Day 90- June 10, 2020

Day 90- June 10, 2020

Another friend of a friend came through my mom's house today.  It's one of the neighbor's besties, and we were hopeful for a match, but I don't think it's meant to be.  It's a unique house, a large victorian colonial with a ton of charm, history, and character, but not the cutting edge modern updates some people are looking for.  Also, with three teens, the master bedroom on its own level is amazing, but the three bedrooms upstairs work for only two of them (the third is tiny), and the fourth large bedroom is ground level- with its own entrance- which may be a teen's dream, but probably not so much for a parent.

As I said to my mother, "Can you imagine if Nicole had been living in that room when she was 16?  She would have been sneaking out nightly."

To be fair, her response was to quip "She just climbed out the window."  E. overheard and I had to pretend we were joking- which we (sort of) were.

The porch where I spent a lot of humid
summer nights hanging out with friends.

As teens, my sister and I were pretty good, but there were definitely times we both snuck out, or snuck people (boys) into the house after hours.  I have some pretty distinct memories of climbing oh-so-carefully down the stairs to avoid the ones that squeaked, and pulling open the heavy sliding glass doors in the family room for some clandestine meetings (sorry Mom).

It's been tough coming to grips with selling this house.  Teenage antics aside, there were also a ton of additional memories in that house, the floodgates for which I'm not quite ready to open just yet.  There's history in a home that's been in your family for 35 years.  I grew up there, I learned to love there, I cried, said good-bye, said hello- all at that house.  As I said to my husband today, "there's not a place I can look on this property that I don't have a memory."  To demonstrated, I pointed to the giant rocks, which were pulled up and moved when they demoed an old barn by the side woods.

"See those boulders?  That's where Nicole and I used to draw with watercolors- and jump off of when we were feeling ambitious."  I turned towards the woods near the back.  "That big oak?  There was a vine that hung from it that I used to swing on, until it fell.  Then, we had a tire swing hung from a big branch, and I used to sail out over the blackberry bushes."

I kept pointing.  "And that tree at the start of the path in the woods?  Ali and I  transplanted it when it was a sapling.  And the path to her old house-  remember when we lit it up with Christmas lights and had that epic Memorial Day party in our yard and Ali's, with all those people from college and our home friends because we ran into high school buddies at The Office and invited them- and they all showed up, with more friends?!  There must have been 200 people here!"

Now I was looking closer, checking things off in my head, thinking of the inside of the house as well as the yard.

That's where we first saw my puppy, Greta, when I was in third grade.
That's where I used to swing and sing along with Billy Joel's Greatest Hits while my dad built the three-season porch.
That's the window my crush broke in 6th grade by tapping it with a flashlight as he and a bunch of the boys from my elementary school crashed my birthday party. 
That's the dirt path Greta created by running around the pool area, trying to "herd" us.
That's the hallway where my sister and I played epic battles of indoor soccer.
That's where we had soccer practice for my rec team in the backyard.
That's the spot where my mom stood cradling Allison the puppy in her arms on Christmas morning, with Greta bounding around her feet.
That's the deck where I ran around with  my friends, swinging bells and blowing into noisemakers, shouting "Happy New Year!" and freezing in our nicest outfits.
That's where we put a canoe in the pool when we had our final soccer party in 8th grade, because our coach had to stop coaching us since she worked at our high school (the canoe was for her).
That's where I walked into the only surprise birthday party I've ever had, singing "Au Bal Masque" with Ali and Heather at loud decibels.
That's where my treehouse was, where I had my first real kiss (my parents may have been smart to take that thing down)
That's the spot where I had my first kiss with my husband- when we were 15- right before his mom pulled into the driveway to pick him up. 
That's the garage where I had my sweet sixteen party.
That's the basement where we filmed a French video about zombies.
That's the porch where I my friends and I hung out during hot summer rainstorms in our late teens.
Those are the steps I stood on while hugging my granny after my dad, her youngest son, died.
That's where my sister and I hung up tarps so we could continue to have bands playing in the rain for a party.
That's where my mom and stepdad threatened to call the police because there were still late party guests in the pool at 4AM.
That's the kitchen where my husband asked my mom for her blessing before picking out my engagement ring.
That's the spot where we told my mom she was going to have another grandchild, and she said "How did this happen?!" (we had a nine-month old at the time) and my husband responded "Well Laura, when a man and woman really love each other..." before I smacked him on the arm.
That's where my daughters met their cousins for the first time.
That's where we took photos for my mom's wedding to my stepdad.
That's where the girls learned to swim.
That's where we had a mini-reunion of my best friends (and their children) before our 20th high school reunion.

