Hey, Mom, we got married!

Today we’re forty-niners. No golden anniversary yet, happily. Rather stodgy and ceremonious that, and we’re not much for ceremony. I guess we’ve rolled with our hunches—and with the punches, haha.

George Harrison

It began sans lightning bolt. The guy reminded me of my true love, George Harrison. Tall and skinny (but decidedly stronger than George), wearing a pea coat, black turtleneck, Bob Dylan cap, and army boots. Kind of a mash-up of 70s chic. I liked that when we first talked, he spoke affectionately of his mother, referring to her as “me mum.” She wrote long letters from England that were “all one sentence,” he said with a smile. Our main common ground was an English class (modern British literature), having attended the same Rolling Stones concert, and a mutual friend who was a stunning guitarist.

So, you could say, there was the lure of the animal at work, but also compatibility. We made a major decision together: moving into a commune with a group of university town hippies. As it turned out, we’d escape furtively to the Italian Patio on brown rice and seaweed nights at the commune. To add insult to our communal ethic, we’d order veal parmesan.

English Building on campus

In time we moved out. We set a date, a Friday, to tie the knot. I had an oil painting class that summer morning, and he would be coming from his class (Latin?). I’d stop back at the apartment to change and pick him up at noon en route to the county courthouse—to elope! We could get our license and marriage certificate in one fell swoop. I wore a pale green dress my little sister had made for me a few months earlier, and he wore jeans, a white shirt, and a pinstripe jacket. No witnesses necessary. The judge took a picture of us together, then we each snapped a photo of the other holding the marriage certificate.

That’s us, way back when.

We asked a couple of good friends, Jeff and Vicky, to come to Howard Johnson’s with us for our wedding reception. We ordered burgers, of course. Afterwards, Jeff took our picture next to the car. Vicky said “If it doesn’t work out, you can always get divorced.” Then my new husband had to go to work. After nine, we all met up at our apartment. We lacked champagne, so Jeff invited us to go to his parents house with him. Apparently they kept champagne. When we got there, his dad, true to his rep, dipped down to the basement and came up with a couple of bottles of bubbly. Jeff and Vicky, his parents, and their friends all toasted us.

The next day we drove to Milwaukee for our honeymoon, crashing in on my older sister and brother-in-law, who’d married two years earlier. They weren’t thrilled but were good sports and took us to Kohl’s to pick out a wedding present, our first, a big brown bowl for baking bread (used most recently this past week).

On Sunday we headed back home, stopping at my parents’ house, that is, my childhood home. As we pulled into the driveway, my next younger sister sauntered up to the car window and looked at me with intuited meaning. My mom was tending the garden when I called to her, “Hey Mom, we got married!” I revealed the slim 18-karat white gold band on my left hand. She said “I’m glad you still believe in marriage.” My dad was out on a bike ride; as he returned, I repeated our announcement, and he remarked, “I need a drink,” and fixed a round for everyone, now gathered on the big screened porch. I told my Nana, “I know we’ll never be rich, but we know how to work. We’ll have enough.” And so we did.

Today we celebrate in a pandemic. We’ve never done that before. We came over to a little place on the Pacific coast, 90 minutes from our house. We awoke to an overcast sky, and drank coffee from the window that looks onto the ocean. A happy anniversary message was already on my phone when I booted it up—from my little sis!—and within the hour we had a FaceTime call from Kid #4 and two grandkids gallivanting in a local meadow.

CCC shelter

Since sunshine is forecast for this afternoon, we decided to drive to our favorite lookout at the top of the cape just south of here. From there we can walk on a woodsy path overlooking the blue expanse of the Pacific to a little shelter constructed in 1934-35 by the Civilian Conservation Corps, a little historical deep diving for the occasion.

We’re arranging take-out from the excellent little Italian resto a few doors down. There’s a bottle of decent, not expensive, bubbly in the fridge, which we’ll drink on our balcony as the sun descends. We can check through the binoculars to see how many boats are still out, their little sparks of light dotting the horizon. It’s still enough.

What is in a Home?

