This past weekend we went to Rochester to celebrate Grandma’s birthday. In between the frequent meals, the snacks, the cookies and the birthday cake, we managed to squeeze in an afternoon walk in the woods. My husband wanted to show our daughter a spot much loved by him and his boyhood friends. Enjoying a freedom from adult supervision nearly unknown to kids these days, they met there on their bikes after school. Using found lumber and fallen trees, they built hideouts and forts, which they outfitted with discarded furniture. They shot their BB-guns at cans (and occasionally, at each other, but with a strict one-pump rule). They made campfires for roasting hot dogs and for the sheer joy of watching things burn. Responsibilities were divvied up, and H brought the explosives. (It’s no coincidence that he went on to study combustion in grad school). He hadn’t set foot in these woods for decades, and he was worried that they had been developed or modified beyond recognition.
We were relieved that the entrance to the woods, several streets away from H’s childhood home, was just as he remembered. As we walked, it became apparent to him that some paths had been widened, neatened, or rerouted. But thankfully there was no sign of encroaching development, no nascent parking lots, shopping malls or townhouse complexes.
The weather forecast had predicted a full day of rain, but early morning showers had given way to a sunny afternoon. The light on the turning leaves suffused the canopy with a golden glow. The woods took on a magical, enchanted aspect. Our daughter appreciated their appeal as keenly as H had when he was her age.
Rochester’s fall palette was bright and varied. The yellows and oranges of the trees were especially brilliant.
The ground was carpeted with green moss and colorful fallen leaves.
Perfectly formed mushrooms, the small white kind that fairies rest on in childrens’ books, were a frequent sight underfoot among the leaves.
Beech trees, their leaves just beginning to turn yellow.
The kindness of trees: one member of this group of trees, having lost its base, is supported by its neighbors.
Our ultimate destination was the secluded pond where H and his friends had focused many of their boyhood activities. D and I followed H as he wandered, searching uncertainly through the swampy, heavily tangled brush, looking for landmarks to point the way, such as the tree on which they had carved their names. As my feet got soaked, I regretted not stuffing my hiking boots into my suitcase. Repeatedly, the pond wasn’t where H thought it should be. He began to fear we wouldn’t find it. Finally, with the help of the GPS system on his phone, he located it. It looked the same as it had all those years ago, H said, except for the greater accumulation of algae on its surface. A small boat was tied up in the reeds by the shore, suggesting that the pond continues to be the haunt of local explorers.
The walk back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house was a happy one. It was enormously satisfying to see that every once in a while, despite the fleeting pace of time and so-called progress, we can return to a place that still matches up with its treasured memory.
I have the perfect mother-in-law. The only down side to this is that I’m unable to participate in the swapping of mother-in-law horror stories. I’ve heard many such accounts, and other than gasps of incredulity, I have nothing to add. I’ve listened in amazement to tales of the mother-in-law who “helps” with the new baby by bellowing orders, complaints, and increasingly outlandish requests from a command center on the family room sofa. I’ve heard about the M.I.L. who, determined to ensure that her son’s house run on her rules or not at all, regards each visit as an opportunity for a hostile takeover. I’ve listened to anecdotes about the M.I.L. whose sensitive temperament is constantly wounded by imagined slights tossed off by a cruel daughter-in-law. And I’ve heard everything in between.
With my mother in law, there is no drama. She is sweet, good, and uncomplicated. She is kind, thoughtful and intelligent. During visits to our home, she asks how she may help. She is not overbearing. She does not insist, but she never offers out of empty politesse. It has taken me a while, but I’ve learned to accept her assistance. I come from what may be a predominately Southern tradition of automatically refusing the first few offers of guests’ help, thereby forcing them to insist or be considered rude. Now, when Grandma* asks if I need help with dinner, I tend to say Yes, please! She is a calm, easy presence, and it’s a pleasure to share the house, and the chores, with her.
Like everyone in H’s family, his mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting, now over twenty years ago. She has never implied (as some mothers of sons are known to do), that no living woman could be a worthy companion of the god-like boy-child she birthed. She has a deservedly high opinion of H, and she has always treated me as his equal.
