Pics – Page 4 – The Hillhouse

Pouring In

January 12, 2016January 12, 2016 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Growing Older, Mommy Mind, PicsLeave a comment

On our kitchen wall, just next to the front door hangs a glass weather barometer. It used to hang above a rusted drip tray on the kitchen wall at Martha’s. Elihu had mused over it once, as all children had through the years, and we’d explained how it worked. Mom recalls that Martha had said he could have it if he liked. I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of yet another piece of stuff in our tiny house, but the idea grew on me… When the green-tinted water rises to the top of the spout – and sometimes drips over and stains the wall – we know that rain is coming. I wish there were such an indicator for incoming emotional storms… “When it rains….” as the expression goes…

An old family friend had kept the tradition through the years of calling Martha on every solstice. This year, on the occasion in December, the fellow called mom as a stand-in for Martha. His call was welcomed, as he too was an old family friend. But his news was not good; he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and didn’t have much time left. Sadly mom was out the first two times he called, and by the time she found him in, several days later, he was quite weak. Only two weeks later he died, and on Saturday we attended his funeral. All about her my mother sees her contemporaries leaving this world, and must be a strange and sad place in which to live. There comes a time in life when every time you turn around people seem to be getting married. Then life takes over for a stretch of time with an assortment of twists and turns, until… All the people around you now seem to be dying. Old friends take their place in line one by one, and then, all of a sudden, they’re gone. Just like that.

Yesterday I received another jolt in the form of an angry email from Martha’s niece. In the message she called me a thief, and told me that she knew I’d been in the house since Martha had died, and that the only possible reason for such a visit would have been to steal something. She wanted an end to it all here and now. She demanded the thin, sterling silver bangle that Martha had always worn be returned to her at once, as well as the rest of the things I’d stolen. Seriously? Ok, come to think of it, I do have Martha’s dusty copy of “Yankee Expressions”, yes, I did take that. I was reading it while sitting with Martha one afternoon, and threw it into my bag. It’s still on my bedside table. I peruse it from time to time, very likely in the same sort of way that Martha once did. Regular readers may even recall how puzzled and concerned I was when Martha’s niece announced that items had gone missing from the house after Martha’s death (the items had since been found; they had simply been moved). After posting some lovely interior tableaus from Martha’s house on the blog, her niece had asked me to please remove them to ensure the safety of the house and its contents. I promptly removed all the images, and apologized as best as I was able. There seems to be nothing I can do to ensure a positive outcome with this person. Ugh.

This morning, as Elihu ate his breakfast, I’m afraid the poor dear got an earful from me. I recounted to him the whole thing – after which a look of deep sadness passed over his face. “But I want to keep the barometer” he said quietly. “Sweetie, we’ll buy the barometer from her. She just wants the monetary value of it. Don’t worry, we’ll make a fair deal with her”. I stewed a bit more in silence, until my beautiful son looked up and quoted a saying that he heard Martha use often: “Everything always works out”. I smiled, and wondered it perhaps Martha herself hadn’t nudged that little piece of calming wisdom into my son’s head. Howsoever the little nugget came to him, it was nice to reminded again.

What a strange and heartbreaking week this has been, and it’s only Tuesday! Lest I waste any more precious work time battling folks who ultimately do not care what I have to say – or believe me – I will paste the response I penned to her last night below, and call it a day.

XXX, I have no idea where all this has come from. I could have easily taken things all the while over months, years even – objects that I’d known and loved since I was a child. And I did not. The bracelet is the ONLY thing I have to remember Martha by, and I shall not return that which was given to me!! We were all together as I asked you if I might have it, as it meant a lot to me. You were kind and assured me Martha would have liked me to have it. I have no recollection of anything else. I also recall it was a low-key, friendly meeting. I had no idea you were giving this trinket to me under duress. Plus this tiny bracelet is not even worth much! I wear it daily, keep it by my bedside nightly. It is my link to a woman I consider to be my second mother. It is a cherished keepsake.

As mom recalls, Martha told Elihu if he was interested in the barometer he could have it. I wasn’t particularly interested in it – but he was, so we left the rusty drip tray on the wall and took the glass home.

And yes, I did come back to the farm once or twice after Martha left. Just to sit and be in the space, to remember. To take in that certain way the kitchen smelled, the views from those windows… It was a living link to my oldest memories. I was savoring that which was soon to disappear forever.