This week a dear high school friend messaged me to say she had driven past the home of my childhood, down the street from her lifelong home. The new owner (only the second owner) was putting the finishing touches on a Little Free Library in the lot’s corner. The library matched our mid-century modern house architecturally: pristine white trim on redwood, echoes of Frank Lloyd Wright‘s prairie style. We were pleased in 2015 that this second owner was from Oak Park (Illinois—Wright’s suburban Chicagoland home) and even had volunteered with Wright’s foundation in Madison, Wisconsin. It appeared she along with her husband and elderly mother, did not scoop up the home in order to make it over, but to appreciate it’s light, space, and warm earthy materials and design.

The house was built in 1953 by my Uncle Bill, an accomplished architect, after my paternal grandfather had died. My dad and he had put their heads together to find a suitable lot for a spacious home where our family of five (later six) could live with our grandmother, only 55 at the time.

Nana with her boys; my dad on the right, next to Uncle Bill
4th of July with Nana (wearing the string or pearls), aunts, and cousins, Dad outside the porch behind

The result was an L-shaped two-story, three bedroom home for us attached to a single story, one bedroom home for Nana, with it’s own kitchen, bathroom, dining and living areas. (Nana liked to entertain her friends for lunch and bridge.) We had a roomy screened porch, where we mostly lived in the summer; Nana had her own patio alongside the roses, under a dark green awning. We shared dual laundry areas in the full basement, a two car garage, a wrap-around perennial garden, and the shade of seven enormous elm trees lining the intersection. The back garden separated us from a pair of neighbors who built after us but remained in place for 60+ of the years we occupied “303,” as our home affectionately came to be known.

Almost all of our family lived within 50 miles, most within ten. The house was well filled for holidays, summer reunions, cousin sleepovers, for scout meetings, and for relatives and friends who would “call.” My mother came to say in her later years what she missed most about the past was people calling on one another, meaning they would stop by on a Sunday afternoon, stop over for cocktails early Saturday evening, neighbors popping onto the porch anytime to visit, never mind phoning ahead. We loved the evening barbecues especially, when parents and grandparents played bridge on the porch while we ran around in the dark like “wild Indians” (a regrettable expression) playing “Yoller-yoller, hear I come so holler!”—our version of hide and seek—and catching lightning bugs in jars.

We lived a half mile from our grade school, a little over a mile from the junior high, and a mile from the high school. We walked back and forth to school through most weather. When the thermometer dipped below ten degrees Fahrenheit, my mom consented to drive us and pick us up. No arguments about that. If we wanted a ride, my mom would say, “Check the thermometer.” Throughout our studies at the university “downstate,” we’d be back for Thanksgivings, Memorial Days, semester breaks, any time we didn’t have class, picking up waitress hours at the local BigBoy restaurant.

My sisters and I all moved out of the area after college and eventually started families in other cities, other homes. Interestingly we have all been in our current homes for decades, though they all resettled within a 3-hour drive of 303. We stayed out west, a place where they call my homeland “back east.” As Mom and Dad aged, they remained at home. Caregivers came in, my sisters rotated weekends there, while my flights and longer stays became more and more frequent. As our parents became more incapacitated and we installed accessibility equipment, the house gave up some of its sleekness, but it retained its nurturing magic.

Dad passed away (after Mom) six years ago this month, suddenly, but not so suddenly, at the age of 91. We flew back over the 4th of July and in August, when we had a musical hoohah with my brother-in-law (who plays like George Harrison on acoustic), my son, and oldest grandson on guitars. We came back again in October and again at Christmas, sleeping there the weekend of my older sister and brother-in-law’s annual Christmas party a few miles north. We made breakfast for the family at 303 the next day. The house was at its best, looking chic with its large rooms, classic fixtures, and now-trendy mid-century modern furnishings. By June it was stripped back nearly to its native state, as Mom and Dad had entered it in 1953, and by September, our new owners had made their offer.

The little library woman told my friend I could come by and walk through the house when I’m back; she’d love to visit. I suspect she’s a woman after my mom’s heart, salt of the earth. I had heard she welcomed all the neighbors for a housewarming the Spring after they took possession. A new neighborhood has been established. It warms me, but with a pang. Today when my daughter called to FaceTime with our new granddaughter, I choked up telling her all of this.