H’s mother is a loving grandmother to our daughter and to her other four grandchildren. Gentle and fun, she laughs easily, and she remembers what it was like to a child. I’ve heard about grandparents who cannot be trusted with their own grandchildren. This was never an issue with either set of my daughter’s grandparents, thankfully. When D was nearly three, my husband and I, along with my parents, took a trip to France, leaving our daughter in the care of Grandma and Grandpa. We missed our baby girl terribly, but we had no worries about her welfare, either emotional or physical, during those ten days. We knew she was in devoted and capable hands.
Grandma’s attitude is generally one of meekness, and some might take her for a pushover. This, however, is not the case. When she feels strongly that righteousness is on her side, she is tough, patient and determined to persevere. One year, when H’s windsurfing board went missing in Cape Cod, she summoned Grandpa to accompany her on a walk. With slow, thorough deliberation, she surveyed the property, until she discovered H’s board leaning up against the wall of another cottage way across the green. Thanks to her gracious yet firm intervention, H’s board was soon being carried back to its rightful place by those who, no doubt, had removed it.
Our daughter with Grandma at Cape Cod. In D’s younger years, she always urged H and me to go out for date night during our vacation, so she could enjoy a full evening of food and fun with Grandma and Grandpa.
Grandma is always ready for a game with a grandhild, whether it’s air hockey, Chinese Checkers, Candyland or Chutes & Ladders.
Grandpa is a lucky man, and he knows it. He has Grandma by his side, no matter what. During their long marriage they’ve had their share of hell and high water, in addition to many joys. They are a formidable team, and together, with their strong faith in God’s love and grace, they know they can weather any storm. Grandma has a gift for finding and sharing that kernel of sweetness within the tough husk of the bad.
Thank you, Grandma, for enriching the lives of all those you touch. Happy Birthday, and many more to follow!
*I address my mother-in-law by her first name, which is an unusual, very pretty name. It suits her. But here, I will refer to her as Grandma. When I wrote about H’s father, her husband, I referred to him as Grandpa (June 2012), so I’ll be consistent.
Here in northern Virginia, we are fortunate to have a long, luxurious fall season. Typically, around the start of school, just after Labor Day, the weather turns, as with the click of a switch. The dense humidity of late August dissipates. The refreshingly crisp air of autumn starts streaming in. Mornings and evenings are chilly, afternoons sunny and warm. The switch usually clicks off again briefly, and summer’s hot blanket gets a few last chances to throw its sticky weight around. But these are the final gasps of a lost cause; fall’s triumph is inevitable. And by then, the visual signs of the new season begin to appear.
The first signs of fall in our area are subtle. In a cloud of green leaves, a few spots of yellow and orange pop up, as here at the big rock known as Freestone Point in Leesylvania State Park on the Potomac.
Here, above and below, the crows seem to appreciate the touches of red and gold that beautify their treetop perches.
Morning sunlight cuts through the mist off the lake, intensifying the glow of newly golden leaves.
Scruffy, disheveled pond foliage assumes a dignified fall palette of bronze and copper.
Goldenrod, like crystallized sunbeams, dresses up the banks of the pond.
Before long, a few trees, like this maple, above, and the small dogwood in the distance below, trade all their green for more flamboyant colors.
Commercial Street begins in Provincetown’s quiet East End, just across the line from quiet Truro. The street name appears misleading at first, in this almost exclusively residential stretch, a mix of cottages, grand homes, and historic guesthouses. The crowds of tourists are absent for the first mile or so. My daughter and I especially enjoy exploring this serene section of the street, where lush gardens flourish and the waters of the bay provide a bright, sparkling backdrop.
A favorite subject of local artists, this white Dutch colonial, with its pristine lawn overlooking the bay, is the first home on Commercial Street’s East End.
Pigeons keep watch over Commercial Street from the dormer of the sturdy brick house where Norman Mailer lived and wrote for 25 years. After the author’s death, the home became the Norman Mailer Writers Colony.
An eighteenth-century Cape Cod cottage, glimpsed through the garden gate.
The gardens of Provincetown, though typcially small, are vigorously hardy, dramatic and colorful.
