Community, Family, Friendship, Parenthood, Travel

Summer’s Parting Shot, and a Friendship for the Ages

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Until the beginning of this week, the weather has been so warm here that I was getting lulled into thinking it was still summer. While I’d prefer that it not be 85 degrees in October, the ongoing heat suggested that time was standing still.  Had we finally found that “Hold” button I’m always wishing for?  It almost seemed so.

But the world must be spinning, and moving in its orbit.  Monday’s rain ushered in more seasonable temperatures.  It triggered the pine straw showers that turn our driveway and the hill beside it golden-red every October.  We had one beautiful, crisp fall day.  Yesterday brought cold, insistent rain, and it continues today.  It’s time to search out my gloves and the rest of my warmer dog-walking gear.  But I need one last look at summer.

A bit of summer’s essence is preserved in the photo above.  It shows our daughter and two friends on stand up paddle boards this August.  It was just before sunset, the air was unusually balmy, and Cape Cod Bay was calm and smooth.  It was toward the end of a very special day, when we had a visit with friends from home.  This was an unusual event.  We don’t typically see Virginia friends in Massachusetts.  Our Cape friends and our home friends have, until now, remained completely separate; they inhabit two very different worlds.

But this year, our neighbors decided to vacation in Plymouth.  This is the family with whom we often spend Thanksgiving.  We met them when D and their younger daughter began Kindergarten together.  The girls have been close ever since.  Their friendship is not of the on-again, off-again type.  It’s not stained by gossip, catty commentary, competition or envy.  They never discussed being “best friends.”  It’s a friendship that doesn’t require numerical ranking or constant rebooting.  The two girls are not and needn’t be exactly alike.  But they seem to have a genuine regard and respect for one another, and a true appreciation for their differences.  They have a rare thing going. This kind of comfortable companionship doesn’t happen often.  If we’re lucky enough to find it, we need to hold onto it.

All during elementary school, the girls had a standing Tuesday playdate.  It’s been a pleasure to watch them together through the years.  I would peek in as they made up games in the playroom, watch from the window as they dashed around the yard in the sprinkler or performed acrobatics on our rope swing.  They were nearly always laughing, and their friendship struck me as familiar.  I could see me with my childhood friend Katie, with whom the most mundane activity could be fun.  She and I shared a similar bond, and it’s one that has endured.  I expect that, in years to come, D and her friend will eagerly catch up with one another during winter breaks from college.  I’d be very surprised if, thirty years from now, they’re not exchanging Christmas cards (or whatever kind of virtual correspondence has taken their place by then).

The older daughter is now a high school senior.  Her interest in several New England colleges prompted the family vacation in Plymouth.  The ideal elder sister, she is patient, encouraging, grounded and wise.  She has never been above socializing with her sister’s younger circle.  My daughter considers her a good friend and trusted advisor. I find it reassuring to know that the three girls are all, for this one year, in high school together.

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The two photos above show the friends at our local Memorial Day carnival in 2008. When our girls were in elementary school, this event was an annual tradition, not to be missed.

These kind and thoughtful sisters, as would be expected, embody the same values as their  mother and father.  Once you’re a parent, your child largely determines your friends.  The parents of your child’s friends become the people with whom you spend time, like it or not.  Our daughter chose well for us;  we are very fortunate.  H and I enjoy a real sense of camaraderie with the mother and father and with their two girls.  It was a welcome turn of events when it happened that our families would be in the same area at the same time for our summer vacations.

The day that our friends were arriving in Truro, we were filled with anticipation.  Text updates told us they were getting closer.  When they pulled into the shell-paved parking lot, we were crossing the green to meet them.  D was excited to show her friends her favorite summer place.  We knew the whole family would appreciate the bay and its charms.  They wouldn’t be put off by the seaweed.  They’d find the odd marine life amusing.  They wouldn’t wonder why we didn’t opt for more luxurious housing.  They would enjoy Provincetown’s beauty as well as its eccentricities and humor.  The day would be relaxing, easy and fun.

