I was born to a family of savers and recyclers. Among the many boxes in my parents’ attic are several that contain my mother’s old sewing patterns, clearly marked and dated, from the 1960s on. When Mama decided that my daughter needed her own Red Riding Hood robe like the one I had worn in the Christmas photo from 1965, she used the same pattern. D loved her version and wore it for years. Here she is at age three in 2002: another little blonde girl in red, happy to be visiting her grandparents.
It was only after they were married that my parents exchanged money for a Christmas tree. As my mother remembers, they bought the first tree for their new house in Lexington from an old man who sold cedars he cut himself. The photo below dates from 1964 and shows a full but rather ungainly cedar that was the standard of my early childhood.
On Christmas morning in our house in Lexington, my hair still in rag-tied curls, I’m happily discovering Santa’s gifts of a “Debbie Eve” baby doll and a cradle. We would head to my grandparents’ later in the day, for Christmas dinner.
Christmas Eve, 1965, with Mama in the living room of my grandparents’ house. Our smiles appear to be heartfelt. We were right where we wanted to be.
Christmas morning, 1965, at my grandparents’ house.
I’m in the new red corduroy housecoat Mama made me, holding my new doll Amy. In my cloudy half-memories, this was a perfect Christmas day.
We had planned to get our Christmas tree last Sunday after church. (We put up several artificial trees in early December, but wait until mid-month on the real tree.) At breakfast that morning, our daughter recounted the dream she’d been having upon waking: H and I had decided to surprise her by going out for the tree while she slept. By the time she came downstairs, we had it set up and decorated. It was not a good-looking tree. D tried to hide her disappointment in not being included in the tree outing, in our choice of an unfortunate tree, in its awkward placement, and in our bad decorating. When she reached out to touch it, the trunk collapsed in on itself like a patio umbrella stand. It had been tall and ugly; now it was short and ugly. Once fully awake, she was greatly relieved to find no tree at all in the living room.
Her dream reminded me of some old photos from my childhood featuring particularly unsightly Christmas trees. D had seen them before, but had forgotten, so the impact was strong.
These photos have mystified me for years. They were taken in our first house in Atlanta, a little rental ranch in the Montreal Woods section of Tucker. When I think back on the Christmases of my childhood and teen years, I set them in the home we bought two years later, in the Morningside area. As I remember, it was graced annually with a nicely shaped, well-decorated tree, usually a Frazier fir. Why, then, were these trees, from the more distant past, so very ugly?
Upon recent re-examination of the photos, I assumed they showed two different, but equally unattractive trees, from consecutive years. (Dates on our family photos are often missing or erroneous.) The first captures a hulking, bushy tree. I look up at it with awed trepidation. In the second, I sit forlornly beside a presence that resembles a raggedy, monstrous figure, small-waisted and large-hipped. The broad expanse of blank white wall adds a further degree of bleakness.
Then I noticed that in another picture of the monster tree, I’m wearing the same black dress and blue barrettes as in the bushy-tree photo. Could we really have had two such sad-looking trees in the same year? Was the first so terrible that we took it down and swapped it for another, late in the season, when the pickings were even slimmer? Maybe the first one kept falling over? (I have vague memories of toppling trees on rickety stands.) Or maybe the needles dried out within a few days? I phoned my parents to see if they could offer any clarification. They didn’t think we ever had two trees in a single year. They did remember that we had some less than stellar trees in the Tucker years.
It had to be the same tree, one with the added distinction of looking bad in various ways depending upon the angle from which it was viewed. The same ornaments appeared in similar spots; the same aluminum-foil tinsel was draped haphazardly over long-needled branches. In the photo above, Mama and I seem to be trying to put on a good show, to pretend gamely that we’re perfectly content in the presence of this strange tree. Here we are, happy and well-dressed, holding these gifts expectantly. We could be a family on a Christmas card.
Mama’s memory of that tree was as hazy as mine, but other details of that season she recalled vividly. Ever since she and my father had married, they had spent Christmas with her family in central Kentucky. My birth hadn’t changed this; Christmas would find us in the farmhouse with my grandparents, surrounded by aunts and uncles. But that year, after our move to Georgia, we weren’t traveling. We could have our own merry Christmas, just the three of us. We would. We’d do it.
We tried. In the photo above, we continue with the Christmas card images. Mama reads ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, and I look giddy and act like I’ve never heard it before. We’re both wearing new pink flannel PJs. Our long hair is neatly brushed. Beneath our fake smiles, you can see us grimly willing those visions of sugarplums to dance, dance, dance.
It didn’t work out. There were no sugarplums. We missed our family. We missed the big old house. We missed our tradition. It just didn’t seem like Christmas. As a young child, I tended to carry an outsized burden of multiple anxieties, for no reason that could be explained. That Christmas Eve, I was sad and inconsolable. I couldn’t stop crying. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. Mama, loving and patient, sat with me, late into the night, holding my hand and offering assurance. She had grown accustomed to this process, but usually it wasn’t quite so painful or long-lasting.