This spacious expanse of lawn, with its rugged old schoolyard swing set, is an odd, unexpected luxury in Provincetown, where bay-side land is at a great premium.
An artfully styled P-town compound, with a patriotic tableau of American flag and exuberant red and blue flowers in white window boxes.
At the Sea Urchin cottage, a profusion of wild roses and a sandy path to the water.
Tranquil spaces may be found even in the busiest section of Commercial Street, as here on the shady porch of Shor, a home furnishings showroom. Next door is the Unitarian Universalist Meeting House, built in 1847. The church’s front lawn, when not hosting an open-air market, offers an inviting escape from the crowds, as does its gracious interior, notable for the trompe l’oeil sculptural paintings in the sanctuary.
The beautifully detailed tower of the Meeting House.
This charming book store, located in a little house behind and surrounded by art galleries in the midst of Commercial Street, is reached by a tree-shaded pathway. D and I stop in at Tim’s to browse the shelves for interesting bargains and to enjoy the quiet.
Artists began to discover the small fishing village of Provincetown in the last decades of the nineteenth century. It quickly became established as an artist’s colony after Charles Hawthorne opened his Cape Cod School of Art in 1899. Now, over 40 galleries display a wide range of styles. In the hands of local artists, the regional tradition of atmospheric, Impressionistic landscapes, still lifes and figurative work remains vital and fresh. The gallery above specializes in bold contemporary Asian art. Many of the galleries are staffed by the artists themselves, who tend to be friendly and unpretentious.
The 200-year old Red Inn, which hosts one of the town’s most acclaimed restaurants, is in Commercial Street’s far West End, past the reach of the heaviest crowds. The deck, with its view of the harbor, is a spectacular spot for a sunset drink. Here, in the repose of early morning, neat white chairs welcome the promise of another beautiful day.
Even though I’m glad to feel the September chill in the air, I find myself looking back fondly on August, to our time at the Cape. Perhaps because the school year has begun, bringing its steady stream of routine duties and a deluge of paperwork, the echoes of those last lazy days of summer are especially sweet right now.
The appeal of our quiet little cottage complex in Truro is heightened by its location next door to bustling Provincetown, shoehorned into the narrow tip of the outer Cape. It’s a tiny town with an expansive, generous spirit, urban flair, and an edgy sense of humor. Eccentrics of all stripes, as well as tourists from the heartland, find a warm welcome in P-Town, where ecumenical diversity flourishes.
The central section of Commercial Street, the narrow main artery, is one long party during beach season, when it’s crowded with pedestrians and vehicles. In Provincetown, the architecture is historic and charming, the street musicians are inventive and mostly talented, the food is excellent, offerings of art, musical theatre and comedy are vast and easily accessible, the drag queens are witty, the world’s most expressive T-shirts are available, and bay breezes blow. It truly has something for everyone.
Above, the busy heart of Commercial Street, catching the ever-present Cape Cab in transit. Its sister vehicles include two wildly painted mini-limos known as the Funk Buses, which offer on-the-road karaoke. Provincetown is no place for a sensible Lincoln Town Car.
Another view of Commercial Street, above. The umbrella-shaded outdoor dining area at Patio is an ideal spot for people and dog watching. Provincetown is an enthusiastically pet-friendly town, despite the notable absence of any dogs in this photo. I counted thirty dogs in one hour last year during dinner at Patio. Most were on leashes, others were pushed in strollers or carried in handbags. There was even one puppy in some sort of dog-Snugli. Because our place in Truro doesn’t allow pets, we can’t bring Kiko, but we almost always see at least one Shiba Inu. My hope is that someday, somehow, he’ll be able to accompany us. I like to think he has an artistic sensibility and would feel completely at home here.
Provincetown, fiercely protective of its unique quirkiness, is resistant to national chains. You won’t find a McDonald’s, a Rite Aid, or a CVS. No Starbucks, no T.G.I. Friday’s, no Applebee’s. No Burger King, although, there is, appropriately, a Burger Queen. The Little Red, above, is a friendly, well-stocked convenience store, housed in what appears to be a brightly painted Victorian playhouse.
