Tiny Traditions
June 30, 2023
It’s either been cold, cloudy, or raining this June. Every morning, at 7 am when the alarm goes off, I’ve wanted to pull Nelly and Bernadette, our puppies, (I don’t want to start this off with the wrong picture in your head,) close and go back to sleep for the rest of the day.
I haven’t done this once, not even on the weekend. By 7:05, my feet are in slippers. I stagger upstairs for coffee and to check the weather on my phone.
Things have started to look up a bit; three days in a row, I have put on my mismatched swimsuit and gone to a pool.
On Sunday afternoon, our friend, James, invited us to his apartment pool. The sky was cloudy, but the air was thick and warm.
We went. Thunder came. We packed up the towels and made dinner reservations nearby.
Day two was Monday. After work, my daughter invited us to visit the pool where she lifeguards. Same weather as Sunday, except the sun was out. I grabbed my bag from the day before and we went.
It took me a few minutes to make it down the pool steps, the water was freezing. It was smaller, no one was there. The air smelled like lilacs and chorine. My husband and I had an hour before Katy was done with work.
I looked up at her, said “Katy, count me down!”
Katy looked at me and said nothing.
I said it again, not that loudly. She was at work, even though no one was there.
She shook her head no.
I probably looked a bit silly, standing there, waiting for her to call out “10, 9, 8…” so I could plunge in, head first, shivering and smiling.
Our ritual for a million years was that when we went swimming, we would count down from ten before plunging head first into the water. It hasn’t happened much in recent years, we don’t go swimming together that often, she is nineteen years old and prefers to go the beach with her friends; I can’t imagine why.
In the beginning, I was the one doing the counting. But around the time her age went into double digits, she’d skip the steps, and dive right off the dock, or into a wave. Afterwards, she’d splash me a few times, before I told her I was ready and not to count too fast.
After she shook her head the third time, she giggled.
I got out of the pool and went home.
When my daughter came into the house last night, we talked. Actually, she sat me down and explained that while she is working as a lifeguard, she can’t humor her mom, even for a time honored tradition that ranks slightly above the dog cookie party at bedtime. Katy explained her response was not meant to be unkind, she was just uncomfortable.
We’d talked about giving it another try tonight, but when she didn’t respond to my text, I took the dogs for an extra long walk, and, once again, pulled on the same mismatched swim suit, the same shorts, the same sandals. I grabbed my beach bag without even checking to see if the goggles were still there.
It was already 530 by the time I left, so I drove to Cunningham Pool, about a mile away from our house. The parking lot was full, but I found a spot close to the entrance.
It took me moments to skip down the path that led to the gate; I left a trail of moms and dads, strollers and wagons, babies, and toddlers, teenagers, and not quite teenagers.
I found a spot, the same spot I’ve used ever since I started going to Cunningham by myself, about five years ago. It’s close to the showers, under a tree, near a bench and a water fountain.
I didn’t even lay out a towel. Just dropped my shorts, pulled off my shirt, and kicked off my sandals.
The water was ice cold. I walked in slowly at the shallowest part of a very large shallow end. While my body grew used to the temperature, I spotted our neighbor from across the street. One of the lifeguards looked just like one of Katy’s friends younger brother.
There were water toys scattered on the lawn, around parents and babysitters, many fully dressed. They were watching their kids play or scanning the water to find them, making small talk and laying out snacks.
It appears that mostly, water toys are exactly the same as they were when Katy was little. She had no interest in anything I brought, she’d just paddle around the pool, looking for a kind mom with a big basket or beach bag, and ask if she could borrow a pail, or a submarine.
Middle school boys were playing some kind of game that involved a lot of shouting, or maybe they were in elementary school. I saw three little girls teaching a baby how to swim, and heard a teenager yelling at his mom he was too old to babysit- “I have a life, and no one else has to come here!”
The only pre teenagers and teenagers at Cunningham tonight were babysitters, lifeguards, or those who had done something really bad and were on serious punishment.