PART of the backyard (there's a whole soccer field
on the other side of the pool)

It's a lot, and those are maybe a hundredth of the memories that swirl every time I walk through that house, on that property.  It's hard to believe how quickly the time flew by, and how much I'm going to miss it. Over the next several weeks, while I'm writing this daily blog, I'm sure I'll elaborate on these (or others) that are shareable to the public as I'm reminded of moments while experiencing the present.  The private memories, which are some of the best of course, those I'll keep to myself and to talks with friends and loved ones.  But it's good to be writing, it's good to remember.

When I was writing my thesis, I wrote about a theory on time that exists- one that says that at any moment, in any place, that everything that has ever happened, and will ever happen, are all going on simultaneously.  If you could just peek through the fabric of time, you could glimpse those moments.  At my mom's house, I always have that feeling, and I think that's what I'm going to miss the most.  With access to that place, it feels like those memories are alive, that as long as I'm there to see them in my mind's eye, they are still occurring, somewhere in the ether.

And I have to remind myself, it's a place.  It's just a place, and the memories - those are going to be with me, long after my mom moves.  They are a (rather large) part of who I am, who I am becoming, and who I'm going to be.  And that's always going to be true.

Day 38 - April 19, 2020

Mom and me circa 1980

Day 38 - April 19, 2020

I was challenged by a friend on Facebook to post 10 photos of what it means to be a mom, and it got me thinking about how, especially during this time, there is no job or title more important to me in the world than "Mom."

There are few things I've known in life with as much certainty as this fact: I always wanted to be a mother.I was one of those lucky kids with a mom who was a stay-at-home mommy.  She had worked up until getting pregnant, in jobs that ranged from a secretary to a pre-school teacher.  She traveled the world, following my dad to Tel Aviv for a year while he played professional basketball, embarked on cross country trips in beat up old cars with two dogs, and watched sunrises over the Grand Canyon.  But once she had me, she was a homemaker, and her children became her profession.

My mom spent many of my formative years reading with me, from The Snowy Day, The Poky Little Puppy, and countless other books that decorated my shelves (which also were frequented by dolls and stuffed animals).  She chose a pre-school literally a block from my house, so that she could walk my sister and my there every day (side note- my kids attended the same school).  There was always a homemade lunch for school, always a snack waiting when I got home.  She made dinner every night, and no matter how insane life was (or how late dad was working), she got us to sit down around the table together.

As I grew, she shuttled me from soccer games to basketball games, and even cheerleader tryouts (a low point in life, she consoled me when I didn't make the squad).  She helped me learn to apply makeup for sweet sixteens, and did my hair.  As I grew, I literally turned into her doppelganger (pictures of her in her late teens through early twenties could easily be me).  She held my hand through break ups, and was the first person I called when I got engaged.  When my dad died, she said it was my sister and me who gave her the will to keep going.  For us, it was her immeasurable strength in the face of the impossible that gave us the courage to continue.

Moving to California, I was sure to call her almost daily (a habit I continue to this day).  I flew back and surprised her for her 55th birthday, plotting with my sister and working on a scrapbook of her life to that point that contains more memories, laughs, and tears, than anything I have created before or since.

E. on her first Halloween

My stepdad gave me the option for my birthday one year to fly home for any week I chose.  I picked Mother's Day.  When I became pregnant with my first child, I videotaped her finding out (a long story, worthy of its own blog, culminating in "Holy sh*t" and excited squeals).  When my mom walked down the aisle for the second time, with my stepfather, I was happily, gleefully standing by the alter with my sister, husband, toddler, and one-month-old daughter.

