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.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, July 16, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
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.
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.
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