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 33- April 14, 2020

Day 33- April 14, 2020

Christmas morning, 1980-something

Today, we received a package from my late-Aunt Joanna's sister Janet, containing family photos (still in their frames), a picture that was my Granny's of Johannes Brahms at his piano, and a few books that hold sentimental value.  I teared up when I saw the boxes on the front porch, because I knew that they would be coming at some point, but wasn't sure it would be so soon.

Joanna passed away the day after Christmas, and was one of the kindest people I've ever known.  She and her late-husband Bob (my dad's brother) were always entertaining at parties, cracking jokes, ready with big smiles and hugs.  One of my favorite photos is from when I was about five years old- I'm sitting on Granny's lap, wearing a giant furry bear head hat, and there's Aunt Joanna, with her arm around Bob, beaming.

Joanna had been a model in her younger years, a striking All-American blond beauty with straight blond hair and bright eyes.  She worked for jewelry shops as she got older- she used to gift my sister and me chunky wonderful pieces of costume jewelry (we were very into dress up as kids- between the costume jewelry and orange ballgowns, polka dotted cocktail dresses and various fur stoles that were in a trunk in the attic, we were ready for whatever our imaginations could come up with).  She never had children of her own, but was a decade younger than Bob, and a few years younger than my parents, and loved to play with us when we were little.  She even gave us her Barbie dolls, which would have been worth a fortune if we hadn't taken to dying their hair with watercolor paints before we knew their value (to us, though, they were priceless in terms of the fun we had).


She and Bob lived in a stone house in the town I now reside in.  It was across from a YMCA, and I drive by it occasionally.  Remarkably, I can still remember bits of the inside, the stone fireplace, the carpet, and their dogs wrestling, even though I was in early elementary school when they packed up and moved to San Antonio, Texas.  They didn't come back as frequently as I would have liked, though they did manage to make it north for the occasional Christmas celebration.  Jeff and I visited them once too, on a cross country drive in the early 2000's.  I remember when we arrived at the house, Joanna's hands were shaking, but after a bit of orange juice, she was ready to go, and we went exploring, taking in the River Walk, a not-suitable-for-children restaurant called Dick's, and The Alamo.  It was the most time I'd spent with her since I was a child, and I absolutely loved it.  Her laugh was still lyrical, if a little stymied by years of cigarettes and alcohol.


The last time I saw her, it was for my sister's wedding.  We first caught up with her on our way to the venue for the "welcome" dinner, where she sweet talked a worker in a passing golf cart into giving her and E. a ride up the hill from our parked cars to the restaurant.  E.was thrilled, and I have a picture of them relaxing as they cruised.

It was a weekend to remember, and we took a big family photo on the dock of my sister's island.  The picture is a little grainy (it was night, and camera phones weren't perfect).  But she's beaming, and wrapped in a shawl next to one of my cousins.  It's the last photo I have of her, and it's perfect.  We were making plans to try to visit her next time we drove south for a school break, and she was excited to head to my sister's farm this summer for the 50th anniversary of it being in our family. I'm happy she finally got on Facebook after the wedding- even though we didn't see her in person, we exchanged messages a lot, and talked on the phone several times.  It made me feel more connected to her, and I'm happy it meant she was able to be in touch with us, and many old friends.

We called her this Christmas, as is our annual tradition.  My dad's whole family (all his cousins and us) get together for Bloody Marys, brunch, and merriment (I even had t-shirts made this year with that message).  It's something that has gotten fancier in the last few years- as a kid, it was more about the bacon and scrambled eggs, with bagels of course.  Now, there are still bagels, but the egg dishes are more gourmet, and there are fancy items like steamed mussels, and lox for the bagels.

But the constant is the phone call to Joanna.  We pass the phone around the table, each taking a turn to catch her up on our lives, see how she's doing, and laugh about whatever random topics of conversation come up.  I wrote about the family traditions we have, specifically that one, several years ago, and it makes me happy to think about the joy we all shared.

Even with Joanna in the hospital, we turned on the speaker phone and called South Carolina, only to find that the phone in her room wasn't hooked up, and according to the nurse "she was sleeping".  We called her sister Janet to make sure that when Janet saw her, she'd tell her we tried.  I don't know if Joanne ever got the message- when my mom spoke to Janet that night, she said that Joanna was on heavy doses of morphine to deal with the pain from the sepsis that had set in, and it was looking like she may not last the night.