That’s what it was like years ago, when my kids were young, and when my kids were not so young.
I’ve been going to Cunningham Pool by myself for a while now.
It only took me a few minutes to get used to the water, and to make my way to the lap lane. I sprinted, and did breaststroke. I went from one end to the other. on my back, just using my arms. I dove under and turned a few somersaults.
I’d stop to look around, and then slide back in the water. I swam for almost an hour.
Afterwards, I put conditioner in my hair and rinsed it off under the outdoor showers. There are pine trees all around the bathhouse, all around the pool. As night falls, they leave shadows, and I could hear the whisper of the needles, or maybe that was my imagination.
Cunningham is a kingdom, mostly for families, young families, and they are noisy.
It is also a kingdom for me, and one of my tiny traditions- swimming laps, by myself, on just before dark at Cunningham Pool.
I head home, already showered and ready for bed, just like the toddlers, to the delight of their parents.
I was not, and am not, the same woman, who wouldn’t go swimming last night because I needed my daughter to coax me into the cold by calling out numbers from ten to one.
Not tonight, anyway. Tonight, I am strong and sleepy. I don’t need a kiss from Katy or a night time conversation with my mom. I will slide under sheets as easy as I glided through the deep end of Cunningham.
It’s the beginning of summer.
Katy and I will go to the beach and eat ice cream on the boardwalk. Sheldon and I will visit the North End and find a spot by the harbor to listen to music from the pavilion.
Next week, I hope to spend some time at Ponkapoag Pond with some friends, swim from one end of the lake to the other and play ping pong in the lodge.
I am a strong swimmer; probably more competent in the water than on land.
I don’t need anyone coaxing me to dive in, I don’t need anyone watching or swimming near by to make sure I don’t drown.
But it’s always nice to have someone I love waiting on the deck, or swimming beside me.
The beginning of something amazing.
June 27, 2023
I haven’t been swimming yet and it’s almost the end of June. We tried yesterday; made it to James Paul’s pool, peeled off clothes and settled on lounge chairs. While I waited to feel my skin grow hot and ready for a plunge, thunder clouds rolled in, followed by thunder.
If there hadn’t been kids’ watching, I probably would have jumped in, just to say I’d been swimming. But there were, and so I slid back into shorts, folded my towel and went inside to watch golf. The afternoon improved drastically over dinner at Legal Seafood’s, which is even more of a treat than a ten second dunk in ice water. The Cucumber Margarita was a revelation, but, and James, don’t take this the wrong way, calamari is better fried, sauteed, the tentacles just look too damn naked.
This summer, Sophia won’t be back at her post near the fence in our tiny yard, yelling at people, then daintily nibbling treats from their hands. But Bernie and Nell have taken up the job. They have also continued the cookie party tradition, and gobble biscuits every night before bed. These last longer, since they spend a lot of time sniffing around under the covers, snorting and looking for crumbs. Sophia never looked for crumbs.
I thought summer would feel different, now that both my kids are older, and don’t rely on me to remember the sunblock, nag them about jobs, or a curfew.
It doesn’t.
I grew used to swimming at our town pool by myself by the time Katy was nine. When she was twelve, the only time I’d see her at Canobie Lake Amusement Park, was when she needed money for snacks or souvenirs.
When Katy, me, and some friends, went to the amusement park last Friday, she ate dinner with Amy and I, and paid for her own burrito. I did Venmo her money for gas, but she hadn’t asked, and let her take the car so we could leave early. She left fifteen minutes after we did. I think Katy’s almost my age, sometimes, at nineteen.
I do not miss the days of helping tiny bodies wriggle into swim suits or tracking Colin’s movements on Find My Iphone- (though the only outcome from that fun game was a series of mean text messages I’ve managed to forget and the knowledge that he needs to figure out where is he is and where he wants to go, without my help. That might take some time, but I’m not watching the clock or the calendar).
