This winter when I was sick I happened to catch a documentary about Stanley Kubrick's The Shining. The documentary addressed several theories regarding what the movie might really be about, many of which were conspiracy theories. One of them, for example, suggested that Kubrick faked the moon landing for NASA and then revealed clues about this in the movie. Another discussed how the architecture of the hotel in the movie didn't make sense with hallways leading where they shouldn't go. When my college friend Clare dropped me off at the hotel today where Blogpaws 13 is taking place I found myself remarking that the long, narrow winding halls reminded me of The Shining. I then proceeded to share with Clare the details of the documentary. at first I think she thought I was only rambling but when we tried to follow the receptionist's directions to the 15th floor only to find three Clare had to admit at the very least, this hotel's architecture was confusing. Next we circled the hallway passing the same white chair and discarded pair of tennis shoes several times, no longer able to find the lobby. We did find a hotel phone and called the lobby only to be directed to the same dead end. By this time Clare admitted that we may indeed have found ourselves inside that documentary. Soon we were giddy with laughter, no longer two middle-aged women, but as silly and clueless as we were when we first met as freshmen. I realized that this hotel might not have been my entrance into a horror movie, but it was my passage back in time. And, all this occurred only after an hour of Clare and I being together, just think of the trouble we can get into after a few days. Provided we ever find our way out of this hotel!
Upheaval
Sometimes the chaos on the inside becomes apparent on the outside. At least, that’s presently the case in my family’s life. We have known for the past six months or more that my mother needed knee replacement surgery. In fact, we learned last fall that she would first need cataract surgery in January followed by knee replacement in May. As I have written, my mother hates to be vulnerable in any way. A certain need to be in control at all costs has been ingrained in both my Mom and me. It’s not a desire to be the boss. It’s a desire to be healthy and strong in order to take care of those around us. There are lots of reasons for this belief, not least of which is the fact that our house, smack dab in the middle of town, functions in many ways as Grand Central Station. Add to that our big family with all the happy challenges and complications that brings, and there just isn’t time to be sick or out-of-commission. It has taken a concerted war effort to get Mom to the point of acceptance that her surgery needs to be done, but that hasn’t stopped a storm of anxiety from churning inside her and if I am to be honest, myself as well.
This last week the storm spun out of control. My mother wanted some minor renovations done to the house prior to surgery – some bars put up in the bathroom, a railing by the downstairs steps – or so she claims. I think this may have been Mom’s master plan to postpone surgery. Because no sooner had these minor renovations started than a major overhaul ensued.
“You’re not really planning major renovations to the bathroom three weeks before your surgery?” I asked, as my parents began to look at walk-in showers.
That’s exactly what they were planning. This became apparent as the handyman arrived, removing rotten floorboards, broken toilet flanges, and the like. Granted, the bathroom was sorely in need of a makeover. Turns out only a few floorboards were not rotted through and the bathtub was indeed ready to come through the kitchen ceiling. Yet, I still looked at my parents in wonder two days later when my mother expressed that she hadn’t thought it was going to take this long and my father had yet to order any of the appliances all of which supposedly would take four weeks to deliver. This is sort of par for the course in my family. And, as much as it drives me crazy – I’m left pondering are these people plain nuts, oblivious or mad geniuses – it always seems to work out for them in the end.
Today, we went to visit Mom’s surgeon for her pre-op appointment and he declared that there was no way Mom should have her surgery amidst this upheaval – see, you might conclude this her plan after all – but he also put our minds at ease saying she could postpone to July or even this fall if she’d like. Her knee would not deteriorate too much more in that time, although he acknowledged it is a horrible case. Still, being granted this small reprieve to get the house together and our minds around the situation was exhilarating. I think we both felt like prisoners being given a new lease on life.
The renovations to the bathroom aren’t the only stressful things going on at the moment. Both my father and I are also having some health issues, so it’s probably best not to put Mom under the knife until her support staff has received a clean bill of health. But I had to laugh as I stared at our gutted bathroom and the whirling mass of wood and rubble surrounding it, seeing it as a certain metaphor for the emotional havoc we have all been experiencing over the last six months. What is it they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men? They often go awry? I would agree with this, but I think, in this case, Mom’s plan came to fruition – she got a stay of execution. I am only left to wonder what brilliant tactic she will employ next time around.
