Funhouse Mirror Election Season Careens toward the End

Today a bizarre election season lurches toward its much-anticipated close.  Seems like we’ve been cycling through a long series of unsavory thrill rides at a shoddily maintained, near-derelict amusement park.  We wonder how we got here.  Our mothers told us not to go.  We’re ashamed to tell our children where we are.  The rides are rickety and clearly dangerous.  Why was the park ever allowed to open?  Is anyone in charge?  Seems like we’ve been stuck here forever. 

Unsettling funhouse mirrors abound.  Everything is weirdly distorted. Hard to tell what’s real, what’s an illusion.     

Watch out!, I yell to a friend.  There’s one of those evil clowns right behind you! He’s got a knife!   

That’s no clown, silly!, he says.  It’s Santa.  He looks so jolly, and he has great gifts for us! 

I feel sick.  I’ve lost any sense of reality.   I may be going blind.  I don’t know what to believe, or whom to trust.  How do we get out? 

Finally, the exit is in sightI see daylight and blue sky. 

007

It’s a beautiful day.  Go vote.  Maybe we can leave the decaying funhouse behind, at least for a while. 

img_5338

img_5363

Front-Yard Pumpkin Patch, ’16

 

006

For the second year in a row, the maple stump compost pile in our yard has become home to an unplanned pumpkin patch.  (Regarding last year’s patch, see here.)  In early summer, dark green leafy vines began to appear.   Each day they covered more ground, sending out wiry, pale green tendrils that grabbed hold and anchored firmly to blades of grass.  Bright yellow blossoms began to sprout from long, thin shoots on some of the vines.   

005

012

011

Other vines near the ground began to form tiny green bulbs topped by buds that then developed into blossoms.  As I discovered last year, these are the female blossoms that bear fruit if pollinated by bees.  The blooms attached to thinner, longer shoots,  like the one shown below, are male blossoms, and not destined for pumpkin-hood.   

004

 

015

Like last year, two types of squash vines flourished in our patch.  Those bearing larger, dark green sharply tri-lobed leaves produced pale yellow pumpkins.  Those with somewhat smaller, lighter-colored leaves brought forth acorn squash, like the one shown above.   

013

Deer and squirrels claimed some of the bounty, naturally.  Our fall harvest yielded three pretty pumpkins in shades of pale yellow, and two acorn squash.  One of these remained green.  The other turned almost entirely orange after picking.   

004

In recent weeks, as the vines became increasingly brown and dry, the deer seemed to find them more appetizing.  In short order, long after the last blossoms had withered, they nearly decimated the patch.  Every evening around dusk, they could be spotted gobbling determinedly at the bristly plants. 

I thought our pumpkin patch was over and done for the season.  But this morning, in the chilly gray light of November, I noticed that one short section of vine remains green and leafy.  And one small proto-pumpkin was there, too, sprouting a bright, healthy flower.  The days are short, the weather has turned cold, yet the vine still bears fruit.   The perseverance of life, its push to endure despite the odds, never ceases to amaze me.   

Halloween Prep, Courtesy of the Skeleton Crew

skeleton-crew-010

The daily busyness this fall has been more overwhelming than usual for our family.  Were it not for our pal Slim, October might have come and gone with little Halloween prep.  Luckily, he showed up just in time. 

new-skellies-008

With him, of course, were his loyal canine companions Champ and Fluffy, as feisty as ever. 

new-skellies-001

Slim’s entourage has expanded.  Joining the pack this year are the tiny but tough-as-nails twins Rocky and Ruth. . . 

new-skellies-003

as well as the wise and witty Elfrida. 

new-skellies-006

They’re small, but their personalities are most definitely not. 

new-skellies-007

It’s hard not to get into the Halloween spirit when this festive bunch starts to throw their weight around. 

skeleton-crew-027

Slim loaded the pack into his favorite vehicle (how he loves the wind in his hair) and supervised the purchase of pumpkins, ornamental gourds, mums and candy.  Lots of candy, he insisted. 

skeleton-crew-029

Kiko, as always, was up for the ride.

skeleton-crew-045

As evening approached, Slim was handsome and debonaire in his fuchia vest and tailcoat, black tulle scarf and Ray-Bans.  Kiko sat sentinel just inside the door.  Our guest’s only regret was that there was no time for pumpkin carving. 

