As of last week, school is in session here in Northern Virginia. With my only child starting her third year in college, I’m no longer directly involved in the much-ado about back-to-school.
But until I’m deaf, I’ll be well aware of the start of the new school year. Once again, on weekday mornings beginning around 6:30 AM, the school buses make their loud, laborious way down the side street below our bedroom windows. There are so many buses. They swoosh, they roar, they sigh, they creak. They emit piercing back-up beeping sounds for extended periods. We discovered, when we moved here nearly twenty years ago, that we had settled in a pivotal juncture in Fairfax County, a dividing line between two school districts. If we moved across the street, our daughter would have to change schools. There are buses for elementary, middle and high school students for both districts, as well as those for several magnet schools. There used to be a special Kindergarten bus in the afternoon, before the all-day program arrived. Some buses are picking up or dropping off; others turn around, having reached the end of their routes.
The clamor and commotion of the school buses every fall brings back the conflicting and powerful emotions I felt on our daughter’s first-ever school day. The day she started Kindergarten, when we sent her off, parentless, on one of those enormous, monstrous, heaving, yellow-orange vehicles.
Our five-year old put on a brave face that memorable day. My husband and I watched and waved, smiling with forced cheer, trying not to grimace, until we could no longer see her dear little blonde head peering from the window. Then we turned away, avoiding other parents, fighting back tears. H quickly jumped in his car and followed the bus to school. At a distance, he waited until she was safely inside the building. All that morning I wondered: What is she doing now? And now? Is her class lining up to come home yet? Just a few hours later, around 12:30, the Kindergarten bus dropped her off at the end of our driveway. When our girl emerged happy, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. The after-school photo I took of her, sitting in our doorway, shows her confidence, her triumph.
September 7, 2004. All done with the first day of Kindergarten.
Last week I looked back at that photo and compared it with the first-day images preceding it in the morning. They told a different story. The group photos struck me as especially poignant. My daughter, like the other younger children, tries to express a sense of ease, but her anxiety and trepidation show through. The bulky backpacks contribute to the littlest ones’ slightly awkward postures. No one’s clothes seem quite right. Wasn’t our daughter hot in that fall sweater? All the other kids wear tee shirts. And within the group, each child is a little island unto itself. Even the older ones who appear more self-assured, even they look isolated and alone. At least they do to me. Maybe, in a fit of nostalgia, I’m reading too much into these snapshots from fifteen years ago. But I don’t think so.
During the morning dog walk with the pack, I heard the first-day stories from friends who still have kids in school. Later, I saw the photos on Facebook. There are the little ones summoning their courage as they hold up hand-lettered “first day of” signs. There are the older ones glaring sullenly, attempting to shoot poison dart rays at a parent who insists they pose uncomfortably in the gray light of dawn.
Several of my friends are dreading the college send-off that looms in the future. I understand, and I remember. But I will tell them this: it will probably be less painful than that off-to-Kindergarten day.
With the ceremonies attending this month’s 75th Anniversary of the D-Day Invasion, my Uncle Bill, a veteran of World War II, has been very much on my mind. Bill wasn’t among those who stormed the beaches of Normandy. Instead, he was a Frogman in the Pacific. But were he alive today, he would have been 93, the same age as many of the veterans who returned to the French coast last week to be honored for their long-ago heroism. Like these now elderly, frail gentlemen, during his military service, Bill persevered in the face of daunting odds and certain danger. Like them, he would likely look back today and marvel at his youthful naivete, fearlessness and fortitude. Also like these aged honorees, he would probably contemplate the accident of his own survival as he recalled friends who were not so fortunate.
It seems fitting, then, to repost an amended version of a tribute to my dear Uncle Bill, written during Father’s Day week in 2012.
Bill, age 5, with his younger brother Edwin, 1930. Family photos are few in my mother’s family, and no baby picture of Bill seems to exist.
William Graham was born in rural Marion County, Kentucky in 1925, the third of five children, the second of my maternal grandparents’ three sons. My mother, the baby of the family, would enter the world ten years later. In physical appearance, temperament and attitude, Bill was very much like his father, who died when I was almost six. For me, Uncle Bill provided a tangible, very real link to my grandfather. (See my earlier post here: A Week of Good Fathers: My Grandaddy. For that reason alone, I would have revered him. For many other reasons, I loved, and loved being around my Uncle Bill.