And it was.  It was a lovely day.  There was time to sit back in beach chairs on the flats during an impressively low tide.  Time for the girls to create a big moated sand castle.  Time to watch the water reclaim it and most of the beach.  After an early dinner at the Lobster Pot, with no crowd and no wait, we wandered among Ptown’s unique sights.  We returned as sunset approached so D and her friends could try out the SUP boards.  The water was gloriously tranquil.  The typical chill of the evening never descended.  We talked, laughed and watched our girls floating happily on the smooth, glassy bay.

The photo of my daughter and her friends on the water is my parting  summer shot.  It captures the luxurious ease and the rhythm of summer.  And it speaks of the promise of friendship to transcend the seasons and the years.

Family, Parenthood, Travel

The Kids are All Right

October’s here, and my husband and I are a month into our new roles as parents of a high schooler.  There’s a much earlier schedule (alarms begin going off at 5:20 AM at our house), our daughter is far busier with schoolwork, extracurriculars  and social stuff (Homecoming, and all that entails, is this weekend).  The parenting dance feels trickier than ever:  when to intervene or not, step in, step back, say yes, say no, when to shut up and let life takes its course.  Any advice or commentary we offer must be phrased with great delicacy and neutrality.   Increasingly, words intended as encouragement or light-hearted comedy are interpreted negatively.  In certain ways the choreography is new.  But some of the moves are familiar, as I realized this summer, vacationing with our fifteen-month old nephew.  Watching him prompted memories of my daughter at his age, and I noticed parallels in parenting a toddler and a teen.

 

Last year I wrote about how H’s sister and her husband brought their new baby, then three months old, to Cape Cod (see Our Summer Village on the Cape, September 2012).  I marveled at their bravery in attempting a vacation at this stage of their child’s life. H and I found it too stressful to venture far from home during our daughter’s first two years.   Last August, D’s new cousin was a cuddly, portable bundle.  He needed everything done for him, but he lacked the power of locomotion.  He stayed where he was placed.  I wondered what even greater reserves of parental courage and vigilance would be required a year later, when their son would be a new walker.

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Our nephew, at thirteen months, in May.
In August, he rarely paused long enough to be photographed.

This past summer, our nephew took his walking very seriously indeed.  He was constantly on the move, always working on his form.  The shifting sand and the piles of dried seaweed threw him for a loop.  He soldiered on, carefully and deliberately, but he made it clear that he wasn’t about to go it alone.  At the least hint of unsteadiness, he thrust out a hand and emitted an impatient squawk, his way of demanding that Mama or Daddy hasten to his side.  He would accept help from Grandma and Grandpa, but remained wary of H, D and me.  We hadn’t yet put in enough hours to earn his trust, and I could respect him for that. He was equally quick to indicate when assistance was unwelcome.  The worst offense was to pick him up without permission.  This was grounds for loud and vigorous protest.

When the baby was happy, he was very happy.  He smiled, giggled, clapped his hands gently and soundlessly, and, when asked, performed his signature move, the subtlest of stationary dances, a barely perceptible, and very funny, shifting of his hips. When he was touchy, he was very touchy.  Often his fiery irritability had no explanation. Luckily for him, whether glad or mad, he was awfully cute, a sweet-faced, doll-sized figure in a floppy sun hat and long shorts.

Considering that D’s cousin negotiated the beach with the utmost care, I was at first surprised to see that hard surfaces inspired in him a devil-may-care attitude.  Once his little foot touched a sidewalk or a gravelly parking lot, if given the chance, he was likely to break into a wild run.  He looked like a tiny fugitive attempting a last-ditch effort at freedom.  These feats of daring frequently ended badly, in tumbles, scrapes and anguished screams.

Then it began to come back to me:  our daughter behaved similarly when she was about his age.  On soft, unthreatening grass, she walked with unhurried ease.  But should she discover a patch of rocky, ill-paved concrete, that’s when she’d tear off in a desperate sprint.  She was careful under relatively safe circumstances, yet often reckless when there was a hint of danger.  When I hosted the baby playgroup for an Easter egg hunt at our new home, I looked forward to seeing the children roaming happily on the big front lawn.  But D and her friends couldn’t care less about the nice grass or the colorful eggs hidden there.  It seemed they had decided unanimously that the only game in town was scrambling up and down the rough concrete stairs off the back porch.  Up and down, over and over, while we mothers hovered anxiously, trying to focus their attention elsewhere, to no avail.

