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?
Homecoming
October 6, 2021
I’ve been thinking about my high school reunion since the invitation came last May.
There was Covid to consider. And the memory of the last one I attended where the night ended with me falling up my friends stairs and splitting my forehead open. There was the twenty pounds I wanted to lose, and the people I didn’t want to see, and the people I missed.
One night, I finally clicked yes on the Evite, knowing I could always cancel. It was late Spring of 2021; I wanted a plan to get out of town and see some faces that I hadn’t been seeing for the past year and a half.
Amy, one of my best friends, still lives in Mountain Lakes, and she volunteered to go along, even though she wasn’t in my class, and isn’t much for cocktail parties.
A week before the party, my friend came to visit me in Boston. Taylor, Amy’s daughter, had been found in bed by her roommate, unable to open her eyes and mumbling into her pillow. Her roommate called an ambulance.
Before she left, she laughed nervously in my living room and asked me- “Maybe you can come down anyway next weekend? And take care of me? While I look after Taylor? I mean, I know you have your reunion…” I hugged her and thought there was no way I’d drive five hours, miss a party that I had given up Ben and Jerry’s for, (mostly), so she could lean on me while her daughter recovered from a really bad case of the flu?
It wasn’t a bad case of the flu.
On the Thursday before the reunion, I flew to New Jersey. Amy’s husband picked me up at the airport. On the way home we talked about my daughter’s SAT scores, how much harder it is to pack for travel by plane than to load up a car, and that my husband thinks Facebook updates on his phone are actually text messages to him. No one knew what was wrong with Taylor for a while. Now they think it’s encephalitis. Tonight, John, Amy’s husband, let me know Taylor hasn’t had any seizures all day. This has made all of us who love her giddy with joy.
She hadn’t had any seizures for twelve hours. It’s going to be a long time before she gets better. It’s going to be a long time before she comes home.
I didn’t visit Taylor. I stayed home and matched socks, made smoothies, one bad pot roast, a salad of strawberries and goat cheese, and enough Bolognese sauce to last them until spring. Or until I go back.
I made it to the reunion. I found friends I didn’t know I had, and connected with people that I love as much as I did when I was in high school, when most Saturday afternoon’s we’d drink too much beer and exchange drunken, slobbering hugs, while declaring undying affection. Since I’ve only stayed in touch with a few, it was nice to know that those promises all those years ago were true. My affection for these people is undying and I am glad to know, and have known them.
I’ve changed a lot since then, I guess we all have. But when I stood in that room, I knew I’d made it to Homecoming, even though it had taken a long time to figure out what that means. These people knew the awkward, bumbling seventeen year old and were happy to see the tired, worried, friend who badly needed a night out. I didn’t get the chance to talk in depth with many, and I regret that. I was distracted with guilt about being away from Amy and John and trying to decide if my outfit looked better without the sweater.
When I walked up Amy’s stairs that night, and Gigi greeted me at the door, I was home there too.Home is where we choose to be, where we offer and accept love or acceptance. Where we pretend to remember things we don’t remember, and when someone gets drunk, we drive them home, partly because we don’t want them to get sick in our car, partly because that is what we do for the people who have known us our whole lives, and remember what we looked like with big hair and braces, and partly because a lot of us have been the drunk in the room that needed a ride.
These days, I have a crooked smile, I can’t wear heels. I could still lose another twenty pounds, I’m a little pissed off that I work out every single day and I will never, ever have Michelle Obama arms. One of my classmates does, and I adore her anyway. I will not share her name but we all know who I’m talking about.
Thanks for being there, my friends. And for those of you who couldn’t be, I hope to see you the next time. I like us better now. Please, let me know if you ever get up to Boston, or are driving through on your way somewhere else. I would like to hear what you’ve been doing all these years, and I’m sorry there wasn’t more time.
I think I’ll go to the next one, I can’t wait for the next one.
And thank you, Amy and John. It is an honor to be there for you. I changed my cell phone settings so you can call anytime. You have your own ringtone. Call anytime.
Taylor, girl, come home soon. You have the best home in the world, or it will be, when you are back in it.
Notes from January, Wondering about Spring
February 1, 2021
My house has been quiet this winter.
I work from 9 to 5. Before work, I work out. After work, I work out some more. I turn up the music, and sing along, but when the playlist ends, I can hear Sophie sigh in the basement.
I’ve been reading a lot of books, and I can hear my own breath, and the sound of each car that passes by, from my chair in the corner of the living room.
My daughter, Katy, keeps her door closed, but she doesn’t mind if I visit. When we talk, we use quiet voices, like we are sharing secrets. At this point, we don’t own any secrets, and there is no one around to overhear.
