Great Full

Gratitude, according to the dictionary, is not a verb. But I see it as an action nonetheless. Obviously this is a good time of year to be grateful; November always works for me in this capacity. My birthday month, its the time of year that I am forced inside to ponder the passage of time. And as the weather chills and the days get shorter, I must deal with life at a slower pace. The school year is in full swing, and my freneticism as a teacher and mother have finally settled down. Plus it’s kind of hard to miss the giant inflatable turkeys and cornucopias of thanks.

I am thankful for the usual of course. My family and friends top the list, especially my children. I am thankful for peanut butter kisses from the three year old, and the artful way he bedecks the entire house with a roll of toilet paper. I admire the drawings and comedic timing of his brother, and the attention to details my daughter pays.

As the pile of birthday candles grows bigger and I reflect on a health scare this summer, I am growing ever more appreciative of my health and the strides I will take to hold on to it.

But I think the gift that strikes me the most this year is that of re-creation. I started last November when I took that National Novel Writing Challenge. I wrote fifty thousand words in a month and created a pretty interesting story, if I do say so myself. (Which I have to, because no one else has yet read it!)

I’m not sure if that sustained writing and achievement of a goal was really the springboard, but by the time the first of the year rolled around, I was ready to start my whole life anew. I have spent the last ten months literally re-creating myself.

I think I am so thankful because this is still so shocking to me. I have changed my way of thinking, the shape of my body, and the spirit that breathes within me. And I have done this myself. I just never really thought it was possible to do a total u-turn on the road I was traveling.

Gratitude is an action. I believe this wholeheartedly. When I run, when I breathe, when I write, when I believe, I am drinking in the moment. And I am also proving to the universe that I both appreciate it and deserve it.

And a million trillion others just like it. And I will be grateful for each of those too!

My Resurrection

Somewhere between the two-dozen portolets and the sea of spandex, I realized that I was about as far outside of my comfort zone as I could get. What started as a lark one stormy night almost exactly five months before had led me to the starting line of the Towpath Marathon’s 10 K race. The air was crisp, the autumn leaves danced, and the anonymity of the throng of people helped calm my thudding heart. I’m sure I was the only one wearing nine-dollar Target running shoes. And clutching my i-pod as though my life depended on it. Really, it kind of did.

The gun went off. Or did it? Not really sure if there even was a starter’s pistol, but as the crowd surged forward I knew the race was underway. The beginning was treacherous. A sea of humanity jockeying for position and trying to set a personal pace. I ran unscathed through the first madness, settling in fairly quickly with a speed I knew I could keep. And then the smiling started. The sunrise was beautiful, pinks and oranges still tickling their way above the line of trees. And the road was flat, dipping only slightly to give me a view of the hundreds in front of me. We ran three miles like this, scuttling for position, passing and being passed. I never stopped giggling.

The real fun started on the Towpath trail, a crushed limestone snake of a thing that flanked the river. I ran under towering bridges and beneath the reddest of leaves. The day was simply gorgeous, dappled light playing on the river and the path ahead. The five-mile marker shocked me. I had no idea I had already run that far.

Who knew I would have some juice left to kick it into high gear for the last mile? I passed a few last opponents with the finish line in view. A glorious feeling, really, to cross those rubber mats at the end of six plus miles. And something I could have never believed about myself.

The adjustment mentally has been even harder than the physical exertions of molding my body into that of a runner. The weight was easy to lose. The calves tightened themselves. But my heart? That is a lot trickier to manipulate. That morning on the Towpath cemented what I myself could not: the feeling that I am a runner and I can accomplish things I never thought possible.

My new training has already begun: 13.1 miles is my next goal, a half-marathon. This sounds too ridiculous to say out loud. But secretly, I know I can make this magic happen. I am not the same woman who started that race on the Towpath. I’m really hitting my stride, it seems. The Resentments song on my i-pod says it all: “Just a step. One small step. A leap of faith. And a resurrection.”

Roughly

Almost, some writing on a Tuesday.
The stutter steps of crunching acorns
Surround the brilliant blues of sky and mood.
And there is almost within me some (w)hole.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace
And that is inside me from the start
But the only thing that comes to mind is:
“I will pelt you with rocks and garbage.”

And it is Tuesday almost and time to fling these thoughts
Like acorns and watch them explode into the fire of nearly

Fall. And a million and's and but's and missteps
Crunching leaves and ideas and acorn hats until
I lean to pick the pieces from my shoes and almost
Fall myself.

Back to School

It’s not quite as bad as last year. Sure there is screaming and gnashing of teeth. (Okay, mostly mine.) And there are little people who refuse to go to sleep at bedtime, thereby making it much harder to wake them up in the early reverie. And there are some wardrobe malfunctions. Shoes that fit three days ago at the store will not find their way onto feet that need to walk out the door in five minutes. And there are routines to re-establish. Lunches are packed and clothes laid out the night before amid a lot of whining and griping.

But really, it’s not quite as bad as last year.

This is the time of year that tries a mother’s patience. Add to that the fact that I am a teacher AND a mother, and I have my own lunch to pack and clothes to lay out, and things can get really harried.

But they are growing up, I think. The middle guy’s in kindergarten, and happy as a clam to be going to school all day, walking to and fro with his big sis. She, for her part, has made it “upstairs” as a second grader, and seems able to handle the homework planner and guiding her brother to and from school. Even the baby, a misnomer if I ever heard one, is getting his act together for pre-school and excited about his Spider Man book bag and new friend Isaac.

We still have occasional screaming and tantrum-throwing, lost forms and lost patience, but the transition is as good as can be expected.

I think the patient will survive this crisis.

Around the Corner

My legs are churning, heart racing. This asphalt path is good for speed. Acorns already litter the smooth course and the evening light falls faster into shade. I round a sharp corner and gasp so loudly that the man in front of me turns to see if I have fallen. I cannot take my eyes off the ball of fire dipping into the sky. It falls so fast, too fast for me to get a glimpse of it around the next bend. I content myself with the one moment of sheer beauty that I have witnessed, the brightest of red against the backdrop of blue sky and jagged trees.

Just around the corner. It could be my mantra these days. I am on the brink. “It” with a capital I is just around the corner. I don’t kid myself. It is not always so glamorous as a perfectly setting sun. Last week I rounded a bend on my bike and almost got clocked by the Superintendent of schools dragging himself home after a long day. A few days before that I scared the hell out of a deer and myself when I hit a curve too quickly.

But just around the bend works for me. And I’m an optimist, so I imagine they’ll be more royal sunsets than near collisions. So many lessons for me these days. So many things just around the corner. And they are not lost on me.

It’s the getting on the path that does the most good. Being there. In the moment.. Moving forward to see what might be there. Breathing deeply. Crunching acorns.

And waiting to see what is up ahead, around the next bend.

Magical Memories

Another perfect day at the beach. The usual summer fare. But this one is slightly different, filled with a myriad of emotions and some old family friends. The usual players are along too: my tow-headed boys, their bronzing sister, the giant blue shovel and a big pile of buckets. Today the waves are tiny, the carpet of algae barely moves on the surface of the lake.

The story starts too long ago to recount, in a stark hospital where our mothers shared both nursing duties and friendship. And then their children came along and our mothers shared us too. Our big thing was Catawba, where each summer both families enjoyed cottages and beach towels, corn on the cob cook-outs and candy hidden in trees for the children to hunt. The years passed as they always do and we kids drifted in and out of each other’s lives like the boats on the waves where we used to play.

Until today. The winds have carried us right back to where we started. And here we meet on the same beach on which we played as children. Only now we are the grown-ups and our children are running and digging and frolicking in the surf.

My eyes are drawn to the girls: my daughter and his daughter, twins in more ways than one. (He is the oldest son of my mother’s friend. Many years ago, he and I spent more than our share of time in his aluminum boat together. We talked, fished, giggled. Almost lost our lives one hot stormy afternoon when lightning came close. And there was other heat too. But that is a story for another day.) Today it is his daughter and mine, running down the sand in tandem, chasing sea gulls.

They are relentless in their pursuit, single-minded. They deem the gray seagulls the slowest, so they focus their energies there. They share the intensity of oldest children and an interest in following rules. They look back to judge their distance from the group. But then the rock-throwing starts and (who would believe) they hit a sea gull on the tail feather. They are funny in their lukewarm remorse, softening the blows with guilty looks and shy smiles for each other’s parents.

Later we leave the beach and the girls walk hand in hand. How does this happen after a few short hours together? But really it is more. There is history here, a past they couldn’t possibly know. But perhaps like muscle memory, they understand beyond their capabilities what has come before.

We return to the cottage and they rinse the sand and suntan lotion from their sun-kissed skin. They shake their own tail feathers and giggle as they dress; only girls of this age could pull this off.

The night ends with ice cream, as any perfect summer day requires. The two sit shoulder to shoulder, sharing licks and sharing secrets. I feel sad, really, because I know how far apart they live. And the magic of Catawba will not transcend the miles, I’m afraid.

As we say our good-byes, I catch the eye of my old friend. His face reflects my own amazement and uncertainty. What a day it has been for connections and re-visiting the past through the eyes of the future. What a day for our daughters. And I catch the twinkle in his eye and think that maybe the magic of Catawba may prevail after all.

The Bruise

“It only hurts when I touch it.” My kids say that all the time, while sporting the latest scrape, bruise, or scratched-into-oblivion bug bite. I always wonder why they just don’t touch it!

And it’s the same with me tonight. I’m enjoying a family party with the Irish cousins. We don’t get to see them all the time, but they are the sort of people you catch right up with as though you’ve never left. It’s the kind of party where all the kids play in the basement and resurface only to replenish their sugar supply and the grown-ups sit around a big table drinking and telling tales. Fun for everybody.