During D’s toddler years I often lamented her frequent instances of contrariness.  If I really wanted her to do a certain thing, she was likely to put all her effort into doing the opposite thing.  It seemed like God’s joke on parents.  Of course, he knows how we feel.  In that paradise garden he lovingly created for us, there were boundless delicacies and only a single prohibition.  We know how that went.

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D and friends, at about sixteen months old, on April 14, 2000.  Safety concerns led my husband to block off the top of the stairs with a plywood board; we entered the porch via a ramp installed by the previous owner. The playgroup still insisted on climbing up and down these ugly stairs to nowhere.  The steps, along with our old porch, are long gone.

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Last year at the Cape I could envision D and her new cousin, some day, hand in hand, an adorable sight as they headed down to the bay.  I had hoped it would happen this summer, but that was premature.  Our nephew wasn’t ready to go exploring without his parents at arm’s reach (except when he was racing across the pavement).  I had almost forgotten children’s insistence on their own schedules, their own agendas. They won’t be rushed, and they have their own distinct personalities, no matter how young.

Looking back on the early years with our daughter, I see that I wanted her to be a small, improved copy of me, with all my likes and dislikes, yet lacking my faults and weaknesses.  There were times when I had counted on a different developmental pace for D.  I remember reading to her when she was in her second year.  I expected her to soak up enthusiastically the nuances of plot and  illustration I pointed out to her, but she wasn’t impressed with such details.  She just wanted to get on with it, and she demanded insistently:  Turn page!  Turn page!  If I didn’t do so, she would grab the page roughly and turn it herself.  The majority of her picture books from this era are ripped and fragmentary.  When D wasn’t quite three, we spent a weekend in Princeton, and I had visions of her eyes widening at the beauty and elegance of the collegiate Gothic architecture.  But she rarely looked up; all she wanted to do was draw in the dirt with a stick. My husband recognized the absurdity of my expectations, but he had his own.  He was disappointed when his daughter showed no interest in advanced math or engineering concepts at two and a half.

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 D in June 2000, at  eighteen months, free to turn these unrippable cardboard pages at her own pace.

Watching my sister- and brother-in-law cope with the  toddler stage of their son’s life, I remember how H and I, too, had to learn when to lend our daughter a hand, and when to let her go.  Sometimes we had to let her run, even if it was across hard pavement. As her little cousin roves farther and faster on his own two little feet, our daughter ventures farther and more frequently from us, her parents.  This year on the Cape, she was among the crowd of teenagers that wanders the grounds of our cottage complex.  She rode the bus into Ptown with her friends.  She stayed out later than ever at night with the group, talking and laughing on the green.  Her irritability, like that of her baby cousin, may be fierce, sudden, and without explanation.  Now, with school and all its related activities under way, H and I might define our primary parental obligation as that of the chauffeur.  Certainly, we seem to be most appreciated when we complete our driving duties efficiently, silently, and disappear immediately afterwards.  But like her cousin, our daughter continues to learn to walk her own walk, to do her own dance.  She still needs us looking on, if not holding her hand.  We’ll have to relearn old steps as we try out new ones together.

Next year at the Cape, our nephew will no longer be the baby. He’ll be a big brother to his eight-month old sibling, expected next month.   Other dim memories of our daughter’s babyhood will be refreshed as we watch our fifteen-year old helping her two young cousins pursue their unique choreography.  And, of course, creating some of her own original steps.

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                           D, age fourteen, at the Cape, in August.

Community, Family, Friendship, Parenthood, Travel

Provincetown’s Music Man, Bobby Wetherbee

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As I’ve mentioned, just a mile down the road from our quiet cottage on the beach in Truro is bustling, partying Provincetown, incredibly rich in its offerings of theatrical and musical entertainment.  This small seaside town has been a mecca for the visual and performing arts since the turn of the twentieth century. We try to sample something new every year.  But no matter what else we do, we always devote at least one late night to the music of Bobby Wetherbee.  

The ageless Bobby Wetherbee has been entertaining audiences in Ptown for fifty years.  From June to October, Thursdays through Sundays, he’s at his piano in the lounge of the Central House at the Crown & Anchor.  He’s a beloved icon, and our family understands why. 