Perhaps it’s just a series of delays. Two days into the project, we learned that the handyman was going on vacation for a week. “Did you know he was going to do this when he began?” I asked. “You realize that you were supposed to get your surgery next Friday and that there is no way he could have ever finished in time? Plus, is Dad ever going to order the appliances?” Mom simply stares at me nonplussed and seemingly innocent.
Then again maybe it’s not a cleverly manipulated scheme. Maybe it’s luck or as I mentioned, an outward manifestation of the anxiety we’ve all been feeling. Perhaps our bathroom’s disarray represents the chaos we’ve been experiencing and thus, now as we take a breath and calm ourselves, it will magically right itself – the renovation coming together in brisk order with sparkling new appliances standing as testament to the sparkling new knee joint to come. Perhaps each will emerge as we make ourselves ready for them.
Scenes from the Montshire
The Montshire Museum has a tower. While an elevator takes you to the second floor of the museum, you have to climb several more flights to get to the top of the tower and see this wonderful view. It's not that high up, but when you've been on the go with a toddler all day, it seemed formidable. When Christian was little, however, I climbed the tower with him so as tired as I was today I decided to go up with Ellie. It was worth the trip.
Here's another view, climbing up to the Tower. That's my Mom waving to us as we go up, up, up!
Gretchin claimed she wanted to bring Ellie to the Montshire because she loved it so much, but I think it was Gretchin who wanted to return. She spent more time than Ellie playing with the bubbles.
Ellie loved the spinning disks and balls and eating the bubbles!
While the rest of the clan played at the various exhibits, I took some time out to photograph this great fish in the aquarium. I am absolutely positive that he was posing for me. He swam in place the whole time I was snapping photos, swimming away only when the shutter stopped clicking.
Mother's Day
It dawned on me today how exclusionary holidays can be. For example, Valentine’s Day can be heartbreaking for those who do not have a Valentine and what if you don’t have anyone to usher in the New Year? Consider Mother’s Day for the childless woman? Sometimes, it’s not easy. That was not the case for me today. I almost forgot I wasn’t technically a mother as my niece Ellie gave me a Mother’s Day card, my nephew Christian texted me, wishing me a Happy Day (in addition to being his aunt, I am his godmother) and I scanned Facebook, noting the numerous Mother’s Day wishes to the mamas of “furbabies.” Christian even told me to say “hi” to the little ones, meaning Alfie and Waffles. It seems that people are making an effort nowadays to make everyone feel included.
Today, Ellie became infatuated with a balloon floating in Wal-mart, announcing a Clearance Sale. She wanted to see it so I reached up and grabbed the string, pulling it down so it was at her eye level. She pulled her little hands to her chest, hugging herself and said, “Oh, Bee,” in the most endearing voice. At that moment, my heart swelled and I felt like the most important person in the world, mother or not!
Ellie, Go, Go, Go
The Montshire Museum of Science, a great hands-on museum for kids, is located a little over 30 miles from my home. We took my niece Ellie and her parents there last week and they said they’d love to return today for Mother’s Day. So, we took my mom out to lunch at a nearby Italian restaurant and then hit the Montshire. My 16-month old niece, who loves balls and balloons almost more than anything else on the planet, found herself in seventh heaven with all the gravity and spinning exhibits featuring balls, but I have to say her favorite activity seems to be riding the elevator up and down between the first and second floors. There is a small round window complete with a little footstool she can sit or stand on and look out. She especially loves it if one of us remains down below and she gets to look out the window and spy “Mommy, Daddy, Bee (me) or Nini (Nana). Today, she also seemed to enjoy lifting the arm of her stroller and climbing in and out. I joked that we could have saved money on our membership if we had just let her do this at home. She did not enjoy the little boy who kept hogging the inflatable beach ball in one of the exhibits. She didn’t understand why he kept hugging the ball instead of bouncing it and would periodically trot over him and pound the ball out of his hands, declaring “Bounce.”