Like many buildings in densely populated Provincetown, this gray turreted house, which could easily feature in an Addams Family film, has commercial space below and living space above. The towers of the Pilgrim Monument and the Unitarian Church peek out from behind.
A living statue often occupies a prime spot in front of the Town Hall. Above, during the summer of 2010, Cady Vishniac posed regularly as a bronze figure of a Depression-era hobo. Richard Mason, inspired by Provincetown’s World War I Memorial statue nearby, occupied the corner in 2011, in the guise of a WWI soldier.
Above, the sun sets on the Lobster Pot and the Governor Bradford bar and restaurant across the street. I’ve tasted nothing better, ever, I believe, than the pan-roasted lobster at the Lobster Pot. If you think lobster is lobster, and cannot be improved upon, this will change your mind. The Pot is always packed, but it’s worth the wait. Get your lobster buzzer and wander through the nearby shops.
The yellow banner for Mary Poppers prompts me to note that this year, at last, we had a John Waters sighting. The director and author makes his summer residence in P-Town. I’ve never seen him riding his bike down Commercial Street, as many have, but we spotted him, unmistakable in his pencil-thin moustache, walking with friends on Bradford Street. They were heading toward the Provincetown Theatre to see the popular Mary Poppins parody.
The haunting neon glow of The Lobster Pot, a beacon for hungry tourists and locals.
Look for another P-Town post to follow soon: Serenity on Commercial Street.
Just about a year ago, Wild Trumpet Vine was launched. My husband helped me set up the domain and get started. Without my Chief Technology Officer, I could not have entered the blogosphere, and I owe him thanks.
That first night, in a fit of inspiration, I composed the following two elegant sentences:
Welcome to my blog. Please check back soon for new entries.
Since I was a kid, I’ve dabbled at writing, in fits and starts, rarely to satisfactory completion. As I’ve said before, I’m a saver, an archivist of minutiae. Boxes of messy, scribbled-over, food-stained pages document countless abandoned writing projects. These fall into several phases, including the Smith-Corona period from high school and college, the IBM Selectric era (when my mother’s office upgraded, we purchased her old typewriter), and the Mac Plus/dot matrix printer years during grad school. (When I bought my first PC, which had a screen somewhat smaller than the original Kindle, the Internet was hardly more than a vague, crackpot notion.)
Most of my writing, in addition to being fragmentary and unfinished, remains unread, except very briefly, by me. There is the exception, I hope, of the many letters to friends and family. I turned these out at a particularly quick pace during my first job at the High Museum of Art. I was a fast typist (this was my only real marketable skill), and after transcribing my boss’s letters, there was usually time to pursue my own voluminous correspondence. I was in my twenties, my social life was active, and dear friends were newly scattered across the country. Those were the days when I had much of consequence to report, and much on which to comment. My letters were a substitute for the immediacy and intimacy of college life, together with friends, face-to-face, every day.
I almost forgot: there is one real writing project I did complete: my Ph.D. dissertation in art history, which is 345 pages long, accompanied by 150 pages of appendices and 289 photographs. It includes every obscure scintilla of information anyone could ever care to learn about a group of 14th-century English Apocalypse manuscripts. Most people, of course, are perfectly happy knowing absolutely nothing about these books. My tour de force was read by at least five people, my advisers. I’m sure of this because they scrutinized and questioned nearly every word during the four long years it took me to write it. My mother claims that she also read it. Now, impressively bound, the three volumes lead a life of quiet retirement on the bookshelves of our family room.
Other than my foray into medieval manuscript illumination, what I’ve always written about is daily life, and Wild Trumpet Vine continues along this course. I learned decades ago that I have neither the imagination nor the inclination to write fiction. Even today, in sedate suburban middle age, I am impressed by the richness that day-to-day living throws my way. I marvel at life’s quirks, its absurd, unexpected turns, its unbelievable coincidences, its oddities and its unpredictable moments of intense sweetness, when meaning is glimpsed in the midst of nonsense, and love triumphs over cruelty.