Uncle Bill, Mama and me at my grandparents’ house, c. 1965
By all accounts, Bill was so like my grandfather that they were often at loggerheads during my uncle’s boyhood and teen years. Each was painfully honest in every situation, and this may have proved more of a stumbling block than a stepping stone in their relationship. Bill had little interest in becoming a farmer like his father. Fortunately for him, his older brother Leland had followed in Grandaddy’s footsteps and taken over the cultivation of the land by the Rolling Fork River. My grandfather continued to maintain the farm closer to town. When World War II began, Bill saw it as an opportunity to escape farm work and put a stop to conflict with his father. He enlisted at seventeen, just before Christmas of 1943. Although blessed with a keen intellect, a rebellious streak led to conflicts with teachers, and Bill left for the Army without completing his senior year of high school.
A sad and serious Bill, age 17, in his first Army photo
Bill wrote home diligently throughout his military service, and we have most of the letters he sent. Never overly sentimental, never self-pitying, his early letters border on heartbreaking. They express the thoughts of a young man who acted in haste and immediately regretted his decision.
Bill, a year or so later, home on leave, looking a bit more upbeat. It may have been during this trip that he brought my mother the biggest and most beautiful box of chocolates she’d ever seen.
These first letters, sent from Fort Thomas, Kentucky, tell of receiving vaccinations, shoveling snow in blizzard-like conditions, and hoping to join the Air Corps but being eight pounds underweight. Bill lists the various articles of clothing he has been issued, remarking with amazement that it’s more than he’s ever seen before. He asks his family to send some shoe polish, because his boots have stiffened uncomfortably from daily wear in the snow and slush. He also asks for a pencil and a few wire coat hangers. The talk in the barracks, morning and night, was that of homesick young men pining for their loved ones and the lives they had left behind. Most, like Uncle Bill, were from rural areas. They had realized, too late, the simple glory of farm life. In Bill’s words, he “never realized how swell home was, but he sure would like to see it now.” His father, he admits, knew more about the Army than he did. His letters are always signed “Love, Billy.”
Bill and a Navy pal. My mother remembered this young man, Terry Hogan, a good friend of her brother. Sadly, Terry was killed in the war.
He was soon transferred to Fort Gordon-Johnston in Florida for basic training to enter an amphibious brigade. At the end of January 1944, he reports getting $39.55 for his first month of duty. Nearly every letter begins with an apology for not writing sooner, but he seems to have written every few days. He often asks about my mother’s asthma, the progress of the tobacco stripping, and he offers hopes that the crop will bring a good price. A high point about army life, he notes, is access to new movies. He mentions seeing Jack London, Swing Fever and later, Double Indemnity. In one letter he writes that he was “feeling fine, and at times, almost happy, but not quite.” That expression of thoughtful, measured restraint is so very Bill.
As the months ticked by, Bill wrote from increasingly exotic places, although his exact location could not be divulged. From Florida, he went to New Guinea, the Dutch East Indies, many small islands in the Phillipines, and then on to Hawaii for training in Underwater Demolition. After his return, he talked of being dropped in the ocean, no land in sight, and no special equipment but a pair of flippers. He and his fellow Frogmen were expected to tread water for six to eight hours as they awaited the ship’s return. The Frogmen were the precursors to the Navy SEALs, and I can only imagine the intensity of other training exercises and actual duties. Bill didn’t talk much about any of that.
Bill, home on leave, with his older sister, my Aunt Jessie
The tone of homesick regret is gradually replaced by a sense of wonder at the strange beauty of places he could never have imagined. In the Philippines, he buys a handmade mattress from a local woman, tours a ruined city in a horse-drawn buggy-taxi, attends Saturday night dances on base where the “fine-looking” Spanish and Filippino girls “can jitterbug to put the girls back home to shame.” He discovers an injured cockatoo in the jungle and nurses it back to health. He revels in the abundance of tropical fruit and notes that there is no cigarette shortage in the army, unlike in the States. He is surprised by his ability to work all day, on a ship in the equatorial zone, in temperatures up to 115 degrees, with hardly any ill effects. The miserable poverty of some of the native villages affects him deeply. Hospitalized for a while with “yellow jaundice,” he enjoys the rest, as well as the fluffy pillows. When a fellow patient has a break-down and runs screaming in the halls, he remarks that the jungles will do that to you, after two or three years. He laments not being able to write about the most interesting parts of his days, because such information would be censored. Despite his discretion, in several of his letters a line or two has been neatly cut away. How I wish I’d read these letters during Bill’s lifetime. There are so many questions I would have asked.