Bobby’s musical gifts were evident early.  He recounts how, at age three, he sat down at the piano and simply began playing fluently.  Shepherded by his mother, who gave up her own acting career to be his manager, he was performing by age six.  He trained in voice, piano and acting, first in summer stock and private lessons, and  later at the New England Conservatory.  He’s had long-running gigs in New York, at the St. Regis (in the famous King Cole Bar) and at the Carlyle, and in Boston at the Copley Plaza.  Bobby makes his home in Boston and spends winters in Palm Beach.  But summer finds him in Provincetown, and Provincetown sure is lucky. 

We discovered Bobby twelve years ago as we were walking with my husband’s parents down Commercial Street after dinner.  We were drawn to  lively, infectious music spilling out from the Landmark Restaurant, where he was playing at the time.  A vivacious, strikingly tan man was holding forth at a piano positioned immediately by the open window.  A tightly packed crowd surrounded him, singing along enthusiastically.  The song was a family-friendly standard, perhaps Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah or Do-Re-Mi.  Our preschool-age daughter knew it as well as we did, and we all joined in.  My husband took her in his arms so  she could get a better view.  When Bobby noticed our group, he sang the rest of the song directly to our little daughter.   We added our appreciative applause to that of the patrons inside, and Bobby blew D a kiss.  She was delighted.  We all were. 

After another year of enjoying a too-short taste of Bobby’s music from the street outside, we all agreed:  we wanted more.  Since then, we always catch Bobby’s show.  Sometimes H and I go with his sister and her husband.  Sometimes H’s parents join us.  Sometimes we all go.  We’ve brought our daughter along many times. 

Bobby’s performance is compelling in its vitality. His repertoire is wide-ranging, but he favors classics and show tunes from the 1940s on. He doesn’t pause between numbers; he doesn’t take breaks.  In fact he never seems to tire.  One song segues smoothly into the next.   He may hold a final note for an improbably long interval, never losing volume or breath, before launching, with gusto, into the next song.  He pauses only to take the occasional exuberant swig from his ever-present water bottle.  One medley transitions into another, and the momentum builds: Dorothy Fields, Cole Porter, George M. Cohan, Irving Berlin, The Sound of Music, and on to Chicago. He may include a couple of his own songs, perhaps the spirited break-up song History, or the poignant That’s a Lie (which he wrote at age twelve).  You get the sense that Bobby knows what it means to win and lose at love, and to celebrate life, with humor and compassion, through the good and the bad. 

The unique appeal of Bobby’s show is hard to explain.   Certainly he has heaps of talent, but it entails far more than talent.  I’ve been to piano bars, to British pubs, where the crowd sings along happily, and it’s fun.  But Bobby makes the experience truly special.  His presence is effervescent, warm and outsized, and he is extraordinarily generous.  Nearly every night, he welcomes a professional or amateur to step up to the piano for a solo.  Sometimes it’s a fellow musician visiting from out of town, or a young performer fresh from a local revue.  Often it’s Tony, Provincetown’s ebullient Director of Tourism.  Bobby’s encouragement and his nuanced piano playing bring out the best in a singer.

Or would-be singers.  Bobby’s generosity extends to his entire audience. Not only does he invite the participation of everyone in the room; he somehow convinces each one of us that we’re really good. He brings us in almost conspiratorially, makes us a crucial part of the show. Toward the end of All that Jazz, he slows down the tempo and proclaims, “OK kids, this is the time when we sell it!”  You find yourself thinking:  he needs us; he can’t do it alone!  And then the entire room resounds joyously with “You’re gonna see your Sheba shimmy shake, and all that jazz!  She’s gonna shimmy till her garters break!  And ALL THAT JAZZ!!  We’re all in show biz, and gosh, we’re terrific!  Bobby makes you believe it, and you love him for it. 

An evening with Bobby Wetherbee attests to the unifying, civilizing power of music.  The audience at the Crown & Anchor spans generations and is diverse with a capital D.  But with song after song, false boundaries and perceived differences–all the stumbling blocks we set up to keep us apart–they melt away.  By the time the standing-room only crowd combines voices to join our gracious, considerate host in God Bless America, or another patriotic favorite, the dream of peace on earth seems not only possible, but likely. 