Wild Trumpet Vine is, in some sense, a more efficient version of my letter-writing. It refreshes existing links of friendship and family. Because I have many more years under my belt, my friends are more numerous, and far more scattered, than ever. With marriage, my family network has expanded considerably. I used to be an only child, now I have multiple brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews. The blog has worked to strengthen long-standing family ties, as well. Growing up, I knew many cousins only in name. Now, building on the bonds of kinship and the power of shared memories, we’re enjoying the blessing of friendship.
My little blog has a further advantage over letter writing: it encourages a wider, stronger web of connectedness. When new acquaintances, or friends of friends, are moved to comment, it is typically to say I know what you mean!I feel the same way! Their feedback emphasizes the depths of our common experience. Differences of culture and background–the details that may separate us–tend to fade away as the light of our humanity shines through.
To all those who join me, either regularly or occasionally, at Wild Trumpet Vine, I thank you. Your comments are always welcome–you needn’t agree with me to respond. Stick with me as we continue the journey.
The weather is beautiful today here in northern Virginia. The sky is clear and blue, the sun is bright, and the crisp, fresh promise of fall is in the air. Eleven years ago, September 11 began just as gloriously. We had no idea what was coming.
This morning, as I typically do on every September 11 since 2002, I find myself keeping an eye on the clock as 8:46 approaches. Anything I might say about my memory of that day runs the risk of sounding trite or self-important, so I won’t attempt it. All I can do is offer my prayer, in hopes that its power will be magnified as it joins and rises with the great cloud of kindred prayers around it.
On this September 11, I ask for God’s blessings on all those whose lives were irrevocably and tragically altered on that terrible day. For the thousands who died, and for the many more loved ones who grieve for them. For the children who grew up without a parent, for the spouses whose partners never returned, for the grandparents who became parents to their lost children’s children. For those whose pain still pierces, and for those who suffer guilt because some healing has taken place, because cherished memories have dimmed.
I give thanks for the many heroes who sacrificed their lives or endangered their health on that day to save strangers. For the firefighters, police and rescue workers who bravely answered the call to duty. For unlikely individuals, like the passengers of United Airlines Flight 93, who rose to the daunting challenge.
I give thanks for the unity we feel as a nation each year on September 11. I pray that it might outlast this one day. In the poisonous political atmosphere of this election year, may it inspire us to set aside our bitterness, for a while, at least, so that we might work together.
And, most of all, I thank God for the good that always comes from bad, even if, in our sorrow and anger, we may not see it until months or years later.
May we be especially receptive to the vitality of God’s blessings on this September 11. I pray that we will feel God’s mercy and love descending on us all, from out of the blue.
The lower Manhattan skyline seen from Liberty State Park, NJ on August 19, 1991.
This year, H’s sister and her husband brought their three-month old baby to Cape Cod. We were not so brave. We waited until our daughter was two and a half. The year before, we had attempted our first family beach trip, to the Outer Banks, just the three of us. While it was a joy to experience the sun and sand from D’s fresh perspective, it was not a vacation. The demands of our beautiful child, limitless as always in those early years, were more difficult to satisfy, being away from home. We were simply caregivers in an alien setting, and there was minimal opportunity for relaxation or enjoyment. When D was awake in the hotel, which was most of the time, H worried she would awaken or annoy our neighbors. On the rare occasions when she finally succumbed to sleep, these same neighbors typically awakened her and annoyed me. There was great collective frustration all around.
That trip made me reassess the Cape Cod complex that H’s family has visited for over thirty years. Some cottages are covered in white clapboard, others in weathered cedar shakes. All are small but charming. They cluster, like the homes of a compact village, around two spacious central greens and a pool. It’s timeless, quintessential Old Cape Cod, exactly the picture conjured by that 1950s Patti Page song of the same name. An immensely wide beach, unusual for Truro, provides a buffer zone from the water. Rather than the pounding surf of the Atlantic, there is the relative tranquility of the bay. It suddenly hit me that this was a decidedly welcoming environment for small children and their parents.
One of the greens, empty in the early morning, but soon to fill with friends.
Before the narrow boardwalk was built, about ten years ago, the trek to the bay was rather daunting.