I will spend more time in the city, exploring the neighborhoods I used to live and remembering who I was when I lived there. I will check out a concert or three at the pavilion by the water. I will swim in the ocean at Nantasket, and in the lake at Ponkapoag. I will get to know the attendants at Cunningham Pool, so they are forgiving when I forget my pool tag.
I will use sun block and eat local. I will help Sheldon with the garden and check out the comedy at the Milton Art Center. I will spend time with friends, in person, and will learn how to use SnapChat because I look so damn cute in the filters.
I will stop fussing that it’s the end of June and I haven’t been swimming.
It’s only the end of June; I have time to go swimming. I have time to go back to Canobie Lake Park to try the roller coaster we didn’t have time for, ride my bike to Boston along the new bike path, and eat ice cream in a parking lot, quick before it melts on my shirt.
It will end up on my shirt, anyway.
And, honestly, who cares.
It’s summertime. I usually have a change of clothes in the car.
What’s on your list?
Strange Season
June 13, 2023
This has been a strange season.
It’s mid June, we were still burning wood in the pellet stove last week. The mornings were so cold. I’d go to work in dressed in layers. With the chill in the morning, and the air conditioner, most days, I’d end wrapped up in a sweater, like I started, with fuzzy slippers replacing my heels of good intentions.
I’m still working at Quincy College, in the wilds of financial aid. I do math all day long, and navigate systems I didn’t know existed. I’m still trying to figure out how to make the FAFSA less scary; we call it the ISIR in our department, probably not that fun fact. That makes it sound even scarier, I think.
I get a ride to work most mornings, I kiss two dogs goodbye, Nell and Bernadette. They lean out the window and wait. Chanel is an exotic American Bulldog, and Bernadette a Frenchie. I’m not sure how I ended up their mom, but it had something to do with Colin, my 23 year old son, who lives far away. He is gone, though that has not been hard to get used to. I miss him, but mostly when I’m looking at pictures of him from when he was ten.
Sophie never would have kissed me goodbye. She liked sleeping in, and would lounge on the bed until after eleven if her bladder held out. She’d wake first when I woke, a garbled barky syllable would come out of her mouth, and she’d roll over so I could rub her belly before I had to force myself from under the blankets, and away from her, to get ready for work. Then, while I searched for the right shirt, she’d go back to sleep, snoring softly. Those last few months, I was especially quiet, as I moved around in the morning.
Katy is home, and is a different creature these days. She cooks, reads thick, dense, novels, signed up for Instagram, and just loaded the dishwasher. (She’s only been home a few weeks, and I’ve been generous with the car.) Her expired passport and three pairs of socks have been on the stairs since she got home, so my daughter’s still here.
When I look back on the pandemic, it is meditating with Katy that I remember and watching Mrs. Maisel, driving her to her boyfriend’s house, and hiking the Blue Hills with Sophie while I waited until I was summoned to get her. I wasn’t working then, and I loved walking the woods, by myself. I still do.
That was an even stranger season than this one, I guess.
I wonder what I’ll remember about these days, and when the water will be warm enough to go for a swim.
I wonder if anything will feel normal anytime soon, and what normal looked like.
In the meantime, I will look forward to Cape Cod and the fireflies. I will cherish that Katy is upstairs, fifty feet away, and we have tentative plans for dinner tomorrow. When I’m done here, I will do yoga while Chanel climbs up my leg and Bernadette snorts, and laugh between breaths.
This is a strange season, not long after the strangest season.
But strange isn’t bad- it is unfamiliar, a little scary, but it has forced me to pay attention.
Bernadette is under the table. Katy is listening to a playlist based off of a song by Her’s, (Her’s is the name of a band). The sink needs a rinse, the laundry needs to be switched. I have roasting vegetables in the oven that are just about done, I made them for lunch.
It’s so easy to let it all slip by, and find yourself at the kitchen table smelling sweet potato, yesterday’s candle, and the rain.
It is the Sunday night of Memorial Day.