So sorry you feel this way. It is a shock to my very core. Perhaps you and mom can remain friends – I don’t suppose we were friends to begin with, but that will certainly be a challenge going forward. I hope one day you feel differently about me. I’m not a thief, and Lord knows, there were many things – the red bench I mentioned several times – that I would have loved to have in my life as a reminder of the Farm, and for which I gladly would have paid. I would even have loved, bought and used the school bell at the Studio to ring in kids from lunch break at camp. But I dared not even ask – that’s how respectful I was about Martha’s/your stuff. There was also a Harry Belafonte LP I liked and would have paid for – and would actually have listened to – but I didn’t ask about that either, cuz I didn’t want to add stress.

The barometer is a lovely way to share Martha’s story with all the children who come to my home, but if you feel strongly that we came to it by unsavory means, I’ll box it up and leave it at the Farm asap. It would be disappointing to Elihu, and I know he’d like to buy it with his own money if you’d allow him that option. I really hope you’ll consider it.

It seems that distrust and hate are motivating you here. It’s hurtful to be the recipient of such anger – and especially after all this time has passed – not to mention bizarre, as you sound so unlike the person I’d thought you to be. Never, ever would I have seen anything like this coming. I am very sorry that you’re feeling so taken advantage of. I didn’t know you well, but I’ve always liked you. All of this truly breaks my heart.

Maybe a robust sale will help you to feel more secure about things. I hope it all goes well.

A rainbow appeared as Elihu and I took down the Christmas tree on Sunday. I didn’t even see this second rainbow until just now when I uploaded the photograph! One for me, one for lil man. Maybe Martha really was right when she said that everything always works out.

Winkle Toes

January 6, 2016January 7, 2016 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics2 Comments

I’ve been thinking it might be time to contribute a little levity to this blog… For those interested in an update on the ongoing Conant family drama, I’ll catch folks up on the current action soon, but for now, let me offer a little recap of our holiday time here at the Hillhouse. Elihu was here til only a few days before Christmas, and then he joined his father in Florida for his break. He remarked yesterday, as we enjoyed a school-free day (he’d gotten in at 2 am the previous night), that this was the first day it had felt “Christmassy”. He said in Florida it just wasn’t possible to feel this way. So we enjoyed the twelfth day of Christmas together, free of obligations or places to be. (I had one student, but in that Elihu was able to pull out his string bass and accompany the boy as he played, it was actually a fun little diversion in our day.)

Today Elihu and I are back to life as usual. (Or at least as usual as it can be.) My son and I are classic homebodies, and more than anything else in life we enjoy doing nothing much at all, right here in our cozy little house – and so we both very much appreciated having a day to regroup before diving into life once again.

Tiny paw prints made by “Winkle”, our catch-all name for each mouse in our house. Who doesn’t love bacon fat?

Tiny tooth marks.

Where the party took place.

I never feel good about this choice, but mice have taken the place over in the past and ruined food and clothes. (I think this label kinda looks more like ‘moose traps’, ya think?)

Some kind neighbor left this wonderful bottle of 2008 Silver Oak cab at the party. It was a delight to discover as I enjoyed some solitude at my house over the holidays. What an exquisite break from the usual table wine. !!!

Our humble kitchen in the early morning. My first photo with the new camera (same model as the old one). My old Canon point and shoot got beer-logged at the Christmas party. This was an expense that set me back a bit. Oh well. Two steps forward, one step back. It’s still forward movement I suppose.

Diving into the sub-culture of Pokemon in earnest at Elihu’s first-ever ‘official’ tournament.

Complete nerds. But good at what they do. Rules are the name of the game here.

Elihu and pals from Waldorf who share this obsession.

Going deep. The two long-haired boys play ‘after hours’. Dedication. To hair and the game.

Elihu loves, loves, loves his tuba lessons. Michael Meidenbaur is simply the best. Here you can see Elihu’s new rig to get the printed music up close so he can see it. It’s a two-step process; first there’s an extended shelf, then a clip on a gooseneck. Doesn’t look it, but there’s over $100 invested in this contraption!

The music can’t really be more than about ten inches from his eyes. Beyond that it’s a blur that no glasses can remedy.

Now we’re backstage at a performance by the Boston Camarata. Artistic Director Anne Azema plays the hurdy-gurdy.(You-know-who plays the bass recorder.)

Our dear friend Steve Lundahl, a man who plays every manner of wind-powered instrument, plays in the grand first piece of the evening’s program from the Chapel’s balcony.

What a concert – this year they featured Middle Eastern Christmas music. Wow.