Less than 24 hours, I was sitting in a parking lot when my mom called, and I knew without answering that Joanna was gone.  I held it together until we hung up, and then let myself cry.  My dad, all his siblings, and my granny had predeceased her, and now my mom is the only one left from that immediate crew.  I'm grateful my dad's first cousins are all still with us, still regaling us with stories of their crazy younger years, when they helped build the farm, drove cross country, and took vacations as a group to places like Martha's Vineyard and the Jersey Shore.

Looking through the boxes Janet sent, the thing that made me smile the most were Christmas cards from the last several years, as well as post cards and even some newspaper clippings, tucked inside the books my sister and I had written.  I'm going to mail my sister's up to her, and I think she'll get a kick out of reading the postcards especially.  I turned to a random page in mine, and it was a story I'd written about my dad and Uncle Bill, and cliff jumping near my uncle's farm upstate.  The passage was:

In the ensuing years, I would see a variety of people bound off this bluff.  Sometimes they were naked, appendages flailing in the summer sun. Sometimes they brought booze, or rowdy girls, or both. Once, when the plumbing was out, we came by kayak with soap and shampoo, and bubbles danced around us after our leaps. But nothing felt quite so magical as watching my balding uncle and graying father relive their youths by bolting off that cliff. 

It seemed a little like a message- to enjoy the moments we have, to embrace the silly and the joy. I took that to heart this evening, when I took photos of my kids jumping off the swingset again, and played a family game of soccer in the yard.

Aunt Joanna always lit up the room of people around her, and while she had her hard days (don't we all), she made a point to do the thoughtful things that made the world a kinder place, like giving me an etching that she had from when she was a little girl for my daughter, and commandeering the backseat of a friend's car that was headed to New Jersey, so that she could send up a family rocking chair for R. when she was learning to read.  Now, she's passed along these beautiful mementos- photos of our family that I can show my kids, and use to teach them about their relatives, especially my bright eyed aunt, who is dancing with her husband in one of the pictures, happily together for all time.

Waffle Mornings With My Daughter

I hope you remember this...

Standing on a Sunday morning on a wooden chair in the kitchen, your bare feet pumping up and down as you excitedly go up on tip toe.  Your eager high pitched voice, saying "Mommy, we're making waffles!" as I carefully avoid knocking over the dozens of individually packaged apple sauces from their storing place as I pull down the red Aunt Jemima box from the cabinet above our heads.

"What do we do first?" I ask, sure you will know the answer.

"Wash our hands!" you recite, happily reaching for the faucet as I guide your chair to a more manageable distance from the sink (several instances of cleaning a wet floor have led me to this decision)

"Very good," I say, pumping the silver soap dispenser, and placing the shiny clear gel into your hands.

"Rub rub rub," we say in unison, as we work the soap through our fingers.  The sun is starting to peek through the clouds, and pour in through the window, hitting the bamboo plant and the orchidless orchid on its way to highlight the bubbles we're forming.

"Now rinse," I instruct, as you reach your hands- which can barely stretch to the pouring water- into the the stream.

I grab for the paper towels as I count down, knowing that if you leave your hands under the water for too long, you'll become fixated on keeping them in there, and it will be a battle to get you to separate from it.  You have a stubborn streak and then some.  "3...2...(towel in hand)...1- Off!"

On "off" you reach with all your might, your little feet straining to push yourself to reach the silver handle and turn it straight up.

"I did it!" you say, as I hand you the towel and you dry yourself off.  I'm still in awe that you are growing up so fast, that the little person, who I used to balance on the counter/my hip while you squirmed away from the water (or reached and tried to douse yourself, depending on your mood) is now standing before, drying her hands like a little lady straight out of an Emily Post instructional.

"Yes you did!  Now, let's measure the mix." I pull your chair away from the sink now, positioning you in front of the open counter space, where the box, an egg, and the milk sit next to a measuring cup and a spoon.

You dutifully pick up the silver measuring cup, your hands both clasped around the black wooden handle, holding it at enough of an angle that I have to straighten it out with one hand, as I pour the powder with the other.  We spill a bit, dusting the speckled granite with white powder, before you dump the rest of the contents into the plastic tupperware bowl.