I haven’t attended a cookout, gone swimming, attended a concert, or had dinner with family.
To be honest, I don’t like much of the food that is eaten is cookouts, other than corn, and it’s too cold to swim. Taylor Swift was last weekend, I need to get over it.
My daugher just blocked me on Instagram, she’s nineteen and she had warned me she wasn’t going to let me follow her. But she did, and then two days later, she didn’t.
My husband spent most of the weekend talking about buying a lawnmower and is now working so he can pay for the lawnmower he bought for our tiny, tiny back yard.
My son answered my afternoon group text where I announced I was turning off my phone for a little downtime to ask me why.
He probably still likes me because he is a thousand miles away, so I don’t expect much from him.
On these three day holiday weekends, I want to play frisbee with a large group who knows me well and doesn’t mind that I’m not that good. I want to sleep in late, stay up late and not be the one to do the dishes, unless, the dishes are at someone else’s house, (I’d like to make it clear I am an excellent houseguest because I’m coming across here as kind of a jerk).
I want my challenge to be finding the summer placemats and getting the kids to put away their laundry.
But we aren’t part of large family, and none of us can throw frisbee farther than twenty feet, except Colin. He’d rather throw a football and is currently, like I said, far away.
I like to get up early, I don’t mind doing dishes with the radio on. Besides, it’s just me there aren’t many dishes.
I think life is harder now, than it was, years ago. Or maybe it just feels that way, tonight, on the cusp of summer. Maybe because it’s a holiday weekend, and there’s pressure to have something to say when when someone asks me at work on Tuesday morning- “what did you do?”
I’m not sure what’s coming next, except that if I don’t walk the dogs soon, they will wait patiently until I am ready. I really, really, really like dogs.
Tomorrow, I need to take a ride to the beach, hop on my bike, or head over to the Ponkapoag Pond in the morning. I have a whole day left, and I’m sure as hell not going to spend it negotiating with Katy regarding social media or nagging Sheldon about a lawn mower.
Well, I could, but I won’t, because I did that today.
Life is short. I can do better.
Postscript
I wanted to follow up about yesterday, the event detailed above when at 1 pm, Katy, a newcomer to Instagram at the age of nineteen years old and all around wonderful human, blocked me.
That funk resulted in a cookie binge, a shower that consumed all the hot water of East Milton and an entire bottle of lavendar calm body wash, (no help at all) and a google search about the cost of living in St Croix, because I went there with my parents when I was twelve and had a delightful time.
I am happy to share, I have been reinstated. It was all a minor misunderstanding which if I tried to explain, I’d probably get blocked again.
And today, I’ve done better.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday in May.
May 22, 2023
It is the middle of May, The air is warm. The sky says close to sunset; the dogs have been fed and are barking at a child on a scooter.
This afternoon there were no birthdays or trips to Shaw’s Market, though we should have done something about the lawn.
There have been three walks around the block twisted in leashes and clutching small bags, a trip to Marshalls to buy a belt with my dear friend, Chris, a long shower, and maybe a face mask when I’m done here at the table. I’ve chosen my clothes for the morning, I’ve packed up my lunch for tomorrow afternoon.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday night because I truly believe I am ready for Monday.
My daughter is home from college, but she’s out for the night. My husband is working. The dogs have stopped barking and in an hour they’ll be looking at me and then looking downstairs towards my bed.
The washing machine is almost done, I need to remember to switch tomorrow’s skirt to the dryer. I need to remember to check in on my friend to make sure she made it home safe to New Jersey. I need to check the calendar for my next dentist’s appointment so I can ask for the time off from work.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday because I am ready for Monday, and everything else that is heading my way.
It is the middle of May. The air is warm and just outside my front door, I smell peonies and lavendar. There is an evening ahead, and hours and hours before morning comes.