Steve was a regular performer in the Festival of Baroque Music, which my parents hosted for 52 years. (In 2011, the series’ final year, it was the longest-running early music festival in the country.) He and mom had a nice visit.

…and afterward, Mom took us out to dinner! Yes!! Indian food!

Me with my Kingfisher, Elihu with his tuba mouthpiece.

But this is where we prefer to be most of the time. Chillin at home.

Probably the last letter Santa will get from this boy. “And if you please… make it the sort of magic, idyllic Christmas all hope for, but few experience.”

Taken with all things Michelangelo lately, he signed his name in mirror writing. Then he added a little levity himself by drawing his signature character, Stanley the Tree Sparrow.

Bass recorder over his shoulder, he gets stopped in the airport – as always – by security, so they can double-check the contents of those damned Pokemon tins. !! Soon he’s off to meet his father in Florida for a couple of weeks.

He’s back! An unexpected haircut in Florida inadvertently gave my long-haired boy a mini rockstar look. Even though Elihu had been intentionally growing out his hair for the past year, we both had to agree the results were not bad. Plus the new electric bass he got there aint bad, either.

But after that generous respite, he’s got some catching up to do on homework.

Elihu plays his bass recorder by the tree. On the twelfth day of Christmas we discovered a small cache of presents underneath it.

An unwrapped box sits under the tree, glaring slightly menacingly at the kid, who’s been instructed to wait until Grandma and Uncle Andrew arrive for a family belated Christmas and birthday celebration.

Today, 1/6/16, is Mom’s 81st birthday. She and my dad shared a birthday – he would have been 88. New Year’s Eve was my brother’s 50th birthday.
I transferred hours of VHS to DVD as a gift to her – and the family. She watches my father play harpsichord as my ex mother-in-law Nelly listens. This video was from the very first time the Conants and the Haques met each other, back in ’86. Wow.

Elihu plays Grandpa’s old wooden recorder for Grandma.

We enjoyed some old photographs – here’s one of toddler Eli and Uncle Andrew over 10 years ago now.

Lil man got an enormous drone rc helicopter from Dad and co. in Florida. I’ve seen a lot of rc aircraft in my day, and I gotta say, this puppy’s pretty awesome. Camera and lights – the whole nine yards.

Goodbye to Epiphany, birthdays and the Christmas season – and goodnight to all! If I can ever get the kid to put down the recorder and go to bed, that is….

Here’a a little clip of Elihu noodling around on a soprano recorder… we’re noting the difference between plastic and wood instruments. To those who know the difference well – please understand we’re just beginning to learn. It’s still all fairly new territory to us…

Crazy

January 1, 2016 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Growing Older, Mommy Mind, Pics7 Comments

Last night I spoke with Elihu. He’s in Florida with his dad and his dad’s other family, and for the most part, he’s loving it. He’s got a racoon tan around his eyes and sand lodged in his sneakers. Aside from the occasional all-American family gatherings which he must endure – replete with football-watching menfolk and salads that contain marshmallows – it’s been a happy time for him. Which makes me happy, too. Yet it’s never easy on this end when lil man is absent; our family if rife with dysfunction, depression and a deep apprehension for the future ahead. My son can be a lovely, shining distraction in such times. But these days, even Elihu’s presence might not have changed things, cuz they’re dark. I know, that doesn’t sound like a nice way to kick off the New Year, but hey. It’s true. I’m always ready and eager to find the hidden silver lining in any crappy experience, and I’ll broadcast my good findings when I discover them, but I will never shy away from telling my experience the way it is, no matter how it looks.

Last night, New Year’s Eve, was my brother’s 50th birthday. I know how deeply he blames me for his rotted-out, stinking life. I know he thinks mom gives me all her resources, that she favors me over him, that one day she will leave her entire estate to me when she goes. That none of this is true is beside the point; Andrew is ill, and simply does not posses the ability to see things outside of his own highly personal and paranoid perspective. For years and years I’ve fought this impediment to his potentially thriving life, but now, in this brand-new calendar year, I am choosing an entirely new tack: I am finally going to let it go. Nothing can be done for Andrew unless he chooses to do it for himself.