"Excellent job, my little chef" I smile, and you beam with pride.  "Now the milk," and again, you repeat holding the cup while I dispense the ingredient into it with careful precision, delighting in the milk-fall you create as you pour it into the bowl.

"Now the eggy!" you say, and I think of how cute it is, this toddler language of yours involving "eggys" and "ogum" (yogurt) and other such things.  I pick up the cage-free hen egg, and you ask, wonder in your voice, "Is it from Aunty Coley's farm?"

I answer honestly, "No, it's from a different chicken.  But we'll get eggies from Aunty Coley next time she comes to visit, how's that?"

You're not really phased by this, just nodding your head, yes, that's a good idea, and placing your hands over mine while I crack it on the side of the bowl.  Your hands are so tiny still, chubby with youth and perfectly formed, better filled out miniatures of my own.  I can feel you pulling on my knuckles as I separate the shell from the yolk and white, and they drop into the bowl with a plop!

"Mommy, I want to stir," you declare, picking up the spoon and sticking it directly into the egg yolk, so that the yellow spills out and begins to infiltrate the rest of the batter.

"Hit the road Jack, and don't you come back no more no more no more no more," you sing, echoing one of the songs your daddy's band was playing the day before at rehearsal.

"Hit the road, Jack, and don't you come back no more," I respond, picking up the oil and pouring two tablespoons full into the batter to ensure that it doesn't stick to the waffle iron.

You move the spoon in rhythm with the song, making rotations in the bowl as you merge dry with liquid until everything is coagulating into a lumpy mush.

"Mommy, I'm done," you state proudly, handing me the spoon, and then immediately setting about to make designs in the spilled powder still on the counter.  I briefly flash to finger painting, and wonder where I could put an easel for you, to encourage your artistic desire to use multi media (Pancake mix!  Paints!  Dog hair!) and think of the museums you could display your work in.


I turn back to our concoction, stirring it a couple of times for good measure (careful to do this so you can't see, lest you think I'm belittling your work), and open the steaming waffle iron to pour in the mix.  It emits a hiss as it hits the black grates, weaving its way over the edges like water spilling out of a canal.

I close the top, watching briefly as steam escapes out the sides, and begin the autopilot clean up of throwing out the egg shells and placing the cooking supplies in the dishwasher (along with last night's dinner dishes).

As I finish clearing the counter, you grow tired of your latest artistic endeavor, offering "You can lift me down now, please."

I oblige, placing you on the floor as you take off running for the train set in the other room.  I pick up a sponge, and wipe your expressionist batter work into the farmhouse sink (giving a quick thought of thanks to the previous owner of our house for having the foresight to install such a fantastic, undermount, easy to clean vessel into her kitchen).  I then commence wiping down the rest of the countertops, removing anything stuck on with swift circles of the grainy side of the sponge, and enjoying the relative quiet in the early morning.

The orange light turns off on the waffle iron, and I carefully remove the waffles with a fork, liberating them from the grate's grasp and immediately placing them on a plate for dissection.  I call out, "Riley, do you want me to cut your waffles?"

Your response is an emphatic "Into rectangles, please!", and I set about to do this with surgical precision.  I open the refrigerator door and place the freshly diced meal on the bottom shelf, knowing you don't like things too hot, and call you to the table.

You sprint in, sliding a bit on the floor, and pull yourself up onto the chair, literally, with your hands gripping it tightly as you use the decorative wooden pieces as footholds.

I retrieve your waffles, and my own, and pour the syrup onto your plate, careful to avoid touching the waffles, so that you can dip them as you wish.

Your smile as I place your in front of you, saying "Thank-you mommy!"  I watch your eyes light up as you pick up a rectangle with your fork, dip it delicately in syrup, and then move it to your mouth, dripping shiny brown droplets onto your red nightgown.  "Mmm... these are delicious," you manage through a mouth full of food.

"Yes, angel," I smile, picking up my own fork.  "You did an fabulous job of making them."

I hope you remember this- the morning spent, just you and me, cooking breakfast together before all the "to dos" on my to do list come crushing down on me, and I have to push some of them to the top of my priority list.  I hope you remember that I spend these mornings, like my mom did with me, making you giggle, and instilling pride in your and your abilities.  I hope this makes up for all the mornings when I'm at work and I can't help you make breakfast because I'm already in the middle of teaching someone else's children to be confident, and proud, and free-thinking.  I hope you grow up loving waffle mornings as much as I did, and knowing how much you are loved.

