A Proper Vineyard Goodbye

It was March, my seventeenth birthday, and we were reaching the end of a long weekend of college visits and family bonding.  We'd investigated Amherst College, Boston University, Hampshire, stopped off at Harvard for good measure- but while the upcoming college portion of my life was just visible over the horizon, another part was setting in the distance. There was one final pit stop on our  mini "vacation", and it wasn't of the higher education variety.  

My aunt had sold "The Vineyard House", our family vacation destination of choice over the first sixteen years of my life, to move into a nursing home, and my family was descending on Edgartown for one last group hug before heading back to reality and the rest of my junior year.  

Through the streets of Falmouth, the trees bare and asphalt wound their way to the edge of the sea, while Dad cruised along to "Freebird" en route to the ferry.  With my mother in the passenger seat, and my sister next to me, we reminisced about trips to Menemsha at sunet, climbing the fire tower off Indian Hill Road, seeking out John Belushi's grave in Chillmark, and clamming in Katama Bay.

"Remember when you buried the lucky penny at Belushi's grave?" I asked my sister as we pulled onto the ferry ramp.

 "It wasn't really his grave, Kris," my dad interjected, running a hand through his fading red hair.

 "Yea.  You wouldn't go into the cemetery so I had to bury it by the plaque in the front," Nicole chastised.

"I don't like graveyards," I shrugged.  "And besides, it's huge.  You would have wasted all afternoon there."

 "And you wanted to see the lighthouse in Gay Head and find that gas pump on North Road," mom said, smiling in the rearview mirror as Dad guided the car onto The Island Queen.

We gently pulled ahead into our spot, and as soon as the engine ceased, we unbuckled our belts and leapt out of the car, the giant boat vibrating beneath our feet.  We ran over to the heavy iron door, calling back "We'll be on the main deck!" before racing up the metal stairs, clanging our feet and enjoying the echo through the stairwell.

Nicole and I ran to the railing, a solid wall of white with a porthole window about a foot off the floor, just big enough for a shoe to fit in to lift my little sister up over the railing.  She leaned over as far as she dared, while I stood about a foot back, close enough to see the frothing waves, but far enough that I was sure I wouldn't fall in if the massive ship jutted forward. The captain honked the air horn, startling both of us, and we giggled, knowing the ride was about to begin.

It was always windy on the Vineyard, and the ferry ride in June, July, or even August, required a sweatshirt to keep out the chill.  Here at the end of March, I pulled my coat tighter around me and stuck my face in the path of the gusts as the ship began her course towards the island.   

The wind alleviated my motion sickness, helping me to breathe through the waves and the rolling horizon.  I focused on the seagulls hanging in the air, occasionally dipping down to catch a piece of bagel thrown by a passenger over the railing.  Traversing this little piece of the Atlantic takes a little more than half an hour, and normally, the Island Queen is overrun with children sprinting, parents trying to shush them, and the occasional dog whining because it wants to chase the kids, or seagulls, or both.  In the middle of the off-season, though, the main deck is eerily deserted, with only my family sitting around the orange plastic tables inside, and an old man perched on the edge of the bench on the other side of the outdoor area, fiercely determined to read his book.  

With my hair whipping  around my face and chapping my lips, I remembered the ferry rides of my childhood. Most drives to Falmouth began in the middle of the night- 2 AM wake up calls from my parents, who would shuttle us into the car with pillows and blankets.  We would protest softly, sleep still cradling us in its grasp, and curl up under our seatbelts, to be awakened by the sound of the foghorn, and the car pulling to a stop.  We were always just in time for the first ferry of the day at 6:45 AM, and a bagel with cream cheese from the truck next to the boat.   We'd race around the giant vessel, which I thought was as grand as the Titanic, and fight to be furthest in front, so that we were first to see the island come into view through the inevitable fog.  When the car drove off the boat onto land, we did the same thing, reaching forward to try to be the first one whose fingertips were over the imaginary "Vineyard" line, so that we could claim to be on the island the longest.

This ride, we hung back, not wanting to reach the island, knowing that once we stepped foot onto solid ground, we were that much closer to never having a home there to come back to.  This time, when the captain made his announcement, "All passengers, please return to your vehicles," Nicole and I hesitated, and cautiously padded back down the stairs to our van.

We exited the ferry straight into Oak Bluffs, the heart of the Vineyard, and immediately set to delaying the trip to the house.