A lesson I myself would do well to live by – I keep waiting for some mysterious exterior force to enter into my life and help sweep things into a shining new order… Hoping for a savior to come and assist me, to uplift me, enlighten me, tell me how it is that I should proceed with my new business, someone who will see and share my vision and throw herself into the ring along with me, full of fresh ideas, vigor and business savvy. I keep thinking that somehow, this magical missing element will find me and make it all better. It’s a nice fantasy, and you never know, shit happens in mysterious ways, but still… I need to get moving. I need to make connections. I need to get my ass out of the goddam house and do things for myself already. No one but me can get the ball rolling.

Last night I’d planned on attending a bonfire and maybe meeting some new people, but between my running out of fuel oil (no matter how many times you see it, it’s always a bit disheartening to see the needle begin to visibly drop each minute) and it being Andrew’s birthday, and his being drunk and storming out, and my not wanting to see my mother sit alone, I bagged. Plus the idea of coming home from a bonfire in the cold, snowy dark woods to a cold and dark house was too much for me to take on. So instead I sat with mom, drank a couple of beers and watched TV like a good American. But that’s ok – because I’m lucky enough to have been invited to join some local musicians tomorrow night for an informal jam. Just the sort of thing I’ve been missing these past years. It won’t be too long before I’ll be back out into the world and making my new way.

During the day I’d been messaging back and forth with my brother’s only remaining friend on the planet, a fellow, who as far as I can tell, is living in the Bay area and is doing well for himself and his family. He spends hours on the phone with my brother, as much chatting about nothing in particular as he does conducting a covert attempt to draw out my brother’s feelings as a means of getting to the bottom of it all – and maybe even finding a fix to Andrew’s grim situation. However sane and successful this guy might be, sadly this fellow seems to have bought my brother’s skewed story, which is this: I, Andrew’s sister, am the cause of everything that is wrong with his life. He has been profoundly abandoned and unrighteously neglected by our mother. Mom pays my way, and leaves him out. I get all the accolades, he gets no respect. I live for free in a house she owns… You get the idea. What my brother doesn’t understand is that while yes, I do live in a home our mother provides for us, he too lives in a home provided for him. The difference is that I pay my own bills (while also raising a child), and mom takes care all of his expenses. But he’ll never see this. Because he can’t.

The truth of the matter is that my little brother has always been sick. In first grade, he came home from school reporting in a screaming rage how much the kids at school hated him, and that the whole class had “pulled machine guns on him” (I remember this specifically because as a 3rd grader I had never before heard this curious use of the word ‘pulled’). Last night, Mom recounted to me that when she’d gone back to work when we were young children, Andrew had asked her if he got a tummy ache in the middle of the day, would she be at home for him? She was honest and told her small son no. But she promised always to be there when he got home from school. And she was. So here we have a kid in whom something’s already a bit off (ie raging how kids ‘pulled machine guns’) and then you have growing feelings of abandonment on top of it: a cocktail for emotional trouble. But back then the signs were likely cast off as crazy kid’s talk, the behaviors chalked up to routine issues of childhood. My brother was quiet, funny and hyper-intelligent (when I described him once as ‘Rainman smart’ to my mom, she had a fit. “See?” she’d said, agitated and getting louder, “You think he’s crazy! Why can’t he just be smart?”) and if he brooded, it was considered merely part of his personality. It was a different time. We weren’t on the lookout for children with mental illnesses.

And while our culture is thankfully changing its feelings towards mental illness, I can tell you that it’s still not without stigma. I do think my mother’s thoughts about mental illness have changed over the past few years, but in her world it’s still not a comfortable subject. Yeah, I do think that personally she feels shame, maybe embarrassment, and even responsibility. Likely, she sees it this way: Mentally Ill Child = Crazy Child = Failure of Parent. Even I myself – dealing daily with panic and anxiety issues – have only just discovered a metaphor that allows for a deeper understanding of what it is to have a mental illness: If someone felt nauseas in their stomach – would you try to tell them they didn’t? Furthermore – you wouldn’t expect them to simply turn off the bad feelings, would you? Mental illness is the same as a tummy ache. It’s physical and it’s real, and it cannot be changed through will and desire alone.

Every now and then my brother’s friend will reveal a tidbit about Andrew heretofore unknown to us, and last night came this bombshell: Andrew remembers mom once saying that she ‘regretted ever having him’. Where the hell had this come from? Never once in mom’s life has she said or done anything that would have implied such a thing. Not even in the heat of an argument. Never. It shocked me to hear that Andrew thought this. And these days, in this crazy world, nothing much shocks me anymore.