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This photo, taken in August after a show, captures Bobby’s generosity, kindness and warmth:  he hugs me as though I’m the star.  He makes me think, while I’m with him, that I could be.  That’s why he’s the real star. 

Thank you dear Bobby, for the music.   We’ll see you next summer. 

Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel

Wind for the Windsurfer

Every year, on the day before we leave for the Cape, my husband painstakingly packs the car with his vast array of windsurfing gear. To the untrained eye, it’s a bewildering hodgepodge, but it all makes sense to him. When I asked him to describe what’s included, he was more than happy to oblige. He rarely has the chance to talk about his beloved sport, as there are few fellow windsurfers in our area (due primarily to a lack of water and wind). Ideal conditions are rare at the Potomac or the Chesapeake (at least on weekends when H can get there). This is one reason we go to Cape Cod each year. And it’s because of the Cape that H discovered windsurfing. As a teenager, he got hooked when he took a lesson on Gull Pond in Wellfleet. 
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According to H, here’s what he packs for the trip:  four sails (ranging in size from three to seven and a half square meters),  one board (he has two, but he only brings one),  three masts, two mast extension tubes, two booms, four fins in a range of types and sizes (including a new weed fin called the “Reaper,”) a wind meter, life jacket,  harness, three wet suits, protective booties in two different thicknesses, a waterproof watch, a repair kit consisting of epoxy, sail tape and a “ding stick,” sunglass floaties, piles of velcro straps, ropes and “lashing straps,” and finally, two universal joints.  The board is strapped to the roof rack, but everything else must be inside the car.  This is unfortunate for our daughter, who, during the long drive, is wedged into a tight pocket.  If she has a growth spurt we’ll have to get a bigger car.

Optimal wind is not a given even at the Cape.  There are years when the equipment sits virtually unused,  a sad, sandy mound in the corner of the living room of our cottage, a painful reminder to H of what he’s missing.  When this is the case, he spends lots of time standing at the edge of the bay, staring dejectedly at the wind meter.  People relaxing on the beach may comment knowingly, “Too much wind, huh?”  This has never been the case, and H gets a little exasperated at the non-windsurfing public’s lack of wind know-how.  It is one super-frosty day in hell when there’s too much wind for the windsurfer.  Typically, if conditions are comfortable for lounging on the beach, the wind is utterly inadequate for H’s purposes.  It’s when the beach umbrellas begin to take flight that his mood begins to lift, as well.  Perfect wind for windsurfing often occurs only under perfectly miserable conditions.  When the sand whips your legs with the sting of a million needles, the spray from each violently crashing wave drenches you and your canvas chair, the sky is low and threatening, the temperature has dropped to wintry, and beach-goers seek shelter in their cottages, that’s when H will be merrily heading out, into the midst of the water and wind. 

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H, catching some air, is joined by a kite boarder, on what appears to be a silvery sea of mercury.

It takes several trips to lug the many required pieces of equipment down to the water’s edge.  Sometimes D or I help; more often, we simply stand inside the cottage in mute witness, amazed at his fortitude, marveling that such terrible weather cheers him so.  Once the craft is assembled, he tugs it through the thick seaweed that floats in the shallows of the bay.  At last, he’s off, and for a few seconds, D and I can see him speeding away, toward the curve of Provincetown.  Very quickly, he disappears into the gray mist of sea and sky.

We check on him periodically, because he’s always out far longer than anyone on shore deems possible or advisable.  D and I bundle up in hoodies and rainwear and trudge down to the water, scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the sail.  After a while we see a speck in the distance:  it’s H heading  toward shore.  We assume he’s had enough; surely he’s coming in, exhausted and frozen.  But no.  He’s just turning around.  He gives us the thumbs up and lets the wind pull him up and out of the water again.  (Skilled windsurfers needn’t struggle to pull up the sail, as novices do.)  D and I retreat to the cottage and consider playing a card game or huddling under beach towels.

During times like this, I can’t help but wish my husband had a different hobby.  Why can’t he be a history buff or model train collector?  Why can’t he build those cute little scale models of classic cars?  I used to encourage him to take up carpentry.  I could see him busy in a cozy basement woodworking studio, turning out copies of furniture based on pictures I ripped out of Antiques Magazine.  Why does he have to have a hobby that requires the unique confluence of so many elusive factors?

