My father with his mother, in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, ca. 1950.
When my parents married in the fall of 1955, there were many among my mother’s friends who expected the union to be short-lived. My father simply didn’t look like the marrying kind. He was boyfriend, or perhaps movie star material, but not husband material, they said. He was not the kind to be faithful, they warned her. He would move on. He wasn’t the type to settle down. It seemed less than likely that fatherhood would be in his aspirations.
That was fifty-eight years ago. Mama and Daddy have stuck together through better and worse, richer and poorer, through sickness and health. They’re a team. I think it’s safe to say that the critics were dead wrong.
Had it been up to my mother, my parents might have postponed the whole childbearing thing indefinitely. After six years of marriage, the leanest days, when dinner might mean a shared can of ravioli, were behind them, but they were far from financially stable. No matter what, though, Daddy wanted a baby. He wanted a little girl. And when I arrived, he loved me to distraction. So much so, that, for a while, he avoided work. This made for a stretch of marital “worse,” one that was worked out in due course.
I find it hard to imagine a more devoted father or grandfather. There may be no one on earth who celebrates my triumphs, or suffers my heartaches, to the degree that my father does. He feels the same way about my daughter. Her joys are his joys, her trials are his trials. There is no battle he would not wage for us, should it be necessary. We know, without a doubt, that he stands resolutely, enthusiastically, steadfastly, in our corner. His unwavering love is a gift that adds immeasurable warmth and color to our lives. Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!
Daddy, Mama and me, ca. 1969.
Daddy and me at my wedding, 1995.
Daddy with my daughter, Centennial Olympic Park, Atlanta, 2006.
(For more about my father and the other father figures in my life, see posts from October 2011 and June 2012.)
Soon after the chicks first flew, the owls moved on, probably into the nearby woods. The next spring, they tried to return to nest in the same tree. We heard their cries, which by this time we had learned to translate as Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you? We caught sight of them in soundless flight.
They didn’t stay, much to our disappointment. My husband climbed a ladder to look into their former home, and saw that the shelf that had supported the nest had collapsed. He and D built an owl box together as a father-daughter project, in hopes that we could lure our feathered friends back again. In the photo immediately below, the box is visible in its first position on the tree. The owls evidently found it unsatisfactory. Maybe it wasn’t situated high enough, H thought. The following spring, he risked life and limb to attach the box much farther up in the tree, as shown in the second photo below. I remember my alarm when I returned from an errand one windy Saturday morning and saw him standing on a tall ladder by the tree, the owl box balanced precariously on one shoulder. Despite H’s grand gesture, the owls said No, thanks. They have not returned since, we are sad to say.
The immense old tree that sheltered our family of owls no longer stands. On a sunny Easter Sunday in 2011, we were eating dinner with my parents on the back porch when we heard a thunderous crash. We followed the sound to the front yard, where we discovered that half the tree had simply fallen to the ground. We knew it was nearing the end of its life span. Its hollowness was what had made it especially attractive to the owls. Still, it was painful to see so much of that massive tree splintered in pieces on the lawn.
On the tall remaining section, the never-used owl box was unscathed. Creaking sounds could be heard emanating from the tree. It couldn’t stand for long, and it was a danger, obviously. The next day, I watched with a heavy heart as the tree was slowly, painstakingly removed. It took a full crew and a huge bucket truck to reduce our dear big maple to a stump. The tree was ninety-one years old. Like the other five that once accompanied it, it had been planted in 1920, the year the house was built. I had recently spoken with one of the daughters whose parents had built the house. In her mid-nineties when we talked, she shared vivid memories of growing up in her family home. I told her how magnificent the maples were. She replied that she distinctly remembered the day she helped plant them, “from switches.”
Of the six original trees, only two remain. One day we will plant young trees in place of those we have lost. For now, though, the owls’ former home will be marked by a slowly deteriorating stump. Every tree company in northern Virginia, it seems, has stopped to give us a good price for stump grinding. We always say no. Unlike the owls, we find it hard to move on.
On the left, one of our two remaining silver maples. On the right, the stump of what will always be for us the owl tree.
Recent heavy rains here in Northern Virginia have created a network of temporary ponds along low-lying roadside areas. This is good news to a pair of mallard ducks in the neighborhood. Last spring and summer, they took up residence in one such puddle-pond on our street whenever weather permitted. Just a few days ago, they appeared again, as though opening their vacation home for the season.
Nearly always, the pair sticks together; it’s rare to see one without the other. While I have no credentials in duck psychology, I see them as a couple seeking respite from the chatter of the loving yet overbearing familial horde. When they get the chance to steal away to this cozy pond, pleasantly shaded by cedar and pine trees, they take it, and they savor it. The puddle is just big enough for two, but no more. It’s their peaceful hideaway, a summer getaway, with no guest room or pull-out sofa. Please, this puddle is private.