Mom and I have always been close.  I wanted to emulate her in so many ways- marry my high school sweetheart, live abroad, travel across the country, learn a second language.  But most of all, I knew I wanted my own children.

I toted around baby dolls as a child (my Cabbage Patch doll Karen was my favorite, and mom made me a Halloween costume to look like her, complete with homemade blond yarn wig and stockings stuffed with white pillow fluff).  In high school, when we received the "flour baby" assignment in health class, I couldn't wait to get my hands on the doll, and rock it to sleep.

I read an  outstanding book called "Wonder Women: Sex, Power, and the Quest for Perfection".  It made me think a lot about motherhood, especially through the lens of a working woman, as it contained the line (and I'm paraphrasing) "women were told 'you can be anything', and what they heard was 'you HAVE to be EVERYTHING.'" Being a mom is tough business.

For a long time, I was an anomaly, in that I got to go out to work (as a teacher from 7:30 AM to noon), and then come home and be a stay-at-home mom, and work-from-home mom for the rest of the day.  This was unbelievably lucky, and lasted until my younger daughter was four and my older one was finishing kindergarten. I had the freedom to stay with my children, taking them on grand adventures to zoos, parks, and through the yard and house with our imaginations dictating what crazy adventure we are having.  I also got to be away from them just enough to miss them- and that they missed me.

R. when she loved wearing tutus

Then, for about two years, I worked two jobs, going from 7AM to 6 PM most days, struggling to make ends meet, and living back at my mom's house, where she took on so many of the roles she did when I was a kid, cooking snacks and greeting the girls after school.  Missing out on so much time with my daughters was one of the most difficult parts about that time.  Eventually, though, we got back on our feet, and I've spent the last year working at a job I love, where one of the biggest perks is I get out in time to pick up my daughters every single day. I get to see their faces brighten with recognition when they point me out to their teacher, and sprint over, their backpacks bouncing behind them.  They give me giant hugs, and then hold my hand, gleefully telling me about their days.

Now, with all of us in quarantine, the worst part is not seeing my mom and my mother-in-law in person, giving them hugs (and letting the girls hug them).  Fortunately, we talk daily, and video chat pretty much once a day.  The best part is that while my little ones are growing so fast, I get to spend these precious days and hours with them, working in the garden with them while they dig up worms, playing soccer in yard, and taking videos of their obstacle courses. When they get frustrated or upset about the situation we're in, I can comfort them with hugs, and say exactly what I know will brighten their moods.  I specifically made a dinner tonight with two of their favorite things (corn on the cob and stuffed mushrooms) because I knew it would get smiles.

And seeing them smile gets me through even the hardest of days.  As long as my girls are here with me, and my husband is making all of us laugh, we'll be okay.

Grey Sneakers

A memory of being the new girl, being rejected for being who I am, and finally being accepted for the same.          

Grey Sneakers

            The asphalt was a dark grey ocean boiling up under my Nike Velcro sneakers.  I liked the way they looked---the light shoes dancing over the dark ground as I skipped over the smooth surface to the woodchip-surrounded tire playground.  It was the first day of first grade, and the playground seemed like a fairy tale kingdom, consisting of everything a six-year-old heart could desire- a jungle gym, big silver slide, black rubber swings, and the group of girls from my new first-grade class holding court while their queen, the perfect, blond-haired Jenny, decided which of them would have the honor of twirling her on the tire swing.

            Smoothing out my blue shirt, my finger caught on a strawberry jelly stain on the right side, the residual effect of my eagerness to finish lunch and get outside to play.  My pigtails bounced like Christmas present ribbons and my long, skinny legs skipped over the hopscotch squares as I approached the group. I knew one of the girls- a freckle-faced child named Ali who lived down the street from my new house.

            "Hi!" my voice squeaked.  "What are you playing?"