One of Ellie’s favorite expressions is “go, go, go.” We certainly did that. It was a pretty tiring day and I had to laugh when my sister-in-law sent me a video of Ellie on her way home. She entitled the text “Ellie Relaxing After a Visit With Bee and Nini.” I sent her the photo below entitled “Auntie Bee After A Visit with Ellie.”
Video of Ellie After Visiting Bee and Nini
One of the blog readers, Suzanne, answered my post from the other night inquiring as to what everyone was doing this weekend by saying she eventually hoped to curl up with her dog. That is exactly what I am doing now. Tomorrow is a day full of doctor’s appointments. We are going to see my mother’s surgeon to find out details about her upcoming knee replacement surgery and I am seeing a doctor regarding my recent bout of illness. I’m hoping to get a clean bill of health to go visit a friend in D.C. and attend Blogpaws 2013, a conference for pet bloggers. Right now, however, all I can think about is sleep!
Happy Mother’s Day to Everyone. I hope it was as full and happy as mine!
Among Friends
I have lived in rural Vermont almost as long as I can remember. And, sometimes I realize how incredibly rural rural really is. I was shopping in the neighboring town of Randolph the other day – with two drugstores, a supermarket, music hall and hospital it passes for civilization around here. I was sitting in my car, watching passersby. Suddenly, the blurry motion of people coming and going slowed, and for a moment I seemed to really see the world around me – the man in beat-up red pickup truck, his cap sitting high on his head, his callused hands holding tight to the steering wheel; a white-haired old lady with flabby arms and knobby knees, her ivory bra straps showing from underneath her sleeveless buttoned down blue shirt, hobbling across the street; two teenaged girls in tattered shorts walking hand-in-hand down the sidewalk, their long legs reaching all the way to the sky. They pass storefront windows and brick facades, crossing the railroad tracks near the train depot, headed toward the pizza shop. For a minute, the shutter snaps and the image freezes – timeless. This could be 1950, 1980, 2000, now. Not much changes around here.
I felt the same thing tonight when I attended my nephew Christian’s open house at the Randolph Technical Training Center (RTCC). RTCC draws students from a number of surrounding towns and the work of all the various programs, from Criminal Justice to Culinary Arts to Diesel Technology, was on display. Walking the halls of the school was like being on stage for a performance of Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. Everyone was there: my best friend’s high school boyfriend, the people my parents went to church with 20 years ago, kids I went to high school with all grown up, there for their own kids’ projects, my former boss at the newspaper, our old eye doctor, even my high school math teacher. Small world? You couldn’t get much smaller. The math teacher still teaches math, the former boss still writes for the paper, the high school friends’ kid could have been mirror images of their parents. Not much had changed.
These ghosts of people past roamed the halls following the passing plates of pulled pork and black beans and guacamole in an effort to sample all the offerings. Some stopped for an occasional hello or if they hadn’t seen each other in a long while, a hug. My former math teacher and I shared such an embrace and spent a good deal of time comparing notes on my fellow classmates. I spied the woman in town who tends the small island of flowers outside my house and thanked her for her efforts. A woman my mother knows stopped to ask me if I still write for Rutland Magazine, informing me that she used to know my editor when she was a little girl. “She practically adopted me as her grandmother,” she said.
It could have been suffocating, this fishbowl atmosphere. Once when I was in high school and wanted to apply to schools besides my state university, my guidance counselor warned that here in Bethel I was a big fish in a little pond, but if I went to the schools on my list I would find myself a little fish. It was meant as a warning – a fear that the world might be too big for me to handle. It was bad advice. I left and found not a bigger pond, but a limitless ocean and I waded right in, flapping my fins in the air. But like salmon swimming upstream, I returned from the ocean to my riverbed and here I found myself once again. It was surreal and I studied my kindred with scientific objectivity – what a strange species we seemed, we small town folk, rooted in a world that seems to hardly nudge forward. What must it be like to live in a world of strangers, where you are just one among the crowd, I thought? Would it be lonelier out there or here, where your script has already been written and you have an ordained role to play?