"Please can we stop at the Flying Horses?" my sister begged as we approached the old red building, shaped like a wooden circus tent.  

I could hear the familiar notes, melodic and catchy, emanating through the open windows, and could just make out the hand carved ponies, affixed to the whirling base with long poles, from under the black awning designed to keep out rain and sun.

"Yea dad, please?  We'll only be a minute.  It's my birthday.  I've never gotten the gold ring on my birthday!" I pleaded, suddenly sounding so much younger than the mature student who had been sitting at colleges the day before, eloquently answering questions and nodding appropriately.  

Now my head bopped up and down, in time with the carnival music wafting through the windows, and my mind fixated on the brass ring game that went along with a merry go round ride.  Each time the carousel went around, the people on the horses could reach out and grab a silver ring from a wooden "arm".  The last ring dropped in for each ride was brass, and whoever grabbed it got an extra ride.  It was a joy to revel in being the only one allowed to take an extra turn, while the rest of the boys and girls exited past the wooden gate, jealously glancing at you while making their way back onto the snaking line.  

"We'll head back later, I promise," dad compromised.  "I'm not sure when the boys are getting in, and I want to get to the house."

Nicole and I looked at each other, and smiled.  Seeing our cousins Nate and Luke, and their dad Bill (my dad’s best friend and first cousin) was worth delaying a ride on the horses.  

We continued to follow our annual route to the house- a quick stop at the Martha's Vineyard Gourmet Bakery for muffins and assorted breakfast sweets, then down past the Tabernacle, a right at the ocean, then straight past the A&P until we reached the fork at Katama Bay Road.   

The ride to the house felt shorter than usual.  There were few cars on the roads, the locals scarce during the winter, since as the years had passed, more and more of them had been unable to afford the ever increasing taxes and prices, and had moved to the mainland.  The car curved with the road (which was dirt when I was little, and had converted to asphalt a few years ago as the houses got bigger and the cars more expensive).  We pulled into the (still dirt) driveway, and there it was, waiting for us.

The grey clapboard house was one story, its corners extending towards us in the form of the garage and the mother-in-law quarters my aunt had put in during her mother's twilight years.  The three black wooden whales hung next to the door, a tribute to the early Vineyard whaling years.  The deck was tired and splintering, the result of the punishing winds and rain that afflicted the waterfront property.  

We jumped out of the car before it had come to a complete stop, and stormed towards the door.  The white tin frame clanged behind us as we ran in, and stopped short on the imitation slate floor, assaulted by the emptiness of the house.

The usually comfortable living room had been emptied of the overstuffed white leather couches.  The whale above the fireplace was gone too, as were the spices that normally lined the top of the stove, and the metal fish shaped cake pan that hung over the refrigerator.  The bookshelves were empty, and there were spots of brighter colored paint where the family pictures used to hang.  

"Is everything gone?" I whispered, not sure what to do.

"Looks like it," Nicole answered, her voice shaking a little with the weight of the situation.

"Wow.  Just… wow."  I walked into what was once the living room, and stareed out at the bay.  It was a perfectly calm day, with a blue sky a few shades lighter than the water, and clouds of the wispy variety, the fickle kind that disappear in an instant if you don’t pay enough attention to them. The sun was almost white, and spots appeared in my line of sight when I looked away, lingering as the onslaught of quiet took over my brain.  

Bill and Nate and Luke arrived, and through the usual hugs and "hey there" exclamations, there was more sadness in our reunion than I'd ever thought possible.

My parents entered behind us, and dad put a hand on my shoulder.  "Take a good look around girls.  And take your time."

We toured the rooms, a troupe of melancholy misfits, overwhelmed by memories and laughter that still echoed.  Walking down the hall first- past my aunt and uncle's room, past the entrance to the mother-in-law suite and the room we shared when there were too many kids and not enough beds in our room above the garage, the silence was deafening. I looked at Nicole as we meandered through the bathroom towards the outdoor shower.

"Be careful you don't lock the doors," I reminded her.  "I don't think we have time for Dad and Bill to remove them today."

 "That was one time.  And you're SOOO funny," she teased, and stuck her tongue out.  

"Good times," Bill smiled, laughing at the memory of the two of them, with a hammer and some rusted out tools, taking the door off its hinges after Nicole accidentally locked the bathroom from both sides.  I turned back towards the house, and spent much of the next few hours wandering room to room, making mental notes of the indentations from the grand piano's legs in the family room, and the smell of the garage (musty with a hint of fish).  