Ch ch ch changes
May 13, 2023
Recently, the face of my Apple watch switched, from rotating photos taken over the years to a black, white, and red, cartoon of Mickey Mouse. At random times, Mickey will crow the time in a squeaky, strange, Mickey Mouse voice. This doesn’t happen often; so far he hasn’t interrupted a zoom call at work, or my sleep, but it’s something I need to fix.
Sophia, the Most Lovely and Graceful Dog is gone. Chanel, a squat American Bullie, and Bernie, short for Bernadette, a French Bulldog pup, given to us by Colin last week, have been using their time in the garden to hunt for rocks. (Sophia felt time outside was for sunning, barking, and taking treats- she was good at doing all three at the same time. People would bring snacks to our fence and pass them to her, she would daintily accept their gifts and resume barking until they slid another cookie through the posts and so on.)
Nellie and Bernadette spend their time the garden hunting for rocks. Often, one or both will bring the rocks inside so that they can roll around the floor, fighting over treasure. As soon as one of them gets bored, or hears someone go into the kitchen, the rock is no longer desirable. They bark at people, too, Sophia left a legacy.
I need to start wearing slippers at night again, random rocks are almot as bad as stray legos in the middle of the night or anytime, when stepped on by bare toes and feet.
Sophia was dignified and aloof, but would say hello most mornings when she stretched. She’d wag her tail and open her mouth and out would come something like “arrrrrrrrrrr”. Sometimes, I would be permitted to rub her belly, but for the most part, she was done with me until it was time for our cookie party. The tradition continues, but the parties are shorter with Nell and Bernie as guests. Bernie throws up seventy-five percent of the time she eats anything that isn’t dry dog food and Chanel is a little thicker these days.
I’ve been in a funk for the past month. On the longest day, I would walk into joy when my dogs heard the door open.
They’d jump and crawl on my chest, roll around the floor, present me with rocks, stray socks, a fork, and one time a jar of very pricy moisturizer, (not sure how Nell managed to fit it in her mouth, but I was happy to see it).
When I came home to Sophie, she’d nod in my direction, and jump off the sofa so I could let her outside.
I switched smoothies. From chocolate mango almond butter, I’m trying to like green juice, which isn’t half bad if you add some ingredients that aren’t green.
There is only Sheldon and I here; first spring without the backdrop of the high school calendar. Now that I’m used to Katy away at school, she’ll be home on Tuesday night.
Strange spring, this season. I’ve been feeling a little sad for a while, and usually, for years, actually, (with exceptions, of course,) I’m pretty damn happy.
Being sad has felt foreign and heavy in my chest I didn’t talk about it because I couldn’t explain it and I didn’t want to talk about it. Most days, I wanted to go home, go to the gym, and go to bed. Some days, the only time I felt happy was when I was flopped on the sofa with sixty pounds of puppy bouncing around my head.
It occurred to me, tonight, walking at Cunningham, that I felt a little bit better than I have in a while.
I was listening to the new music playlist, I was anticipating an evening of a good book and a good show- “Single Drunk Female”.
It occurred to me that when I’m struggling or even just grouchy, that’s okay.
And if I want to feel better, I don’t need to wait until I look inside my heart to realize it is light and all is right with the world again.
I can listen to more music, go for a swim, tell a friend, spend a day with the dogs, make that new snack on instagram that involves cottage cheese, maple syrup, strawberries, and graham crackers, and a blender.
Being happy can’t always come from the inside.
And sometimes I just need to be sad.
It’s been a strange season, this spring.
I’ll let you know how the cottage cheese/strawberries/graham crackers/ turn out, unless it’s disgusting,
Everything’s gonna be allright.
Well, actually, it already is.
Peace,
Julie
I’m Pretty Sure This Will Happen to Most of Us.
April 25, 2023
It happened tonight at the gym. It happens all the time when I’m working with high school students, having drinks at bar, walking my dog, watching television.
I feel a tiny wince somewhere in my chest, I wish I was that young. I’d like a do over or a do it all again.