I joined mom and Andrew last night, birthday gifts in tow, and tried to assimilate myself into the kitchen quietly. But I suppose I spoke too candidly, too animatedly, too something-or-other, and before ten minutes had passed, my drunk, brooding brother stood up and walked out. I followed him out into the snow, calling after him, begging him not to leave. He stumbled in the frozen ruts of the driveway and mumbled something unintelligible. This, by now, was sadly nothing new. I stood and watched, to make sure he made it safely to his house, some 200 feet down the driveway. The year that dad died, Andrew had fallen in the snow, and we were worried he’d pass out and die there. It’s always a concern in the cold months. On Christmas Eve, my 80-year-old mother had been worried enough to walk the rough terrain around his house, tapping her cane on the windows and calling out to him. Finally, he came to the window and barked at her he wasn’t leaving his house. Usually his rages are brought on by an event or a comment, but this was new – it was unprovoked, and as such, more unsettling than usual.

Among his concerns for his future, Andrew is worried that I will get everything when mom’s gone, and he will go the way of the poor house. Frankly, the way the market is, I expressed to mom that I personally held out no hope of a dollar being left when she died. She took immense offense to this, even though I protested – the markets were continuing to dive, and after all, she had her own expenses to pay. It was simple math! She’d been smart about her estate planning, yes, but no one can outrun a horrible market – this in no way reflected badly on her! Try as I might to de-escalate her emotionally charged reaction, I couldn’t. Maybe it was because my lack of trust showed a lack of respect and acknowledgement for all of her hard work and forethought. Her generation does things ‘the right way’ after all; they take care of their own, they don’t take handouts, and there’s great shame if things don’t work out that way. But things can change in unexpected ways, I tried to explain to my mom. And in light of my own experience, I thought it was prudent to be prepared for the worst.

At one time in my life I thought my husband had my back – emotionally and financially – as he had always promised me. Many times over the years my ex husband assured me I had nothing to worry about. He said his own mother had worried all of her married life that her husband would leave her unsupported. My fears were just as unfounded as hers, he had told me. But as it turned out, that wasn’t the case. I went from fancy restaurants to food stamps almost overnight. I reminded my mom of this. Shit can change in unpredictable ways!

I tried to assure mom that I was forever indebted to her for taking care of everything I couldn’t – tuition for my son, heating oil and injections of cash when there was no income in sight – but that didn’t assuage her agitation. I wanted her to know that I was being practical here, not personal; at the end of the day, no one really had my back. And it didn’t bother me. It was better to be emotionally prepared for lean times than to count on help. I tried to assure her that I wasn’t worried – and besides, the key thing here was not my future, but my brother’s. The issue at hand was that Andrew needed to know he would always be taken care of. I assured her that when she was gone Andrew would be cared for. I promised I would intercede, that I would not let him go without a home, without food or heat. And if there was no money left, then social services and governmental support would always be there for him, and I would always be able to advocate for him. I had hoped to ease her mind, but I don’t think it worked.

As long as my mother is living, and my brother too, there is nothing I can do to change their dynamic. The best thing I can do is remove myself as far as possible from the mix. I’ve spent countless hours on the phone, writing letters, emails, standing in lines, filling out forms – all to help Andrew get better. But with this new year has come a new realization – I cannot do anything for him. I cannot repair anything, and I can’t change the way he lives or thinks, nor can I change the way my mother behaves or thinks. While I may think the short and easy answer is a little tough love from mom – if she cannot bring herself to do it, then it’s not an answer. I explained that she was ‘an enabler’, but judging from the look on her face, I wasn’t sure she’d gotten my meaning. When I suggested that she withhold payment of his electric bill until he agreed to see a counselor, she moaned in classic passive-aggressive tones “I know, I know. It’s all my fault. You’ve made that perfectly clear.” So around and around we went with no real meeting of the minds.

I had simply wanted to remove a burden from her load, but it had backfired. She was not thrilled when I posited a long life of continual, low-grade poverty for myself (sorry, but I don’t see any gleaming opportunities from where I stand today). Honestly, I’d love to have money, and if I did, I’d use it well and wisely, and I’d share it too – but if that never happens, I need to be happy with what I have. Lowering one’s expectations softens the blow of reality. Hell, even years ago – when I had all the money I needed – I’d often say ‘lower your standards and you’ll be happier with the results’. Cuz seriously, it’s so true! Because then, any good that comes your way is lovely and unexpected icing on the cake! Yeah, I prefer to avoid disappointment by moderating my expectations. Crazy? Meh.