I realized that at the Cape there would be willing, helping hands, certainly those of Grandma and Grandpa, perhaps those of H’s sister and her husband. I wasn’t hoping to hand my child over completely, only grateful for any assistance that might be offered. I also knew by this time that our daughter tended to behave better when she knew there were other eyes on her besides those of Mama and Daddy.
D, at two and a half, happily at work on her sand-pouring skills.
H’s family’s adopted Cape Cod village opened its arms to welcome our daughter, and for her it was love at first sight. As children sometimes do, she appreciated the simplest things. She found it supremely entertaining to sit outside our cottage, pouring sand into a cup; she didn’t even need a pail or shovel. We would send her over to her grandparents’ cottage for cooking oil or butter, and she relished the responsibility. H would use the walkie-talkie to tell his parents D was on her way, and we’d keep her in our sights during her short journey. (There are no phones in the cottages, and before we were all so fiercely entangled in the web of technology, this meant an actual break from the typical work-a-day world.) Grandpa would signal D’s return, and she would arrive flushed and happy, more mature than when she had left.
D returns triumphantly from an errand.
There is a real sense of community in our vacation village, because families tend to return for the same week every year, and friendships are nourished. Most of the parents who are now H’s and my age grew up vacationing here with their families. Two sweet and thoughtful sisters, four and five years older than D, took her under their wings on our first visit. Through these girls, D became acquainted with kids of all ages. Even now, with one sister in college and the other a senior in high school, they remain close. All the kids look forward to their annual reunion. Friendships pick up seamlessly, as though no time has passed.
D with her best Cape friends. All teenagers now, the girls are still close.
Above, D and her friends float in the calm shallows of the bay, a pastime that never gets old. Sometimes the waves kick up and boogie boards come in handy, but the water is never as rough as the ocean. Having grown up with the Cape’s prodigious seaweed, none of the girls finds it objectionable (as I did, at first). Neither are they squeamish about the amazing variety of life in the water, which includes tiny shrimp, eels, sea worms, insects we refer to as potato bugs, and a vast number of unidentifiable, speedily swimming slimy things. Some years there are hosts of jelly fish, but typically these are the small non-stinging kind, drifting in the water like blobs of translucent white paste. D and her friends have always collected these in buckets, examined them, and returned them to the water. The blue crabs that lurk in the sand are ready to rumble, pincers poised for an unsuspecting, intrusive toe. Occasionally we see multitudes of horseshoe crabs, the dinosaurs of the crustacean world. And there are the furry-looking spider crabs, of which D is inexplicably fond, despite her distaste for true arachnids.
At low tide, the water of the bay empties out nearly completely, so it’s almost possible to walk across to Provincetown. Starfish, sand dollars and scallop shells are revealed among the reeds. It’s time for D and her friends to build expansive sand compounds, which they populate with feisty hermit crabs and slow-moving moon snails. Before long, the tide turns and begins to inch back in. Islands of sand appear and gradually diminish. Soon the bountiful and diverse life of the bay is submerged once again.
A view across the bay at low tide.
D and her friends congregate on the last remaining island as the tide rushes in.
In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the green beckons to villagers of all ages.
A reed city in the sand, one of D’s ephemeral beach creations.
Our little nephew examines his tummy in the shade of his peapod.
This year, it was a blessing to welcome the new baby on the beach. It was also a blessing, at this stage of my life, to be the baby’s aunt rather than mother. D’s newest cousin looked out on the summer landscape from the shade of his peapod tent. When it appeared that even from that sheltered vantage point, the bright light made him cranky, Grandma and Grandpa went on a mission to Provincetown. They returned with infant sunglasses that strapped around the head with an elastic ribbon. This made their grandson, and all of us, much happier.
I had almost forgotten that magical essence of Baby. What a gift is a baby’s smile! How rewarding it is to share in his squeals of delight! Our darling nephew was just discovering his unique voice, and his vocal experiments were enchanting and enthusiastic. I had nearly forgotten the incomparable warmth and sweetness of a baby in my arms.
D treasured the time she spent with her cousin. For one week a year at least, he was, and will be, a substitute for the brother she never had. And I like to think that next year, when he’s old enough to walk, he will follow in our girl’s sandy footprints. I can see the two of them now, wandering through the sea grass, making their way down to the bay.