This doesn’t last long. I don’t have the option of wallowing when I’m raising a twelve pound weight over my head, explaining the difference between subsidized and unsubsidized loans to a seventeen year old, or hanging out with my friends.
We’re all so busy lately. I’m busy, my friends are busy, everyone at work is losing their minds. Some of my colleagues are eating lunch at their desks, staying long after doors lock and sending emails at 2 am Sunday morning. (Not me. I have lunch with my friends, but that’s a different story, because my friends at work are the best.)
Essentially, I have too much going on to dwell on my age, or whatever the hell age I’d like to be.
Tonight, I dwelled.
When I was in high school, I drank Miller Lite behind the bathroom at the Tourne, a park in my hometown. A lot of people did this, I was known for being Rob’s shadow and spent the first six months of our relationship agreeing with everything Rob said, until we’d been together for a few months.
Around this time, I discovered the excruciating joy of passionate arguments in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the snow, barefoot, because whatever the hell we were fighting was so important it couldn’t wait four hour until he picked me up for school. When I wasn’t whipped up and hysterical about Rob, I used my free time to squabble with my mom about why I had to empty the dishwasher when we had a housecleaner, and walk around a lake called Mountain Lake. I didn’t do any homework or play any sports, but it’s obvious, I was quite busy.
During my twenties, I was sad. My father died when I was twenty-two, and although he’d been sick for a while, his loss hit hard. I wasn’t hospitalized; I went to school, held some jobs, went through the motions, but looking back, I see a sad girl who should have been in therapy.
During my thirties, the first thing my brain tells me to write is I had a damn good time. I was on guest lists, went to concerts in limos, stayed up until dawn playing backgammon, and weirdly enough, talking about high school. I shopped. I hung out at the pool on the roofdeck on the Sheridan. I went to Walden Pond whenever my friend was kind enough to take me, and if she wasn’t up for it, I took a cab out to Concord and made the driver wait until I was finished. (I had a collection of cabdrivers that drove me places and brought me food and alcohol when I didn’t want to leave the house or the liquor stores were closing.)
Most nights, when we were out, I’d leave first, and head back to my apartment to wait for my friends to come over after the bars closed. I don’t like waiting in line for the bathroom and crowds make me uncomfortable. The limos were nice, and the concerts were amazing, but mostly, what I remember is trying to locate the limos after the concerts. That was not fun, and often took a very long time. Backgammon is fun, especially when you’re winning, but Walden and winning backgammon games aren’t enough to redeem a decade that, from this angle, looks pretty shallow.
I had children in my forties. I remember trying to hold slippery Kate up in the sink so I could wash her hair, and almost dropping her, because I turned around to look at the clock. I needed to know how many more minutes until I could put her to bed.
I skipped through parts of Lemony Snicket when I was reading to Colin because I wanted to get back downstairs to some tv show.
I loved taking them to the pool but we didn’t go often because of how long it would take to get them in and out of their swimsuits. And sometimes, while they were swimming, they’d need to pee. It was so inconvenient, those three to six minutes of helping my kids get ready to play in the water.
As they grew older, they started to move in another direction. I’d take them to the park, leave my book and phone behind, and they’d meet their friends. We’d go for a hike, and they’d want to turn around after thirty minutes so we could go for pizza.
By the time they were teenagers, I caught glimpses. I memorized conversations and wrote about them on Facebook, not to brag, but so I’d have records. I drove Katy anywhere she wanted to go, just to have time in the car. I tried to connect with Colin, but he started drifting away around age fourteen. The only time we spoke was when he lost something in the laundry, the only real conversations we had were in the car when we were on the way home from the police station.
Now, Colin is twenty-two and Katy is nineteen. Neither one of them live at home, but we talk. Colin tells me about his new apartment and sends pictures of his food all the time; this is a trend I don’t understand. Katy shares stories about frat parties I’m pretty sure not every parent hears, sends pictures of her new haircut, her new chair, her form in deadlift, and lately, has let me listen while she tries to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. Right now, archivist, physical therapist assistant, and media consultant are all on the table. She is also considering archaelogy but I guess the prospects for employment are dismal.