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Early the next morning, we packed up the gifts, the wrapped ones and those from Santa, bundled ourselves into the enormous blue Dodge station wagon, and headed to Kentucky. The time would come, soon enough, for starting a new tradition. That year, 1966, was simply not the time.
During visits to my parents in Atlanta, my daughter and I enjoyed dropping in to talk with Doug, who never failed to entertain; his love of life remained robust no matter his level of discomfort. If we lingered a while, we would usually be graced by Elvis’s regal presence. He was reserved around all but immediate family, not one to dole out affection indiscriminately. Elvis was especially wary of children. As Doug advised D when she was a preschooler, Elvis didn’t appreciate loud voices and sudden movements. She took this advice to heart, and it often paid off. Elvis would first peer in from the hall, sizing us up with his cool yellow cat eyes. Sometimes he decided we weren’t worth his time. With a flip of his tail, he’d disappear. Other times he gave us the OK and approached tentatively, gracefully, on tip-toe. D was delighted when he decided to settle in beside her, allowing her to stroke his abundantly fluffy black fur and hear his deep, growly purr.
Doug’s wife told my mother that although the house feels oddly empty, now that Elvis is no longer there, she has much to be thankful for. She is grateful that Elvis was with Doug until the end, and that he stayed a while afterwards to offer solace as she began the process of adjusting to life without her husband. Anyone lucky enough to be helped through a difficult time by the precious comfort of a pet must know the feeling.
Rest in peace, dear Elvis. It was our good fortune to know you.
Elvis, ignoring a cat toy, 2013.
And beautifying the Christmas tree, 2012.
The last weeks of the play and its preparation gave me a taste of what I may expect when D goes away to college. It sounds callous and un-motherly, but I hadn’t really expected to miss my daughter. After all, things have changed since she was in elementary school, when I’d meet her at the bus stop and she’d be truly happy, even excited, to see me. In the afternoons, we’d work on some craft project, or take a bike ride, or play monkey-in-the-middle with Kiko and a tennis ball. She’d talk freely about her day. She’d do her homework at the kitchen table while I prepared dinner and was on hand to help if she ran into difficulties. Back then, I usually knew the answers. These days, I’ve learned to give her space and time to decompress. I try not to come on too strong with expectant inquiries. Don’t hover, I remind myself. Don’t be too needy. Remember that my attempts at humor are not appreciated as they once were. Avert my eyes as her phone lights up every few seconds with an incoming text. Refrain from commenting on the identity of the texter, should I happen to see.
With D gone for such long stretches, there would be less time for negotiating this tricky obstacle course, of showing adequate, but not excessive concern. Less time to demonstrate that I’m neither prying nor inattentive. Certainly, I thought, I’d be more efficient. I would do more writing. Maybe I’d finish the paintings of tree trunks and tangled vines that I began in the summer. I’d be more thorough at cleaning the house. Maybe even arrange to have lunch with a friend or two.
But I wasn’t particularly productive or focused. I found my daughter’s absence more unsettling than I had anticipated. Especially in the late, dark afternoons, it was odd to realize that she wasn’t hiding out in another room, watching How I Met Your Mother on her phone instead of buckling down to her homework. I was uninspired. No in-depth blog topic beckoned me. I couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for painting. I did catch up on laundry, but that’s about all.
Kiko was restless. He quite obviously missed his sister. Nearly every time I began to concentrate at my desk, I’d feel him pawing impatiently at my leg, nipping at my knee, or hear him preparing to chew on a stack of papers. He’d bring in a rawhide and drop it at my feet. When I’d toss it, he’d look at me questioningly. Is this all there is? Is it just you and me now, and this singularly unsatisfying rawhide? I’d search out his much-loved Foxy, squeak it, throw it, shake it. Surely Foxy would bring him out of his doldrums. Typically, though, it did not. He’d stand there, unbudging, staring at me.
So we’d go somewhere. We’d walk, or I’d think up an errand, one on which Kiko could accompany me. From there, we’d walk in a less familiar area, one that would hold his attention fully with its many compelling smells. It seemed that the colder, windier and generally more miserable the day, the more time we’d spend wandering. But when we returned, Kiko could settle down for a while. I’d find myself less at loose ends. There was no doubt about it. We both missed our girl.
Now we’re adjusting to home life together again. Kiko was instantly reacclimated. Now that he knows he can expect D home in the afternoons, he’s content to spend his days sleeping on the playroom sofa. It’s been less of a snap for me. I’d gotten out of practice, had forgotten some of the finer points of my balancing act as the mother of a teenager. But I’m getting back into the swing. Most of the time, and always when it’s cold and dark, I’m glad that my daughter is back under our roof. I’m trying not to get too accustomed to her being here, because before long, another activity is bound to take her away again. Maybe next time I’ll be better prepared for her absence. But I doubt it.
After a performance of Romeo & Juliet, D got a warm hug from a friend. Often, when I glance at this dear little girl, with her pale blonde hair and bangs, I think, for an instant, that I’m seeing my own daughter, a child again.
Waiting to pick up my daughter after play rehearsal,
I had time to appreciate this dazzling skyscape.