Better Grub Supper Club

An exercise in examining a story from someone else's point of view, using interviews and my imagination. Much of the dialogue is fabricated based on knowledge of the people involved, but the actions are relatively accurate, and the italics are based on an interview with my sister, Nicole Caldwell, a writer and the director of Better Farm/Better Arts.

            The view from Better Farm's kitchen window is of a wide-open field stretching out towards a hilltop. Trees create mountainous shadows, and the tops of bushes peek out over frost-filled grasses and a large manmade pond Nicole's father once gleefully referred to as the "mosquito breeding ground". The sun at this particular moment was beginning its dip over the backs of the silhouetted trees as a dozen people—roommates, artists-in-residence, and locals—made their own dips down Cottage Hill Road and into Better Farm's driveway.

            Better Farm is an artists' retreat and sustainability education center started in 1970 as a hippie commune. My Uncle Steve bought the property—a small 19th-century farmhouse, milkhouse, and falling-down barn seated on 125 acres—with insurance money paid out to him from a car accident in 1963 that left him paralyzed from the chest-down. His parents had been taking care of him in their suburban New Jersey home, and buying the acreage upstate was his way to be out on his own. He got his friends, cousins, and brothers on board with heading north for a summer, doubling the size of the house, and moving in to care for Steve's daily needs. It would be 30 years before the last of them would leave.

            The name for the place came from the “Better Theory”, a concept Steve and his friends came up with that basically says every moment presents us with a chance to grow as human beings. Instead of seeing something as negative, then, it's “better”: an opportunity to become more.
    

            After a great deal of shopping, bartering, and cultivating, Nicole was welcoming a cast of characters to the farm to commence Better Farm's First Better Grub Supper Club Thanksgiving Dinner, in much the spirit of Arlo Guthrie's beloved “Alice's Restaurant”. Nicole leaned into the oven to check on the main courses, taking care to baste the turkey and Tofurky in equal measure, a puff of steam rising out of the oven and enveloping her face in the scent of roasted bird, faux meat, stuffing, and onions. As she stood up, she couldn't help but think "world harmony begins when Tofurkeys and turkeys can roast side by side."

            I started spending a lot more time at the farm after Dad died, doing the 700-mile-round-trip Dad and I used to take, taking it now by myself or with friends. It was sort of like a pilgrimage for me; a way to get out of my head, reconnect with memories of my dad, and occupy the same space as Steve, who was this human being who was so much larger than life. Steve and I would have hours-long conversations about books, politics, birding, the environment; or sit around at the kitchen table all afternoon and do crossword puzzles. The farm became a place where I could relax and kind of reconnect to what was important.

            The summer before Uncle Steve died, my sister Kristen and I were up visiting for a weekend, and we all got on the topic of what would become of the farm should anything happen to Steve. There was some discussion of it being left to the group of us: Kris, our cousins Dan and Mike, and me. Kris squashed this, reminding Steve of Mike's nomadic lifestyle and Dan's penchant for the same; and her own love of the farm, but lack of time.  "Leave it to Nicole,” she told him. “We'll help her with what we can, but she's the one who will love it for you, and make it into something special."

            Nicole brushed a wavy lock of brown hair out of her eyes and thought back to her apartment in Brooklyn, the one she broke the lease on to move out to the country. It had a view of the gravel-covered flat roof below, and beyond that, a brick building with windows that gazed into neighboring apartments. The sounds of the traffic, the Kenyan restaurant below, police sirens, and barking dogs were loud there; while here in Redwood, population 584, there is the vague brush of the wind and the occasional ATV hum in the distance. Strains of The Grateful Dead's “Friend of the Devil” meandered out of the iPod on the counter and Jerry Garcia sang: "Didn't get to sleep last night 'til the morning came around/Set out runnin' but I take my time/A friend of the devil is a friend of mine."

            Steve's funeral was attended by men who openly wept through their beards, running their hands over shiny heads that once housed long, thick locks; and tribes of women who'd loved and worshiped Steve. Kristen read a poem comparing Steve to Woton, the god in the Wagnerian "Ring of the Nibelung" cycle who gives up his eye for wisdom. Ex-girlfriends and cousins read poems and told stories. I muscled through a eulogy of my own, which felt totally empty without the man himself there to hear it.