"Do you remember when you and Michael put on the super heroes play?" Nicole asked while we stood in front of the fireplace, its raised stoop our childhood stage.

"Yea- I made that awful paper mask of Wonderwoman's face, and a chest protector and bracelets and everything."  I wrinkled my nose at my subpar childhood costume design skills.   

"And then Nicole and Andy decided to upstage you by doing the Mexican Butt Dance," my mom interjected, laughing at the memory.  

 "I remember that!"  I said, the image of my sister and Andrew at age 4, pulling down their pants and mooning our relatives still fresh as though it was from the day before.  "Show off," I smirked, and Nicole grinned.

We climbed the stairs to Uncle William's office, the one separated from "our" bedroom  by a semi-wall covered in wood paneling.  It was eerily empty, with no trace of the notes, clippings, and Walter Cronkite's phone number that were usually taped to it, even well after my uncle had passed away (Cronkite's number was something we often joked about dialing, but never quite had the nerve to go through with- how do you prank call an icon?). 

Beyond the desk, four beds rested in each of the four corners. In their hayday, they belonged to Luke, Nate, Mike, and Andy.  It was their grandparent's house, and Nicole and I were voluntarily relegated to sleeping bags on the floor, which we thought made it a little like camping.

This was our refuge, the floor a dark, gold shag carpeting, matted down from years of tiny feet dancing over it.  The ceiling sloped down on either side, creating a cave-like feel that we loved.  There was a window over Uncle William's desk, which had a view of the bay, but in our section, the only light came from a single skylight over the area between where the furthest two beds had sat- where my sleeping bag was usually situated.  

The beds were gone.  The one closest to the stairs, on the right as you ducked your way into the room, was where Luke introduced me to Tom Petty, strumming "Freefallin'" on his guitar while we all sang the chorus.   I walked forward, glancing at the built-in shelf, which had housed the boys' "pee bottles", something only prepubescent boys too lazy to walk down half a flight of stairs to get to the bathroom would come up with.  Looking up at the skylight, I thought back to the night, when I was thirteen, that we watched "A Clockwork Orange" and "The Shining" in one evening, and how I was up well past three am, staring through the glass at the stars, too wound up and scared to actually get any sleep.

I found myself thinking about something I'd always wanted to do, but hadn't been brave enough to try.  I wanted to climb onto the roof over the garage. So as the sun set, while my family finished one last walk down to the dock, I ventured around the side of the house.  Pushing the plastic garbage can with my knee, I reached up to the edge of the roof, placed my palms down to check for friction, and, satisfied, hoisted myself up with a groan.  Small pieces of the roof sprinkled over the edge in cascades of black and white as I pressed my knees into the crumbling shingles, and scrambled safely away from the edge.  I caught my breath and turned around, wondering if climbing around on top of the house was the best idea.  

Readjusting to a sitting position, I leaned back in my green jacket, the fake-down stuffing cushioned my back, and prevented my elbows from chaffing. I tapped my heels as I settled down, looking out at the rooftops of the other houses on the street, and marveling at the two story structures that had replaced the simple one and two bedroom ranches of a few years before.  The thorny rose bushes, with their slightly tangy smell, dark magenta flowers, and deep green leaves, wrestled with each other in the wind.  Beyond them, seaweed tangles, which we had used as wigs in our childhood, lay limp in the sand by the bay.  This was my island home, summer personified for the first seventeen years of my existence.  This was family vacations and family lore, legendary stories about Grandma Caldwell, the one who could catch flies with her bare hands, and Uncle William- Bill- who once boarded up the whole house to prepare for a hurricane- and hammered in the last nail as the announcement came over the radio that the storm had shifted course and was moving south.

"Kris?  Kris are you out here?  We have to get going," my mom's voice cut through the wind and my thoughts.  

"I'll be right there," I called down, looking out one last time at the reflection of the sun on the water, before shimmying down to the edge of the roof and dropping my legs over the edge.  I looked down, realized it was only about a four foot drop, and let go, jumping past the empty garbage can, and turning towards the dirt driveway.  

I rejoined the family as dad and Bill ceremoniously removed the black wooden whales from the outside wall before we loaded ourselves back into the van.  When we drove out of the driveway, I forced myself to face forward, but I leaned my chair back a little bit, just enough so that I was the last family member to technically leave the property.  With the window down, I let my hair wave goodbye.