The patriarch Kevin sits surrounded by his children, cousins and older grandchildren. We are all trying to stay out of the rain. My daughter emerges from the basement and bounds over, happily oblivious to my presence at the table. She stops short of Kevin, with the shy face I know means she knows what she wants but not quite how to go about it. Then she silently climbs onto his lap with a grin.

And in that quick instant my breath stops. He looks so frail under the weight of her braided pigtails. And she looks so serene on his lap. And I wish with all my might that it was my dad. And she had a grandpa. And it is a twisting blade, this desire for my dad and his plaid shirt and my smiling daughter on HIS lap.

But it only hurts when I touch it.

Dear August

You don’t scare me. You, with your back-to-school sales and disappearing daylight, your sense of foreboding for a lady who is both a teacher and a mom of three kids who are going to school. I suppose I’m supposed to drop everything and rush to buy your twenty-five cent crayons and drag the offspring to squish their freedom feet into starchy shoes. But I’ve still got my hands taped and I’m not going down without a fight.

I think I’ve really tasted victory this summer. I’ve taken on your J and J brothers and kicked them all over this sunny town. And country! Who needs a straw? I’m sucking marrow from a PVC pipe and loving the heck out of these hot summer days.

We’ve frolicked at the beach. Lake AND ocean. Dominated the pool: swimming, sliding, jumping, jumping (and more jumping.) We’ve picked blueberries and made shoebox replicas with popsicle sticks and pipe cleaners. We’ve devoured more watermelons than we can count and way too much ice cream to admit to. We’ve watched fireworks and caught fireflies and somehow kept our skin from catching fire with all of our outside time. We’ve ogled a moose and ridden an Iron Dragon and discovered snakes in bushes.

So bring it, August. I’m not done with summer yet. Others are packing up the beach toys and setting up the homework stations, but I am still full-go summer. I have a rocky river to kayak and some rocks to climb and more blueberries to pick and more trips to the pool. I have miles to run and hot fudge to drizzle and a few more late nights up my sleeve.

And when we report for duty at the end of the month, all sun-kissed and light-haired and bruise-legged and sandy, you’ll see that we made the most of your fiery month. And the rest of the summer, too.

The Ride

She appears with a twinkle, and that pursed little smile she sports when she is trying to get away with something. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Surprisingly, I am. We ditch our shoes and head out to the dock, shifting our bottoms carefully so as to be at the very edge without being IN the water.

The early air is cool and the sky the color of macaroni and cheese. And the sun ripples on the channel waves as boats head out to fish. It is a perfect moment: communing with nature in a quiet hour with my not-so-little girl.

We hold hands and let our toes dance dangerously close to the water. We giggle. We watch geese and gulls and herons and wonder why the owl on the pole next door has not moved since the last time we sat together like this.

“I think he’s pretend, Mommy.”

And I marvel at this girl, so grown up in so many ways. The previous day we had spent at Cedar Point. She proved fearless, and I will never forget her gleeful look as she hung suspended over one hundred feet in the air before plunging sixty miles an hour on the giant arm of the Skyhawk. Or watched her with her cousin bounding from the Corkscrew three times. They even got to stand in line all by themselves. She conquered seven different coasters and countless other thrill rides.

But I laughed that she still wanted to ride the baby antique cars, the ones she had to stuff her long legs into and experience the radial circle go around and around and around. Seems less than thrilling to me. Or the balloon ride in Snoopy Land that takes young riders about three feet into the air in a similar practiced circle.

And that is where we are. Trapped between the pudgy toddler who fearlessly wanted to explore everything and the hazel-eyed long legged beauty with a wicked sense of humor. The girl that now drags her little brother into her lap to read to HIM instead of cuddling close to hear a story.

The girl that steals my breath with her questions and ideas, but still believes in magic and heaven and an owl on a pole who hasn’t moved in days.

And I cling to this morning on the dock tighter than she held to the Gemini. And the sky whitens and we keep giggling and I know that this is the best ride of all.

Cup of Patience

“She is at it again, this daughter of mine. She plunges like a pencil, writing her summer again and again with scissor kicks and flailing arms”. I wrote these words last summer a few weeks before the old Avon Lake pool closed for demolition and the three long seasons of reconstructive surgery began. After a seemingly endless wait, (think: “Mom, are we there yet?”) said daughter, her two brothers and I attended the opening aquatic center festivities a few weeks ago.

What a spectacular place to call home this summer. Don’t get me wrong. All of us are a little old-fashioned and each of my kids in turn has muttered the phrase “I miss the old pool.” But considering we have been there nearly every single day, we are definitely enjoying ourselves.

You’d have to see it to believe it. I couldn’t begin to describe it in print. But suffice it to say that there are slides for children of all ages, lots of places to swim and jump, and water water everywhere!

What I don’t understand are all the complaints I hear, and the ones City Hall is receiving. People are angry about the residency requirements and how many guests can be brought in. They think the lifeguards have been rude and the rules are unfair. But I’m not sure how you could possibly open a 4.2 million dollar swimming center and have everything run perfectly on day one. (Did I mention that the pool was UNDER budget and ON time? When does that ever happen?)

My family and I have had a pass for the last 3 summers and have spent a LOT of time at the pool. We were here last year on the Saturdays with only a few families. And the cloudy days. And the frigid days. And the blistering hot days where you can’t even move because there are so many people.

Considering the fact that my children and I have been to the pool so often, I have seen a plethora of lifeguards, staff members, and supervisors, as well as a variety of crowd conditions. Sure, there are some kinks to work out. But every lifeguard and staffer we have dealt with has been kind and professional. And all the employees are working hard to hammer out the rules, help the patrons follow the rules, and make the pool safe and enjoyable for everyone. With the sheer volume of customers and the overwhelming facility, I for one would applaud their efforts.

And let us not forget that most of the people working there are sixteen. They did not make the rules and they are just doing their best to do their jobs. A little kindness goes a long way, and should go both ways. No adult needs to lose their temper with a high school kid if they can’t get in the pool because they are not a resident (didn’t the residents foot the bill after all?) or because their kid is too short to ride the slides. The guards have worked hard through a lot of training and for the most part are very diligent.

There are some stand-outs of course. My kids will never forget the way Sam and Becky and Mike have taught them how to swim over the past few summers, and I love how the lifeguards get excited when their former students master a new skill. And Bridget and Mike’s friendly smiles and waves at the front desk make my kids grin from ear to ear each time we come in. There are Meghan and Erin who whisk my three year old from underwater at the end of the orange slide, and Greg the supervisor, who offers to swim with my son to make him less afraid during his swim test. I appreciate that sense of community, especially when my childrens’ lives are at stake.

The pool is meant for relaxing. And although it can be overwhelming at times, I do think it is a great asset for the city and a spectacular way to spend a summer day. Admission is cheap, the snack bar is economical, and the staff and lifeguards are friendly and well-trained. Let’s cut them some slack as they work out the kinks of the new digs. They are working hard to protect our children and provide some good clean fun.

Together for Eternity

This was a punch in the gut that knocked the wind right out of me. I was standing in front of my father’s grave about a week after the ninth anniversary of his death. (Things get so busy in the summer, and really he would want his grandkids at the pool rather than hanging out at a cemetery.)

This particular cemetery is beautiful though, filled with saplings and a pond where geese alight and my little boys try to frolic and swim. (They do not require concrete and slides, only water.) There is a fantastic bridge and a path for the kids to walk. I am glad that they like to come here.

We have many people to visit: my brother-in-law and an aunt and uncle on my husband’s side. All buried within ten yards of my own father. But that’s a story for a different day.

This day we stood near my dad’s grave to say a special prayer. And I saw that he had new neighbors. Not sure how else to say that. Always seems odd to me that you spend eternity laying next to total strangers.

But when I saw the names on the grave next door, I lost my breath. Erin and Andrew, buried together in one grave immediately next to my dad. It came to me instantly, the most tragic of stories from several months ago.

She was a high school student pulling out of her driveway one morning on her way to school, the most mundane of tasks really, when she was broadsided by a car speeding down the road. She died instantly and her little brother survived only one night. Two lives snuffed out in an instant, and now their legacy was there at my feet.

Couldn’t help but burst into tears right there. My kids have seen me cry here before. But this time it was not for my dad and my kids and all we had lost. I didn’t have the heart to tell them how young grandpa’s new neighbors were.

I just continued to stare at the names on the tiny crosses, graves too new for names etched in stone. I couldn’t wrap my brain around this. Not only the grievous unfairness of the dead children, but the fact that they were buried here, at least an hour from where they lived, and of all places, directly next to my dad.

And as I stand here, I grieve for their mother, too. I wonder if she comes to sob for her children as I come to lament my father. And I wonder if she imagines who is lying beside her children, so quiet in the earth like that which he gardened. And he with no grandchildren and they without their mother. Maybe, just maybe, there is symmetry of comfort in the great beyond.

My kids have long-since run to chase after butterflies. And I dry my tears. And I hope she knows what a great, gentle man lies next to her precious children for eternity. And if somehow that could help.

Let Freedom Ring

The significance of the day is not lost on me: a true independence day. I needed no sparklers, bottle rockets, or star-spangled singing this year. What I did need were my carefully tied shoes and a starter’s pistol. And some endurance and ability that I didn’t know I had.

It was a stormy night not so long ago when I ran for the first time. I will not forget those faltering, panicked steps, as I tasted the edge of running and I struggled to outrun the storm.


Today was a different story. The air was still. And hot. And filled with promise. I knew I could cover the distance. But I wasn’t sure how to do it in a pack, among hundreds of other runners working for a worthy cause. And I wasn’t sure how to quiet the doubting monsters in my head, the voices that said I was an imposter and not a real runner.

The road was long, pavement pounding in the early heat. I struggled to catch my breath. Never did hold on to it. Other runners stopped, or straddled neighborhood sprinklers as they jogged. And the merciless sun beat a fierce cadence as I ran.