As I’ve been writing this, coincidentally, I’ve been talking on the phone to a friend of mine back in Chicago who is enduring her own battle with addiction. She’s an alcoholic, and last night, on New Year’s Eve, she had decided she would admit herself to the rehab program at a local hospital. (Like me, she is, although intelligent and accomplished at many things, living in poverty. Sadly, Medicaid offers very few options for inpatient recovery addiction programs. To my great relief there was a good local hospital available to her.) My thoughts were partly on her last night – was she there yet? Was she trembling yet? How crappy did she feel? I had told my mother about her. “Why does she need to go back to rehab if she’s already been through it before?” my mother asked, honestly confused. I promised my mother that rehab was very, very hard. That it might take several tries before someone had the strength to follow through all the way. And that even then it was not a fail-proof solution.

And as I explained this to my mother, inside I came to a new, deeper understanding about Andrew. He needed to want it, to crave it, to be willing to fight for it – all on his own. If a professionally successful mother of three had a hard time mustering the focus and will it took to get clean, how on earth could my brother even begin? In that epiphany I was no longer convinced that recovery was an option for him. Certainly it would never happen as things were now. Later on my friend called me from intake. We chatted a bit, laughed a bit, and I felt hopeful for her. She too knows that this time it still might not take; that this is a harsh and unkind world, and it will be difficult to go it without a drink. Her road will be hard. But I’m so grateful that she’s at least back on the path. Not everyone gets as far as that.

New Year, new game. I can’t play that old one anymore. I’m letting go of Andrew and his burden, I’m going to move into my future with focus and fortitude. The YMCA approved my reduced membership fees, so I’ll get back on that path. Haven’t moved in a long time, so my body will appreciate it. I’ll devote to my new business the time it requires, and I’ll figure out how to improve those things that I’m currently doing my best to avoid. Sometimes it might seem pure folly to use some arbitrary mark on a calendar as a reason to undertake great changes, but hey, if not now, then when? This will be a good year for me and my son, I just kinda feel it. At least I’m reasonably hopeful that it will be. One never knows. Serendipity and unexpected blessings are just as crazy and unpredictable as the scary stuff. Truly, it’s a mixed bag, and you’ll never know until you go.

So like I said, I’m going forward into this New Year with guarded, modest and humble expectations. That way, the little successes along the way will appear huge and thrilling! Imagine how wonderful it will feel when happy, unplanned-for events fall into my path when all I meant to do was just get through the day! Now that’s my kind of crazy.

I’ll tell ya what’s crazy… Dad talked Elihu into cutting his precious hair – which he’d been intentionally growing, with my support for a year now – all because the family was having professional photo portraits taken on the beach. My kid felt duped, and he’d held back tears. He was deeply sad when we spoke this afternoon, but he’s a good kid, and he accepted it without complaint. We’ll be back on the quest for long locks upon his return. Love my boy so deeply it hurts sometimes.

Up Is Down

December 27, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Growing Older, Pics4 Comments

The day after Christmas we buried our beloved red hen, Thumbs Up. Elihu wasn’t here, but he was on the phone with me as I placed her in the ground. I put the phone on speaker and set it down as I shoveled the dirt upon her, my son sobbing along with me the whole time. Chickens may live well over a decade, yet this gal hadn’t quite made five years. Somehow we’d always thought she’d be here as Elihu grew up. With a personality more like a golden retriever than simple red hen, she animated our household in the most delightful way, and it’s hard to imagine how different the energy will be around here now that she’s gone. I’m almost surprised at how deep my grief is over this loss. My father died two years ago tonight, and while it should go without saying that I dearly miss him, this recent loss is just so fresh and acute that I cannot shake it. And with my son so very far away, my heart is breaking all the more.

These days I’m larger than I’ve been in years, and that too is nagging at my heart. Being unable to fit in my beautiful clothes, and becoming out of breath just going up a flight of stairs, all of this has me grieving for a time when I felt and looked my best. In the past I’ve managed to pull myself up and out of my funks, and I’ve shed as much as fifty-five pounds in one year, but I don’t know where the resolve will come from now, and I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll ever turn things around. My fingers are getting knobbier and ache with arthritis each day; this alone is a hard reality to accept. Every evening I take my relief in glasses of wine, the worrisome double-edged sword; it’s the much longed-for and soothing end to my day, yet it’s a source of countless useless calories that only add to my problem. I manage to pull myself through the days until that blessed evening hour when a sleeping pill will take me away from this waking world. And when the next morning arrives, I am once again overwhelmed and under-confident that I can do anything about it all.