In Memory Of My Father

It's been 15 years, and I can still hear your laugh.  15 years, and I remember your jokes, quips that ride through my brain, one liners that pop in at the most random times.  15 years, and your influence is as strong today as the day we lost you.

I would give so much to have had you live to meet your granddaughters.  Yes, you have granddaughters.  The big one, Riley, is three and a half, and has your eyes. They're clear blue, and inquisitive, constantly questioning why, eager to understand.  She has a personality and a half- she's as self-assured a tiny person as you would ever come across.  People say she looks like me, but I see mom and I see you in her, too.  She jumps off furniture, tosses stuffed animals and dolls off furniture (remember those photos of you and Bill, throwing dummies off the roof of the Prospect Street house?  I can see her pulling something like that in about ten years).  She's athletic, smart, is starting to read (at THREE!), and I'm already going through the Metropolitan Opera picture books, so she'll know who Siegfried, Brünnhilde, and Woton are by age 5, like I did.

The little one is Ella.  She's the youngest, obviously, like you were.  So she's tough.  She wrestles with her sister, and climbs on her.  But she's also still young enough (not quite 2) to cling and wrap herself around my legs (I remember being young, Nicole sitting on one of your feet, me on the other, with our little arms wrapped around your knees, giggling as you transported us around the house).  I pick her up, and make her fly (balancing her on my big feet the way you used to balance me on yours, holding her little hands so she doesn't fall).  I try to make sure I split my time and energy equally between her and her sister, like you and mom were so good with me and Nicole.

Both girls are loud (not quite you on the side of the soccer field, but there are some serious decibels being hit).  They dance around the kitchen with me, the way you and mom used to, and sing (Riley seems, unfortunately, to have inherited your singing voice.  Ella can hit some notes, though).  I'm teaching them to cheer for the Yankees, and how to kick soccer balls. Sports are a work in progress, but Riley asked me to watch soccer the other day on the television, so I think it's working (remember all those thousands of Torpedoes soccer games and practices you shuttled me to over the years?).

I remember all too well the details of the day you died.  You opened the door just as mom was setting the salmon pancakes and couscous down on the table.  You had that wide grin, saying "Hi!" as you wiped your feet on the mat, and instantly, we forgot you were late (as usual).  You'd been working long hours at your firm, the one you opened less than three miles from our house so you could be home more often (and it worked- I don't think you missed a single important event). '

We talked about many things, the four of us laughing, joking, questioning what the heck couscous was.  I was getting ready to go back to college that weekend, Nicole was prepping for SATs and a big history project.  We'd both played soccer the weekend before, as Nic's team was competing in a few months for the state cup (they won- they lost you, and won their first title- it was a magical run, and not a dry eye on the field or at the trophy ceremony).  I was getting ready to tell you I was going back to playing- saving the surprise to be part of your 50th birthday celebration that was coming  two weeks later- the one that never happened.  

You had to rush out, to get to a basketball game (you were trying to stay in shape, approaching 50 and all).  You called us from the road, and I answered the phone.  You needed to talk to mom about Nicole's tutor for the SATs (like either of us needed that- she aced them, by the way).  The last thing I said was my usual, "Bye dad, love you."  You said you loved me too.I hung up the phone in the kitchen.  

It was the last thing I would ever hear you say.  

And I'm grateful.  Grateful to whoever called that late night cheesy radio show the year before, when I was up listening, and requested “Wind Beneath My Wings”, saying it was for her dad, and how she didn’t say she loved him enough.  Because it inspired me to do just that- tell you.  And tell mom, and Nicole, and Jeff.  To be sure to let the people in my life that matter to me KNOW that they matter.  You taught me that in leaving this world too soon- to never take it for granted, and accept that while you can’t force someone to love you, you can be kind and loving, and hopeful.  

I’m grateful, because you knew you were loved.   I’m grateful that Torpedoes gave you an award a few months before you passed, and I was the one who gave the speech, because it meant I could tell you.  I’m grateful that we were on that MSNBC show for Father’s Day in 1998, and I was able to talk about what an inspiration you were to me.  I’m grateful that you hugged me and told me your were proud of me on infinite occasions, that I always knew I was special, and smart, and beautiful, because you believed it.  