One afternoon, I was a bit alarmed to see the male duck alone in his micro-pond.
When I checked back shortly, I was relieved to see that Mrs. Mallard had returned. Her presence apparently relaxed her mate enough so that he could catch some z’s.
This photo shows the puddle after a fresh rain.
Yesterday, after a couple of days without rain, the ducks were gone. Their private puddle, like so many treasures, is ephemeral. Its water level had dropped considerably, and the area, shown above, more closely resembled a reedy marsh than a pond.
But barring unforeseen incident, the ducks will be back. Once again, the skies this morning are ominously heavy and gray. Storms are coming. I wonder how ducks feel when battered by vicious weather. I assume they are well-suited, like the best-constructed boats, to ride it out. I doubt they are gripped by overwhelming fear, as Kiko is now, huddled at my feet in the kneehole of my desk, shaking, his generic xanax having little effect. And unlike most human vacationers, the ducks have discovered a retreat that is improved by bad weather. When the skies clear, I expect to see the devoted mallard couple enjoying their time alone, floating serenely in a more luxurious puddle.
Every May, our backyard undergoes a spectacular costume change. Our family considers it all the more glorious because we remember when it retained the drab, unadorned look of a concrete wasteland all year long. See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2012. As the month begins, our twin red maples start the cycle and burst into brilliant foliage. When the sun shines, they absolutely glow.
By mid-May, the Double Knock-Out Roses by the fence are overloaded with flowers.
The pale pink climbing roses on the garage trellis join the party next. A gray catbird, visible on the fence at far left, has been busy making a nest in one of our red maples. A pair of cardinals claimed a spot among the trellis roses.
Kiko gazes at the world beyond our fence, which also gets a May makeover.
At the very beginning of the month, the scruffy, thorny, typically disheveled locust trees by our driveway dress up and perfume the air with their delicate white blossoms.
The many pockets of heavily wooded public land in our neighborhood are lush and fragrant every May with an abundance of honeysuckle and wild white roses.
This most beautiful and sweet-smelling month is drawing to a close, once again, all too soon.
Savor these last May days.
Count today, and be glad that there are two still to be enjoyed!
As I’ve mentioned before, there may be nothing Kiko likes more than a ride in the car, followed by a walk. In cool weather he accompanies me on daily outings. Before I do my grocery shopping, get my allergy shot, or whatever, we walk. Afterwards, he waits contentedly in the car until I return, either keeping a look-out from the driver’s seat, or snoozing in the back. One day last week, we were cutting through the yard of the Sunrise, an assisted living facility, on our way to a nearby park. As we rounded a curve on the path, we met a couple pushing a sleepy looking elderly woman in a wheelchair. Upon spotting Kiko, she woke up. Oh, look!, she exclaimed. What a beautiful dog! I love dogs! Her companions were visibly cheered, as well; suddenly an unpromising walk had taken a decidedly more satisfying turn.
As I see it, Kiko regally assumes that everyone he encounters is there for the express purpose of an audience with him. He is a beneficent monarch, one who graciously and generously bestows the gift of his royal presence. Because he lacks any pressing matters of state, should no loyal subjects appear, he has the humility to lie down and await their certain arrival. That day at the Sunrise, no wait was required; homage was instant. After an initial greeting, Kiko sat calmly at the base of the wheelchair while the smiling Sunrise resident, her face twenty years younger now, petted and adored him.
You must bring him by again!, she urged. We used to have a dog named Shadow who lived here, and I miss him so much. Her son told me that Shadow was a big dog, a lab-pit bull mix. He had the run of the Sunrise until he began jumping on the residents, prompting an employee to adopt him. There was no longer a house dog, and Shadow had left an empty space.
That got me thinking. Could Kiko help fill that space? During high school and college, I had enjoyed visiting with nursing home residents on a weekly basis, but I hadn’t been able to bring my dog. On a cool sunny day the next week, when Kiko and I were going to the grocery, I decided to drop by the Sunrise with him. His welcome was warm and immediate, from staff and residents alike. An appreciative crowd gathered, with my little dog at its center.
I asked a staff member if dogs needed special training to visit; I had always assumed they did. My friend Celeste completed several obedience classes with her dog Beau to certify him as a nursing home therapy dog. Kiko passed his puppy class, but just barely, due to his headstrong on-leash behavior. We did not continue his formal education. Surprisingly, no special training for visiting dogs was required at this facility. To return on a regular basis, a dog needed only proof of vaccinations.