Some of Bill’s letters home during his Army years
Bill’s Army knife, useful for cutting jungle foliage
In Bill’s letter of August 16, 1945, news has just broken of Japan’s surrender. The war is officially over. He begins to believe he will return home soon, to the farm he had so wanted to leave. After several months in the U.S. occupational forces in Japan, he arrived stateside in the winter of 1946. Like his fellow soldiers lucky enough to return, he was older and wiser, and had a renewed appreciation for home.
Bill went to the University of Kentucky on the G. I. bill. His dark hair turned completely silver when he was still in his late 20s, giving him an air of elegant sophistication. My father, seeing Mama with her brother on campus, assumed she was with a handsome professor. Bill was in his 30s when he married a divorced woman with two sons. Margaret was the sister of one of my mother’s childhood friends. Bill never had any biological children, but he was a supportive and caring stepfather. Mama and Bill were close, and they were alike in many ways. As long as I can remember, Uncle Bill was a big part of my life. He often traveled to Atlanta on business. When it was still a rather grand hotel and hadn’t slipped into seediness, he stayed downtown at the old Henry Grady Hotel. He often had a free evening, and he’d treat my parents and me to a festive dinner, somewhere we wouldn’t ordinarily go. Occasionally he stayed at the now long-demolished Admiral Benbow Inn on Spring Street, which had a pool. I remember swimming there a few times with my two best elementary school friends. I always looked forward to Uncle Bill’s visits. I loved his dry wit, which was sarcastic and sometimes biting, but never mean-spirited. He was well-read, reflective, widely informed and inclined to doubt. He shared with my mother and me a love for the melancholy humor of Thomas Hardy novels. As a connoisseur of life’s ironic absurdities, Bill was highly amusing company.
Bill in the mid-60s, with his beagle Ginger, the first of his dogs that I remember.
Uncle Bill was empathetic and attuned to the plight of the down-trodden. He was especially soft-hearted when it came to animals. (I sure wish I could have learned more about that injured cockatoo!) Bill always had a dog, or he cared for someone else’s dog, typically one that would prefer to be Bill’s. When a neighbor’s three-legged lab mix made it clear that he would much rather live with my uncle, his owners passed him on. With Bill, Colonel got several walks each day, plus a long car ride. Colonel loved a ride, so Bill made it part of their routine. During a visit after Colonel’s death and not long before Bill’s own, I went with him on his nightly duty to walk a neighbor’s dog. Bill had noticed that the dog’s owner worked long hours, and he offered to provide an afternoon walk. Before long, this had turned into three daily walks. Bill was retired and dogless at the time, so he was happy to oblige. On the night I went with him, he put his raincoat over his pajamas and we walked down the street to the neighbor’s home. He let us in with his own key, and the woman rose to greet us warmly, from what appeared to be a late-night dinner party. No doubt her guests thought it odd that her dog-walker was a dashing silver-haired seventy-year old in PJs. No doubt they also thought she had lucked into a great deal. Bill never cared if people considered him somewhat eccentric.
Uncle Bill and me at Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire in 1989
Bill’s time in the service may have fostered his love of travel. He and Margaret were always setting off for some legendary spot. During my year in England they popped in on several occasions. Our pre-dinner pub conversation was always a particular pleasure. They were my first visitors when I lived in Cambridge. We ate at the city’s best restaurants and took day-trips to Eton and Windsor Castle. Later in the year, we rented a car and drove up to York over the course of nearly a week. Bill and Margaret went on to Scotland and I returned to London by train. And when I was in England for a month the next year, they came back, too. I can still see the look of incredulity on Bill’s face when he saw my tiny, cell-like room in the London House Annex, a dormitory for visiting students.