            Ali eagerly began to respond, "Lava monster.  Jen's ---"

            "You can't play," Jenny interrupted, a look of disdain pursing her perfect heart shaped lips.

            Ali and I both turned towards Jenny.  Ali immediately shrunk behind Adam, the only boy in the group (though with his long blond hair and precious blue eyes, he could be mistaken for a girl at first glance), as if to deflect the distaste oozing out of Jenny in my direction.

            "Why?" I asked, not really sure what to do, as the idea of being excluded had never occurred to me.  I didn't know it was possible, as all the group activities to this point in my life had consisted of everyone being involved.  From handing out Valentines, to playing duck duck goose, to going down the slide, everyone took a turn, and everyone got to play.  That's what sharing and caring was all about.

            "You can't play because--- you don't have pink shoes."  She leaned forward as she said it, and lowered her voice, as though speaking the words alone might be enough to upend all that was right in the world. 

            The other girls in the group immediately looked at my feet, and turned away in protest of the sight.  Their little blush-colored shoes, with their buckles and patent leather, their rainbows and white soles, turned with them, mocking me. Ali's little cherub shoulders curved down as she tried to reconcile deserting her new friend and keeping pace with her old one.

            "But… Adam's a boy.  He doesn't have pink shoes," I pointed out, thinking being a boy must be a much greater offense than the wrong tinted shoe leather.

            "Yes I do!" Adam sang gleefully, stepping forward and pointing his bubblegum colored toe like a ballerina.

            "See?  Adam is allowed to play." Jenny leapt off the tire in one fluid movement, her graceful exit indicating she was bored with this line of questioning.  "Come on, let's go to the swings," she commanded, and shot off like a blond mustang across the woodchips.  The others followed suit, a stampede of pink-shoed horses prancing away toward pushing and pumping.

            Ali turned last, and her green eyes only glanced up once from the ground, her brow wrinkling as she mouthed "sorry" and galloped off after the others.

            Shuffling from foot to foot, I felt the burning from the blacktop seeping through my body until my face turned red and my eyes welled up.  The tire, rotating with the ghosts of what might have been, mocked me with its giant empty "O" as I kicked at a rock in the mulch, and hastily retreated back toward the school.  There were still a lot of minutes left of recess, and I didn't want them to be spent watching people I couldn't play with.     

            Stupid sneakers.  Mom had bought them for me because I liked the Velcro strips and the way they made a crunching sound when they were sealed and opened.  Also, when I played outside with dad, hiding and seeking, practicing my hitting, and chasing worms as they wriggled in the ground, the stains didn't show up that much, which made mom happy, and made me happy too. 

            Stupid pink.  Stupid girls.  Stupid Adam and his stupid pink shoes.

            The brick building loomed over me, its giant marble "Girls" sign and its wall of classroom windows staring down at my tiny frame.  The other side by the gym had a matching "Boys" sign.  They were left over from the 1930's, when the boys were kept on one side and the girls on the other.  Beyond the blacktop ramp that connected the upper playground to the lower basketball court, the boys from class were getting a wiffle ball game going. Watching the Yankees with my dad always made me smile, so I started my descent, thinking that that watching ball might make me feel better. 

            My bottom plopped down on a long log that looked like a sideways telephone pole, and I was careful to avoid splinters by keeping my shorts between my skin and the wood.  Placing my feet in the grass, my legs stretched out so I could make rainbows in the dirt with my toes.  I yanked my socks up because the grass felt scratchy on my ankles, and picked up a twig to use to pop tar bubbles on the wood.  The pop pop sound made me smile, as did the little sucking noises they made when I pierced them, and was grateful to whoever spilled the tar when they were attaching the wood to the ground to make this bench. 

            On the other side of the log, the boys picked teams--- the tallest boys chosen first, leaving the smaller ones looking around a little fearfully at the prospect of being left behind.  They were eventually picked too, though, and they bounded over to their new teams with beaming smiles, the trepidation of the minute before forgotten over high fives.