It has always struck me how the French have no word for the English home. They can say chez moi or à la maison, but not our home, with its connotations of coziness, of “where I belong,” a place of the heart. No. They name their out-in-the-country family homes Le Moulin and such. Maybe that does the trick. Or maybe what makes a house a home is when you choke up realizing you could lose or have lost it. When you think about it, is your home where you live?

COVID19 Priorities: Making do versus ordering online

People are talking about reopening US society. Truth be told, they’re waging political warfare over whether or not to lighten up. Straddling the difference between liberationists and lockdowners, my husband and I are facing off against immediate exigencies of life while tentatively looking ahead. To be specific, we’re replacing a defunct internet system, enhancing outdoor spaces for fresh air living, and keeping up the family love.

It all started when we had a router go kaput. It had long since been time to replace our internet provider, but this meltdown sent us scrambling to compare megabytes per second and cumbersome wiring options for a plan. It came as news to us that helpful computer service is a no-show in the coronavirus era. Who knew that no one answers a business telephone during a pandemic, that mobile and internet services now offer virtual assistants as opposed to actual online chats staffed by people? I’ve learned that whether or not you choose one of their pre-selected questions, you will never find an answer to your unimagined question.

On day five of our attempt to set up service, Brent the technician arrived to link our new modem to an outdoor connection that turned out not to exist. Brent needed to enter our home. No problem, we said, flinging open the door, come on in! Hang social distancing; we need service. “I cannot come in,” he countered The company had ordained that no technician can enter a home over the next thirty days. WiFi meets pandemic catch-22. Time to make do with—and to be thankful for— our cell phones for the month ahead. Our humbly dated and cracked iPhones provide spotty coverage, but what’s 30 days in a daily shortening lifespan? We warily commit to pulling back from life online, that is, life without an escape hatch.

We had wandered into covid-land around the Ides of March, which meant that by mid-April, the winds had tempered, and the sun glinted across our property, welcoming deep breaths and broad social distancing. We could nimbly escape into the great outdoors simply by fluffing up our furnishings. We had acquired four lightweight woven deck chairs last Spring. We pulled them out of the shed, hosed them down, and plopped them on the deck. We can handily drag them onto the lawn, alternately following shady and sunny patches through the day. Yet, as you can see from this photo of a Summer ’19 baby birthday party, we had great chairs, but lacked a place to set a drink. To secure our escape, we were driven back into the morass of failed WiFi to search for outdoor accent furniture, that is to say cheap side tables.

The most accommodating resource legible by phone turned out to be the Home Depot website, where I spotted a stone-like cast-cement table. Alas, each one weighed 25 pounds, we’d have to move and store these over the winter months, and how could we drag them onto the lawn? Scrolling onto to page 2, I glimpsed an alternative stool/table, though on closer examination, the ivory color clashed with our chairs’ pristine white, and the little stool was made of iron, translating into soon-rusted. Several pages further, I fell upon a more promising model: white, lightweight, cheap, functional. The discovery felt like a triumph of survival in a mostly offline existence.

The online phone search is headachey, bleary-eyed drudgery. For my next quest, birth and birthday gifts for special little people in our lives, I vowed to omit the internet search altogether. Our going-on-seven grandson’s wise parents are not keen on toys or electronics. So books? Yes. An avid reader, the kid is recently hooked on TinTin. I recall that we have some vintage hardbound versions upstairs that fall into the making-do with a flair category.

Yet wouldn’t he also love a little “Milou” (Snowy)? I resort to Google after all and find a TinTin boutique. I can order a stuffed Snowy, though prices are listed in euros. Hmmm. As I add in my shipping information, the price converts to dollars, and I find I’m paying $42.50 for a 15-inch (albeit cute) stuffed dog. I check on the vintage TinTin upstairs. Oops, they’re in French, from the older French grandkids; our 7-year-old, clever though he is, does English. So much for TinTin. I order on Amazon a couple of National Geographic sea creature books, a young kid’s ball and bat set, and stick a check toward his 529 account into his card.