When I hear about successful people who have jobs, money, families and such, becoming overwhelmed with depression, it’s hard to understand. Me, it seems that if you can pay your bills, then things couldn’t be all that bad. Right? But then I look objectively at myself; I have a lot going for me, so this current state of my spirit can’t really be justified. But still, I can’t help but wonder how differently I’d feel about life if only I had a little bit more money. If I had a job – and a paycheck. I know how glorious I feel each year when I get my tax return – the whole world opens up. Fuel oil, a haircut and color, new shoes for the kid, a barrel full of scratch grains for the flock, dinner in a restaurant – all sorts of things become possible, and with that possibility I feel a certain spiritual uplifting. It’s crazy, honestly, because none of this shit really changes my day-to-day reality, but somehow, having just a tad more than enough can feel so very, very good.

Recently I learned that Facebook had been charging me methodically over the past few months for many small commercial posts. Somehow (and I am not alone judging by the hundreds of comments just like mine, oh how I pray it comes to a class action suit one day!) I misunderstood a one-time ‘boost’ for a contracted series of boosts, thereby creating a slow but devastating hit to my PayPal account. Now this is the ‘slush’ fund I count on for Christmas and other treats. Imagine my surprise when I went to buy a couple of gifts for my son to find under the tree on his return, and there was nothing left. What the hell? Following the charges, I found the source of the problem. And I realized it was a case of ‘me versus the machine’. I would not win this fight, nor would I ever see that $300 again. Holy fuck. I was feeling shitty enough right now. Now this. Mom had made it plain that she was unable to help at this time – property taxes were approaching – so I knew I couldn’t go to her. I asked an old friend if he could loan me the sum – just til early January, as that’s when my students were returning – but after a few days there was no response. Feeling ill about having appealed to him for help, I’d been wishing I could take it back. But that wasn’t possible. What was posted was posted. Ugh.

Phooey. Thumbs Up is dead, I’m broke and fat, and my kid is a thousand miles away.

The up side is that my mother is still here, my neighbors are all wonderful and supportive, and I have friends who help buoy my spirits through the lifeline of the internet. My house is warm (bless this mild winter!!) and my son is has two goddam tubas and a myriad of instruments to keep him happy. We have six happy fish, three happy frogs and fifteen remaining fowl. I have a view of Vermont and a fucking grand piano. Ok, so my Wurlitzer needs a bunch of work, but hey. I have one.

Looking back over the years I see this same sort of lament over and over here on the blog. And it gets a little tiresome, I know. Sometimes it kinda feels like reading the journal of a middle school girl: ‘poor fat me, no one has it as bad as I do, no one understands me’ again and again. Things aren’t really so bad, I know it, but still… I haven’t figured out how to pilot this Studio thing, I haven’t approached anyone to join the board yet, and my office is a fucking nightmare of unfiled paper and undone to-do lists. Yes, the refrigerator is organized, the pantry tidy, and the floors are as clean as they’re going to get for now. My house is in order now, but my life is not. It’s up to me, I know it. Holding out hope that I’ll find the oomph inside me to get the Studio going, to lose twenty-five pounds, to get my teaching materials filed and organized. But from where I sit today, I can’t imagine how I’ll get any of this shit done.

Yesterday I was rocking my sweet Thumbs Up after she had died. I was holding her against my breast, her neck against mine… I looked out past the Christmas tree to the hills beyond and remembered the year before last; I had been rocking in that same chair, looking out over that same view, tears streaming down my cheeks as I anticipated the imminent death of my father. Here I was again, so sad, so sad. Still, this was part of life. Nothing so wrong with being sad, I thought to myself. Maybe the best thing one can do is just invite the sorrow in and push through it hard. Sad doesn’t last forever, after all. Nothing does. Which ultimately, I suppose, is a great gift.

On Christmas morning I rose in an uncharacteristic panic; in my gut I had felt something to be very wrong. I sat up in bed and felt fear wash through my body. Without second-guessing myself I ran to the coop. The backyard was eerily quiet… where was Bald Mountain? I opened the door – the coop was nearly empty. Had there been an attack? Had the automatic chicken door opened too early and allowed a predator to enter? Adrenaline flushed through me. There, on the top roosting bar, were two old gals. Usually there were three. Shit. Thumbs Up…. where was she? I panicked, opened the other door and searched the run. There, in the far corner, was my girl. Hunkered down, seeking solitude, I knew in an instant this was a bad sign. She’d been in and out of the kitchen clinic several times over the past month, and I knew things weren’t good with her. But I didn’t know they were this bad.