I would not be who I am without you.  I wouldn’t be who I am without losing you.  I insist on remembering every second of that drive to the hospital, every ache in that white walled room, every syllable that fell from the doctor’s lips “I’m sorry, there was nothing we could do”, because in each of those horrible moments, I was acutely aware of how loved you were and are.

You are the man who defined who I am as a person.  In losing your physical presence in my life, I gained the irreplaceable you in my heart and my mind, who is with me always.  

I gave the eulogy at your funeral, standing in front of a packed church, standing room only, and looked out across faces, soccer uniforms, men in suits and ties and jeans and flannels.  I took a breath, trying to stave off the tears that had overflowed more in the four days since you died than I ever thought possible.  And in the midst of despair, in the deepest, darkest moment of my life, I saw a ray of sun enter through the rose design of the stained glass window, and I knew that you were with me.  

It’s been 15 years, and you’re still with me.  As long as we remember you, as long as you live as legend in our stories, you are here with me and all of us that miss you every day.  The world is a better place because you lived in it.  

Good bye, daddy.  I love you.

A Love Affair of Empire Proportions

Taking a break from the playoffs the other day, when the Bengals were clearly giving up, I happened upon Empire Strikes Back on Spike.  A few minutes in, and I all but forgot about football (the game I was really interested in was up next anyway).  What is it about the Star Wars trilogy, Empire in particular, that is so addicting?

The answer?  It has literally everything.  Action, story, legacy, tradition, snow yetties, and of course, one of the greatest love stories to ever make women take a second look at that scoundrel/best friend in their life.

I'll admit, I'm a sap for a good story, and I feel like I'm dissecting a game from a sports analyst's perspective (too much SportsCenter and the NFL playoffs are to blame).  But here it goes.

Everyone loves an underdog.  And let's face it, the Rebels are underdogs. The bad guys have the Death Star (and later the rebuilt, finished-and-operational-but-no-one-knows-that-yet, Death Star 2.0), a seemingly endless supply of guys in white plastic tights and helmets, and of course, Vader and the Emperor.  

The Rebels have a bunch of extras in orange jumpsuits, a scrawny guy getting tutored by a green muppet, and a rogue scoundrel and his Wookie.  Their edge?  They have the only woman in the entire damn movie, who knows how to shoot, impersonate a bounty hunter, and can verbally spar with the best of them.  And she looks fantastic in a gold bikini.

It's a solid film, clearly.  But as a classic love story?  Well, it depends on your perspective.

I first saw Empire Strikes Back when I was a child.  I remember sitting at the long dining room table in my Aunt Cath's house, where it always smelled like cats and cigarettes, and watching with fascination as Han Solo and Princess Leia performed verbal somersaults around each other.  At the time, I thought he was funny.  First love, it has to make you laugh.  The entire trilogy was played over the course of whatever holiday was being celebrated (I vaguely remember a turkey, so I'm thinking Thanksgiving), but we had turned on the tv at the end of Star Wars, and we left when the Ewoks were helping with the raid to take down the Death Star shield.  So I really saw Empire, and that was what I was hooked on.

It was fascinating to see the sets, hear the explosions, the woon-onnng of the light sabers- the battle cries and fight scenes were to be recreated on couches and with sticks for years to come.  Even at this young stage, I recognized there was a story there, with a fight for something good, and the bad guys trying to take it away.  I could see the desperation to hold onto hope, even in the midst of death and destruction, and that your friends are always there for you (even when they seem to double cross you- thanks, Lando- there's usually more to the story).  I thought (and still do) that siblings have a weird telepathy where they know when the other one is in trouble, and where (even if they're hanging upside down with their arm chopped off- Nicole, fortunately, we've never had to worry about this). 

Over the years, I would see the film countless other times with family, babysitters, friends- always on a little television, sitting on a couch, doing other things and drifting in and out of the story.  It wasn't until I was seventeen that I GOT it.  When George Lucas decided to re-release the Star Wars trilogy with new special effects (the better to shoot in self defense with, my dear), and I got to see the film as it was originally intended, on the big screen, during my senior year of high school.  Hormone driven, angsty, lovelorn teenage-hood added a whole new layer to the story.

Sitting in a darkened theatre on Route 4, attending with the biggest bunch of wonderful geeks a girl could ask for, the excitement in the theatre was palpable.  I'd seen Star Wars the month before, and it had been good- nothing compares to the giant letters rolling across the forty foot screen for the first time.  