But I did it. I ran, so I am a runner. It is simple as that. And I was happy to prove that this morning. Mostly to myself.

It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t pretty but I am sure it is faster than I have ever gone. And as of two months ago, it is something I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined. Not bad for a Sunday morning’s work.

Self-determination, freedom, liberty. I won them all today. And these are a lot more important and a lot longer-lasting than a show of fireworks and a snow cone.

Beyond my Back Yard

This is a strange kind of grief. Although it’s been nine years, I didn’t know him all that well. He was the man on the other side of the Wrigley field style fence in my back yard. The fence is covered with the most hardy ivy. I’ve spent nine hot summers trying to kill it; it claws through my garden and sneaks into my lawn. But it will not yield. Even as I waged my death blows to the creeping foe, part of me always worried that he wanted it on his side of the fence; and now I’m kind of glad the ivy never died.

This week, though, my neighbor did. Seventy doesn’t seem that old to me anymore, and I’m not even sure what happened, but I heard through the grapevine this week that he had died.

It was a strange relationship we shared. The fence is high and sturdy and with the ivy practically impenetrable. I never did see him much. Unless I was in my kitchen window and he was headed, shirtless, to the hot tub on his patio. I will always remember his wrinkled, sagging skin and tousled hair. I never saw his legs.

There was the summer of the Frisbee. My daughter was four then, and took every delight in chucking the darn thing over the fence whenever I turned my back to pull a weed or start the mower. Then we’d find it, tossed gently back on our side, the next time we went outside.

We didn’t talk much either. One summer he saw me digging up the grass to create a garden, quite near his sunny corner of my yard. He must have heard me sweating and cursing so close to the fence. He offered me his rototiller to make the job easier. I’d say that’s the only conversation we ever had.

Oh, I heard him plenty. He and his wife used to fight up a storm. One or both of them was hard of hearing, because they’d come at each other at megaphone volume and their insults would fly over the fence like a Cubbies home run. Fast. And hard.

The pair loved to be outside, and apparently didn’t work. They’d bring their television out to the back yard and watch re-runs of Homicide at top volume in the afternoons. They’d sip their cocktails under the faded umbrella and Wheel of Fortune would spin them through the evenings.

This week the noise from the other side of the fence has been markedly different. Laughter. And more laughter. Stories about setting fires and walking dogs. Do you want beer or wine? the newcomers hear. I hear his widow’s voice, somehow less sharp these days. Reminiscing with her many children and the siblings of her husband. It has been a weeklong wake. I do think they’re Irish. And the drinks and the stories continue to flow tonight.

But the television’s off. The hot tub is silent. And I am left here on my side of the fence with my grief. I hate to think that I could have been more for him, that I could have had a more active role in his life. But I’ve always felt that good fences make good neighbors. And I didn’t want to get too involved.

Now I realize I’ll kind of miss him, that presence in my back yard just beyond the fence. And as of now, I think I will just let the ivy grow as it will this summer.

Texas Angel

James Hunter. Richard Lowrie. Sam Baker. These men perform a morbid ballet of sorts in my head tonight. This trifecta has come inexplicably together to teach me a few things about life.

I first met James when I was a teacher at Firelands High School. He and I walked the same dingy halls, cursing the Tostado Pizza Day every Wednesday in the cafeteria and the grotesque animal odors coming from the Ag Science room. Although I never had him in class, I knew of his love for his family military tradition and his inquisitive nature. But fate intervened with his plans for a lifelong military career when he was killed this week in Afghanistan on his third tour of duty, serving as his unit’s photojournalist.

Last night I went out to forget. It seems I’ve waited a lifetime to meet one of Texas’ gems, singer-songwriter Sam Baker. Okay, it’s only been a year. But when his haunting, seasoned voice began, I knew that his music had the power to do more than just entertain.

“There’s a soldier. He’s in the way of harm. A girl holds a baby in a blanket in her arms. Boys laugh. Boys play.” Figures he would play “Baseball” first. It was difficult to listen to these words on the heels of the loss of yet another soldier. But somehow comforting as well. “Another Saturday comes and goes.” And life continues to blow.

The man and his music have power all right. I’m not sure if it’s the Texas boots and swagger or the piercing blue eyes or the way he closes his eyes to let the songs envelop him, but to watch Sam Baker play is to watch a man who is breathing life from every moment. And well he should. He almost didn’t make it himself. Caught on a train many years ago that was blown-up by terrorists, he watched those nearby him die and sustained many life-threatening injuries. The surgeries healed his body and I’m pretty sure the music healed his soul.

I know it was working on me last night.

Earlier in the day I had heard another story that was disturbing me. Richard Lowrie, an eighty-six year old man and husband for three and a half decades, was killed in a bizarre accident at a McDonald’s drive-thru. News accounts say he had gone to get his wife a cup of decaf coffee, dropped his glasses out of the window, and crushed himself when he reached out the door to retrieve them and accidentally hit the accelerator. A lifetime of love was shattered in an instant.

Sam had a song for that too. “Waves” tells the story of a man who has lost his wife of fifty years and goes to the ocean to write her name in the sand. The waves wash it away. “So many years, so many hardships. So many laughs, so many tears. So many things to remember. ‘Cause they had 50 years.” The first time you hear this song takes your breath away. And every subsequent time makes you want to breathe forever. And find true love.

Another song starts with a woman with a limp. “Don’t worry. It all turns out okay,” Sam chides the audience. And that is what strikes me about the music this night. He’s got the stories of the huddled masses. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He’s experienced it himself, and he’s a confessor who hears peoples’ stories at gigs throughout the country. These stories are his songs. And they aren’t always pretty. But they are always powerful.

James, Richard, Sam: these three men meld in my head. Like Dicken’s classic, they are my specters come to teach the lessons I need for the journey. And it reminds me of the song “Angels” that I didn’t get to hear Sam sing, but that speaks to his music and my own melancholy: “They ease all suffering. They heal all pain. Her angels come like healing rain. Love and angels conquer all.”

And the trick is to recognize the angels by their cowboy boots.

Two by Two

They are at it again, these mallards. Orange webbed feet sludging through a giant mud puddle of tall grasses. They join me every morning and I laugh because the pristine lake is a quarter mile away. I’d take the wide-open lake over a buggy, dirty puddle myself. But yes, I act like this too sometimes, can’t see the lake for the puddle. I get you, ducks.

It is nature day on the trail this morning. Everyone is moving two by two, like the famous ark scene, but without the rain. Or the imposing old man. As far as humans, I have the trail to myself: the cheese runs alone.

Two deer cross my path, eyeing me suspiciously. Would there be any other way, for the most majestic of creatures to see this humanoid huffing and puffing her way down the path? The deer must have really been wondering. They don’t move out of the way as I loudly approach. For a minute I am frightened: Bambi Attacks (Very Slow) Jogger. News at 11. But we make our peace as I run by, a place on the path for each.

There are two robins, two garden variety black birds, two cardinals, one the most astonishing of reds. They cavort and bounce in the morning’s warmth.

The sun rises through the trees and I can see the reddened sky over the lake. A glorious way to start the morning. My dad echoes in my head from miles away: “It's all part of nature, you see.”

Yep, he got it, set me on this path to look with a young girl’s wonder even when my knees are telling me I am not so youthful anymore.

I pass the deer again. They let me get closer this time. My own little audience watching me from atop the little hill where they stand. I am sure they are cheering on the inside.

Two birds overhead reflect the mirrored light of the new sun’s rays, all white and celestial on their undersides like that dove from the ark.

Once again I pass the puddle. The ducks join me on the path as I pass. And yes, I can run slightly faster than they can waddle. Another one of my dad’s favorite sayings comes to mind: “You with the webbed feet, get out of the pool.”

And then it hits me. The cheese really isn’t running alone after all.

Tip of the Iceberg

The look on her face was acute revulsion mixed with awe and horror. It was as though I was the train wreck and she could not look away. I couldn’t have surprised her more if I had pulled out an uzi and started shooting up the classroom. Sarah and I had to meet later that day for a writing competition. I suggested that she text me when she was close to the site. Then I watched her face flower into disbelief. She turned bright red and took a few steps back. She just could not grasp that her eighth grade teacher could text, much less suggest it as a means of communication. We had a good laugh about it later after the tournament, but I could tell that it was still too much for her to fathom.

I wonder what she and her classmates would do if they knew more. I suppose they don’t spend much time thinking about what their writing teacher does when she is not standing in front of them, or where she may have spent her time before the days of her teaching career began. They probably think I dropped bodily from the atmosphere into their classroom, and at the end of each school day I just box myself up until the next lesson. I bet I could really rock their worlds with a few of my juicy secrets. Or even the mundane ones.

Would they believe, for instance, that my dad was a repo man and I used to help him make investigative calls? He even found a car with a dead body in it once. Could they imagine me at the top of the Eiffel Tower with an American tourist named John, or running hand in hand with said tourist from the train station to the Louvre just before closing time? Could they picture me singing in a Dublin pub, or hitchhiking in the back of a white van, or herding cows that lived on my cousin’s farm in Ireland? They would probably also have trouble grasping that one night I drove to Niagra Falls and back with some friends, solely to chew grape Bazooka bubble gum in sight of the torrential horseshoe-shaped waters.

As I age, I suppose my dreams seem much more humdrum than the adventures of my youth. But if a kid thinks that me texting is outlandish, perhaps she would be surprised by other simple things as well. Like the fact that I have taken up jogging. Can’t really claim to call it running. Not yet anyway. But what if they could see me sweating on that path through the woods near my home? THEY might be the ones in need of resuscitation. What if they caught a glimpse of me dancing in the rain with my daughter, or building sand fortresses with my sons? Or if they could see me struggling to write, to express myself, to publish, to go after my dreams? We probably have more in common than they realize when I put a blank paper in front of them and watch them clamor for a muse.