           None of them seemed to care what the other boys had on their feet.  If anything, sneaker-wearing boys seems to be drafted higher, most likely because it's easier to run in sneakers than in smooth-bottomed dress shoes.  The sleek soles tend to slide on blacktop, and that's how you get skinned knees (this knowledge was gained from an experience the previous Easter involving chasing our dog down the driveway in footwear with a flat sole, and a buckle that ate into the bone of my ankle).

            The two groups huddled up once the picking was done, and they both looked over at me.  My head bent down as I tried to make myself as small and invisible as possible, in hopes that they wouldn't ask me to move, too.  The embarrassment of Queen Jenny's dismissal was enough for one recess.  The worst would be if they chased me, the way boys always chased girls in the tv shows. 

            The rainbows my toes had made were transforming into circles in the dirt now, courtesy of the tar on the edge of the twig in my hand.  My other hand was firmly planted in my mouth, my teeth biting down on the fingernails, when a little voice sounded over my head.

            "Hey," it said.  "Hey.  It's Kristen, right?"

            "Yea?" I answered, keeping my head down so my bangs covered my eyes in a thick black curtain.

            "Hey. I'm Nick,"he said, before reaching his one arm behind his head and scratching at his neck like the tag on his shirt was itchy.  "We wanted to know…" he gestured over to the group that was now watching us with rapt attention.

            I dared to look up at the chubby little boy with the bowl haircut standing in front of me, and started to get up, dropping my stick so that it made a little dust cloud when it hit the ground.  My feet turned away, prepping to outrun most of the boys if they needed to.  My mom said I was fast--- I'd won the shuttle race at my old school's field day--- so I knew she was right.

            "Well, we don't have enough for two even teams.  Um… do you know how to play wiffle ball?"

            My pulse quickened.  Dad had shown me how to play last year.  His demonstration had been memorable.  He'd gotten a little frustrated with my swinging and missing when he tossed the ball, so had taken the bat, saying "Here, this is how you hit."  He then threw the plastic orb in the sky before whacking it.  I watched it fly, a line drive moving with increasing velocity up, up until it smashed- straight through the living room window and mom's lace curtains, and onto the blue chair with the birds on it that was only for company. 

            My mom's voice yelling "KRISTEN!" out of the house was met by my dad looking at me sheepishly, and calling back, "Sorry Laur- that was me!"  We then both dissolved into giggles, and the lesson had continued, facing away from the house, until I could effectively hit the ball all the way past the swing set and into the back fence. 

            "Yea," I responded, allowing hope to creep in.

            "Well, do you want to play?"

            Over his shoulder, the group of boys stood around laughing and playing sword fight with the bats while Nick recruited me.  I wanted to hug him---wiffle ball?  That was so much better than swinging.  And with my sneakers, I could fly around the bases (a shoe, two hats, and a sweatshirt) if given the chance.

            "Yes!" Smiling, we ran off to the group.  The boys on my team immediately set to showing me how to make contact with the ball by tossing it into the big fat red bat, and saying "See?" a lot. Most of what they were telling me was stuff Dad had said too, but I let them show off anyway, enjoying the attention.  It was also fun because the girls had taken notice from up top, and were now moving toward the fence to get a better look.

            When my turn came, someone on the other team yelled, "Move in!  She can't hit.  She's a girl!"

            My team countered with encouragement.  "Just make contact," they reminded me, I set my feet like Dad had shown me, about a foot's length apart, and bent my knees like Don Mattingly, taking a couple of swings to get a feel for the air. 

            I don't remember how many pitches there were, or strikes or balls.  My memory is of the whack sound the bat made when it hit the ball square in the center, and the look on the left fielder's face when the ball sailed over him, and I started running.  I was around the bases before the ball was back in the infield, my team's sneakers bouncing on the pavement while they clapped their hands and jumped up and down.  Everyone gave me high fives, and we taunted the other team about getting beat by a girl.  My smile was huge as my little chest expanded with pride, and the huffing and puffing exhaustion of having run as fast as I could.   In my exile, I had become queen of a new land, a much more fun land, that could be ruled with my red plastic scepter.