My kids are entirely different, but they pick up the phone when I call. Sometimes I have to call twice and then text, but they pick up.
The only do over I’d like is those fleeting moments when they were really small. I’d sit on the floor with Katy and color, instead of leaving her at the coffee table while I sat at kitchen table on my desktop computer. Colin loved playing with tiny plastic animals, I have no idea what he did with tiny plastic animals, but I wish I knew. I wish I didn’t always rush him off the swings, he loved the swings.
I think most parents go back to wishing they’d had just a little more time giving baths and cutting up vegetables. Maybe that’s why so many want grandchildren; I haven’t gotten there yet.
I’m good with where I am now. I live with a pup who thinks going to bed at nine is almost as much fun as eating cookies.
I work, and eat lunch, with people I like, for students who need my help. I don’t spend a fortune on records, (Spotify!). I like to cook.
I wake up without a hangover; I take my time getting ready because I’ve laid my clothes out the night before.
My kids talk to me, and quite often, when I say something, they listen.
Cancel the do-over.
I need to stop time.
I am sitting at the kitchen table, which is a different space this year than last, or the year before. Next to my elbow is an empty water bottle, brought home from boot camp, a tiny miracle, (I’ve left so many behind.)
There is my daughter’s cat, Maurice, who is mad and has been mad since last September when Katy left for college. He is a three legged cat, yet surprising lethal with his single front paw. It is hard not to laugh when he attempts to strike with the limb that isn’t there. Katy says she misses him but she only Facetimes with Colin’s puppy, Nell.
There are bits from Sunday’s paper; my husband and I went to Foxwoods for the night. I still haven’t read the travel section, barely glanced at the magazine section and book reviews. I might not get a chance to pick it up; I will throw it into the recycling before I read it.
It is the beginning of April, and I’ve considered putting springtime placemats down on the scarred wood surface.
How many? Only Sheldon and I live here now and when we see people, mostly, we are out. Two placemats at a table for six might look sad.
Maybe I’ll buy a plant.
There is a box of Kleenex, which needs to go by the bed; it’s allergy season. Some deodorant Colin left behind, which smells like twenty three year old young man trying to impress the world. I’m sure he’s replaced it with something more expensive. I should bring it up to his room, but his room still feels strange; he only left a month ago.
There is the napkin holder, and a mismatched collection of polyester and cotton cloths, patterns and solids, ancient and shiny. There is a candle that sits on top of a trivet, I have tried to dig out the wick, it has only been lit once or twice..
There are my headphones, my shiny, pink Beats. I wear them on hikes and listen to them at a volume that makes my Iphone send me strongly worded texts about hearing loss.
Sometimes, the best, the only thing to do is to slide them over my ears. Find a playlist I haven’t heard in a million years, slip into whatever sneakers I find in the top of the bin, and step outside.. I only bring Nelly, my son’s puppy, because Sophie can’t keep up anymore.
And sometimes, it’s best to leave the headphones behind.
Not in front me, but in the next room, about ten feet away lies Sophie, The Sweetest of Dogs, on the rug. Tonight, I’d like to slip the leash on Sophie’s collar, and let her lead me wherever she wants to go. She moves, or she doesn’t. We might not make it half a block. She might decide to nap on the front stoop as soon we step down the stair. That’s fine too.
Just this morning, we heard from the vet. Sophie was diagnosed with kidney disease three years ago and the doctor told it was a miracle she’s still here.
By the end of week, Sophie won’t be in the next room anymore.
On Saturday morning, I will be sitting at this kitchen table, probably looking the Kleenex and the newspaper, the deodorant, and, maybe, Maurice. I will glance into the next room, to the space where Sophie sits right now.
I’m going to go sit down next to her.