It could be worse, of course.  He could spend every spare moment on the golf course.  He could be a die-hard college football fan.  He could insist that we travel to all the games in an RV, like the alumni that turn Athens, GA into an ocean of red and black polyester on Saturdays.  Or he could be a Revolutionary War reenactor. Worse still, he could want me there beside him, his loyal colonial partner in a corset and thick wool dress, roasting a sheep over an open fire in the middle of August.  I have nothing against those who pursue such pasttimes.  Indeed, I have friends who do.  I’m just glad I’m not married to any of them (and I’m sure they echo the sentiment).   OK, maybe windsurfing isn’t so bad.

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This year at the Cape, H got the best wind we can remember, and I didn’t wish he had a different hobby.  The wind was exceedingly cooperative, almost thoughtful.  It didn’t insist on being accompanied by freezing cold and driving rain.  It was timely; it wasn’t at its peak during the evening when we planned to go into Provincetown for dinner.  The wind often blew most briskly shortly after dawn.  These windsurfing sessions were the ones that D and I found particularly pleasant,  since we were able to sleep through them.  But in the late afternoons, as sunset approached, I watched in comfort as H appeared to skim effortlessly across the water.  Sometimes, he even soared above it, just for a moment.  I think he’d say this:  that moment, that perfect, thrilling moment. . .that’s what it’s all about.

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For the first time ever, the windsurfer in H was almost satisfied when we left the Cape. Almost. In the words of the Meat Loaf song, Stark Raving Love, when it comes to windsurfing, for H, “Too much is never enough.”

 

Community, Family, Friendship

WTV Turns Two

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Wild Trumpet Vine is two years old today.  A big thank-you to all my readers, whose numbers are growing steadily. I’m especially grateful to those of you who let me know, in some way or another, when a post strikes home.  And as always, I’m interested in hearing divergent points of view.  May we continue creeping along together, through the good times and bad, as the years go by.

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Community, Family, Friendship, Nature, Travel

Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro

When we turn off Route 6 onto Route 6A, Shore Road in Truro, we’re five hundred miles and twelve hours’ driving time from our house in Virginia. But we feel like we’re coming home. And we are, in a way. We’re here every year. We like to think that we’re more than tourists, who are just passing through, perhaps never to return. We will be back; we’re a sure thing. We’ve been coming here so long that we can’t imagine not going back.

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Each summer’s inaugural drive down Shore Road finds the three of us exultant.  Our time at the Cape is something we agree on completely; we all hold it equally dear, for our own reasons.  The trials and traffic of the long trip are behind us.  We eagerly scan the familiar land- and seascape along the mile and a half that leads to our little cottage complex.  It’s rare that we are greeted by any major changes, and for this we are grateful.

The water, the sand, and the light are in constant daily flux, yet from year to year, this sliver of the Outer Cape appears virtually the same.  The manmade trappings along Shore Road are modest; they make no effort to compete with nature’s spectacular beauty.  There are bungalows, saltboxes, and of course, Cape Cods, but no high rises, no glitz.  There are groupings of rental cottages.  Most are small; some are unbelievably tiny.  All are picturesque.

Those lucky enough to get a toe-hold along this enchanted strip of land don’t easily let it go.  Homes are passed from one generation to the next.  The same weathered, typically hand-painted signs in front yards have greeted us for decades: Beach Rose, The Little Skipper, The Sea Gull, Pilgrim Colony.   Occasionally a cottage is resided, reshingled or otherwise refurbished.  Some grow more charmingly dilapated every year.  Once in a very long while a new building appears.  Mostly, though, all remains reassuringly the same, and seems to promise always to be so.

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Lush, vibrantly colored flowers adorn the minuscule front yards of many Shore Road cottages.

                              

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A rusty owl keeps wide-eyed watch in front of one home.

                                          

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This weathered, shingled cottage, with its Pineys sign, has been here as long as I can remember.

                                           

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Hydrangeas, in great profusion, flourish along the fencerows.

                                   

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The vacant motel, languishing in a perpetual sense of comfortable decay.

                                                 

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A vigilant seagull caretaker. After seeing The Birds this summer, I will keep my distance.

                                                                    

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Simple bayside cottages, brilliant blue sky, luxuriant green grass.
This is our Cape Cod.