I pondered this as my former math teacher prattled on and my nephew’s mother interrupted us to give me a hug goodbye. “I’m leaving,” she said, as I turned to look at her. She had grown into quite a woman in the 17 years since she gave birth to my nephew Christian, at that time only a high school student herself and I though how lucky I was to be there with her this evening and to be able to share in Christian’s project. I took pictures to send to my brother Paul, Christian’s father, away at boot camp for the National Guard. I drove back through Randolph’s small downtown and stopped at a local restaurant to share dinner with my Mom. Over a meal of chicken pot pie and salad, I thought about all those people I knew gathered together, roaming the same halls, sharing food and nods of appreciation and I realized sometimes small is good. Sometimes it may seem stifling, but there is something to be said for being cut from the same cloth – for knowing the names not only of your friend’s children, but of their parents and grandparents, too. Sometimes it is so good, that it hurts and I am left to wonder like Emily in the final act of Our Town, whether we ever truly appreciate it.
Here, we may never be able to be lost in the crowd, but in this rural town we always know the street on which we walk, we always find ourselves among friends.
Back to Nature
No one in my family can claim to have a green thumb. As soon as fall is upon us and a plant’s leaves start to brown, my mother tosses it out on the back step. “It’s dead!” she declares, allowing no room for argument. The same thing occurred with the new shrubs she asked the handyman to place in front of the house. Two bloomed green and bushy, the rest not so much. “We’re going to make a rock garden,” was her new declaration and she promptly asked the lawn man to pluck the sad plants up by their roots. “Umm, they may still bloom,” I argued, but it fell on deaf ears. A few days later the handyman showed up and explained that when he purchased those bushes he had no idea it would take more than one season for them to bloom. Too late, they were already gone. “I told you so,” I offered.
“Buy something hardy,” is my mother’s one piece of gardening advice, which she claims works for all occasions whether it is purchasing seeds, houseplant or flowers for Valentine’s Day. There is very little of the romantic when it comes to receiving roses for this woman, and so coming from this family, it surprised me several years ago when my sister-and-law Becky and I bought miniature rose bushes and mine lived. Not only did mine survive, but it thrived. Some how, not apparently by nature nor by nurture, I had received a green thumb!
Ever since, I have been purchasing houseplants, diligently watering them and placing them in my window. When the weather warms each year I take them out to the back stoop and re-pot them, putting on my gardening gloves and playing in the dirt for an hour or two. It is not a huge task like planting a backyard garden, but in this family, it’s almost farming!
Today, I got some help from a curious Waffles and Alfie. Waffles surveyed the scene and thought this might be the agility obstacle course I’ve been talking about, so she weaved in and out amidst the plants, stopping only to nibble on their leaves. “No, Waffles,” I yelled. I believe she has decided this is her name and has chosen to ignore it. Alfie once again had no admiration for Waffles’ finesse and simply knocked the plants over one after another in an effort to jump off the stoop and chase a passing truck. The plants seemed to survive – they come naturally hardy here, I guess.
I did, however, leave a bunch of dirt on the back step. I have learned that my Mom’s distaste for gardening extends all the way to the ground. If she comes home and sees dirt on her back step she begins a major clean up. As a result, I have learned to sweep the stoop. I had to agree with the perplexed looks on the pug’s faces. “I know it doesn’t make any sense.” Waffles concurred, walking over to the pile of dirt and settling down for a nap as if to say, “Now, this is the life!”
Unfortunately, just like a plant can’t grow fast or leafy enough to suit my mother, nothing can be clean enough as well. She is out re-sweeping the stoop now. I’m not sure what dirt could possibly be left out there, but I think she may have declared all out war on nature. Finishing her sweeping, she ran in to grab a can of Raid and is spraying a poor hornet that was unfortunate enough to build its nest in our dog’s igloo. She and Dad have also made their stand against the persistent weeds that dare to peek their heads amidst the patio’s bricks. At least Mom takes the dogs into consideration (I’m surprised she hasn’t tried to sweep Alfie off the porch), and uses white vinegar for weed removal as opposed to something more toxic. This year she discovered a new spraying device and she and Dad are practicing their tactical maneuvers in the backyard. I’m afraid I’m more of a pacifist – so while my parents suit up to storm the patio, I sit with Waffles and Alfie on the ever-so-clean back step, my newly potted plants tucked in for the night. I feel a sense of accomplishment and revel in Vermont’s short-lived warmth. For a time, we are at one with nature. Then as I inhale, I realize the fresh air has been replaced with the strong smell of vinegar. I may have a green thumb when my parents do not and I may have developed a penchant, like my pugs, for dirt and the outdoors, but in the end, I realize it is all for naught – we may be able to avoid becoming our parents, but we can seldom escape them!