Bill, c. 1965
Uncle Bill died much too soon, at 71. I guess because he was so like my grandfather, who made it to 79, I thought we’d have him around for a few more years. He was there for my wedding, but he never got to see my beautiful baby girl. He would certainly have enjoyed watching her grow into the unique young woman she is now. It’s a great consolation, however, to reflect on the many lives that Uncle Bill touched, with his kindness, generosity and humor. And I have faith that now, in some heavenly realm, he and Grandaddy, two kindred spirits, are enjoying peaceful, yet lively good fellowship.
Over Memorial Day weekend we visited my husband’s family in New York state. Early on Saturday morning, when we woke up in Spencerport, a picturesque village on the Eerie Canal, Kiko and I headed out for our first walk. My little dog was even more headstrong than usual. If I attempted to turn left, he was determined to go right. When I preferred right, he insisted on left. Occasionally his obstinance resulted in a dead stop, as he splayed his legs and I tugged, to no avail, on the leash. Our progress was slow and laborious. The constant battle of wills made it difficult to properly appreciate the gracious old homes of Spencerport. I was annoyed with Kiko, who clearly cares nothing for architecture, or for beauty in general. How disappointing. I tend, however irrationally, to expect more from him. And because I’d given in to his choices, we were heading in a direction that I didn’t intend. But up ahead, on South Union Street, I began to see the entrance to Fairfield Cemetery. We’d passed it yesterday driving in. To me, it looked inviting. Kiko evidently felt the same way. For the first time that morning, we were in agreement.
Except for the exuberant chirping of a great variety of birds, all was quiet. No sounds of mowing, cutting or leaf-blowing disturbed the serenity.
Many of the graves were marked with small American flags. I realized, with some chagrin, that I’d almost forgotten, at least momentarily, the significance of the long holiday weekend.
As Kiko and I wandered the shaded, grassy pathways between the rows of gravestones, I noticed that we now walked together in easy step. My stubborn dog had managed to bring me here, against my will, to this peaceful spot, to contemplate the cost of peace. I thought of the old poem of achingly sad remembrance, of poppies waving in Flanders fields, between the crosses, row on row. And of the vast and ever-growing expanse of white markers in Arlington Cemetery. Not long ago, passing by that hallowed ground on the way to Reagan Airport, we saw the solemn spectacle of a horse-drawn caisson bearing a flag-draped coffin.
Memorial Day reminds us to remember and honor the many lives lost in service to our country. Consider the teenagers, who, like my Uncle Bill, traded the drudgery of 1940s farm work for the unknown adventure of World War II. My Uncle returned from the war. Too many others did not. Think of the young people who drew a final breath in the swampy fields of Vietnam. Be grateful to those whose civic duty cost them their lives in the Gulf War, in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as in exotic locales most Americans would be hard-pressed to pronounce or locate on a map. Acknowledge the sacrifice of those who died fighting a shape-shifting, ill-defined enemy in our war on terror.
And may we give some thought to those who managed to evade death on far-flung battlefields, only to return home to find the challenge of readapting to civilian life unsurmountable. The deep wounds of war, mental, emotional, and physical, are near-impossible to comprehend for those who haven’t served. Some who fought in Vietnam returned to a society that seemed to regard them as the enemy. Let’s pray for those who survived the war but could not survive the trials of day-to-day life in the very towns they had once called home.
As Kiko and I walked back from the cemetery, we were reminded that the service and the sacrifice continue today. Along Union Street, every lamp post was decorated with a banner bearing the image and name of a current member of our armed forces. Let us not forget the dedication and bravery of such hometown heroes, whether we know them personally, or not. Every day, our brothers and sisters risk their lives in harsh conditions so that we may enjoy the day-to-day comforts of home and the fundamental, essential freedoms we often take for granted. May we recognize the human cost of war and elect representatives who truly comprehend it, as well. May our military men and women feel strongly supported during their deployment.
That morning, I imagined the military men and women of Spencerport engaged in difficult, dangerous, uncomfortable work in a hostile environment. I wondered if their families would gather soon in nearby back yards on this holiday weekend, keenly missing a son, a daughter, a father, mother, brother or sister. I pray that our hometown heroes will be warmly welcomed back again in the near future, by a country that respects their service and provides the restorative care they need. May we honor in memory those who paid the ultimate price in battle, and may we treat with compassion and dignity our soldiers who make it home.