            After the great sneaker incident, there was a feeling that I was the odd girl out, caught somewhere between tomboy land and pretty princess world.  Recess was never spent with the girls, but instead passed with me earning nicknames on the blacktop and grass fields, learning the ins and outs of soccer, football, and baseball.   Ballet was an epic failure, but mom got me into after-school girl activities to balance the sports, like Girl Scouts, sleepovers and birthday parties.  

            In the moment after my hit, though, I didn't think too much about the future.  When I looked up the hill that rose to kiss a chain link fence guarding the land of woodchips, I gleefully noted the perfect pink lips pursed between the links.  Despite our feet's differences, those lips would eventually whisper secrets in my ear, and Jenny's cheeks would be tear stained to match my own when her family moved in 6th grade, and she had to be the new girl.  Ali kept coming over for play dates, and eventually even joined me in playing sports with the boys (though she split time to allow for swinging and hair braiding).  She still has her "BE FRI" to match my "ST END" necklace piece, and gave a best friend of the bride speech at my wedding. 

            I wore cleats to the wedding, a tribute to the man who taught me how to hit, and a beautiful princess dress bought by the same woman who helped me acquire the grey sneakers with the super fast swoosh… and  I married a man that watches baseball and football with me, and only wins at wiffle ball in the backyard when I let him.

                                                                                                                                            

Ramble on rose

The man, mid to late 50's, three piece suit, glasses, executive hairstyle, walked into the darkened auditorium.   He squinted at the ticket in his hand, illuminated for brief bursts by the red and purple light jumping off the stage, and scanned the dancing revelers.  Strains of "Mama Tried" wafted through the air.

One and only rebel child, from a family meek and mild. 

Glancing up, he locked eyes with another man, similar in description, and grinned.  His stride increased as he traversed the floor, walking, shuffling, and finally, galloping the last few feet into a bear hug.  He loosened his tie, removed his jacket, and by the time the strains of "Ramble on Rose" were sashaying through the crowd, he had unbottoned a few buttons, and I swear his hair had grown an inch in its shagginess.

I like to think the man was reliving his youth.  That sometime, long before a nine to five job, paying for his kids' education, and that job-required tie, he was a Dead-Head, waving his arms, spinning in circles, and showering on an as-needed basis.  Throughout the show, I would sneak glances at his row, and watch him swaying with his eyes closed, hopefully picturing some open field concert of his youth and a girl (maybe the one he married) wearing flowers in her hair and giggling.

Such is the transformation at a Dark Star Orchestra show on a Tuesday night in December.

When I was 15, my parents took my little sister to a Grateful Dead show (the final tour before Jerry Garcia's death), and it changed her life trajectery.  She would say later that the freely dancing, smiling, chanting folks around her made her feel a sense of community that was impossible to replicate.   That said, she sure as hell tried, following the band Phish around for the majority of her 20's, selling homemade skirts and dresses, dreadlocking her hair, and sleeping in tents for summer night after summer night.  She now runs an artists' retreat and sustainability farm upstate, something I'm sure the former hippies she met that night would approve of.

Before my kids, I had my own experiences of twirling around, being that girl with the flowers and the long hair.  Woodstock '99, Phish shows, festivals.  I even saw Phil Lesh and Bob Dylan the summer after my dad died, and smiled through my tears as he encored with dad's favorite song, Blowin' In The Wind.

All my choices derived from a desire to experience the 60's and 70's era of music my parents lived through, and introduced me to through their vinyl albums.   Peter Paul and Mary, Dylan, The Dead, Joplin, Hendrix.  Lyrics that said something, melodies you could dissolve into.

Listening to Dark Star, in a college auditorium filled with the faithful apostles of the original Dead, and seeing this  man transform from a middle aged working bee into the carefree butterfly of his youth, I smiled.  The beat goes on, and with your eyes closed, you can enter any era, relive any moment, journey through any song.  There's a beauty to settling down but continuing to ramble.  You just have to know where to look.

Settle down easy, ramble on rose.