Letters from Paul
I feel like we have slipped back in time. My sister-in-law Leah sits at the head of the kitchen table, her long red hair gleaming orange in the sun. My parents are gathered on either side of her and I sit directly across at the other end of the table. She holds in her hand a stack of letters, our first from my brother Paul since he went off to boot camp several weeks ago.
These are letters, not texts or tweets or Facebook statuses. You can see my brother’s handwriting in blue ink on the white page. Handwriting, so personal, so unique that it reveals his mood and energy level in a way that smilies and other emoticons just can’t.
“It becomes more slanted the longer he writes,” Leah explains.
We huddle like families in pre-television days, awaiting the evening radio hour. We are brought together in an intimate circle, leaning in toward the page, all ears, intently listening. We are family in the truest sense, bound together not only by our shared affection for each other, but our mutual love for the member that is missing. For my parents and I, this separation from one of our own is a new experience. My sister-in-law left Texas and her parents to become my brother’s wife, but as for the rest of us, none of us has left home or family for too long: a few vacations, nearby colleges, frequent phone calls and visits; there have been few occasions for letters or the need to keep each other apprised in this way.
It is strange to hear my brother’s sentences. I am used to seeing him walk through the door. He makes a jibe, I volley back, our sentences quick, short, teasing. Now, he writes his wife long descriptive phrases. He tells how they call him Old Man, the long periods of waiting, his loneliness. He says his arms are hurting. He sounds at turns bored, tired and funny. He asks what’s going on with the world. He saw something about the Boston Marathon briefly as he passed a TV set, but he doesn’t know the details.
I cry when he asks Leah how their oil is holding up – they had a hard time keeping the house warm through the cold winter – and it touches me to see my baby brother in this light. This is such a practical question, but it holds in it all the burdens and responsibilities of being a husband and father. It is a private moment between husband and wife, a shared concern, a challenge they would typically confront together, but he has left her to handle alone. And, he worries…he is not my baby brother at this moment. I have seen him as a cop, a father, now a soldier, but it is in this small detail that I see him as a man. It is jarring and affirming at the same time. My parents and I worry about our boy, but I understand he has not really been one in a long time.
Leah folds up the letters and places them back in the envelope. We unfold from our circle. She opens my father’s laptop and we check out details of the trivia contest Paul’s battalion runs. The first one to answer the Tuesday night question in lightening speed wins a picture of her soldier. We return to our time stream, checking Facebook statuses and making plans to win our picture.
“It would be nice to see him,” Leah admits, referring to the possible photo. “It would,” I agree,” but I realize that I just did.
As Time Passes
The days will pass, time will move on and we will think we remember, but we won’t. Details drift away like tufts of dandelion in the wind. I will forget this first embrace of spring; the sun’s warm breath on my face. Although pictures may remind me, I will forget the Cindy Lou Who hair and the exact shade of blue of my niece Ellie’s smocked dress. I will feel the ghost of the moment when she peaked around the leg’s of her father’s chair at the Wayside Restaurant and waved at me with the widest gleaming smile and even wider brown eyes. I will remember what a beautiful baby she was, but these tiny moments when I sat cross-legged with her on the restaurant’s floor and pretended to drive to the circus will fade. While I may remember that Waffles’ once learned to escape the fence, I will forget the crystal clear trill of the bird in the tree as I walked the perimeter to see where my father had blocked Waffles’ egress. As age claims them, I will forget how easily Waffles and Alfie once moved, their respective haughty and lulling gaits, eventually giving way to stiffer and more jaunty walks.
As the days pass and time moves on, I will forget how shiny, bright and young we each were – my parents healthy and proud of their granddaughter, my brother’s family still so nascent and blossoming, me, filled with hope and expectation for the life that’s around the corner. We take with us the quick sketch, the outline, allowing the Kodachrome colors to fade. We forget unless we take the time to remember. But now, because I captured it here, perhaps I will preserve some of this sunshine to warm my heart. I will toddle into time’s stream like my niece on her newfound legs and leave these tiny breadcrumbs of memories to trace back to this day.