Still, he and his formerly furry gang were ready to treat. 

Happy Halloween everyone! 

For earlier posts on our Skeleton crew, see here and here

A Look Back on Five Years of Wild Trumpet Vine

 

747

Five years have passed since I began writing Wild Trumpet Vine.  In the space of that half decade, there have been many changes, naturally.  We passed some major milestones, we faced some challenges, and of course we grew older.  Looking back on the last five years, it gives me comfort to see that our family coped.  Maybe we even grew a little wiser.  I hope so.  We’ll need wisdom.  More daunting challenges lie ahead. 

In the fall of 2011, our daughter was starting middle school.  Seven years of elementary school were behind her, and soon she would be a teenager.  Since then, she made the leap into high school.  She became a licensed driver.  Now, our daughter is a senior, and on the verge of an even bigger leap.   We’ve done our family college visits.  The ongoing process is in her hands now.  Our daughter’s future stretches before her. 

549

As for H and me, we’re all too conscious of seeming more elderly with every successive stage in our daughter’s life.  We could consider ourselves young when she was small and looked like a child.  Now that she will soon be out of high school, now that she looks like a young woman, our own youth, we realize, is largely an illusion. 

But we needn’t act old.  About a year ago, H began playing ice hockey once or twice a week, something he’s been wanting to do since he captained a rag-tag grad school intramural team at Princeton.  When windsurfing was his only hobby, his free time was spent mostly feeling sad because there was no wind.  Few opportunities for windsurfing arise in northern Virginia; it’s a sport that requires long stretches of time in an appropriately windy locale, such as Cape Cod or Aruba.  Hockey rinks are more conveniently located.  He’s a happier guy these days. 

And I’m happier, too.   I see good friends on a more regular basis now, and that can’t help but brighten the days.  Five years ago, Kiko and I usually began our early morning walks alone.  We typically chatted with many acquaintances along the way; sometimes we met neighbors and walked a while together.   About two years ago we began walking most weekdays with another neighbor and her dog.  Before long, another friend had joined us with her dog.  We were having fun, and evidently it showed.  A third friend soon joined in.  Now there are at least five of us plus our dogs.  Because we often run into other neighbors, the dog parade may swell to eight or so.  It’s become our morning social hour, one we all hate to miss. 

748

Five years ago, Kiko was four, probably in his prime.  Although no doubt it was already far too late, our family continued to argue about training approaches.  Overcoming his headstrong nature was still put forth as a real possibility by my husband and daughter.  His stubbornness was an ongoing source of family friction. (See An Evening of Discontent and The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog).   

In the language of dog food commercials, Kiko is now a senior dog.  He’s as determined as always in his absolute, driving need to go this way or that.  He has no idea that he’s by far the smallest member of our dog walking pack (which includes a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a Doberman, a Labradoodle and a Golden Doodle).   But Kiko is the unquestioned leader; he chooses the path according to the smells that beckon most keenly.  Yielding to his iron will is more pleasant that battling it.  He’s still fast, although his bursts of speed are shorter-lived. He continues to enjoy wowing the lady dogs with his fleetness of foot and incredible turning radius.  But now he’s very likely to plop down immediately afterwards, preferably for a lengthy rest, in the middle of the street, if possible.  He’s trim and svelte.  His appearance has changed very little.  Except for one detail:  on top of his head, above the center patch of dark sesame coloring, he has a blurred triangle of lighter fur, as though someone had smudged him with bleach. 

557

Five years ago, my parents were still frequently driving back and forth from Atlanta to our home in Virginia.  They were here watching D and her friends head out trick-or-treating, and to open gifts with us on Christmas morning, to celebrate Easter.  In attitude, demeanor and appearance, they seemed far younger than their actual age. 