When I’m wiping the counters, or folding the laundry, I think about what I’d say to this friend from Quincy College, while we walked to Starbucks for lattes. I remember conversations with friends from church, while I sipped coffee, and munched on something dipped in hummus or cream cheese during social hour.
I think about who I should call, and when the call goes to voicemail, most of the time, I hang up because I don’t know where to start.There are big things going on the world outside of my own. I feel foolish and small because I don’t read the Times every day or, some weeks, at all.
All I can contribute to conversation is another story about Sophia that’s highpoint is she ate her dinner and wagged her tail. Since she was dying six months ago, that is a big deal, but I’ve told that story about fifty times. Though I am still filled with wonder, the miracle feels a little worn.
I watched a concert on my phone on Saturday night, Jason Isbell and Lyle Lovett, live-streaming from different corners of the world. They swapped stories in between songs, they laughed. Lyle went on about how brilliant Jason is on guitar, and Jason stood up and applauded a song Lyle wrote about his daughter. They were friends being friends, and I was as grateful to watch that part of the show as I was for the music. And the music was pretty damned good.
I am lonely, but I am blessed that the people I am most lonely for still call, text, and remember my birthday, (which is not good because I never remember anyone’s birthday.)
It is the night before snow falls. Tomorrow, when I walk, my steps will be muffled by snow.
I will think about spring, the season that is coming soon, the one with the daffodils, sunshine, allergies, when colors shift from black and white to shades of green.
I will also think about another spring, the one we are all waiting for, alone, and together.
Or maybe I won’t think at all. Maybe, I will just walk and enjoy the morning.
We will get to where we want to be.
I will try to appreciate the quiet of staying at home, with the people I love.
(I hope they still love me when this is over- the workouts are pretty noisy, and I’m not always mindful of the fact that not everyone wants to hear Britney snarling “you gotta work, bitch” at seven am on a Monday or anytime, actually- that will be another miracle.)
Deep sigh…I don’t know where to start.
I started a new job that requires eight hours a day of training, in a tiny office just off the tv room, next to the pellet stove, five feet away from the back door. I work in front of one lap top and two huge monitors, one of which is pushed to the back of my desk and is dark. The training is challenging, the others in my class are rock stars, my leader is patient, funny, and patient.
I start every morning at 8:50 am, and am in my chair until 5. Lunch is glorious, and usually consists of avocado toast, eaten during class time so that during my allotted hour, I can take Sophia the Amazing for a walk, clean the kitchen, or workout in the living room, while Sophie watches from the couch or tries to climb up my thigh.
Dinner is a work in progress, either oven fried chicken, (Sophie’s favorite,) smoothies, (Katy and I ate too much at lunch,) or whatever looked good the night before when I googled recipes for what we have in the fridge.
Most nights, there is a workout, just because my body and my soul feel the need to jump around after spending the day in a chair learning things.
When I’m lucky, there is tv with Katy, at the end of it all. We watched Anne With An E and have moved onto Designated Survivor. I miss commercials, sometimes. Sometimes, I remember the pause button.
Sometimes, I wish life had a pause button, and then I remember it does.
Bed is early. Before sleep, I watch The Office, because it’s leaving Netflix, and there is pressure. I read.
From time to time, I collapse on the mattress, find the sheet, turn out the light, and fall asleep, like it’s easy to sleep, these days.
In between, I floss, sweep, check the headlines, call my mom, fold laundry, wander around Amazon, sip coffee, ask Sheldon if he’s ok, use my water pick, sweep, argue with Katy over the state of her room, how to load the dishwasher, or whether or not it is bad manners to not respond to a cheery “Good morning”. She says any response, even if it’s a sigh, behind a door, under sheets, blankets, and a cat named Maurice, counts.
I miss Facebook and Instagram- looking at pictures of what everyone else is eating for dinner, hearing about bad days, and victories, checking out dogs, cats, kids, and home renovations.
I miss likes, conversations, writing things out, rewriting, saying something, and being heard.
We are all missing so much right now, and making adjustments.
My life is good, and different. I am lonely as hell, contented, scared, and grateful.
How you doin’?
Day Fifty Seven- I’m not sure whose counting anymore.
For weeks after my braces were. removed, at random times, I would run my tongue along my teeth. The enamel after three years of metal and rubber bands felt glorious and unexpected
Ever since the words quarantine came into daily conversation, I’m constantly checking my mood like I used to check my teeth.
I ask my daughter- she says I get way too close, and sound scary serious- “how are you handling everything?”
She usually says fine, but sometimes, she actually answers the question with more than two syllables. It’s best to catch her right before bed and never before 9 am.