Several residents and staff mentioned that Miss Anne sure would like to see the dog. Did we have time for a room visit?
Of course! A caregiver escorted us upstairs, via the elevator, a first for Kiko, one that he took in easy-going stride.
When we arrived at the room, its occupant yelled loudly and gruffly for us to enter. The big voice belonged to a fragile little lady. Miss Anne was lying perfectly, alarmingly inert on her bed, and she appeared to be in no mood for guests. Until she saw Kiko, that is. Suddenly she was up and attempting to pop out of bed with such alacrity that I was afraid she would topple to the floor. The caregiver jumped in, luckily, to help her safely maneuver to the side of the bed. Kiko sat at her feet. He even gazed up at her with an expression that could be described as loving. Such a show of emotion is unusual for him.
After a while, Miss Anne asked me, Didn’t I see you out back before? It wasn’t until then that I realized this was the same woman Kiko and I had met earlier outside with her son and daughter-in-law. I’m sure she recognized Kiko, not me. How fitting it was that, by chance, we found our way back to her, just as she had hoped we would.
Our family sometimes jokes that Kiko would be the world’s worst guide dog. There is no amount of obedience training, no army of diligent, expert dog whisperers, that could ready him for the job that many labs, golden retrievers and German shepherds seem born to do. It’s not in him, and it’s not in his breed. But, like all dogs given the opportunity, all those we welcome into our lives with love, Kiko has a gift for brightening his little corner of the world. And now, with the relative maturity of his nearly six years, he has the unflappable, mellow temperament to bring special cheer to the Sunrise. How lucky it is that we met Miss Anne and her family that day! Kiko will be back next week to check in with his new friends.
They’re coming. Cicadas, in extraordinary numbers, will soon be waking from their seventeen-year naps. Really? It hasn’t been seventeen years since they last overwhelmed our area. I know this for certain. An intense cicada season is not forgotten. Our daughter was five, nearly a preschool graduate. Time does fly, but she’s only fourteen now, not twenty-two.
We hear it’s likely that the DC area will see more cicadas than usual this year. Various broods hatch every seventeen years, and this year’s Brood II is not the one that deluged us here in Northern Virginia in 2004. Fairfax County lies on the outer limit of this coming brood, so we may not feel the impact as strongly as places farther south. We’ve heard from my husband’s brother that the big, lumbering insects have indeed been spotted in their neighborhood in Richmond. Our daughter’s young cousins have never been party to a cicada invasion. I hope they enjoy it as much as she did.
D has always had a soft spot for oddball creatures. I admire her ability to find beauty where many cannot see it. She took an immediate liking to H’s pet box turtle, with us since we married, and before that, with H since he was a boy. Speedy (H was twelve when he named it) lives in a spacious glass box in our basement. He dines on raw ground beef, blueberries, and now, thanks to Kiko, canned dog food. Occasionally he gets the run of the basement or one of our larger bathrooms. D maintains that Speedy is terribly cute, although few would agree. As a toddler, she befriended the numerous toads that make their home each spring in our yard. She named them and discussed their differentiating traits of appearance and personality–how she could distinguish Squeaky, say, from Emily. As I’ve mentioned in an earlier post, she loves all the bizarre aquatic life of Cape Cod bay, including the spider crabs and the slimy moon snails. See Our Summer Village on the Cape, September 2013.
D’s five-year old self welcomed the cicadas enthusiastically. She picked them up, but gently, carefully. She enjoyed letting them amble along her arms, even on her face; she often had one perched on her nose. She loved their segmented, transparent wings, red bulbous eyes, stick-like legs, and coal-black armored bodies. I agree that each full-fledged cicada is a majestic specimen, and I find their uncertain, drunken flight very endearing. But I don’t care much for the nymph stage, in which they first appear after their long gestation period. They tend to tunnel out of the ground in unsettling droves around dusk, each cicada leaving a perfectly round, approximately half-inch hole in the earth. D didn’t even mind the look of these initial wingless, moist, pale beige creatures. Unattractive, I would call them. Or better yet, just plain icky. D wasn’t put off by the discarded exoskeletons that clung to tree branches, reminding me of some dreaded dermatological condition, or the pile-up that accumulated around the bases of our old maples. She wasn’t bothered by the noise, a sound like the roar of a hundred generators and power mowers. And she wasn’t even offended by the smell of pervasive decay, rather like the scent of rotting shrimp, that marks the winding down of cicada season.