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship, Parenthood

Lessons from Vacation Bible School, Part II

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My daughter and her little friends, VBS 2003.

I retired from Crafts and led Bible Adventures for the next two summers.  The following year, when previous VBS directors had had enough, I agreed to lead the entire program.  I’ve done so for nine years now.  I may be starting to get the hang of it.  At least I’ve learned some valuable lessons.

My first few years as VBS director were rough.  I was reluctant to ask for help.  I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, so I tried to do too much.  I was hesitant to schedule planning meetings, knowing that every church volunteer  has too many such events already glaring out from their calendars.  I often awoke around 4 AM, worried that I couldn’t get it all done, uncertain what “it” was.  I got angry and tired because I didn’t have the help I needed.  It was a vicious circle, and it wasn’t doing anything for my spiritual well-being, or for anyone else’s. 

I was anxious over every bump in the road.  And there were, are, and always will be bumps.  What if I can’t find a preschool leader?  What if I can’t get enough volunteers to provide meals?  (Our VBS is held in the evenings, and we begin with a light supper each night.) When would I find time to buy all the necessary items for Crafts?  Where are  the robes we’ll need for Bible Adventures?  Will I be able to locate the place where I can pick up dry ice?  (VBS typically requires many odd props.)  What if very few children participate?  Or what if there are way too many, far more than we can handle? 

I fretted  about the task of organizing the children into the crews in which they rotate from one activity to the next.  There are many subtleties to consider:  these two siblings must be together; these cannot be together; this child doesn’t get along with that one; these two get along too well and will conspire to create chaos; these four cousins want to be in the same crew;  this kid wants to be in a group led by his older sister, but the sister needs a break from her brother, etc.  Then there are those difficult children whose strong personalities overshadow those of their peers.  And each year there are some children I’ve never met.  Are they painfully meek, or boisterously gregarious?  On the afternoon that VBS begins, I have devised neat lists of kids,  organized into apparently cohesive groups.  An hour later, with the walk-ins and the no-shows, my carefully considered groupings are shuffled unrecognizably, turned upside down.  This problem will always be with us.  It’s not improved by my worrying about it. 

Gradually, I began to let go of more worries.  Every year in VBS, we tell the kids about the power of prayer:  Don’t worry about anything.  Instead, pray about everything (Philippians 4:6).  The message finally got through to me, too.  I started turning my worries into prayers.  Before long, I was hearing an answer:  ask for help. Evidently I had somehow managed to give the impression that I had everything well under control. Once word got out that this was completely false, offers came rolling in. Some were from people who had no desire to be surrounded by a mob of children; they realized they could contribute in other valuable ways. One volunteer, who has a gift for composing, editing and polishing text, had the idea to publish a Wish List in the church bulletin and newsletter that spelled out our needs, both supplies and personnel. The Wish List, and the gracious generosity of our church family, allow me to go on vacation immediately before VBS and know that progress is ongoing; my vigilant and efficient friend is minding the store. I found that, if asked, a surprising number of people are glad to be of assistance. It helps immensely that our current minister, who knows how to rally the congregation, is our VBS head cheerleader. Each year, more people get involved, resulting in less work and greater camaraderie for all.

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D and a friend, after the VBS finale, 2003.

For the past several years, we’ve been fortunate to have the right volunteers for every job. Our music leader, a talented singer-songwriter and versatile instrumentalist, is enthusiastic and easy-going. He has helped me realize that we shouldn’t expect perfection, from ourselves or from the children. He reminds me that when something goes wrong, as long as no one is injured, it’s usually not a big deal. In Crafts, thankfully, we have creative leaders who take the messiness in stride and manage to enjoy the kids. Heading up Games is a dynamic young woman I watched grow up in the church. She possesses boundless energy and a formidable sense of dedication. Leading the video-discussion segment is a husband and wife team skilled in engaging the kids without condescension. My daughter recruits a few buddies, and they handle Bible Adventures with imagination and a sense of fun. D shoulders more responsibility every year; she has become my assistant director.  She excels at the tasks I find most difficult, and she knows the ropes, having lived and breathed VBS every August for as long as she can remember. Our preschool leaders are caring, calm and unflappable; serenity reigns in their classroom. I no longer have to worry about arranging meals; this burden is shouldered reassuringly by a well-organized friend. We couldn’t pull off VBS without our youth; they bring their friends and shepherd the kids from one rotation to the next.  Due to all these many considerate and capable volunteers, my job has become pleasant, even rewarding. 