I’m fine, mostly.
I’m depressed, miserable, elated, grateful, lethargic, whiny, goofy, tipsy, manic, sad, silly, sleepy, mean, petty, joyful, and mellow.
I’m lonely; I’m enjoying the time with my daughter.
I’m missing my job; I’ve wandered the woods at Ponkapoag on Friday at 11 am. I’ve read eight books, played my flute, and bundled up three bags of shirts for Goodwill.
There is a lot of talk about recognizing the difference between knowing what we can and can not control.
I’ve learned I don’t control a damned thing but whether or not I’m going to stay in bed, or get up with the morning.
I’m getting out of bed.
If I’m sad, I’ll move through it, with a little help from my friends.
Time to stop counting the days, recognize the privilege of a slow morning under blankets while coffee drips, and get on with the rest of my life.
I’ve got work to do.
Stay strong,
Jules
Where I landed on Day Fifty Two
May 10, 2020
Where I landed at the end of the day (Day 52?)
This morning, a friend texted me about a meteor shower tonight. It was around ten am, I’d just had coffee, I was walking the dog.
I mentioned this to every person I saw as I walked Sophie around the block.
I called my mom and told her. I woke up my daughter and didn’t even bother to whisper the news.
I’m not someone that follows astronomy. I think I might have seen a falling star, once or twice, out of luck, not from looking.
When I read those words, I could see me, in my blue and white flannel pajamas, sitting on the stairs in front of our house with my daughter. Sophia is lying in the grass, her leash looped ’round my ankle. There’s a glass of buttery chardonnay, half full, and Katy and I are looking up at the sky, our bare feet touch, just barely. There is the presence of neighbors, on porches, or lingering on sidewalks. I could hear their voices, soft and wonderful, and make out their profiles, just barely, heads tilted up to gaze at the night sky.
When I got home, I dug the beach chairs out of the shed and dusted them off. I put a bottle of good wine on ice, and found an old pair of binoculars in Colin’s long retired desk.
Around four pm, some clouds rolled in. The forecast said it will be overcast until morning.
Katy and I had a disagreement over hair elastics; this afternoon I did zumba alone.
I received a letter from the office of Unemployment that directed me to visit my online account immediately because I had a time sensitive notification. It took me an hour to locate the time sensitive notification, figure out I had to download Adobe to read the document, locate the letter,and make sense of it.
It indicates I have nothing to do unless I need to make changes, which would need to be made immediately.
Nothing has changed, but I’m working on it.
So instead of tacos for dinner, we had takeout, and they forgot the rice.
I’m at the table, scowling at the computer, wondering if it’s too late to bother Katy.
This is where my evening landed, somehow.
I had a vision, and it got lost in clouds and glitches. It was a once in a lifetime kind of night.
For forty-five minutes, I’ve been glaring at my laptop, missing a time that never happened. I haven’t even looked outside.
I need to find the dog, and my daughter, and we will go sit on the steps in the dark.
Maybe, there will be moonlight. Maybe there will still be blossoms on the magnolia tree, or a family will walk down the middle of the street, pushing a carriage holding a sweet baby, wide awake and laughing at her toes.
Maybe Katy won’t come downstairs, I’ll end up sitting alone, and the rain will come.
Goodnight, my friends.
If you’re in New England, and you’re heading outside, wear a sweater.
Love,
Julie
Rainy Monday (aka Day Forty- Five)
May 2, 2020
I lie there, with my eyes closed, and try to feel how I’m feeling. Is my heart light in my chest, do my feet want to hit the floor and bring me upstairs? Does my skin crave another layer of blanket, does my head want to fold itself inside a pillow?
The first couple of weeks, almost every morning, I’d find that things didn’t look any better, and I’d dive into Facebook and feel worse until Sophie or I had to use the bathroom.
I will not tell you I’ve adjusted.
Or that in a month, a salad will come from our garden.
I will not tell you the time with the kids has been gift. It has been an revelation and complete pain in the ass.
I had the chance to know them when their only escape route is a screen. The fifth week in, it is easy to underestimate, and there is no end in sight. So I take notes and occasional pictures.
I check in with my overall state of mind all day long.
Today, I found joy, goofy, bird flying high, Christmas morning with toddlers and Santa, Bruce Springsteen in concert, joy.
At first, it scared me a little, this unfamiliar flutter, this smile that found my mouth, and lifted up to my eyes.
I don’t know, maybe it’s a symptom that hasn’t been documented yet.
I felt better almost all day, even though Katy and Colin are fighting over Netflix, Sheldon has some document I need to review, and it’s supposed to rain again tomorrow.