            Two months later I packed my bags, adopted a puppy, and headed north to begin cleaning out, renovating, and turning the dilapidated home into a green-living center, youth hostel, bed & breakfast, and artists' retreat. I rented one of the rooms out and took a couple odd jobs to make ends meet as I filed Better Farm's LLC status, while Kristen create a website. Planning commenced for summer programming, like workshops, internships, and artist residencies. I read books about gardening and staked out a plot of ground in the yard for our organic farm, learned to fire a gun, took up horseback riding, and became impervious to black flies and mosquitoes.

            In two days, Nicole would be leaving for a brief respite to New Jersey. She'd visit with her family in her mother's Victorian house in the affluent Northern New Jersey suburbs; a family gathering around a formal dining table covered in an antique tablecloth, china her mom has had for 40 years, and sterling silverware polished for special occasions.

            Behind her at the moment, though, sat a giant wooden table and two 12-foot church pews packed with the people living at Better Farm and a number of guests from town. There were mismatched glass plates, all in different shades of white, and silver eating utensils with different handles, collected over the years from the various miscreants who invaded the farm. The cups were a mixture of mason jars, and coffee mugs with dirty sayings and odd cartoons. A family friend, in talking about Steve at his funeral, said Steve became "an island around which humans float." Nicole was beginning to feel like the Better Farm house was fast-becoming that island in his absence.

            We started with the library, a 1600-square-foot room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on each wall. Every book had been read by Steve before being placed, in alphabetized order, by the hands of one of his caretakers. We removed them, rebuilt some of the shelves, dusted behind all the old volumes, and revealed decades' worth of fuzz, dog fur, and long-abandoned mice nests. You should have seen the books—everything from the Bible to Harry Potter, the Quaran to Dr. Zhivago, Dostoevsky, Oates, Rand, and Hawkings. It was unbelievable.

            Mike, Nicole's cousin, sported a beard reminiscent of Rip Van Winkle and sat at the table chatting with Chris, an Iowa transplant who'd fallen in love with farm living, and Bob, a truck driver from town. They were discussing the merits of eating a turkey while planning out a designer chicken coop for Henrietta, the chicken Nicole saved from becoming soup a few months earlier and the two chicks taken in to keep her company.

            "She's family, so she should have a nicer area to live in," Mike said, his stringy blond hair nodding as he moved his head in an affirmative motion.

            "Organically, she's the same as the bird in the oven. I don't see why we should be spending more than the turkey cost to house next year's dinner," Bob jumped in, his belly rumbling beneath his black Harley Davidson T-shirt at the thought.

            "She should at least be comfortable while she's fattening up," Chris stated, his own belly pooch bumping the edge of the table as he moved to rise off the pew.

            Nicole turned, her calloused hands covered by tropical fish-shaped potholders, and picked up the pot of potatoes rolling in the bubbling water. She began to pour the frothy white liquid through the strainer balanced in the sink. "We are not eating Henrietta," she said, blue eyes focused on the task at hand. "She's like a pet."

            "But by next year, she would be a rather delicious pet." Bob nodded, his eyes narrowing at Nicole's dog, a large mongrel she'd rescued the year before. "Kobi would eat her." Kobayashi Maru slapped her tail against the floor in agreement.

            "No. Kobi, you are not eating Henrietta," Nicole said, as the potatoes slid down the sides of the pot and into the colander, landing with squishy thwaps. Kobi opened her long snout and yawned, rolling onto her side. "And neither are you," she said, pointing the wooden spoon at Bob.

            "'Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.' Samuel Butler," Mike said to Bob, crossing his arms over his white T-shirt, stained yellow from sweat at the armpits.

            "If God didn't want us to eat meat, He wouldn't have made it so tasty,” Bob retorted. “A T-shirt in Alex Bay." Chris and Mike laughed.

            There were notes stuffed in some of the books, quotes from different philosophers, Emerson, Thoreau, even some Ginsberg and Bob Dylan. When I moved on to Steve's desk, it was like an explosion of paper. There were folders of notes he'd sent and received, an entire box of letters from my parents' travels in the 70's, and pieces of writing of Steve's, things he probably started and forgot about. In one drawer, I actually found a slip of paper on which Steve had scribbled his Philosophy.