After all these years, it’s begun to make sense to me: an important aspect of VBS is building community.  There is no glory in going it alone, beaten down by worry.  It’s about working together, guided by prayer, in a spirit of optimism and generosity.  When we combine our unique talents and pool our resources, that crucial VBS message resounds further and remains resonant far longer:  Jesus loves you so much! 

Family, Parenthood

Back to School (and This Time, it’s High School!)

This morning, for the first time, my daughter walked out the back door  to catch the high school bus.  It was 6:15, and nearly as dark as midnight.

In our driveway, from behind a cluster of pine trees, I watched her walk down the street. Other teenage forms materialized out of the darkness. I felt a jolt of happiness as D enthusiastically hugged a  girl she’s known from babyhood.  How lucky she is, I thought, to begin high school in the company of friends who have been in her life as long as she can remember.

As I returned to the porch, I saw my husband standing at the office window, which offers a conveniently unimpeded view of the bus stop.  I joined him, and we kept vigil.   Soon the lights of the approaching school bus were visible.  It sighed to a halt, and our daughter, along with the other neighborhood kids, disappeared inside.  We watched the bus turn around, lumber back down the street, make the turn onto the main road, and vanish behind the trees.

It’s been nine very short years since we waved goodbye to that first school bus, the one that carried our little girl off to Kindergarten.  H and I had both been teary-eyed that morning.  Neither of us cried this time, and he didn’t follow the bus in his car, as he did then.  (See Moving up to Middle School, As a Parent, October 2011.)  But we’re at another of life’s crossroads, and we felt  a similar sense of apprehension, and an all too familiar astonishment at the speed of time’s passing.  Now, from experience, we know how quickly these four high school years will zip by. We’ll blink, and suddenly we’ll be empty-nesters.

But I mustn’t let my worries sprint even faster than time.  There is that dicey business of learning to parent our high schooler.  H and I aren’t sure we’re ready to embark on such a work/study program.  We’d really like to be held back a year or two; we may need remedial training.  That’s not an option, unfortunately.  School has begun for all or us, whether we’re ready or not.  I hope that in four years, we can look back and say, collectively, that we passed our courses.

What do you know?  The first school day has ended!   Within the hour, I’ll see the bus returning, bringing my high schooler home.

Community, Family, Nature

Cicada Update (Follow-up to Cicadas! May 2013)

It wasn’t our year.  It wasn’t our brood.

I’m glad.  I vow to be mentally prepared in 2021, but I wasn’t ready this past May.

This year’s Brood II largely missed Northern Virginia.  South of us, some areas were inundated, as expected.  Friends with vacation homes around Lake Anna near Charlottesville were dealt a true cicada full house.  They saw Brood II up close in all its red-eyed, rambuctious, ear-splitting, smelly glory.  As for our neighborhood, it  was no louder than usual, and no more critter-crowded than usual.

It wasn’t until toward the end of July that we first began hearing isolated cicadas chirping at night. This is a sound I love.  It’s the soothing music of a summer night in the South, one that takes me back to my childhood bedroom in Atlanta.  The windows are open, a fan is whirring, and the cicadas are singing, pleasantly, contentedly.

There were no cicadas in Cape Cod where we vacationed, and the nights seemed too quiet.  We heard only crickets, the wind, an occasional coyote, and some chattering, laughing  teenagers (including my own).  The cicadas welcomed us home to Virginia.

I still have not seen a cicada this summer.  During a walk, Kiko and I heard one buzzing loudly in the grass.  He pounced, fox-like, but it escaped him, and I pulled my little dog away. The only visual cicada evidence I’ve discovered is a single, perfectly round, half-inch-diameter hole in a bare spot below the bird feeder.  Nine years ago, our lawn was alarmingly riddled with such openings.  While I’m glad that’s not the case again, I do hope our lone cicada managed to fulfill its purpose and find a mate. I like to think that, in 2030, I’ll be hearing the chirping of its offspring. 

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For the earlier post on Cicadas, see here.

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.