. . . Long may our land be bright with freedom’s holy light;
Protect us by thy might, great God, our King.
—America, words: Samuel F. Smith, 1832; Music: Thesaurus Musicus, 1744
Among my list of life’s greatest luxuries is this: a stormy day with no appointments, no commitments, a bad-weather day that offers the chance for an extended snuggle with my sweet, sleeping dog. The rain arrived last night, just as predicted. After a short morning walk and a largely futile attempt to dry his wet fur, Kiko was curled on our favorite sofa, heading off contentedly to doggie dreamland.
Before long, I crawled in, around and sort of under him. Carefully, so as not to disturb. As I’ve said before, Kiko, by nature, is more aloof than affectionate. No lap dog, this stately Prince of Cool, he’s reserved and prefers his own space. Unless there is thunder, or the suggestion of it. Then he can’t get close enough. See here. But as he’s aged, he’s become increasingly amenable to human contact. More and more frequently, he tolerates, and occasionally even seems to enjoy, my close presence as he sleeps. Sometimes he even rests his head on my leg. I consider this gesture to be his highest compliment. Despite today’s rain, Kiko doesn’t seem anxious about the possibility of thunder. Yet he very nearly welcomes me. He does love me. On this rainy day, I’m sure of it. What a comfort it is to join my little dog in dreamland for a while. What sweet spot for shelter in the storm.
How much are you loved, Valentine? This Much! Kiko serves as a prop for two old Valentines sent to my daughter as a toddler, from each set of grandparents.
Our daughter, then four, before preschool on February 14, 2003.
Our daughter is now twenty and in her second year at UVA. I find myself missing her more than ever recently. And today, as I look through the charming old cards we’ve saved from her childhood, I wish I were on my way to pick her up from preschool so we could enjoy a celebratory afternoon together. My favorite Valentine’s Days were those when my daughter was a toddler. See Fool-proof Valentine’s Days, a post from 2012.
Later that day, with her Valentine goodies
I also have cozily pleasant memories of making Valentines with my mother throughout my elementary and middle school years. The preparation was the high point. The actual day tended to disappoint. Young love, for me, as for many, was elusive and unrequited. See The Best Part of Valentine’s Day: Before the Day.
On this Valentine’s Day, I wish you comfort, love and happiness. Don’t fall prey to the hype. Those false expectations of perfect romance are set by merchandisers hoping we’ll buy into hollow dreams. Instead, call a friend, make a card, spend an hour with a child or an elderly person. Someone out there may need you to be their Valentine.
Our first big snow of the new year arrived like a polite and thoughtful visitor: with plenty of advance notice and on a weekend, allowing time to prepare. We even managed, for the first time ever, to put two cars in the garage. Here in Northern Virginia, it was a modest, unobtrusive snowfall; the flakes were often so fine as to be barely visible. But it was persistent, steadfast. By Sunday morning, about seven inches had accumulated. That afternoon, there was a brief lull, prompting my husband to break out the snow blower too soon. Well into the evening, the flakes floated down, tiny and delicate. Our final total was ten inches. A perfect amount, it turns out, for Kiko to romp through with ease and zest.
After our cool, wet spring, the drenching, unrelenting rains of a warm fall, followed by an arctic blast and snow in early November, it was refreshingly odd to experience a taste of weather that actually suited the current season. A deep but manageable snow in mid-January! How quaint! How so last century! And how very pleasant!
It was the perfect snow. The only thing less than ideal was that our daughter, who appreciates frozen precipitation in every form, couldn’t be here to enjoy it with us. She was home for nearly a month, but the winter break had drawn to a close, too quickly. On Saturday morning, well before the first snowflake appeared, she was on her way back to Charlottesville to begin the second semester of her second year.
I’m thankful that my furry child completed his formal education years ago (a few weeks of puppy training, which had a negligible effect on his behavior) and remains home to keep me company.
For the first time, my mother and I went to the polls together. She’s a new Virginia voter. We spent three hours at the DMV in early October to trade her Georgia driver’s license for an official Virginia ID card, so a little rain on election day couldn’t stop us.