Attempt #2 of offline gift seeking, for a dear niece’s new baby boy arriving at the end of May. They have escaped the growing horror of virus-besieged Brooklyn and have quarantined close to their Midwest families. She (eight months along) and her husband are dropping her Brooklyn OB and resetting their life for “Baby Jolly’s” birth and the next two months. I’ve checked out their online baby registry—pretty dry. I’ll figure out something else.

We drive to the coast for some restorative beach walking the next day. I’m driving and as I drive, I plot how I might find a suitable gift. Once we arrive, I wander through the little coastal village, angling toward the beach. The tiny Peruvian alpaca shop is shuttered for the lockdown. I remember their baby sweaters, fluffy-soft but non-irritating to tender baby skin. Dang. The place is firmly closed.

I wonder—might I be able to reach someone from the store …? I call a phone number from their Facebook page and reach a gem of a man, the owner. He will meet me—gladly. He lives three blocks from the shop. He’ll send photos of the baby-size hooded sweaters. I can pick a color, give him a card number, and he’ll have it for me within the hour. Back from the beach, I stop by and knock on the window before noticing a tidy paper bag set on a display table just inside. I peek in and catch his broad smile, a responsible 6 feet away. Lifting the bag with gloved hand, I feel heroic, though of course he’s the hero. It’s a few hours later, back home, when I finally open the tissue-wrapped sweater, appliquéd with a smiling sun, seagulls, birds, and flowers. Impeccable.

I’ll wrap and post it immediately. Confounded once more, I have only scraps of wrapping paper and ribbon remnants. Fabric scraps? I’ve used or given them away. I rummage through my multicolored dish towels and find an old classic pattern in ochre, from Avignon, France, purchased during an extended stay in Provence more than a decade ago. The tea towel is still lovely, the colors vibrant, even though I detect a couple of tiny stains and a quarter-inch hole near one edge. I shrug and fold under the flaws. Tied with some raffia and a sweet card, it will work.

We’re perpetually bouncing between worlds these days. Negative and positive, the news alternately terrifies and encourages us. Inertia followed by brisk exercise becomes the daily rhythm. Online meetings, scoured data tables, and coronavirus dashboards yield to walking, gardening, and biking. We order out, but we are baking so much bread that our stores are out of yeast. We’re balancing the efficient with the gratifying. One of my sons sent a photo of a luscious multi-layered chocolate cake he baked for a friend’s birthday; we admired the texted picture, but we couldn’t taste the cake. We can Zoom but not touch. We can shop but not hand off a gift with a warm embrace. We can accomplish a task with a few clicks that neither require nor evoke a sense of pleasure. Imagination, warmth, birdsong, the scent of fresh baked bread, the tactile: all come back to us from things past, a flood of sensory memory. They bring the flow and fullness of real life.

The bold extension of self through the internet can never reach the infinitely subtle and sensitive microbits of human existence. The scale of satisfaction in our daily pursuits is being recalibrated. No doubt you can surmise which has been the most fulfilling of my recent pursuits. Which are yours? What altered colors and textures will our emergent rediscovered life hold post pandemic?

Body and spirit

For years I have accepted without question, that humans are a balance of spirit and body, though I think I have devoted more care to the body. As a child, I took both body and spirit for granted, I suppose, favoring bodily health over any concern for my daily dose of happiness. But this was because I had been given happiness by a wagon train of perpetual loving care around my circle of life.

January in Chicago

In January of my sixth grade year, John F. Kennedy was inaugurated as 35th president. The following Friday night, my parents had a dramatic argument, admittedly not so dramatic by today’s entertainment standards. We ate dinner late on TV trays and watched the spookiest episode of Twilight Zone I have ever seen: The Hitchhiker (for those who care to follow up). The next morning, although my sisters and I were still a little shell-shocked, both from our parents’ emotions and the horrifying television show, Mom and Dad were all smiles. They had made up, and life went on.

