4 of my son's 8 year old friends over for a sleepover last night. A little peace and solitude was deserved. I drove to the lake and I parked my car and just gazed out at the water. The sun was warm enough that I was able to turn off my car and just soak it in. The radio was tuned on low to a local station that was playing tunes from the 70's. Linda Ronstadt, The Carpentars, Jim Croce, Gordon Lightfoot...I felt like I was sitting in the back of my Mom's Honda Civic. For a minute I went there and it was real enough that could smell her Ritz perfume and hear her crooning. I felt happy even though missing her makes me sad. I'm thankful for all of the memories that make me smile and know that the time I had with her will sustain me until I see her again.

Now I cannot get Afternoon Delight out of my head. Today, I fear, I am destined to be stuck in the 70's.