Family Vacation
March 20, 2023
The whole time I was on vacation with my mom and step-dad, brother, and two daughters, I was wondering “how am I going to write about this without pissing anyone off?” We were in St. Augustine, Florida, in a townhouse, the six of us, last week. It is a good thing it had three floors and seven bathrooms.
I am the oldest, one of my kids is in college, the other is in California, and only reaches out when he has something exciting to say, like Drake is two tables away from him at a restaurant. I live in Massachusetts and work at a local community college, I know the group exercise schedule at the gym next store by heart, and I try to read books instead of scrolling on Facebook and Instagram. I am very excited about the new season of “Ted Lasso” and neither my brother nor my mom have any interest in checking it out, but I don’t watch “American Idol”, (Mom,) or movies where lots of things blow up, (Jimmy, my brother).
My brother is two years younger than me, and, I think, finds me a bit silly and a little irritating, though he said once I was a talented writer. He is fierce, and Southern. He is funny, brilliant, and a lawyer for the state of Florida. I am not going to say anything else about that because he appreciates his job. He has some health issues, a dog he loves named Charlie, and is the devoted father to two, also brilliant, daughters.
My mom and her husband live in South Carolina. We speak every day on the phone, about Wordle, her bridge game, a recipe, my dog, her cat, the kids, and the weather. She loves to talk about the weather, especially in the winter. I think she’d like me to move there, but there is also an understanding between us that maybe we get on so well because we are rarely in the same room.
We don’t see much of each other. My brother’s schedule and mine rarely aligned because for the past fifteen years, our lives have been defined by when our kids had vacations- my kids and his kids had different weeks off. Mom and Edd were passionate about traveling in an RV for while, then they moved onto cruising. Now, they spend more of their time at home, with their cat, binoculars and a best friend named Sue.
We settled on St. Augustine to meet. Jim’s kids were off of school during my college’s spring break, and Mom found us a beautiful place to stay across from the ocean.
We were there for five days.
Five days, one car, seven people, from three states, three generations, and lots of opinions.
I made dinner reservations, and changed them every night except one.
I went to the gym with my nieces, we hiked through the woods and saw three armadillos. We argued over the definition of greek pizza. We collected shells on the beach, Heather gave me a handful, which I put on my nightstand. We made sandwiches, we toured old downtown St. Augustine, we sat in traffic and bonded over a strong aversion to roundabouts and traffic. (In Mass, they are called rotaries. I don’t think they are that big a deal, but I don’t spend much time behind the wheel, and, as a passenger, am oblivious to traffic, because I am on my phone, scrolling thru Instagram reels.)
We went swimming once, Laurel ran all the way into the waves even though the water was cold, and we stayed in the water for an hour. Jimmy and Heather flew kites so high in the wind, I thought they’d never come back to earth.
I made smoothies every morning, Mom made sandwiches most afternoons. Jimmy drove us to the store three times a day, to the gym, and to dinner. There was coffee brewed by the time I made it upstairs to the kitchen, and one morning my husband made popovers following my mom’s recipe. They were a bit flat, but we ate every single one so he wouldn’t feel bad, slathered with honey butter, blackberry jam, and strawberry preserves.
I took a million photographs, and I never take photographs. There are lots of duplicates, but I don’t think I’ll delete anything.
I wish we’d had more time.
I hope we do this again, and next time it’s easier. We’ll linger a little longer, together, over coffee, over dinner, in front of the news, at the beach, on the deck.
Because the week went by far too fast. I know my brother’s daughters better today than I did two weeks ago- I know Laurel is allergic to pineapple and Heather can stay up until midnight and wake at five thirty in the morning to walk to the beach so she can take a photo to send to a friend.
I know my mom says she likes to eat at five, but while on vacation, she eats lunch late, so when making dinner reservations, it’s probably a better idea to book a table for seven o’clock.
I know that my brother is one of the best people in the whole world, and definitely the most stubborn, but I didn’t need five days in St. Augustine to figure that out.
julierichmond 