But Empire was the one I waited forever for without even realizing it.  

The film has a way of overwhelming you, from the start, and the Han/Leia love story was suddenly front and center.   Where I had once just seen witty banter, I saw flirting.  When she falls into his lap, and they stop for a second, him holding her, I no longer just saw her struggle to get up- I saw her STRUGGLE to get up, not because she fell, but because you could tell she wanted to stay there, in his arms.  Where I once saw friendship, I saw something more.  I recognized the tug of holding out hope for true love, even when it's frozen in carbonite.

I fell in love.  In a finger grazing instant, as he takes her hand, I was done.  The line: "You need more scoundrels in your life," and then that kiss.  THAT kiss.   The one where the world stops and spins, and you have to catch your breath because you don't remember what words are (and then walk out of the room because some droid walks in).  Sure, she needs more scoundrels in her life.  We all do, if they look like Harrison Ford, circa 1980, and give that same knowing look that makes our knees go weak.

And of course, the ultimate "I know" cliffhanger, after he tells Chewie "You have to take care of the princess."  It's right up there with Casablanca, Rick saying "we'll always have Paris" and that parting look when Ilsa walks away (she's an idiot, he's a bigger idiot).  

No movie since has had that kind of effect- that kind of true love, you can always go back to it, can't really escape it.  There's Buttercup & Wesley, Harry & Sally, Rick & Ilsa- but Han and Leia are the first.  And every time I see it, I'm 17 again, in that theatre, on a chilly night in February, with the possibility and the endless future stretched out before me.  And it doesn't seem like it's that long time ago, in a galaxy too far, far away...

Blizzard 2014

Riley stood, the blue velvet curtains draped behind her like a cape. She looked out the window into the night, her breath fogging the area right in front of her face. Looking from the darkness of her room at the glowing lights outside, I could just make out the snowflakes descending rapidly onto our lawn.  

She spoke.  “Mommy, we need to get my hat and gloves and boots on so we can go play in the snow,” she instructed.

I sighed.  I already had a snow day called by my school district, but I still wanted to get her to bed early so I could grade some papers, and get some sleep myself.

“Baby, it’s bedtime, so let’s read a story, and when you wake up in the morning, we can play in the snow,” I countered, picking her up and depositing her into her bed.

I grabbed "The Snowy Day" by Ezra Peats from her floor. It's a book that I discovered when I was a child visiting my grandparents' house on Albion Street in Passaic.

I used to sneak up the blue carpeted stairs, past the white lamp in the shape of naked guy holding a torch, while the grown ups were downstairs talking, cooking and gesticulating wildly. It would then take all my five-year-old strength to open the heavy glass door to the "haunted" back apartment room (my cousins, sister, and I thought this because it was always cold). My grandparents rented the room out when my mom was young, and it was its own self-contained little apartment, with a bathroom off to the right, a bed, and that radiator hissing in the way only old, scary radiators can. Avoiding the hiss, I would climb over the bed, carefully pull the bottom drawer out of the black bureau, and settle onto the well-worn carpet between the furniture pieces to read.

I leaned over and tucked the covers around Riley and Lamby (her stuffed lamb that is as well-loved and worn as the Velveteen Rabbit). Turning on the little light next to her bed, I maneuvered myself over the guard rail, and lay down next to her with the book. "One winter morning, Peter woke up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as he could see..."

* * *

The next morning, they waddled around the kitchen, tiny pink and purple versions of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.  

Riley was wearing brown snowpants, a red polka dot vest she calls the “Minnie Mouse vest”, a purple puffy coat, turquoise scarf, black mittens, frog hat (complete with eyes), and her hood pulled over the hat.  Ella stood at the back door, patting her hands vehemently against the glass while saying, “ow-side!”.  She was in black overall snowpants that were her dad’s when he was little, a green polka dot vest over green striped shirt, a pink coat, purple mittens,  pink hat, and multicolored rainbow scarf.  

“Mommy, I want to go play in the snow,” Riley exclaimed, her little voice coming from somewhere within the pillowy mass of clothes.  

“I know sweetie, mommy just needs to get her boots on,” I said, pulling on my new black patent leather waterproof boots.  The fake fur interior was warm and dry, thought I was fairly certain that would all change in the next half hour or so.  