Still checking on the tummy, which is looking good.
This first morning of school, which marks the start of my daughter’s eighth grade year, was a low-stress event. By now, D is an old pro in the art of back-to-school. But of course this wasn’t always the case. Each September, I think back on some of the first of these first days. The photos that follow were taken after D returned home from school each time.
D was less than lighthearted on the morning she began preschool at our church. She was not quite three years old, and she would have much rather stayed home with me. I, however, very seriously needed some time apart from my darling child. It was just three mornings a week, the perfect break, I was sure. D was hesitant and apprehensive when I dropped her off. But she was stoic enough not to cry.Three hours later, when I returned to pick her up, she was a different kid altogether: cool and confident to the point of cocky. My parents, who were visiting, found it hard to believe the change. It was difficult to say which child we preferred, the meek or the bold, as both were extremes. Fortunately, she eased into a middle ground after a few weeks of the routine.
The first day of Kindergarten followed a similar script. D did not like the thought of going to school EVERY SINGLE DAY, even though it was still only a few hours; all-day Kindergarten is a recent development in our area. H and I hadn’t gotten used to the idea of daily school for our daughter, either. This was the morning we both cried as we waved to our brave but butterfly-filled baby on that big yellow bus. (See my earlier post, Moving Up to Middle School, October 2011.)
The daughter that hopped off the bus, just before noon, was, once again, boldly self-assured.
On the first morning of first grade, it was the longer hours that had us all somewhat concerned. How would D cope with nearly a full day away from her Mama, away from home? She would eat lunch in that loud and crowded cafeteria, and she was so little! How would I manage with her being gone?
Turns out, we were both OK. D was more tired, and therefore not quite as full of herself as she had been on those earlier first days. But she had learned that this school stuff wouldn’t be all that bad. She could take it in stride, the ups and the downs. I would usually manage to do so, as well.
It’s reassuring to reflect on these early firsts, to remember how our family adjusted to the new school year’s changing circumstances.
But the look back also reminds me that the future is unpredictable and unknowable. The day that followed D’s first day of preschool was September 11, 2001.
One of the nicest things about returning to the same place year after year is having the time to take note of the small details, those that change, and those that stay the same. My favorite early-morning activity is a breezy walk along Shore Road. It hugs a narrow strip of land, bordered on one side by the bay, and on the other, by marshy ponds, dunes, and the Atlantic Ocean. After years of making this walk, I have committed most of its imagery to memory.
Quaint, lovingly maintained cottages, surrounded by lush flowers and foliage, abound on Shore Road. Scrubby, tenacious Cape Cod roses (Rosa rugosa), thrive in the sandy soil and salt air.
This iconic Cape Cod cottage is as forthright as a child’s drawing, surrounded by hydrangeas and set on a neat green lawn.
Not everything on Shore Road is postcard-perfect, I’m happy to say. The picturesquely scruffy makes a showing, as well. This small dilapidated motel property is perpetually for sale. I photograph it every year, and its changes are minimal. One or two decaying beach chairs always keep watch on the bay. The above photo dates from August 2012.
My photo of the same spot, from August 2010.
I document Door #19 of the old motel every year. It varies only in the amount and configuration of its greenery. Above is this year’s photo.
Last year’s photo, with a greater abundance of vines.
Sunflowers and Queen Anne’s Lace stake their claim to this forgotten fragment of a wooden porch.
Two crows pose next to a cross-like clothesline support.
This vacant lot is home to a community of birdhouses, including a central caboose.
Last year’s Birdland centerpiece was a lighthouse.
The neat white and green boxes of Days’ Cottages, set in a line against the bay, date from 1931. Each structure bears the name of a flower, such as Freesia, Dahlia and Petunia. This long-lived and virtually unchanged cottage colony has a loyal clientele. It is a popular subject for local artists.
Last year I spotted this red fox enjoying the quiet of an enclosed yard. He kept a keen eye on me as he scratched repeatedly, shook, and then trotted off unhurriedly toward the sand. Of course he
reminded me of Kiko. On every walk along Shore Road, I somehow end up thinking about Kiko, and I wish he were walking with me.
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.