There are other secrets. Places in my heart that I am sure would shock even me. And dreams that are just coming to light. It’s been a wild year so far and a time of great insight and change in my life. And face it. If I am honest, it really hasn’t been all that long that I have known how to text. So perhaps Sarah is not that far off in her shock. But really, if she and her classmates only knew what was lying underneath the still waters of the woman who stands in front of them, I do think they would be amazed.

And as I struggle to unearth the dreams myself, to forge the new paths that keep me moving forward with vision and strength, I am pretty amazed myself!

Weighed Down

The bag is still sitting in the corner. Its been there for weeks, stuffed between my dressers and the basket of unmatched socks in my bedroom. Apparently I am waiting for it to sprout legs and walk away by itself, but clearly that is not happening.

I have been working on this project for the past five months. The project of making a tinier, healthier me. I have cut calories, eaten more than my share of crisp cauliflower, and avoided the endless stream of goldfish crackers in my house. Then there are the workouts. I swear Jillian Michaels is trying to kill me. She and her 30 Day Shred have been tormenting me for well over thirty days now. I have done boot camps, pilates, and even a very difficult and suspicious routine dubbed Yoga Meltdown. Against my better judgment, I have even starting running.

But still the weight remains. Oh, I don’t mean the physical pounds on my body. Those are doing a pretty good job with their grand exit. Twenty-nine pounds and four ounces removed on this journey so far. Boy do I love the tenths place on that scale! And the clothing sizes, well, they have been dropping too. Down from size twelve to size eight, and even sometimes a six when the wind is blowing from the northwest and all the stars are aligned just so!

So what is the problem? Why is this bag of giant clothes still sitting in my bedroom? Why is it so difficult for me to give these clothes away, the old giant teacher sweaters and the pants that won’t stay up? I’ve basically halved myself, at least according to the size of my khaki pants. But the bag of clothes sits and waits for I’m not sure what.

Oh, I understand that I have some sort of block. Any grown woman who has been carrying around 30+ pounds for her entire adult life definitely has something to hide. Or to unearth. I’m just not quite understanding the why of it all. Oh, I get the mathematics. I understand how much my body needs to move and what needs to be consumed in order to lose weight.

But I can’t yet figure what my heart needs to do in order to feel like I deserve it. That I am worthy of breathing deeply and having my body respond. That I am capable of looking good in single digit clothing. That I can look forward to bathing suit season without cringing. That I can run and not collapse. That I can show off defined muscles.

It isn’t the money I spent on the clothes. Its not that I am attached to certain styles or colors. It is something to do with the nakedness, my need for covering. My fat did it for some many years. And these bulky sweaters are all I have left to hide behind.

But I think I’ve had enough. I really do. Spring is a good time for shedding: the detritus of winter, cocoons, fears. I want the fat to stay gone, and the oversized pants to find a new happy home. As for me and my new rock hard abs, you can find the likes of us racing down the beach and soaking in the sun soon enough. Without any old-fangled ideas or clothing weighing us down.

The Power

The air is heavy. Thick with humidity. And I don’t have a choice. I need to get out. It is a sharp longing, like my desire for oxygen or sleep. The storm is coming. Harsh rumblings pound closer and the sky glows an eerie shade of pink. I know I’ve got to move.

And it happens. Just like that. I am flying down the street, feet not quite sure what to do with newly found speed. I only run when being chased. It is a policy I’ve kept with well. But tonight is different. I need to get out fast.

The sidewalk meets my shoes haltingly, and my breath heats. I cannot believe this is me. Wouldn’t believe it at all if not for the faltering steps at the end of my own legs and the cymbals of my breath crashing in my ears.

I run as though my life depended on it. And as the storm pounds closer I can see that it does. The sky rips open top to bottom, like pale flesh covering thoracic cavity, and every bump in the road is illuminated. For an instant. Then the sky plunges to black and my feet struggle for balance.

I keep running. The wind chases me now. I turn the corner and head for home. I’m not in it for the distance tonight. It is too new and too raw. But now I see. There is more to me than I already know. Some strange strength is gathering like the roiling clouds blowing in from the west.

I reach my driveway just as giant raindrops start to fall. The wind and lightning torment each other to frenzy as I slam through my front door. And my chest heaves as I stare back into the night. Hail the size of kumquats is pelting soggy grass and the sky is lit up like the middle of the day.

The power of the storm is fierce. But there is other power here, too. And tonight I can finally see it as the lightning rages through the darkened sky.

Sands of Time

The night is perfect, if not a little too windy. One of those spring evenings on the lakeshore where you feel like you have finally cheated the long, harsh winter. I watch my son and daughter play in the sand at Lake Erie’s edge. He looks like Huck Finn, I think, as he saddles up to the world’s largest piece of driftwood. His giant flat feet slap the sand as he counts with his sister: “1, 2, 3, lift!” They are not quite strong enough to heave the driftwood back to sea. He insists on calling it the sea, this sandy-headed adventurer with the impish grin. It always makes me giggle.

The lake is crystal clear underneath the breakers that kiss the shore tonight. The algae has not yet had time to grow and the winter’s freeze has kept the water clean and pure so far. The air is sweltering and so odd for April. My kids run in and out of the water, being careful to avoid the rocks at the bottom. I dip my toes in and have to jump back immediately. The water is too cold for my adult sensibilities. But I watch them “accidentally on purpose” fall into the water in their clothes. Now they have no choice but to frolic and swim. It has been a very long time since I was the little girl, playing inside the break-wall and chasing waves with my father. We called this place Rocky Bottoms, a name we coined that still holds true now some thirty years later. Both the name and the place, it seemed, were like our own little secret.

I am grateful to see so many people enjoying the wonders of nature this night. It seems like so many nights I have been here alone. But tonight is different. There is a family of seven on the break-wall nearby. They spell out O-H-I-O for a picture, minus the baby who is busy eating sand. There is an older couple up top watching the action from a bench. The snack cooler between them gets some use before they shuffle back to their car. A burly young man uses the boat launch for his twenty-footer and a couple of jet skies throw their wake nearby. There are other families with sand buckets and young kids and older people with dogs and bikes. A few teen-agers giddy with the freedom of warm weather round out the scene. We are all reveling in nature’s best party, a sunset overlooking the lake on a perfect evening like tonight.

I can’t imagine a world where north wasn’t Lake Erie and I couldn’t hear the many moods of the water from my front yard a half mile away. I don’t know that I could subscribe to a life without Lake Effect Snow and the cooling summer breezes that keep temperatures sane in the deep heat. And I sure don’t think a childhood is complete without skipping rocks and getting sand in your shoes. And your hair.
And your heart.

Precious Moments

The calendar dictates that my spring vacation is over, but there are some moments that I would like to hang on to. It’s like the Climax song that I was infatuated with in high school. (And isn’t high school the perfect place for infatuations?) “Precious and few are the moments we two can share. And if I can’t find my way back home, it just wouldn’t be fair, cuz precious and few are the moments we two can share.” The academic world in which I live is ruled by the bell schedule and the clock. I start and end my day with a sharp jangling, and I constantly have my eye on the clock to get it all in, make everything fit, and get the charges out the door on time. And God forbid I am in the middle of a sentence, no matter how profound, when the lunch bell rings. No one will hear the end of it.

My home has a much different feel. Vacations are not governed by time. We wake and sleep in a more natural rhythm (although, let’s face it: two year old and natural rhythm are usually mutually excusive.) We sometimes start with a loose plan, but are willing to jump off the beaten path and go with the flow. I like it that way. And so while others traveled to far-off beaches and enjoyed sun and sand over vacation, my home and I enjoyed some stellar moments. I love these glimpses when time stands still and I can focus on being rather than doing.

So here is a glimpse of moments, in no particular order, that I would like to tuck away in my memory:

The look on Marty’s face, half-hidden by sun and helmet, as he streaked down the sidewalk on his bike. Faster than I thought possible, his legs pumped furiously and his giggles kept the rhythm of the beautiful moment!

The fit of giggles I encountered with some new friends and some old ladies. We happened upon a Ladies’ Guild meeting while waiting for a speaker, and I saw a glimpse of the future I am sure (hoping) I will never find. God help me if I dye my eyebrows brown and wear sandals and hose together, or feel the need to talk about the social excitement of wakes.

The scenes in my back yard watching my kids play with the neighbors. We have been through foods, fires and tornados this week: it was big for natural disasters. Even as I type this, there is a very serious happening with swords and spy gear on my front lawn.

The sweat dripping from my face and the strength in my body that I never knew I had. This spring is a time for re-birth, a time for me to re-construct my body and mind and take control. I like this feeling of power an awful lot.

The lilt of my youngest as he constantly croons: “Mommy, I want to tell you sumpthing.” The boy is a myriad of runny nose and sparkling eyes and freeform ideas. And let’s not forget the pteradactyl shrieks whenever someone does him wrong. And even when they don’t.

The feeling of semi-consciousness as I waken from a nap in my back yard. The sun was out, the warmest of breezes blowing, and the book I had been reading was laying cock-eyed across my chest. Perfection.

The ham. Oh that amazing ham times two houses and the potato salad and the twice baked potatoes and the chocolate-covered pretzels and the…..Well, you get the picture. Easter was not a good day for re-tooling my body, but perhaps my soul took a turn instead?

The amazement I feel when I watch my daughter read and how she opens four books and reads the first chapter in each with her little eyebrows knit in concentration. And then she moves on to chapter two and so on until my head is dizzy. Can’t imagine that I had a hand in her creation. Beautiful!

The knowledge that the best things really are what money can’t buy. The way my kids feel in my lap when we read “Maltilda” before bed. The pitter patter I hear at bedtime because they just want one more hug. The grins of accomplishment that come from jungle gyms crossed or art created.