It will be interesting to see the scope of this coming invasion and how it affects us this time. Will it be really be an onslaught? Will D, at fourteen, be as eager to mix it up with the cicadas as she was nine years ago? And what about Kiko? While he thrills at the hunt for the single buzzing cicada in the grass, this will be his first major brood year. Will he try to gorge himself on the insects, as some dogs do? Considering his finicky nature and dainty habits, this seems unlikely.
The Cicada Clock is ticking. Recent mornings here have been unusually chilly, but surely spring-like weather will arrive before long. Will the warming earth send these Rip Van Winkles of the insect world out just in time for H’s family’s Memorial Day visit? We were together, memorably, nine years ago for the holiday. As we watched D enjoy the kiddie rides at our local carnival, cicadas hitched rides on our clothing and in our hair. Occasionally a particularly clumsy new flyer would careen into one of our faces. Will this year’s start to summer bring with it another such noteworthy interspecies reunion?
Happy Mother’s Day to all the dear mothers out there. No matter what the attached modifier may be–whether young, old, grand, great-grand, or in-law–may you all be appreciated and honored by those you have nurtured, by those whose hearts you have touched, by those whose lives you have helped mold into meaningful shape. May women who mothered the children of others be included today as well, because their love and support may be equally powerful and equally cherished.
My mother, as a young woman. Because she’s smart, funny, warm and loving, she tends to be surrounded by young friends who wish she were their mother. I am glad to share her, but even more glad to be able to call her my own Mama.
Mama, in 2005, with my daughter, who made me a proud Mama, too.
We arrived at our London destination around midnight. For the next few nights we would be bunking in a dormitory of King’s College Hall. Instead of five or six of us in a communal chamber, as before in France, each of us had our own tiny cell. The barren, ascetic rooms offered limited distraction, and you’d think this would have been our chance to get some rest. But no. Katie, Jackie and I stayed up that first night until around 3 AM, indulging in giddy doses of adolescent humor.
The next morning we were in a fog of drowsiness on a bus rolling through London. Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, and Big Ben, still black with the coal dust of a century and a half, were blurry, dream-like images dancing improbably before my eyes. Once we began our walking tour, I was sufficiently awake to be irked at not having more time to spend in the Abbey, and at seeing the Tower of London only from the outside.
That afternoon we went shopping at Selfridge’s and Marks & Spencer. According to my journal entry, I wasn’t especially impressed; I described them simply as large department stores similar to Atlanta’s now long-defunct Rich’s. I’ve never been an enthusiastic shopper. Postcards and guidebooks were my primary European purchases, but in Marks & Spencer, Rebecca and I bought identical fuzzy white wool sweaters. London meals and evenings are among the vaguest of my memories. I’m certain, though, that we prolonged our nightly festivities at the dorm until well into the morning hours.
On our second day in England, we were back on the bus, heading to Stratford-on-Avon. During the drive, we were all elated when snow began to fall. Snow! In April! This offered further, indisputable proof that we were very far from home. Has a snowflake ever fallen in Atlanta in April? Possibly, but if so, it was terribly lonely, and it melted immediately. The English countryside was as beautiful as that of France. Scenes worthy of Christmas cards were plentiful: medieval-style barns, peacefully grazing horses and sheep, neat, increasingly white fields criss-crossed with ancient rock walls. We stopped briefly in Oxford, where we got off the bus for a glance at Christ Church College. The visit was long enough for me to fall in love with this town of unbelievably gorgeous student housing, and to determine to get back there one day, when I could linger, and wander.
In Stratford, we hit the usual tourist attractions, including Shakespeare’s birthplace and the cottage of his wife, Anne Hathaway. That evening, many of us at last managed some sleep. Unfortunately it was during a performance of Shakespeare’s Henry V. We were not at all prepared for the play; we had no idea of the plot, the actors’ Elizabethan English was indecipherably foreign, and we weren’t anywhere near the action.
Outside Anne Hathaway’s cottage in Stratford.
After our extended nap in Shakespeare’s theatre, we headed back to London. The last thing I remember about the trip was our group assembling the next morning on the sidewalk in front of King’s College, awaiting the bus that would take us to Gatwick Airport.
The long trip home has completely dropped from my memory, and in a way, I’m glad. In the years since, I’ve learned that going home requires far more time than getting wherever it is we’re going. It also demands vaster sums of patience and fortitude. But in my mind, I can skip right over all those tiresome hours of waiting and traveling. Suddenly, I’m my fourteen year old self, hugging my young parents in Atlanta’s as yet unremodeled Hartsfield Airport. Soon we’d be turning into our driveway, and I’d see that the azaleas were in full bloom. Daddy would be unlocking the door to the back hall, and my dog Popi would be waiting at the top of the stairs. I’d look into his eyes and know that he missed me. I’d drop my bag in my room and look around at the familiar surroundings of home. I would be completely happy. Happy to be home. And happy to know that one day, somehow or other, I’d get back to those far-away places that now seemed a little closer.