My Cavalry
My spacious Woodstock hotel room with king-sized bed suddenly shrunk to the size of a small forsaken island as I sat writhing in pain. My abdominal cramps started in the morning and only got worse as the day progressed. I knew I could ask at the front desk or call someone from the writers’ festival and find out where the nearest hospital was and realized I’d have to do so soon if the pain didn’t subside, but although I felt worse than awful, I convinced myself that it wasn’t such an emergency that I had to seek outside help. My family wasn’t so easily convinced. I called home to tell them I wasn’t feeling well and my mother said she was sending someone from the front desk to my room. I made her swear that she wouldn’t and tried to wait it out on my own.
Finally, I succumbed and called her back. “I don’t think it’s an emergency exactly, but I need to come home.”
The three-and-a-half hours between home and my hotel seemed infinite as I waited, but at 10:00 p.m., thirteen hours after my ordeal had started, the cavalry arrived: my 65-year-old mother, who cannot see to drive at night and my faithful brother Mark, number two of my three younger siblings. By the time they pulled up, I was doing better. My pain had somewhat subsided and I had managed to get some liquids in me which seemed to revitalize me a bit, although did little to cure the situation. They packed me up, loaded me in my car and then began the endless journey home. I say endless because my cavalry, while full of heart, lacked something in navigational ability. We probably all should have stayed at the hotel and started fresh in the morning, but my Mom, like me, felt more comfortable dealing with the hospital at home, so we set off into the night in the totally wrong direction!
If I hadn’t been so ill, I probably would have realized sooner that we had gotten on the wrong access ramp, headed south toward New York City instead of north toward Vermont. I also should note that I was distracted by my Mom’s driving. Because she has such poor night vision she had to ride the tail of my brother, watching his taillights like a beacon in the darkness. We were at least a half hour out of our way before I noticed that the names of the cities were wrong and called my brother to inform him we needed to turn around. One hour added to the trip.
Mom and I laughed. Why are we following Mark? We asked. He’s the one who got lost in the hood. We were referring to a time many years ago when my brother was working in New Jersey. He was sent out on an errand, but missed his turn and ended up in the bad part of town. It became a family joke, one that was reiterated several times on this long night. I tried to rest, but we had to make frequent stops for me along the way adding 15 minutes here and there to our travel time. Then we missed another turn, ending up on 1-90. It wasn’t until I spotted the sign to Schenectady that we realized we were lost again and had to turn around. Hour two added to the trip.
Mark’s cellphone didn’t seem to care where it directed him as long as it eventually got him there, so we followed its lead down a series of twisted back roads through Schenectady until we finally ended up in Clifton Park, driving more back roads before finally reconnected with I-87. From here we were okay until it came time to take the exit to Rutland.
“Don’t take the first exit,” I warned my brother who informed me that his phone said otherwise. My brother’s one of those people that if directions on a tube of toothpaste say wash-rinse-and-repeat he does just that. No simple wash-and-rinse for him, he’s by the book. So we followed the book or the phone in this case, and once again ended up off the beaten path. When we finally connected with the right route we were so tired we pulled over at a closed McDonald’s restaurant where a cop stopped to make sure we were okay. When he discovered we were, he went on, but not before my Mom put the car in the wrong gear -- drive instead of reverse -- almost taking us over the bank.
Oh, I almost forgot. Somewhere around Schenectady a series of warning lights came on in my brother’s car. Turns out we weren’t driving with all cylinders and probably shouldn’t have been driving at all. The next morning we called AAA and had them tow the car to the repair shop.
At 5:00 a.m. we saw the lights of home, at least doubling our initial e.t.a. A lot of people joke about my reliance on my G.P.S. and apparent lack of direction, but obviously I come by this honestly, no doubt an inherited trait.
In spite of my exhaustion and what had now become a dull pain, I looked at my weary rescuers, my beautiful mother and kindhearted brother and thought two things: one, how rich I was in family, how lucky to be so loved and two, next time, I think I’ll call the ambulance!