Precious and few. It’s really true.

Old

When I am old I will wear bold prints,
Or perhaps a red pleather coat with golden shoes.
I might adorn a simple black dress with macramé and beads of many colors.
And dye my eyebrows the deepest muddy brown.

When I am old I will speak loudly and out of turn.
I will fall asleep upright in chairs and ramble on with no one listening.
I will adorn my bony fingers with giant shards of costume glass
And coif my blue-tinged hair with careful hand.

When I am old I will shuffle my feet
And get up slowly from my chair. I will dress to the hilt and
Always wear colored hose with sandals. I will murmur often.

When I am old I will always get my money’s worth and dine
Exuberantly at the table of snacks. I will even take some home in my purse.
I will be nosy and always have an anecdote about a grandkid,
And dig relentlessly for connections.

When I am old I will think that a short trip across town is as amazing
As man walking on the moon. But maybe on both counts I’ll be right.
I will eat the cake AND the brownies with icing.
I will know that the elevators won’t arrive until long after I am gone.
And I will be finally comfortable enough to simply be.

Too Much

It’s the old man at the deli counter that gets me. I’m waiting in line today, the kids behind me clamoring for donuts and cheese slices, and I happen to glance in his direction. He has been waiting quietly, head down, feet shuffling. My eyes take it all in with a glance, and I can’t help but stare at the brown dress shoes. Worn with work-out pants that zip at the ankles, it makes a strange sight. And I wonder who is not there to help him dress.

He is eyeing the containers for the take out foods, and even now I choke up as I recall. He just looks lost, his eyes like my son gets when he loses sight of me in a crowded room.

“May I help you?” the clerk finally comes to take his order.

“I’ll have a small tub of….of Grandma’s Potato Salad.” The words a bit halting, and his eyes still kiss the floor.

“May I help you, ma’am?” another clerk calls impatiently to me, and it is obvious that I had missed the first request.

“Ham, the one on sale. I’ll have a pound please.” But my eyes are drawn back to the man at the end of the deli as he shuffles away with his small tub of potato salad and mini-loaf of Italian.

I choke up as he passes by my mounded cart of groceries.

This has certainly been the month for grief and I to tango. In the past few weeks, two local police officers have died in the line of duty: one collapsed while running, an apparent heart attack victim on a foot chase, and the other was shot in the head several times while responding to a neighborhood dispute in a nearby town. The perpetrator was angry about a discrepancy over his fish pond, clearly a reason for snuffing out a life.

My friend’s dad died last week after a long, heroic battle with cancer. Hospice was there at the end, and the entire family was present to witness their father, business partner, and confidant breathe his last.

In Cleveland, a little girl close to my son’s age was killed by her mother; the little angel spent her last days in a motel bathtub being scalded by the mother whom Social Services had recently let back into her life.

Natural disasters fill the earth. I had barely registered the devastating earthquake in Haiti before I turned my prayers to Chile after Mother Nature detonated her latest there. Snowstorms and floods continue to wreak havoc in ravaged areas.

The world is filled with vats of grief; and surprisingly, I have no choice but to turn away. I just can’t take it all in. I simply don’t have enough emotion for it all. Perhaps it is self-preservation, a stoic wonderment, an unwillingness to rock my own world. I am content with the runny noses that never leave and the crushing snubs at recess. And the hangnails. This week I even had a bleeder.

I cannot feel everything; I am not a caustic woman, (unless you ask my students of whom I demand much) but the typical grief-worthy events do not grab me. It is only those moments, uncalculated and unexpected, that find me catching my breath and dabbing my eyes.

And so it is with the man at the deli. I have no idea of his circumstances; there is no way to tell if he is lonely or at peace. But somewhere between the zippered work-out pants over dress shoes, my heart is just a bit more broken today.

The Circus is in Town

"Mommy, mommy, mom, mom, mom, mom!!!” The two year old is insistent and incessant.

“What is it honey?”

“Ummmm….I forget.”

Meanwhile, his brother is sitting in the middle of the floor looking forlorn.

“What will happen when I fall through this trapdoor?” he queries.

“What trapdoor?”

“I just know this is a trapdoor and I am about to get sucked in.”

Cut to camera three where sister is doing her homework. She bites her lip and talks out loud as she fills out her paper: plants and animals that live in ponds.

“Water scorpion, muskrat, algae, dragonfly, flatworm, roundworm, leech,” she painstakingly copies.

“Mom, what’s a basscarp?” I stop her for a quick lesson on the beauty of commas. She is not amused.

“Mom, mommy, mom, mom, mommy.” He’s at it again. “I ride stop sign.”

“No honey, you are not allowed to ride your bike to the stop sign when you are two”

“Mom I just know it. I’m going to get sucked in. Will you catch me before I fall into the floor?”

I learned how to juggle in grad school. I have half of a technical theater degree from the University of Pittsburgh, and since I am not currently blessed with enough time to play with power tools and hang light grids, the juggling is all I’ve got left.

And boy does it come in handy with three kids and their various problems on a random Thursday night. I started with balls and haven’t progressed much from there. Unless you count the kids and the myriad questions/problems/wonderments at any given moment. No knives or flares of fire for me though. I’ll leave that to the professionals. And I have to sing that circus song. Always. Or I can’t get the rhythm right. “Da, dadada da dada dad a da.” You know the one I mean.

I laugh when I think back to how much I didn’t know then. How stage managing a show seemed so difficult and all-consuming. Theatre’s got nothing on the “mom, mom, mommy” crowd.

I like this role. Don’t get me wrong. But gone are the days when I could do just one thing at a time. I no sooner get this thought into my frontal lobe when I hear the familiar refrain:

“Mom, Mo-om!!” The dramatic daughter cries when I am busy talking Marty away from his imaginary trap door. “I just got nail polish on my face.”

I look up in time to see the bright green smear covering most of her right cheek.

“Just tell them it is your pond visual aid,” I quip. "Algae."

And her perfectly placed seven year old glare tells me clearly that I have dropped the ball.

Pop Goes the World

“Mom, blow a bubble! Please! Please!”

It all started so simply, my son dancing around the living room until I did his bidding. But by now the bubbles have me. I can’t get them out of my mind. My son has a huge obsession with gum chewing and is constantly begging me to blow bubbles. He sits patiently on my lap as I chew, waiting for the bubble to expand and for his chance, if quick enough, to pop the gum all over my face.

These bubbles have taken hold, and I can’t stop. First it was soap bubbles. I love blowing bubbles, hearing the giggles of my children as they chase the soapy spheres through the yard. And as I started thinking, I remembered a night about two decades ago when I was blowing soapy bubbles outside my freshman dorm on a Saturday night. And no, I had not been drinking. It sure was fun, though, to see the looks and antics of the people who had been drinking as they chased my bubbles through the street!

My mind flits to Macbeth’s three witches and my ill-remembered “Double, double toil and trouble” as the cauldron bubbles. They were wishing a double dose of bad wishes on the man himself as they stirred their pot. I suppose it is no coincidence that I have this memory as I watch my own three little monsters stirring a pot of mud, snow, wood- chips and goop in the fire pit with their plastic golf clubs and giant sand shovels . They are out enjoying the barest, earliest moments of almost-spring and I laugh as I watch them dig through mounds of snow to find the tiniest scraps of dirt. I am sure from watching these antics that the spring’s first worm farm cannot be far behind.

And speaking of sleeping with the fishes, I can’t lose these pictures I have in my head of floating long-haired women with the last of their carbon dioxide floating as bubbles to the surface. Perhaps I have read one too many mystery stories, or maybe I am the long-haired heroine, swamped and flailing and fighting to the surface. I am accused like the witches in Salem. I always loved those odds. If you lived you were a witch and would be hung. If you died you would be proven innocent. But still you’d be dead. Sometimes that sounds pretty familiar.

Bubbles and more bubbles. The financial crisis of bubble mortgages. And now it turns out that Siberia’s frozen sea-bed is emitting fierce greenhouse gasses and bubbles that are going to advance global warming. Certainly not all child’s play around here.

Life on the bubble. That is me at this moment. Bouncing, bounding, fluttering, flooding, drowning, popping.

Sometimes Gold Can Stay

Frost knew it. Ponyboy knew it. Today my boys and I know it too. Nature’s first green really is gold. The path through the Metroparks is still covered with slushy snow. The tall trees won’t let the sunlight through to melt it quite yet. But the sun is warm and my boys are so giddy in their sweatshirts. We run. We collect sticks. We marvel at animal waste. There is so much to see in this newly unlocked world.

We follow deer tracks through the slush and see the animals themselves in the distance. It is a perfect moment. One buck has already lost his horns in anticipation of new summer growth. We spy some daffodils popping through the soil. The eldest climbs a fallen log wedged in between two older trees. He goes beyond where I can reach him with the proudest of grins. Nature is growing all around me. His little brother toddles up after him, still clutching my hand. He is no longer a baby. Frost again. They are only so an hour. This fresh day, just this side of spring, sprouts newness from many angles.

And there is a sense of history here too.

“Grandpa used to take me to the woods to gather sticks,” I tell them.

“Like these?” Marty bellows, clutching a whole arsenal in his dirty hands.

“We used to balance on logs and ride them like horses,” I remember. “We even made one our pet and named her Henrietta.”

Marty’s wide eyes show he doesn’t quite believe me. I’m sure he cannot picture his mother as a little girl. Sometimes I can barely remember it myself.

We follow the youngest on his makeshift path through the woods. He is looking for a log that is not quite so high so he can copy his big brother.

“Dis one, mommy. Dis one.” I hold his hand as he carefully crosses, his little eyebrows knit in concentration and his tongue sticking out. He is a marvel, this one. His language is unfurling like the closed buds that will open in a few short weeks. He’s grown a temper. And a sense of humor. His eyes twinkle mischievously as a matter of course. And he beams when he completes the log crossing.