Things have a way of working out swimmingly for our skeleton friend Slim, especially on Halloween. Merrily and swiftly, he piloted his pack to Charlottesville without incident, arriving at UVA with plenty of time for trick-or-treating on the Lawn. In a costume-wearing crowd, the unadorned authenticity of the group stood out. Slim was greeted as a celebrity (as he typically is, wherever he goes). Our daughter, who was there with friends, soon spotted her old buddy, the center of attention in a multitude of admirers.
D was dressed as Barf the Dog from the movie Spaceballs. She wore my 1980s Banana Republic khaki jumpsuit, furry ears and the appropriate make-up. Slim approved, as he’s an avid Mel Brooks fan, and the pack welcomed her as one of their own.
Kiko rapidly got his fill of the festivities and the press of the throng. He retreated to the shelter of a stately column and resumed his nap. And as for costumes, he says no. Since submitting reluctantly to an ill-fitting red fleece vest (made by my mother without access to any actual measurements) for his first Christmas card photo, he wears only his own fur. Should he encounter a costume-wearing canine, more than a trace of condescension is evident as he sniffs a greeting.
Slim, ever the people person, could have mixed and mingled until the wee hours, but he honors his commitments. Just as his faithful lead dog, Fluffy, was about to point out the time, Slim began to say his goodbyes. The Crew was needed back in Northern Virginia. They would not disappoint. I’ve learned not to doubt my friend’s word. His integrity is beyond reproach. Plus, he seems to be able to bend time according to his whim. Just as I was putting the tea lights in our jack-o-lantern votives, the car zipped up the driveway.
The gang hopped out and assumed their places. They’re good at freezing in position, so as not to frighten the unsuspecting. Kiko looked out the storm door to assess the situation, sighed and retired to the sofa. The night was only just beginning for Slim and the Crew. But Kiko can only take so much Halloween.
Halloween season is in full swing, as is our Skeleton Crew of merry mirth-makers. In early October, Slim and the pups emerged from eleven months of quiet repose and restorative rumination in the shadowy comfort of my mother’s basement.
For the past few weeks, they’ve enjoyed roaming from our house to hers, snacking, lounging, soaking up sunshine as well as rain. They savor weather in all its forms. Slim, widely renowned as a scintillating conversationalist and acute observer of the human condition, has considerable wisdom to impart.
With the tiniest bit of coaxing (or sometimes none at all), he delves into his endless cache of beguiling tales and truly ripping yarns. As my father would say, that skinny guy “really can talk.”
When the month is winding down, the gang is gearing up. They’re more than ready to let loose their insouciant charm and plunge full-throttle into fall festivity. High-jinks ensue.
While Kiko enjoys smallish doses of the company of his furless friends, their boundless enthusiasm tends to grate on his nerves. In the very top photo, he has sought out an isolated patch of sun by the garage. Before long, though, the pack is upon him again.
These puppies will never grow up, he sighs. How tedious it is to be the object of so much unbridled adoration. What’s a senior dog to do?
Perhaps with an absence of encouragement, they’ll lose interest.
And then Slim suggests a spin in his favorite vehicle. Top down, of course. Gotta feel the cool autumn breeze in one’s silky locks. With a knowing look he turns to Kiko and asks: Why not head down to Charlottesville and check in with your sister, old man? We’ll be back before the trick-or-treaters arrive.
The college kids love Slim. Plus, he’s an architecture buff. And a tad vain. The Lawn and Rotunda, dressed in fall foliage, will serve as a striking backdrop for photographing his good looks. Also, he and Mr. Jefferson were kids together, back in the day.
Kiko needs no further nudging. He’s stirring and stretching, preparing for a full-body shake. He remembers why he loves this garrulous guy after all, and why it bodes well to tolerate his pack of yippy beasts. Halloween joyride!
At last, the top dog can finally get some serious shuteye.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
For previous Skeleton Crew posts from years past, see here.
Shore Road, Route 6A, is our Main Street while we’re in Cape Cod, and I walk it nearly every morning. As in our little cottage complex, major changes along the road are refreshingly few and far between. Its scenery is almost as familiar to me as my childhood back yard. My Shore Road walks serve to further sustain the illusion of timelessness in Truro.
Fence-hugging hydrangeas, for example, which thrive in the moist salty air, are always bountiful and glorious.