Jeff zippered up his jacket, put on his knit hat with the mohawk fringe, and turned to me. "Let's do this."

Pulling on my own coat, I grabbed my waterproof gloves, draped my camera strap over my scarf, and opened the door. The dogs jumped excitedly as I shooed them from the porch, and Riley hip checked Ella, maneuvering between the grill and the wall to get down the stairs first. I picked up the distraught pink puff, and carried her down into the snow, watching as her big sister waded through the nine or so inches of powder across the lawn, and promptly collapsed halfway to the woods in order to make snow angels, calling out, "it's like in the story, mommy!"

Over the next half hour, I took about fifty photos of my girls slipping down plastic slides, making snow angels, and eating snow by the mittenful.  I also hauled a screaming Ella inside so I could change her socks and put her boot (which got kicked off her foot as she tried to climb into her plastic car) back on, passed a soccer ball around with Riley, and made snow angels myself.  We also ducked into plastic play houses, riled up the dogs, and ran (as much as we could) around the yard, playing "I'm gonna get you".

It was the first time I played in the snow with both my daughters, since Ella was too little last year to really go out.  With the dogs leaping and barking around us, I spent much of the time laughing, as did the girls (minus the boot incident, and one involving the doorbell on the playhouse not working- Ella was not amused by either of these instances).  The snow and cold reminded me of a couple of the reasons I love living in North Jersey instead of Southern California (where it only snows in movies, like Father Of The Bride).

It's a wonderful thing to experience a snow day as an adult, knowing that instead of sitting in a classroom, teaching the future generation about philosophy and recording their lives through writing, I'm educating my own girls through experience.  I hope they know they can act silly, and play in the snow at any age, and make faces, because I do.  I hope they embrace their own days off by spending them with family and friends they adore.  It's important to stop sometimes, and appreciate the unexpected extra moments that become memories.

Snow has a way of digging up nostalgia, and causing us to reflect on the moments in the past when it permeated our lives. As kids, that involved sleigh riding, building forts in front of the fireplace with couch cushions, and trudging through the snow, barely able to move from all the layers we wore.

As teens, unexpected sleepovers with friends, days off from school (that agony and ecstasy of the snow line or town siren), and throwing snow at the object of our affection took center stage.

When we hit our 20's and 30's though, snow takes on more of a pain in the butt association, with more clearing driveways and sidewalks, and less snowman and igloo building.  It's important to remember the fun that can be had, and embrace it whenever we can.

So drink some hot cocoa, batten down the hatches, and hike up your boots.  Look out the window, because snow has fallen during the night, and covers everything as far as the eye can see.  Go out and enjoy it.

The Twilight Zone- A Tribute

My first exposure to a Twilight Zone story was in the back seat of a brown 1980's Toyota Corolla.  We were on our way to Martha's Vineyard, it was late summer, and my dad was regaling us with a tale about a woman who kept seeing the same hitchhiker over and over as she drove through the night.  The twist was at the end, when she made a phone call home and was told by a distraught relative that she was dead.  My sister and I squirmed in our lap belts, and were gleefully spooked as we kept a lookout for any rogue wanderers by the side of the road.  To this day, if I see someone with their thumb stuck out, I get a little anxious, wondering if I'll see them again.

The first episode I watched was in my parent's room.  My mom was milling about, Dad was sitting on the bed, snow fell outside, and channel 11 was showing a marathon on New Year's Eve.  I was walking away from the television, looking up at the snowflakes falling onto the skylight above my head, and behind me, William Shatner was breaking out in a cold sweat on a commercial airliner.  I turned as the music crescendoed, just in time to see a pug faced creature that I thought looked like some kind of evil Ewok press his face up to the plane window.  I was hooked.

At different times in my life, episodes have affected me more or less, but through every facet, The Twilight Zone endures.  Over the years, I have come to appreciate the philosophical, social, and historical commentary Rod Serling The Great included in his masterpieces.  I'm proud to introduce the series to a new generation of eager students each year in my philosophy classes, as there are no finer examples of personal identity and true beauty than The Number 12 Looks Just Like You, and the iconic Eye Of The Beholder.  I use Nightmare at 20,000 Feet to open a discussion on what is truth, delve into To Serve Man (based on a short story written after author Damon Knight discovered his wife was unfaithful-giving the Kanamit aliens even more metaphorical weight), and then head over to Five Characters In Search Of An Exit as an example of Existentialism  My supervisor joked with me once that I could create a class simply titled "Philosophy and The Twilight Zone" (I immediately countered with a realistic proposal, complete with the course book of the same name by Noel Carroll and Lester Hunt, which I already owned. He just shook his head and smiled).  