Meanwhile, Marty finds another large fallen tree. He clamors aboard and straddles it with glee. I can see his antics out of the corner of my eye. Hatless cowboy wonder today, prodding and poking his imaginary horse. The horse is decaying; he nudges it with a thin branch as he plays.

“Giddy-up, Henrietta,” I hear him shout through his giggles. Sometimes gold can stay.

A Mother's Pain

The lone carton of French vanilla coffee creamer in his hand tonight broke my heart. I recognized his face walking sullenly towards me as I rounded the last row of the grocery store.

I’m always in the dairy aisle when I lose my mind. I can navigate the rest of the store, but somewhere between the 50,000 yogurt choices and light vs. fat free sour cream, I wave the white flag. Today was no different. My two-year old son had been remarkably patient, but still, he’s two. A patient two year old is a bit like a serene polar bear. An oxymoron at best. A disastrous tantrum every other time.

Pierce walked quickly, and I knew where he was going before he ever opened his mouth. He is the father of the sickest young person I have ever known. I taught her last year. I loved her smile and the shy way she painted her nails for her demonstration speech, and the way her friends flocked to her at lunchtime. But she is really sick. It started in fourth grade, an autoimmune deficiency disease so rare that the doctors can’t even figure out how to treat her. She is in ninth grade now, and even though the school year is three-quarters over, she has only attended school nine days.

She has spent the last two straight months at Rainbow Babies and Children’s Hospital, where doctors struggle to find out why she won’t stop throwing up. She has been on a feeding tube for the last three weeks. And she still can’t stop throwing up.

“Kimberly needs her coffee cream,” he says, after a mumbled hello. And its not the two year old that is crying in the dairy aisle this time. I imagine this mother, sitting powerless night after night, and it is a moment I almost can’t bear. The horror of tubes and sterility and doctor upon doctor is too much: the gourmet creamer the smallest of favors in a sea of anguish.

In a way I have walked this path. As a daughter, I have supported my father through four straight months of hospital convalescence and a series of surgeries, and helped my mother wage her battle on cancer. I know what its like to eat in hospital cafeterias and sit endlessly at bedsides and rush home to take a quick shower before the next shift begins. But as a mother, I don’t know that I could have survived the last six years, and I selfishly pray that I will never have to find out.

Where does she get the strength to breathe and smile and try when her heart is breaking and her arms are powerless? The most precious gift of all, a beautiful daughter, and no way to wrap her tight and keep her safe. This is surely any mother’s worst nightmare.

Embarrassed, I fumble to hide the antibiotic prescription that I just had filled for my daughter and her earache. It broke my heart last night to hear my daughter’s sharp cries of pain. But it was only one brief night. And the antibiotic will quickly deliver relief.

We chat for a moment more, I offer my support, and watch Pierce hurry to check out with his one item in order to join his wife at the hospital. The image of that gourmet creamer will stay with me for a long time. And I’m sure my heart will continue to break as I return to my comfortable home to hug my kids tight.

A Dream Achieved

What happens to a dream deferred, wrote Langston Hughes for all of the freshmen English students in Ohio to ponder. Does it fester? Does it burn? I remember (vaguely) learning this poem at age fourteen. And I remember years and years of teaching it to youth who never doubted that their dreams would certainly come true.

Good questions, I think. I remember always feeling so bad for the speaker. What if somebody stood in the way of his dreams? What if he never followed his passion or achieved his ultimate desires? But now I have a new question. What if he did?

What happens to a dream achieved? And likewise the dreamer? What does it mean to let loose, to reach for it, to get what you have been hoping for? I think it scares the hell out of me. Then what? What comes next? And after that?

I don’t think I’m alone in my fear. I think that is why the world is trapped on the couch watching Survivor and Seinfeld re-runs. I don’t think it is so much that we are afraid to fail as that we are afraid to succeed. Perhaps people don’t even dream anymore because then we would have something new to avoid. Better to just live vicariously through awkward singers and dancers, and even worse, runway models.

What if? What if my dreams came true? Then where would I be? Then I might have to create a new goal. Take a step (or a 5K jog) outside my comfort zone. Find something new to complain about.

We love our complacency because it is comfortable. And it does not reject us. Sometimes chasing dreams leaves us with mud on our coats and doors slammed in our faces. It makes us doubt who we are. It makes us doubt who are friends are and what our talents are.

I hate to get preachy, but really. Why don’t I just step up and hit one out of the park? Because I am scared. There are too many heavy loads for me. I feel trapped before I even start. But why?

For instance, I’ve carried around twenty or thirty extra pounds for my whole adult life. Do I really love butter that much that I can’t strive to be the best that I can physically? Do Oreos truly speak to my soul?

Or how about my (insert participle here) teaching, writing, parenting, and learning inertia? Would it be so hard to get off the couch and sign up for a class or play checkers with my kids or make a dynamite syllabus? Apparently, the answer is yes.

I end up disagreeing pretty vehemently with Hughes at the end of his piece. Does it explode? Nope. A dream deferred? What happens to that is WORSE than an explosion. A trickling, a drizzling, a fading maybe, but there is not enough passion for an explosion.

Fading is good for sunsets at the end of the day. Trickling is good for bubbling brooks traversing tiny falls. But these are not good enough for me. What happens to a dream achieved? We’ll just have to see about that.

Dear Bluebird

You’ve visited twice now, nestling your round little body snugly in the young branches of my crab-apple tree. And each time it is as if someone was staring hard through my window, boring his eyes into my body, willing me to look up. I have startled from my reading and typing to find you sitting just so outside the glass. But when I glance your way, you are not even looking at me but are lost somewhere, facing south, and resting on my branch.

You are not supposed to be here. You prefer grasslands, they say, and the state of Vermont. I can offer you neither, but still you come to my window frame. I have never seen you before, only your wild, awful brother the blue jay, who is not even a brother at all. And it is February. Shouldn’t you still be vacationing somewhere, eating tropical grubs with umbrellas lanced into their backs? Here, the drifts of snow in my yard still nearly reach the branches where you huddle, and I can’t imagine that there are many insects for you to enjoy.

“It’s all part of nature, you see.” That’s what my Dad used to say when trying to explain why the birds came back when the snow was still covering the ground or the crocus flowers bloomed long before spring. Bluebird, you know something that I cannot possibly fathom. Suddenly you and your fellow birds sing me awake on these cold winter mornings when I had become so accustomed to the quiet force of the snow.

Now here you are, a harbinger, when my faith has just about given out and my heart has grown as heavy as the icy sludge I shovel. Spring will come. Your presence assures me.

My dad used to call my sister “Birdie”, and claim that the northern cardinals calling “birdie, birdie, birdie” were singing just for her. I’m not sure where that nickname came from but I remember the day my mom found a pile of birdseed behind her door and the tell-tale evidence that my sister had eaten some. Perhaps that is where it all began.

My own children feasted in secret on bouillon one day, mistaking the cubes’ bright golden wrappings for candy. No nicknames for them, just a few giant glasses of water to wash down the sodium deluge. And the youngest still remembers: “Dat candy taste yucky, mommy.”

But I digress. Somewhere between the winters of my childhood and the hidden birdseed and the fresh adventures of my fledglings lies a secret. It is etched in my heart as sure as the natural rhythm of the bluebird that appears on a branch in my yard. There is a connection here.

It is locked somehow in my baby’s simple nods as answers to questions that require a choice. “Seany, do you want ham or turkey?” He nods his head with a twinkle in his eye. His grandfather did the same thing. But how could my young son possibly know that? My dad drove me batty for years answering questions that way, and now it is my son’s turn. It makes me laugh and marvel.

Somehow, bluebird, you understand this too. Your knowledge has been passed down in the muscle memory of many generations, even if you are a little off track this year. Perhaps Vermont this winter is too snowy even for you.

Before you flutter away, I grab my youngest so he can see. “Burdie, mommy.” He lunges as though the window will give way and he will palm a new pet. You turn slightly at my son’s squeal and then stare in the window at us both. I hold him close as he squirms to reach for you and you lift yourself gently off the branch; it’s all part of nature, you see.

Melting Ice

“Wahoo!!!” they yell as they race to the cul de sac where the snowplow’s giant gift awaits. The snow goes flying as the kids scramble up the hill to release some pent up energy after a long day of school. I kind of wish I could join in.

Watching from the dining room window, I see a King and Queens of the Mountain, clamoring for position on a surprisingly warm January day. Like my sisters and I played so many years ago, pushing each other off giant mounds of wood chips or top soil or snow, whatever my father’s delight for the day.

On today’s mountain, I can see a reflection of those same smiling faces, but I am too far away to hear the yips of delight and the screams of the three youngsters at play. They aren’t really my own children, but they grow in my heart and on this pile of dirty snow. They are like tender shoots of new connections, forged by mashed potatoes and macaroni and the earth’s most giant muddy sand box.

The oldest girl is a quieter version of my pushy daughter, but comes out of her shell with her siblings when she thinks no eyes can see. Her brother frolics like MY son, a few months different in age and not so much in attitude. And the youngest girl, a sprite from the sea who is just a half stroke behind, races up the hill on the heels of her siblings.

All around them, soggy green grass struggles to right itself after the weight of the snow and its melting. The worst kind of dingy, trapped between the beauty of freshly-fallen flakes and the electric green of spring. But the kids don’t mind. They make snow-balls striped with brown and hurl them and each other around the hill.

And as most afternoons of play on mountains of snow end, an injury ceases the game. A trip on the snow pile and a face plant in the muddy ice pushes the eldest into role of mother as she shuttles her youngest sister the few driveways back home.