Last Sunday, the steeples of our church gleamed brightly against a backdrop of royal blue.
Lacy bronze and gold oak leaves, highlighted against November blue.
Set against a blue velvet sky, the lines of this old schoolhouse
appear as sharp and clean as cut paper.
As evening approaches, azure fades to turquoise, and clouds of molten metal stream in. While the word “awesome” suffers from overuse, it perfectly describes recent November sunsets.
Look up and out. Don’t miss this amazing free show!
My daughter is an ardent devotee of Halloween. Evidently that first freezing trip to the pumpkin patch at ten months didn’t turn her against the holiday or its decorative trappings. (See Looking Back on our Little Pumpkin, October 2012.) During her preschool and elementary school years, her Halloween costume got plenty of mileage. Around the start of summer, she began the costume discussion: What would she be this year? Soon the Halloween catalogues, sent to us by my mother, would come pouring in. Once Mama and I had put the finishing touches on the outfit, usually in early October, she was in it. As so many children do, she wore it repeatedly throughout the entire Halloween season, to parties and on many other occasions. These kids must know that dressing as a witch or black cat alleviates the tedium of mundane outings such as grocery shopping and dental visits.
After Halloweens One and Two as a Jack-o’- Lantern, our daughter followed up with Black Cat, Witch, Gypsy and Ghost Bride. This year, she will be dressing as Daisy from The Great Gatsby, and hitting the neighborhood with a couple of friends, who, like her, plan to persist in trick-or-treating as long as they can.
2002: Everybody’s Crazy ’bout a Sharp-Dressed Cat
2003: Good Witch-in-Training
2004: Gypsy Girl
2005: Ghost Bride
It’s evident from recent posts that I’m a big fan of trees. I must like trees more than most people do. When I was about seven years old, our next-door-neighbor, a well-read nature lover, gave me one of those little pocket guides to tree identification. That got me started. I found it surprisingly rewarding to recognize a tree by its shape, its bark, its leaves, flowers and fruit. If I had to live in a land without trees, I don’t think I’d ever stop feeling some pain over their absence. When I’m out walking with Kiko, especially in the fall, much to his annoyance, I stop often to photograph notable trees.
This grand old hickory is beautiful all year long, but in the autumn, when its leaves turn yellow-gold, it’s absolutely glorious.
Standing under the tree gives the impression of being sheltered by a lacy golden umbrella of immense proportions. Sunlight passing through the leaves is warmer and more radiant.
Hickory nuts make for tasty, but difficult eating. One of my most prominent early memories is wandering the North Carolina woods with my father to gather heaps of hickory nuts. Back home, we’d sit on the stoop outside my parents’ grad student UNC apartment, where Daddy would crack open the rock-hard shells with a hammer. Together, we’d painstakingly pick out the kernels and feast on them.
So it is that hickory trees, and their nuts, summon brightly colored images of happy childhood Saturdays with my young, handsome father. And in the contest for Best Fall Tree that plays entirely in my own head, this year’s winner, hands down, is the hickory.
Yesterday, my daughter called my attention to an elaborate lichen formation on one of the decaying tree stumps in our front yard. Although I walk past it nearly every day with Kiko, I hadn’t noticed it. Amazing, the strange beauty we can so easily overlook. Our lawn repeatedly offers such spectacles. Yet I still forget. Oblivious, I walk right by.
I’ve written about the attachment our family feels toward our old trees. (See The Silver Maples Say Welcome Home, April 2012, and Barred Owl Update, June 2013.) The two immense maples that survive from the original six, planted the year our house was built, are ninety-three years old. Broad stumps serve as place markers, memorials for the trees that had to be removed. The life, so strikingly peculiar, that emerges from these dead stumps is further justification for our not having them ground down.
Lichen is one of earth’s oldest life forms. Very slowly, but with exceptional persistence, it emerges in unlikely, inhospitable spots, nearly impervious to extreme conditions and temperatures. In the crowded busyness of our twenty-first century world, it keeps a low profile and may go unnoticed. Lichen is not a single organism, but a complex partnership between fungi and algae. Lichen may grow from bare rock or wood. As it grows, it breaks down the substance from which it emerges, helping to create soil.
The lichen on our tree stump is a cascade of flower-like growths. Depending on your point of view, it resembles part of an exuberantly ruffled blouse, rippling water flowing over rocks, the feathered plumage of a giant bird, the petals of cabbage roses deconstructed and rearranged, or even the scales of a fantastic crocodilian creature.
I’m so glad we let nature take its course. Had we not said “no,” over and over, to unbeatable stump grinding prices (offered eagerly by every tree company that drives past the house), we would have no stage for this riot of oddly lovely new life. How satisfying, how hope-inspiring, it is that from the last vestiges of this maple tree springs an ancient vitality. Decay and growth, hand in hand, rather like the lichen partnership itself. The circle of life, circling on and on, underfoot. While the tree stump remains, we’ll be observers at the quietly fabulous end-time celebration it’s hosting.
Party on, lichen.
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.
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.