New figure skates

It was a bitingly frigid Saturday in Chicago-land. The cold meant the ponds were frozen and our buoyant parents were taking us ice skating at Phillips Park. Coming of age in this era meant a pair of figure skates if you were a girl—hockey skates for boys— from Santa one Christmas. The perfect skating weather foretold a crowded rink, although this one was enormous, probably a good acre. Yet figure skaters and hockey skaters fought for turf, their styles hopelessly at odds: hockey skaters ramping up speed while figure skaters glided and scratched curlicues into the ice. This day, like a running back in football, there came a moment when in mid-twirl I tried to jig around a charging boy claiming right of way. My lower left leg folded underneath the rest of me—and I couldn’t get up.

Skating park

Mom and Dad skidded across twenty yards of ice to the rescue, each grabbing an arm. Mom said, “Stand up.”  I could not. “It’ll feel better if you walk on it.” But still my leg gave way with the slightest weight. They gave each other a look. Within five minutes my three sisters had circled back to our home bench. Grudgingly they changed into their boots and slung skates over their shoulders. We were headed for medical attention at Dreyer Clinic, about fifteen minutes away. My instructions from the doctor were ambiguous: go easy. They would call us by Monday, after someone took a look at the x-ray.

Two days later, I still struggled on crutches, unable to bear any pressure on my left leg and my mom still urging me to “walk on it.” The clinic called with a diagnosis. I’d suffered a fractured fibula. I would get a walking cast for six weeks. My more sedate and cautious 7th-grade sister burned with envy; my classmates would be able to sign my cast with doodles and cheery greetings. I failed to be inspired by her enthusiasm for my lame condition. I sat alone in our empty living room, stilled and dismayed, waiting to be cleared to return to school. On the third day, my favorite uncle, Uncle Bill, came to visit, that is, to visit me! Always ebullient, he blew in, dashed to my side, and with a flourish bent over my leg and kissed it, declaring that all would be well. Now encouraged and heart-warmed, I knew I could handle the weeks to come.

The next six weeks I could wear only skirts and shorts, in a Midwestern February and March, mind you. But I remember these winter days fondly, as a pleasant departure from the dreary slog of a long winter. Too soon the cast came off.  Spring was in the air, and I was free. On a Friday, precisely ten days later, a last blast of winter roared in mid-morning, scouring the streets with fresh drifting snow. As usual, we walked home for lunch, but begged Mom to drive us back for the afternoon session.

As we pleaded, the telephone in our kitchen rang. Mom answered cheerfully but immediately grew quiet. She thanked the caller (our family doctor, we learned) and whisked us into the living room to sit down. Puzzled, we held our collective breath while slowly, calmly, Mom explained. Our Uncle Bill, my dad’s brother and best friend, 39 years old, father of our four closest cousins, had collapsed and died suddenly of an aneurysm. I felt my heart too had stopped. I heard the echo of his assurance that all would be well. I had thought all had become well, but Spring had been overtaken by frigid cold and ice. We walked back to school. I was walking normally, but I would never see Uncle Bill again. 

Less than three years later, I was now a sophomore in high school. Our fall term choir class was interrupted by the public address system at just past noon. JFK, our handsome and inspiring President had been shot. Stunned, the forty or more rowdy teens in the choir sat speechless. Twenty minutes later, the PA crackled again and pronounced that the President was dead. These events strung together in my memory of the early 1960s, like a chain of clouds in an otherwise flawless sky.

Image

Decades later, strolling along a Northwest beach in January, a woman walked with a friend, not far from my path along the shoreline. She swung along on crutches, landing on her solitary leg. The beach stretched for miles, but on she swung, never pausing, apparently never flinching, in rapt conversation. I held back behind the two of them, thinking and wondering: eventually she would have to turn and walk back to her starting point. Such thoughts did not appear to deter her, as she kept pace, effortlessly it seemed. It struck me that this woman was whole, unified. She possessed the balance I forever lacked. As I walked on two legs in tennis shoes, I thought how brief and inconsequential my childhood incapacitation had been over a couple of winter months many years ago. For me the old struggles from emotional upheavals still mattered. Momentarily disruptive physical events had faded, all but blown away with the snow drifts. My body had a habit of healing, while the spirit held fast, frozen in its pain.