Typically, any changes along this thin ribbon of land by the bay are so subtle that they serve to reinforce the unchanging nature of the place. Most of the homes and cottage groupings appear largely the same, year after year after year. Routine maintenance, not extreme renovation, is the guiding principle. The small structures of this condominium complex, above, continue to be nestled snugly amid the roses, much as they have been for nearly two decades. Hours of diligent pruning, no doubt, keep the surrounding plantings looking luxuriantly abundant but not overpowering.
Nature can easily get the upper hand, if left unchecked, as it has above. Each year, untamed, weedy foliage encroaches a bit more around this small, sagging, cupola-topped cabin. Considering the high value of real estate along the bay, there are a surprising number of small Shore Road structures, some barely bigger than sheds, that exist in a state of ongoing gradual decay. They appear to lack all creature comforts, but some show signs of sporadic human occupation. This gives them an air of mystery that adds to their appeal.
There are certain areas where the tug-of-war between nature and the attempt to subjugate it is particularly evident. For as long as I’ve walked Shore Road, the large lot above has been occupied by a small semi-dilapidated cottage, whimsical bird houses on tall posts, and the occasional boat. Some years, the foliage reigns victorious, as in the top photo, dating from 2013, where the cottage appears to float in a sea of tall grass and grapevines. The following year, the weeds were mown and vines cut back substantially. Flower boxes adorned the cottage’s front windows. Near the road, a patriotic tableau had been assembled: a wooden bench painted like the flag, Adirondack chairs and a pot of geraniums
Since 2014, nature has been allowed its riotous advance. Once again, the cottage is enveloped by high grass and unruly foliage. The flag bench, its paint faded, appears to be sighing toward collapse, and the split-rail fence groans under a heavy tangle of grapevines. The chairs have disappeared, and even the bird houses are in advanced decline. The lighthouse is unrecognizable, and the caboose is little more than a façade. (See Shore Road Scenes in Cape Cod, August 24, 2012.) Next year, will the progression toward wildness and ruin continue? Or will there be another effort toward taming nature and renovating the manmade? I hope it’s one or the other, and not a dreaded third option: a gleaming new structure that stands out starkly from the pleasantly worn and familiar Shore Road sights I cherish.
I’m not averse to some instances of refurbishment. Two years ago, for example, this rusty roadside owl received a coat of white paint and amber-colored eyes. Such measured, unobtrusive alteration I can wholeheartedly support. I appreciate it all the more knowing that it’s likely to be overlooked. I enjoy thinking I know Shore Road the way I know an old companion.
I can also welcome a unique addition that fits in well with that which already exists. The gray shingled house above, with its American flag and rainbow banner bearing the word PEACE, looks essentially the same every year. Several years ago I noticed an interesting vehicle parked in front, a small car colorfully painted with a variety of sea creatures in a folk art style. This year the little car gained a sibling, a minivan painted with similar colors and designs: sharks, lobsters, fish and sailing scenes. A white plastic egret keeps watch from the roof. The light-hearted, slightly eccentric spirit of these vehicles is in perfect sync with the PEACE house and with the Outer Cape. (They remind me of the Key West Don’t Dredge on Me truck encrusted with sea creatures. See Uniquely Key West, April 24, 2015.)
It’s been five years since I last wrote about the Shore Road sights I hold dear. As I began looking back and comparing this summer’s photos to those from earlier years, I was afraid that the idea of sameness might prove to be primarily in my mind. Maybe my old friend has changed more than I’d like to admit?
Generally, I don’t think so. This narrow strip of land still seems to be largely immune to the accelerated pace of change that characterizes my former Atlanta neighborhood or the DC suburbs where I now live. Every return visit brings this reassurance: the familiar sights of Shore Road, and its inimitable essence, they endure. Perhaps I hope that through proximity, this immutability is contagious. By spending time each summer in a timeless place, can I slow my own aging process? Or at least feed the fantasy? These days, it couldn’t hurt.
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.
Shore Road, Route 6A, is our Main Street while we’re in Cape Cod, and I walk it nearly every morning. As in our little cottage complex, major changes along the road are refreshingly few and far between. Its scenery is almost as familiar to me as my childhood back yard. My Shore Road walks serve to further sustain the illusion of timelessness in Truro. 