And I see in her the tenderness of my own daughter in times of need. The stubbornness and bravado of a first grade girl melts like the snow when a sibling cries. And the dull green grass they trample on their way back home echoes the promise of spring. For them and for their mommies. Spring will erase the giant snow mountain and the cold in our hearts, and it will be a springboard as these tender shoots continue to grow.

Happy Birthday Dad

Today is the seventy-fifth anniversary of his birth. And I mark it tonight, not with cake and balloons and song, but with a quiet moment of thanksgiving. If this were a wedding anniversary, it would be celebrated with diamonds. That is the traditional gift for a well-lived tandem ride of such length.

But I suppose it fits us too, my dad and I. The word diamond is Greek, and best translated to “unbreakable”. And that makes sense in my unbreakable broken heart tonight. Love is stronger than death, and diamonds themselves. It is tested in fire and buried in earth.

And I am thankful through these tears that on a cold, cold night three quarters of a century ago, he shuffled onto this mortal coil. Thankful for the lessons, and the love, and the bushels and bushels of memories in my unbreakable broken heart.

White as Death

There’s no place colder than a cemetery in January. It is one of his adages that always sticks in my mind. And today I feel its truth. Every part of me is numb. And for grief like this, that is probably a good thing. We are here in this windy tundra because of the voices. They would not leave him alone. And after nearly a half-century of fighting them, the man within the silver coffin finally flew the white flag.

There is a lot of white today. Snow covers the ground and the roads, and a white pall covers the coffin. White tissues are packed together like snowballs in mourner’s fists. It has been nearly a week since a bottle of white pills and a hastily scribbled note ended it all.

There is nothing pure or virginal here or in the choices he made, as all the white might suggest. But the truth is obscured today; this white blanket of snow the canvas, a wretched hole ripped by a backhoe that gouged the frozen earth nearby. I can’t make it whole again, make the piles of frozen dirt fit back together as they should. And I don’t know where to put these feelings; I am but a marginal mourner at this winter sacrifice .

There is something here for me though. Not sure that I can thaw my brain and toes and heart enough to let it in. Spring is a better time for learning, for lessons and life to rain and pour and flow, saturating my stoic soul; no choice but to let it all in as it rises above its banks.

But the deep freeze of winter is harsh beyond its winds. And today I am numb to all that I must know. Like freezing water expands, my clumsy body and limping mind are no match for these giant questions.

But I know something of pain. As we leave the cemetery, I pause the procession to jump out and right my father’s fallen wreath. He has known eight frigid Januarys in this place, and I shake the snow off the Christmas bow and evergreens fading to yellow before placing them on his stone. Nothing lasts. Or so it seems.

Until later when the flames of the fire light my house and the wood crackles in my memory and heats my room and my frozen limbs. And in the fire’s dance I know my father’s love and my children’s kisses and the quiet peace that escaped the man we buried today.

A New View

“Mom, look at that giant chimney! That’s the biggest chimney I’ve ever seen,” my partner in crime screamed from the back seat. So much for our covert spy mission. The chimney epiphany was quickly followed by an equally boisterous commentary on a landing plane and the Cleveland skyscrapers and one of those dancing floodlights he called a “stick light”.

“POW, POW POW” he bellowed, as we approached Dead Man’s Curve, shooting his giant imaginary gun as the mini-van rumbled over the strips. “Mom, I shot the Martians!” I could only assume the Martians were the flashing lights urging motorists to slow down. I had a lot to learn as a partner in this spying spree.

The parking garage was the perfect structure in which to continue our game. Marty marveled at the automatic arm that lifted as we paid to allow us in. And there were lots of dark corners for bad guys and monsters to hide as we found a spot to park. We slammed out of the car and bounded up the steps hand-in-hand, just the two of us, for our special night.

His demeanor changed when we entered the museum. There was something about the dimmed lights and the men in the blue blazers that immediately snapped him to attention. I let him lead the way and he tip-toed cautiously to what interested him. He led me through the cavernous rooms of the museum and paused in front of many of the paintings. I was surprised that he would have so much patience for the old Renaissance portraits and the winged angels.

He spent an awful long time staring at American painter Gilbert Stuart’s picture of a woman named Elizabeth Beltzhoover Mason. I’m not sure if he was admiring her well-endowed chest or shopping for a new mommy, but it took me a while to prod him away.

Salvador Dali’s “Dream” also held his attention. What five-year old boy wouldn’t like the idea of ants crawling on someone’s face and bulging eyelids? Although the painting is known for its Oedipus undertones, I’m kind of hoping he didn’t notice those.

And he cracked me up when he took one look at Lee Krasner’s “Right Bird Left” and muttered “Looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” He was also notably unimpressed with Sean Scully’s “Stay”. I can’t say that I blame him. It looked like a whole bunch of black paint thrown on canvas to me too!

Art appreciation still left him plenty of time for his spy games. The escalators were the perfect transportation for a pair of secret agents, and we went up and down between floors a number of times.

“What IS this?” he cried on more than one occasion. And the items that he found were things I would have never noticed in a million years, like the ornate iron grates covering the heating ducts. He spent a good, long time staring into the walls, trying to figure out where the ducts ended up. The men in the blue blazers were getting nervous when he was lying on his stomach in the corner, with his eye to the ornate metals like a microscope.

“Look at me, mommy!” he giggled in a stage whisper, trying to keep a straight face. He had tucked himself into a crevice in the wall and was standing with posed arms as still as a statue. “The bad guys will never find me here.” I guess they call that becoming one with your art.

I loved watching his face as he entered Armor Court, an entire room full of weaponry and armor. He stood stoically and stared open-mouthed for a moment, and then promptly plopped on a bench, whipped out his spy notebook and pen, and drew his own version of the knight on the horse in the middle of the room, part of it in invisible ink.

He put the museum map to good use too. He continuously folded and unfolded it and pointed at vague spots on the paper. Most of his time was spent looking for the escalator symbols and trying to find new exits and entrances to carry out his missions.

From medieval to modern, he liked it all. He was mesmerized by the “moving curtain” picture, and we spent quite a few minutes trying to figure out exactly how it worked. The giant tube of toothpaste on the podium really caught his eye, as well. James Bond would be so lucky to have THIS much modern art with which to clean his teeth!!

And he really liked the pencil-thin canon he tried to mount like a motorcycle. Now that would make a great means of escape when the going got tough. He shuffled quickly away when the tall guard gave him the evil eye.

We left the building like spies on a mission, examining everything from the pile of bricks for museum construction to the leftover piles of snow near the walkway. Our adventure drew to a close and I must say Marty was equally enthralled with Dead Man’s Curve on the way home and the dinosaur sprinkles when we stopped for ice cream. He doesn’t need a museum to be captivated by the world around him. But it sure was nice for me to see the world of the museum through his eyes and to enjoy being a secret agent for an evening.

Just a Speck

The Natural History Museum is the place to go for a good cry. Or to get knocked down a peg or two if you find yourself boasting too much self-esteem. Today’s visit reminded me vividly of just how small and insignificant I really am. But come to think of it, as long as it’s not a mealtime, my children offer me the exact same service, actually. Of course I am neither small nor insignificant if I am filling their bellies! It’s just the rest of the time when I am doing terrible motherly things like asking them to clean their rooms or to share a coveted toy.

One sign in the exhibit says, “The lunar footprints will last a million years.” And considering that I have left no lunar footprints, and never will, I am more than a little depressed. I can’t even ride in the passenger seat of a Taurus without feeling nauseous, so I am sure that a space shuttle is no place for me. And so my footprints will not last a million years. I can’t even get my moisturizer to last more than a few minutes, so I can see that making a mark with my footprints or my words that might last a bit of time is an astronomical feat.

Speaking of astronomy, I made the mistake of watching a planetarium show today, which ensured me that the sun is the tiniest fragment of the Milky Way Galaxy and the Milky Way Galaxy is only one of many galaxies in the universe. And I personally am barely a blip in a city in a state in a country on a globe that cannot possibly compete with the vastness of space. And who knew that Jupiter was 1,000 times as big as the earth? This joint is huge! So I suppose that means I can stop worrying about the pile of laundry on the basement floor that never seems to get done.

And then there are the dinosaurs! The Cretaceous Period boasts tyrannosaurus rex, and here I am, standing in front of an actual dinosaur that lived 68 million years ago; boy do I feel small! Literally and figuratively. Makes my problems seem a bit insignificant. I’m sure I’m not the first human to worry about making ends meet or fretting about making her way in the world. And I can almost hear the echo of the dinosaur “Hey lady, you think YOU got problems?”

The bones are here of animals long dead and creatures almost forgotten. People, even, and their jaws and skulls tacked up on the wall next to the gorillas and the chimpanzees. Have I gotten much farther than this? Sure I am a bi-ped and can speak clearly and write my language, but do I have anything more to show of my life than these hapless bones on the wall?

It’s the 68 million dollar question really. What separates me from these animals, the stuffed brown bear or the mastodon or Irish Elk? How have I evolved, from the place that I have started? And most importantly I think, what will I leave behind when my flesh dissolves and my spirit flies? What is it that I want to leave?

Night at the Museum

The giant hall seemed endless. And with the on-going construction at the museum, it truly was. Raised ceilings and extra-wide hallways were necessary for transporting the precious art and artifacts, some thousands of years old. Marty and I walked hand-in-hand and followed the giant circles that marked the garbled way to the exhibitions. Our long- awaited date night was here.

He had prattled non-stop from our home on the west side all the way to the Cleveland Museum of Art. As one of three children in a very busy family, date night with mom was a big deal. And although I couldn’t get him to dress the part and extract himself from his Star Wars Lego sweatsuit, we both knew that tonight was going to be a big deal.