Time started to catch up with my father about two years ago.  He had two major surgeries in as many years.  He’d always been fit and active.  He woke up feeling good; he rarely had an ache or pain.  But his last surgery left him weakened, almost frail.  He was becoming more and more sedentary.  When he stood up, he was dangerously wobbly.  And it was becoming clear that he was suffering from some form of dementia.  We tried to see it as no big deal.  It was his short-term memory that was primarily affected.  Did it really matter that he complimented me on my sweater every five minutes?  Or offered to get me a glass of orange juice even more repeatedly than usual?  The disease compounded Daddy’s graciousness.  He’d always made kind, sweet comments.  We simply heard the same ones more often.  But in recent months, the changes were increasingly profound.  During one visit he remarked that he couldn’t remember my birthday.  Another time he asked if I had any sisters.  And was I dating anyone interesting?  I told H it was time he got to Atlanta, before Daddy started actively matchmaking.  He had never been an overly protective father; he’d always wanted me to go out and have fun.  Throughout it all, he kept his sense of humor.  

For most of his life, my father had taken care of my mother, and the shift was very difficult for her.  He had done the driving, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the handling of most paperwork, all the car stuff.  He had been there with his reassuring presence.  Suddenly Daddy depended on Mama to take care of him.  But he forgot that he needed her help, and that made it even more difficult.  It continually slipped his mind that there were many things he could no longer do.  Understandably, he didn’t want to remember.  He’d been used to doing so much.  Mama worried that he’d go outside without her knowing, that he’d fall on the steps or the steep front bank.  When she told him he couldn’t go outside on his own, he pleaded earnestly and poignantly, like a little boy: Why? Why can’t I go outside?  The thought of that exchange still brings tears to her eyes.  During our final visit in July, H, D and I were doing yard work.  Daddy appeared, as if from nowhere; he could still move surprisingly fast when no one was looking.  He was poised to climb the ladder, an old, rickety thing propped against the house.  We got to him just in time. 

553

It took Mama a while to adjust to shouldering the burden of being in charge.  I think she was only just coming to terms with it when Daddy died.  My parents would have been married sixty-one years this month.  For her, his absence is a deep and yawning void.   

So, what will the next five years bring?  I don’t like to speculate on the future.  Even when I was young, I hated that question: Where do you see yourself in five years?  In ten?  But looking back on the last five gives me strength to know that we’ll continue to deal with life’s changes as they come.  Like the wild trumpet vine inching along the fencerows, we’ll persevere, through grief, through joy.  My hope is that we will find the assurance that my father experienced.  We’ll see his smile and hear him say: Hey, no need to worry.  It’s all going to be OK. 

590  

Final First Day of School

It’s here.  My daughter’s last-ever first day of school.  That thirteenth, and final first day.  Her senior year has begun.  She looks the part.  She appears confident, fit, athletic, in control.  A beautiful young woman. 

It was twelve years ago that my husband and I worried over our little girl (and she was so little) as she boarded the bus (and the bus was so big) for Kindergarten.  Thank goodness our area didn’t have all-day Kindergarten then.  I wouldn’t have been ready.  (See Moving up to Middle School, October 18, 2011.)  Eleven more first days followed, and eleven more years.  We checked off the major  first-year milestones:  elementary school, middle school, high school.  But I don’t remember growing older. 

My husband has been whistling “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof even more frequently than usual these days.  I understand, and those unsettling lyrics rattle around in my head: 

Sunrise sunset, sunrise, sunset!
Swiftly fly the years,
One season following another,
Laden with happiness and tears…

No school bus for our daughter, not since sophomore year.  This tall young woman got in the car, waved happily, and drove away. 

Is this the little girl I carried?

Wasn’t it yesterday when she was small? 

Wonder where she’ll be this time next year? 

A Tribute to my Father at his Memorial Service

Daddy 165

Over the last six weeks, I’ve given a lot of thought to what made my father so special.  Unique.  Speaking with friends and family who knew him well, I think I’m getting closer to defining it. 

It’s something like this:  he was self-assured in a way that made those around him feel better.  He had a quiet confidence that was the furthest thing from arrogance.  Daddy never bragged.  He tended not to speak at length about anything, least of all himself, and he had little patience with those who do.  One friend expressed it this way:  he said my father had a sort of grace.  And that’s it.  Daddy had an unassuming, infectious charisma.  An easygoing demeanor that told you, maybe even without a word: Hey, everything’s cool.  No need to worry.  His assurance reassured you, built you up and improved your outlook.  Even during that final week, after his stroke, while he was leaving this life little by little, Daddy’s presence was uplifting and reassuring. 