"Crisis teaches you cool; pain teaches you pleasure; love teaches you loss. Every large and small and good and bad thing that comes at you has the potential to propel you forward into something better. All we have is now, and nothing else exists except that, so anything right now is always better than even one second before now. And now. And now. All you’ve got to do is climb aboard, hang on tight, and push yourself forward into the abyss. It’s a tricky theory to keep up with—try having “better” be the first thing out of your mouth next time you stub your toe or hear terrible news. But the truth is, Better works."

            "The dinner smells delicious Nicole," Chris said, his feet shuffling towards the smells wafting from the stove. He turned on the oven light, and salivated as he eyed the turkey. "Can I help with anything?"

            "How good of you to ask,” she answered sarcastically. “You can mash the potatoes. Use soy milk and margarine in half of it for the vegans.” She pulled out the masher and ingredients, her thin, toned arms miming as she spoke. Chris grabbed the overflowing colander and set to work.

            I always personally took the Better Theory to mean out of the bad, comes the good. What you do with your biggest hardships makes the most difference—ask anyone who's ever overcome in some way. Instilling that idea into the people at the farm, who come from all over the world to study green living and organic farming, or to work on their art, or to live more simply and communally, is one of the most exciting things I've ever been a part of. It's amazing what people are capable of when they really see everything as an opportunity; they just start to thrive when they get that concept.

            Mike got up and walked over to the pot of boiling string beans, legumes picked in September and frozen. He dipped in a ladle and liberated a couple, dropping them onto a plate, and checked them for doneness with his fingers. Finding them reasonably cooked, he popped one in his mouth and tossed the other to Kobi, who chomped down with a grateful crunch.

            "I have to say, I'm impressed with the harvest,” Mike said, still chewing. “When dad talked about the farming in the 70's, all he would say was that they couldn't grow potatoes bigger than golf balls because of the clay soil, and that nothing would really grow." He turned his attention to the cans of cranberry (the only thing not grown in or around Better Farm), and set about creating cylindrical art sculptures on the serving platter before bringing it over to the table.

            "Nicole started us on mulch gardening,” Chris declared proudly. “We make layers of compost, cardboard, dead leaves, and hay in the fall, and by spring there are inches and inches of healthy, black soil.” He got up and pulled a cast iron skilled down from an overhead hook. He turned on a burner, threw a pad of margarine into the pan, and melted it along with a few cloves of garlic. He threw the concoction into his lumpy mashed potatoes.

            Since we redid the kitchen, we try to do a big family dinner every night. We put in a wood-burning stove to generate heat, put tin ceiling tiles in the dining alcove, and replaced the rusted old stove with a stainless-steel restaurant quality one.. The biggest thing, though, was getting enough seating for any and all residents and guests. I remember driving 30 minutes to pick up the church pews after we found them on Craigslist for $40 a piece, and joking the whole drive back that if they didn't fit in the breakfast nook, we'd just have to set them up in the library and create our own religion.

            An hour later, they sat down to the feast. Grace was a hearty "Thanks to Steve and the good Lord above for the grub on the table, and the friends around it," and the clinking of plastic on glass. The poster-sized photo of Steve at age 13, standing a foot taller than his mother (Nicole's Granny) next to him, beamed down from the far wall, as if granting approval over the festivities.

            Most nights, the head of the table is empty, a result of a lack of chairs and everyone's preference to the pews. But there was a day not too long ago when the realization hit that its vacancy also serves as a tangible reminder of Steve's absence. That was his spot because of the wheelchair. I can still picture him, leaning on his bony elbow and sipping his water out of a straw stuck in a pitcher. He had these bright blue eyes, a wide smile, and this hoarse voice, gravely and lilting with joy.

            I think it's Passover when the religious set a place for Elijah, and leave a seat vacant in anticipation of his arrival. Elijah's visit is said to precede the Messiah, who will transform our world from its broken state to one where injustice is unknown, compassion is everywhere, and happiness fills our hearts. I can't help but think of Steve as our own personal version of the prophet: the one who guided us to this table, guided us to pick up where he left off, and create a better celebration of life and friendship. He would have enjoyed this version of now.

            And now. And now.

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.