He just sees the world as an artist, I think. And I thought our destination was the perfect place. But we didn’t even get to the museum before he was obsessing about color and shapes. “Mom, look at that giant chimney! That’s the biggest chimney I’ve ever seen,” he screamed from the back seat of the mini-van. That was quickly followed by commentary on a landing plane and the Cleveland skyscrapers and one of those dancing floodlights he called a “stick light”. He liked Dead Man’s Curve the best. A feat of engineering folly, Dead Man’s Curve is preceded by rumble strips and yellow flashing lights and a great deal of fanfare as far as a little boy is concerned. Even the parking garage amused him.

His demeanor changed when we entered the museum. There was something about the dimmed lights and the men in the blue blazers that immediately snapped him to attention. I let him lead the way and focus on what interested him; I sure am glad I did. He was tickled by so many things, roughly in this order of importance: the escalators, the ornate iron grates covering the heating ducts, the automatic door to enter the statuary room, the entire room full of knight armor, the “moving curtain” picture, and the giant tube of toothpaste on the podium in the contemporary area. In the Armor Court, he plopped on a bench, whipped out his own little notebook and pen, and drew his own version of the knight on horse in the middle of the room. He noticed things I would never have seen, like the pencil-thin canons in the hall outside the Armor Court and the peepholes depicting the stages of construction in the walkway. But he kept going back to the escalators; my little artist already bouncing between his need for form versus function.

He led me through the cavernous rooms of the museum and paused at many of the paintings as well. I was surprised that he would have some patience for the old Renaissance portraits and the winged angels with Jesus motifs. He spent an awful long time staring at American painter Gilbert Stuart’s picture of a woman named Elizabeth Beltzhoover Mason. I’m not sure if he was admiring her well-endowed chest or shopping for a new mommy, but it took me a while to prod him away. Salvador Dali’s “Dream” also held his attention. What five-year old boy wouldn’t like the idea of ants crawling on someone’s face and bulging eyelids? Although the painting is known for its Oedipus undertones, I’m kind of hoping he didn’t notice those. And he cracked me up when he took one look at Lee Krasner’s “Right Bird Left” and muttered “Looks like a bunch of scribbles to me.” He was also notably unimpressed with Sean Scully’s “Stay”. I can’t say that I blame him. It looked like a whole bunch of black paint on canvas to me too!

Our night at the museum drew to a close and I must say Marty was equally enthralled with Dead Man’s Curve on the way home and the dinosaur sprinkles when we stopped for ice cream. He doesn’t need a museum to be in touch with the vivid colors and strong shapes of his world. But it sure was nice to see the world of the museum through his eyes.

Sensitive Souls

My ears are still ringing. And I can still feel the pounding of the drums in my chest. When I close my eyes, I see long fingers pounding the heck out of a beautiful guitar. I didn’t expect to love it, really, this heart-rending display of rock and roll. But I did. Alejandro Escovedo rocked the Beachland Ballroom last night in Cleveland, a feat he’s been pulling off with audiences across the country for as long as I’ve been alive. I’m not sure how he does it night after night in city after city, climbing into a giant white van after bleeding his soul into the crowd. But it sure is fun to watch the magic unfurl on the stage.

He doesn’t look much like the aging rocker I had pictured. He doesn’t even quite look like the Mexican that he is, somehow bearing a more Asian countenance. But none of that matters when he and the Sensitive Men hit the stage. I just love to watch the chemistry, imagine the jokes these guys tell each other on the long empty miles of highway, see the smiles and chords shared in front of the crowd.

They play with all their heart. Sounds trite really, but you can see the passion and feel the earth-shaking dreams in the beat of the drums and the fierce strumming of the guitars. The bass player is the one that spooks me. He looks like a true rock-n-roller, with a giant wingspan and the longest guitar I’ve ever seen. He plays stoically almost, pulsing the background beat for the show without fanfare and with only the occasional hint of a smile.

He is standing, as it turns out, in the exact spot on the stage where just six months ago another amazing musician stood. Amy Farris, an extraordinary violinist and angelic singer, played the Beachland in July with Dave Alvin and his Guilty Women. Three months after she moved me with an amazing show, she was dead.

I can’t get the picture out of my head. The pale dark haired rocker morphs into the red headed violin dynamo before my eyes. And I realize again just how much these traveling musicians have to give up to follow their fantasies. Apparently, earth-shaking dreams are not enough, even to keep you alive. It swirls in my head tonight: the way these musicians give their all to audiences large and small throughout the country. How they do the only thing they know how to do, without apology and without settling for something less. And how the road is so lonely and the night so dark sometimes. The roar of the crowd is something, but I marvel that it could keep you going night after night in city after city.

There is something very special here, though. In the pounding rock and roll. In the banter with the audience. In the living of the dream. Something special enough to get Alejandro to the next night and the next city and the next dream.

Students of Winter

“When the student is ready, the teacher appears.” Silly me, I always thought the Buddhists were talking about ME being the teacher and some poor hapless youngsters playing the role of students. But a lot of snow and a little hill in my front yard turned that all around for me this week. It is my thousand-dollar hill, the mound of dirt leftover from the sewer pipe that cracked in my front yard earlier this fall. Landscapers say I’m not supposed to level it until it survives the winter because it is so apt to sink. So it sat like an ugly serpent this fall until finally the snow fell. Snow covers a multitude of sins, and it has somehow created a gently rolling, pristine mini-hill in our yard. Like a perfectly coiffed golf course in winter view, a far cry and a great improvement from the ugly mound of rocks and clay. It is now fully covered with pitch white snow, as my children call it, which came with a vengeance in the first week of January. We have no choice but to enjoy it.

And this is the place where my children come in. Because I felt I had a LOT of other choices for what to do with a snowy day where the thermometer did not top 17 degrees, it never occurred to me that playing on the mound of snow would be so much fun and so energizing. Reading, sitting by the fire, making soup: these are the things that come to my mind when the temperature falls. Purposely going out and frolicking in the white stuff? Not so much.

But my three little darlings see snow and only ONE thing comes to mind. PLAYTIME! The other day after school, they were clamoring to get outside. High of 17 that day and scarcely a mile from the winds of Lake Erie, I somewhat reluctantly began the process, barking out orders to three different soldiers with varying capabilities of attention. First, go potty of course. How many times have I completed the entire process of snow readiness, only to discover that a little love has to use the bathroom? Now, it is always first on the list. Then, they hurriedly don snowpants, boots, coats, hats and the ever-difficult mittens. I am called on to assist to various degrees, but somebody’s zipper is always stuck, or the thumb-hole of a mitten stubbornly unwilling to work. Finally, I open the front door and they tumble outside like so many flopping fish thrown on a slippery deck.

And then the magic begins. They grab sledding discs and a flimsy red plastic sled they insist on calling a toboggan and you would think they were at the top of K2 with all the excited chatter and the looks of delight on their faces. They spend an hour, at least, playing King of the Mountain and sliding down the two-foot hill. The neighbor kids come join in the fun and there are smiles all around.

I watch mesmerized from the window, wondering all the while how such a little hill can bring so much fun. It hits me then. These memories of childhood when I would play for hours on a pile of woodchips or wear myself out making snow angels in the yard. A trait I am glad they inherited, this delight in little things and the ability to make a mountain out of a mole hill. Literally. I miss it. That carefree feeling of days spent exploring and living in the moment. And I envy their delight.

The next day I know what must be done. We follow the same procedural frenzy to don our winter clothing, and then head to an actual sledding hill near our house. They love it. All three of them. I marvel as they giggle and fly down the hill and watch their little legs trudge their rosy-cheeked bodies back to the top. They find the wildest hill quickly and take turns in the aptly named ice chute. The baby (who is almost three and really not a baby anymore) rides down on his stomach and steals my breath. His is taken by a bout of giggles as he sails down the hill. The fun ends with hot chocolate all around and the promise of more sledding to come.

A few days pass and we start the madness again. Armed with snow pants and our sleds, we decide to hit a bigger hill in the area. Now mom is the one who is scared and the kids are delighted by every bump and wipeout into the snowy turf. We sled, all four of us, until our fingers are numb and our boots filled with snow. We laugh and scream all the way down the hill as we race. I always lose. Each time we reach the bottom, the youngest squeals “Again, again” before he is even out of the sled. We marvel in the twinkle of the usually-hiding sun on the snow, and my daughter spots an owl high in a tree. It is a perfect day.

Later we melt marshmallows in warm chocolaty milk and tell the tale of our sledding adventure over lunch that day. And it strikes me how thankful I am for the things my children teach me. I would have missed this fun, the exhilarating fear of flying down a hill, if it weren’t for them. Winter is good for more than just hibernating, I see. And we have the snow burn and sore bottoms to prove it after a day on the hills. And we have the giggles and memories to warm us on the coldest of days to come.

Some Say in Ice

Icy cold fingers grab my neck,
Like my son riding piggy-back and choking my breath.
Each winter the cold comes and stays.
And each winter I forget.
Too close to Erie’s shore: an ice-breathing dragon always ready for battle.
Most days my car door freezes shut and I must curse it open,
throw hot water at the locks, a barely-armed attempt against winter’s wrath.

And today the cold seeps in and will not leave.
No matter tea and blanket and slippers and heat turned up beyond what I can afford.
The chill won’t leave my too-white fingers where circulation slows
And my plodding blood crawls slowly through my veins.

It’s the knife I think of.
Steel scalpel sharp and ice against her skin.
And I cannot shake the red of her dreams on the table
And the way my own blood turns to ice.

We are both pierced today, though glistening blade and
Shuttered heart are not the same.
The cold will deal with both at once,
And the snow will cover that which we will not see.

How long the forgetting will be with this,
How long the battle to slay such foe?
But only that spring and thaw must follow.
And someday Erie’s wind will breathe warmth again.

But it’s the knife I think of on that steel table.
Curses and hot water no match for this,
Carving with the frost of an ice sculptor and
The delicacy of blood’s most tiny vein.
And only now the cold.