Daddy 321
Daddy with his mother and younger brother on vacation in Florida, 1953.

My father looked on the sunny side, and when you were with him, you basked in the sun, as well.  That, plus his incredible good looks, must have been what drew Mama toward him over sixty years ago.  My mother tends to see the shadows.  She’s a worrier.   She’s acquainted with melancholy.  Daddy was, in so many ways, her sunshine. 

Daddy 297
Daddy with his sister and younger brother, again in Florida, 1953.

One of my more vivid childhood memories is being at the Garden Hills pool with Daddy when I was little.  We’d go swimming sometimes on summer Saturdays, just he and I.  I hated getting into cold water.  Still do.  My daughter makes fun of me every year at Cape Cod as I stand wincing, dipping one toe into the bay.  As a little girl, I’d wrap myself around Daddy like a monkey, and he’d get in at the shallow end and gradually wade deeper and deeper.  At first I’d be shivering like crazy.  But his warmth and sense of calm would soon spread to me.  I’d take a deep breath and relax.  The shivers would disappear.  Daddy’s sunny grace would shine on me, and I could play in the water all day.

Daddy 306
Daddy, 1951.

I never had any doubt that with Daddy, the cold water would turn into something wonderful and fun.  And I’ve never had any doubt about Daddy’s love for me.  His most significant gift has been, and will always be, the absolute, unwavering certainty of his love.  No matter what, he was my champion, my loyal defender.  He was partial, of course.  But he was also generous with his love, not just to me but to all his family and friends.  If he loved you, he was in your corner.  Resolutely.  Enthusiastically.  And you knew it.  Never questioned it. 

Daddy 432
Daddy and me on my first birthday, 1962.

What a gift.  It’s a gift I’ll carry my whole life long, and, I expect, into eternity.  Thank you, Daddy. 

My Father, His Life Well Lived

daddy (2)

My wonderful father left this life in the early hours of July 22. It was a peaceful transition, with Mama and me by his side.  He lingered a while, for nearly nine days, as if to break it to us gently.
Those final days were oddly beautiful.  Daddy was kind, sweet and gracious to the end.

While we will miss him everyday, we’re confident that his loving spirit has found its true and joyful eternal home.  And we will carry his love for us always in our hearts. 

Dear Daddy, I will be forever blessed to be your girl!  

The Hydrangea: Summer’s Essence in a Flower

Hydrangeas 005

No flower captures my idea of the essence of carefree summer quite like the hydrangea.  Once the hydrangeas are flourishing, the school year and its unforgiving routine have ended.  There is time once again for the leisurely enjoyment of a sunny morning. 

Hydrangeas 001

The big, bobbing heads of hydrangeas feature prominently in childhood memories of my grandparents’ Kentucky farm, especially of July 4th family gatherings at the old house on the banks of the river.  And some of the most magnificent hydrangeas anywhere adorn the little cottage complex that becomes our home for a while every August in Cape Cod.  Hydrangeas mean summer, past and present.   

Hydrangeas 003

Hydrangeas were among the first flowers we planted when we moved into our house eighteen years ago.  We added more when we undertook our backyard renovation.  The hydrangeas around our house remind me of the days when my daughter’s idea of a grand adventure was splashing in her little inflatable pool on the lawn.  Hydrangeas mean warm sunshine and happy, uncomplicated times. 

Hydrangeas 007

I didn’t have much hope for our hydrangeas this year.  After the heavy snows of our frigid winter melted at last, much of the early foliage was black and shrunken.  The buds appeared stunted.  But as the weather warmed, the flowers rallied.  Right now, on this July 2, they are more beautiful, and more widely varied in color and depth of hue than I can remember. 

Hydrangeas 002

Hydrangeas 008

010

010

Hydrangeas 012

Hydrangeas 009

Hydrangeas are likely to wilt soon after they’re cut unless given special treatment.  To prolong their freshness considerably, follow this method:

Immerse the stems in water immediately after cutting.  Heat a cup of water to boiling.  As you arrange the flowers, and just after you recut each stem to the chosen length, hold it in the hot water for thirty seconds.  Add the stem to your arrangement in a container filled with room temperature water.  The flowers should look beautiful for several days and perhaps up to a week.  

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.