Tonight, I looked into the eyes of the cashier at Walgreens, read an update from my friend who works in the ICU, and washed my hands, like I’m Lady Macbeth on her worst day.
My spirit fell quiet, ached, went to wait in the wings.
Today, I glimpsed joy,
and it stayed for a bit.
I’m not sure why it came-
All I have to look forward to is clean sheets, a late night conversation with a friend, and pancakes for breakfast. I like French toast.
This joy isn’t strange.
I have clean sheets and soft blankets.
I have a friend waiting for my call.
I have pancakes for breakfast, and real maple syrup.
The coffee pot is set
so I’ll wake up to the smell of
dark roast and cinnamon.
I am blessed.
Sometimes, I don’t feel that way.
Today I did, for a while.
I need to work on that.
Love,
Jules
Day 23 Losing my religion
April 9, 2020
I don’t want to dance, eat spinach, meditate, work, take a shower, take a walk, clean the cupboards, don a mask, take a vitamin, or kiss my kid.
I’ve done all that, and more.
Quite simply, there is nothing else to do.
Yesterday, our neighbor sat outside on a beach blanket. She turned her face up to the sun. She was smiling, and talking on her phone.
I don’t want to sit on a blanket.
I want to have a tantrum, a roll around on the bed and wail until I’m gulping air like water, temper tantrum.
I want to scream at the heavens.
I want to punch a wall, use nasty words, and snap at someone innocent.
This is where I’m at today, Day 23, at home.
I am finding comfort doing things I don’t want to do, remembering yesterday’s sunshine and the lady next door, and wondering if I remember the words to the Lords Prayer or any prayer at all.
Love,
Jules
Day 20- We Go The Beach And It’s Somebody’s Birthday.
April 5, 2020
Day 20 Aka Sunday
There was steak for breakfast.
We all slept in.
We piled into the car, and drove to Scituate, a small town on the coast of southern Massachusetts.
We hiked thru a muddy marsh.
We visited the lighthouse and walked out on the jetty to the very end. I didn’t fall in between the cracks of the rocks, and Katy said my tiny frightened steps were adorable.
We laughed at Sophie while she rolled in the sand, and used a timer to send a picture to my mom in South Carolina.
About twenty minutes ago, when we pulled in the driveway, Katy cried- “I can’t believe I missed him!”
A friend of hers was coming to the house to drop off a slice of his birthday cake. They were going to smile at each other thru the window. She was allowed to come outside and wave after he had gotten back inside his parent’s car.
A Tupperware container was on the front stoop.
I’m looking at photos from today, and wishing it were weeks ago, and I knew what to cherish.
I’m wondering how to make her feel better, and I’m as lost as I have ever been.
Stay strong, my friends.
I’m waving at you from my window, and sending you love from my heart.
Day 17- This is really, really, really real.
April 2, 2020
I don’t wake up in the mornings and then remember that things have changed.
It’s been more than two weeks.
I don’t cringe, and roll over and wish it was 20 days before yesterday.
I don’t immediately grab my phone, and check the news.
I don’t want to cry or scream.
I want coffee.
I stretch, talk to Sophie, wiggle my toes, and wonder where my slippers are.
I go upstairs, and scoop the dark roast, pour the water. I heat up oat milk, add coconut sugar, and pour the first cup while it’s still dripping.
I take noisy sips at the kitchen table and open the computer. I log into my work email, and check to see if anyone wants to have a zoom meeting, so I know I much time I have to stay rumpled.
I drink coffee and think about breakfast.
The world is really weird, but it seems that, mostly, during the morning I am still the same woman I’ve been for a while now.
But there are spaces between work emails, fitness videos, meal prep, and dog walks, where the worry creeps in.
I worry about the people who don’t have a voice, or have voices but don’t have a platform, or people to speak to. I worry about all of the people that aren’t on Facebook, and don’t have smart phones or people to call.
How weird is it that I said platform before people?
I worry about the people without coffee, or homes, who are sleeping in parking spaces.
Then my husband comes home from work, and he’s worried about bills.
My daughter comes downstairs, and she’s worried about her boyfriend’s birthday.
I make my husband spaghetti. His shoulders relax.
I make Katy do Zumba with me in front of the computer in our living room. She laughs when I try to twerk.
Every night, I allow myself one and a half glasses of wine, so that I can sleep without wondering about the people who slip in my thoughts, between everything else.
Tomorrow, I’m going to stop worrying, and find a way to help people in my corner of the world, whose problems are bigger than pasta or dance fit.
(Thank God mine are, for tonight, anyway.)
I have time.
julierichmond 