Most of us were not ready for this photo, taken outside King’s College, but we were ready to go home. Our remarkable teacher, Mrs. Correll, smiling at back left, is her usual cheerful self.
After our night at the lycée in Saint-Malo (See European Vacation ’75, Part III), our group was back on the bus early the next morning, heading to Le Havre and the Channel for our crossing to England. I was surprised at the size and relative luxury of the ferry; I guess I had been expecting something bare-bones and rudimentary. I hadn’t imagined that it might house several restaurants, shops and comfortable lounge areas. It was fortunate that it was roomy and fairly pleasant, as the crossing took over six hours. My friends and I wandered freely all over the boat, exploring every level.
When someone discovered a door that led outside, we stumbled upon a real thrill: the open decks. We had never felt such a fierce, strong wind. We were amazed that we could lean into the wind at a sharp angle and remain there, without falling. With the wind behind us, we could jump and be carried as though in flight. Luckily, no one sailed over the railings into the icy waters of the Channel.
After a while, when we began to feel the chill, we noticed two teenage boys hanging around farther down the deck. They were older than we were, probably around sixteen, and they weren’t involved in wind experiments. We could hear their English accents. Evidently this Channel crossing was old hat to them. They soon walked by, ostentatiously ignoring us, trying to appear caught up in their own conversation. When we returned inside, we saw that they remained near the door, still deeply immersed in their dialogue. We began once again to ramble throughout the ship, to see if the boys would follow us. They did. We conspicuously refused to acknowledge their presence, and they did the same to us, despite trailing us at a distance.
After a meandering circuit of the ship, the boys climbed the stairs to the observatory lounge. We remained on the level below. Not long afterwards, several younger English boys appeared. They looked to be about twelve or so. After much heated whispering among themselves, with frequent glances in our direction, they shyly approached. It didn’t take long for them to start firing off questions: How old were we? Where did we live? After each couple of inquiries they would dash upstairs to the observatory, only to return quickly with more questions.
The older boys, apparently, had opted to send in scouts on a reconnaissance mission. Once the younger boys had run through all the questions they could think of, they revealed their purpose. They had been sent to report that there were two “lads” on the upper level who would like to meet us. Due to their accents, we couldn’t at first decipher the word “lads.” Two whats? Lads? Oh, lads! How unbelievably quaint! None of us had ever before been pursued by a “lad!”
Nevertheless, we weren’t interested in the elder lads. They appeared overly serious and lacking in humor. Tall and gangly, they verged on being men. Although we were flattered by the attention, we knew we had no business flirting with men, or almost-men. Looking back, I wonder at their interest in us, several goofy, wind-blown fourteen year olds. Maybe our American-ness gave us some cachet.
Jackie, Rebecca, me and the mighty wind.
The younger lads, though, were an altogether different type: funny, cute, spunky, sweet, smaller than we were, and non-threatening. Their Englishness was simultaneously exotic and reassuring. They reminded me of members of Fagin’s gang of urchins in the Disney movie, Oliver! We never went upstairs to meet the older boys, but spent considerable time chatting with the twelve-year olds. They told us they lived in Staffordshire and were returning from a school “holiday” in Normandy.
I talked primarily with a golden-haired, blue-eyed boy named Graeme Bailey. He gave me his address, which he wrote on a page torn from a small notebook. On the other side was his drawing of a soldier. The address was other-worldly and old-fashioned. It included only one number, and that was a single digit. In looks, in name (and its spelling), and in accent, Graeme was perfectly, enchantingly English. But because he was so open and approachable, before we said goodbye I felt as though I had known him for a long while.
That night, I wrote in my journal that this had been one of the best days of the trip, even though all we did was travel. As I remember, I was feeling rather elated, wide open to life’s possibilities. Before setting foot in Britain, I had met a quintessential English lad, one who took a friendly, cheerful interest in me.
I think I was beginning to grasp the transcendent power of travel. It’s a truly wonderful thing to experience first-hand the vastness and variety of our world’s natural and cultural beauty. This is certainly an adequate reason to roam the globe. But to me, the real power of travel is this: it reveals the depth and strength of the bonds that unite us as a human family. Custom, language, differences in physical appearance–these are simply thin layers of veneer, the candy coating on an M&M. No matter where we were born or where we live, we are more alike than different. This awareness equips us with a powerful force for living with compassion and understanding.
My future pen-pal, Graeme Bailey, on the ferry.
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.