Socially, the Twilight Zone was ahead of its time and managed to include elements of  acceptance of all people, an intolerance for the intolerant, and a hatred of social injustice.  I’m haunted by the images of war, and bits of historical fact, that permeate episodes like Death’s Head Revisited. The Twilight Zone both inspires and educates, warning of the dangers of not speaking up, of allowing the wicked to take control (He’s Alive), and of not allowing yourself to express your powers of free will (Nick of Time).  
Over and over again, characters are faced with moral dilemmas (The Monsters Are Due On Maple Street, The Shelter) and either succeed or fail in the face of mob mentality and fear.  I grew up with my moral compass pointed firmly towards the dimension of sight, sound, and mind, and always tried to do what the heroes of the episodes would noddingly approve of. With great power comes great responsibility and all that. 

On a more personal, individual level, shows deal with how people are remembered (A Game Of Pool), immortality (Long Live Walter Jameson), and the importance of the finite nature of life (and of what we do with it- see The Changing of the Guard, and think a slightly darker version of It’s a Wonderful Life). No Time Like The Past  and Back There are precursors to the epic series Quantum Leap, seeking to explore the idea of going back to the past to change it for the better (in both cases, the main character fails at this- but later, in A Hundred Yards Over The Rim, we see the present intertwine with the past, exploring the fluidity of time, something that has always fascinated me).  

Animals are revered and trusted in The Hunt, and youth is celebrated in Kick The Can. People in the stories learn about the importance of their own lives, and of living in the present, like in Walking Distance (an episode I show while teaching Catcher In The Rye to illustrate how we all yearn, in some way, for the past).  A World of Their Own shows, in the most fanciful way, how writers create universes they would prefer to live in.  And in Time Enough At Last, every bibliophile on the planet cringes in defeat at the final image of a decimated library and a pair of broken spectacles. What we do with our world, the possible changes for good or for evil, exist in a five season long television show that, almost 60 years after its inception, still resonates.

As I curl up in my blankets, black and white images flicker across the screen, familiar old friends to inspire and educate me once again.  I remember my dad taping the marathon when I was a child, and watching hour after hour of it while traversing New York state, en route to a Canadian soccer tournament, in a huge RV.  The only year I ever skipped was the one after he died, when I drove to Florida and spent three days at a concert festival to avoid watching the marathon without him.
A few years later, though, we viewed it in tribute, my mom, sister, and me sitting on the couch together eating pancakes, with a box of tissues between us, discussing his favorite (A Stop At Willoughby).  My sister and I call and text each other yearly as episodes play out, and tag each other in Facebook posts throughout the year (when I found a Talky Tina doll online, when she discovered the bobble Mystic Seer).  My mom was watching the same episode I was when I called to see what model our 1980’s car was for this entry.

My husband first experienced the marathon with me when we were teenagers, watching it on the couch with my family when we were sixteen. The fact that he is willing to watch it yearly is one of the reasons I stayed with him. Fourteen years later, and three years ago, when our daughter was two months old, we rang in the new year on our bed, with her between us kicking her little feet while we watched Midnight Sun.  Now, the family is rolling around me, Riley shouting and bouncing, Jeff trying to corral her, and Ella climbing onto and off of the bed, while I type this and Jack Klugman fights for his son’s life in In Praise of Pip. 
There is a line in this episode that always motivated me, stuck with me (as many do). Klugman's character says it as his major life regret: “It was because I dreamed instead of did- I wished and hoped instead of tried”.  I have made a habit in life of being sure to DO and TRY (mainly do, Yoda lesson there).  This was another one my dad always loved, and one of the ones that affects me most now- about the shortness of the time you have with your children and the ones you love, the importance of spending time with them, and is motivating me to put down my writing, and go play with dinosaurs, blocks, and dollhouses.  With the Twilight Zone playing in the background, of course.

The ties of flesh are deep and strong- that the capacity to love is a vital, rich, and all consuming function of the human animal.  And that you can find nobility and sacrifice and love, wherever you may seek it out- down the block, in the heart, or in the Twilight Zone.- Rod Serling, In Praise of Pip