I rushed her inside and this time decided to demystify her ailment. I knew it was an impacted cloaca of sorts; she couldn’t pass normally, and this was dangerous. I risked cutting into her flesh and creating a possibility for infection, this I knew, but I had to do something. So I did. I removed strange-looking tissue and tried to relieve her as much as possible. I bathed her and dried her and returned her to a bed in the mud room. We’d lost a hen here just a few weeks ago – this was ominously familiar. I stayed with her for a while, talking to her and taking photos that I knew in my heart would be the very last ones…

I called mom, the one person on the planet besides my son who ultimately has my back at the end of it all – and told her what was going on. God bless my mom. Offering me guidance and advice – here she was at nearly 81, and here I was at the age of 52 – and my mom was still my mom. It almost felt physical, the relief upon hearing her consolation. I was touched by her care and concern for me. She was saying things that made me feel better… Even if I might have said those same things to myself, hearing it from my mother was different. Yes, we agreed, there was nothing left to do for Thumbs Up. I might as well go on with my day as planned. I would go to the nursing homes and visit those who had no visitors.

With a book of carols and a harness of old-fashioned jingle bells in my bag, I headed out. First I visited my old next door neighbor who was happy at my unexpected visit. Her daughter and son-in-law soon arrived, and it was nice to see her tiny apartment full of people and holiday spirit. Satisfied to know she would have company for the day, I took my leave and went to another retirement home nearby.

The second nursing home was empty save for one woman who sat alone in the lobby while Christmas music played quietly, almost as if mocking the cheerless atmosphere. A large tree and a multitude of poinsettias beside a gas fireplace tried to give the place a cozy, home-like feel, but they were too contrived to do the trick. There was no one at the reception desk, in fact the office and dining room were dark when I arrived. I walked up to the woman, sat on the couch beside her and began talking. We passed a half hour before we saw another resident walking past. The woman I’d been speaking with said her son was coming to get her, but she didn’t know when. I’d begun to wonder if these plans were real or imagined.

The woman who next joined us was tall and lean, with her shoulder-length silver hair in a striking blunt cut. She, it turned out, was from Holland. She recounted a long life; how she’d come here at the age of 23 knowing no one, how she ended up going back to school for chemistry, how she married and had children, settling in a well-to-do New Jersey suburb. She wondered at her old home, the one in which she and her husband had shared over fifty Christmases. “Ach” she said, waving a hand in the air, “It was sold years ago. Who knows where all my things have gone. All my chairs, the curtains, the paintings….” She seemed disgusted, heartbroken and resolved all at the same time. My heart ached again, but I didn’t let on. Here it was my job to be the giver-of-cheer and hope. I asked if I might see her room here, how she had decorated it, where was it that she now lived. Both she and the first woman enthusiastically offered to take me on a tour.

We passed the rec room, which I knew to have a piano, as I’d played it years ago for a program my friend had organized. I sat down and opened the book of carols. The room was half-darkened, and the carpet sucked up every sound. In the quiet I began to play “O Little Town of Bethlehem” to which the ladies began to sing. I moved gently into several more slow and beautiful melodies, after which I felt it best to conclude. Then we three moved down the long corridor to the first apartment. It belonged to the tall Dutch woman who had introduced herself as Nellie; I learned from the plaque on her door that her full name was Pietrenelle. Adorned with white ceramic windmills and wooden shoes, her room was much as I would have expected. We moved on to visit Phyllis’ room, after which we headed back to the lobby. Two more folks had arrived in anticipation of dinner, and soon the smells of food began to waft into the air. I was surprised to see a middle aged man accompanied by a bulldog come through the front doors. “Dan!” Phyllis said, her countenance lifting as she saw the two. “Are you Dan?” I said, looking at the man and then gesturing to the dog. “He should be Dan!” I laughed. “He is actually a she...” he responded. Dan had not a clue as to the reference I was making (Yale’s school mascot is a bulldog named Dan. My dad was a Yaley, and of course, my son shares a name with the school’s philanthropic benefactor, Elihu Yale.) “…and her name is Lucy”.

I assured the women that I would be back to visit again, and I could see happiness and relief on their faces. This, if only a small bit of hope in the world, was better than none. I had done something. Not much, but the last two hours had been very pleasant, and I hoped the effect would last a little while.

When I arrived home I saw a horrible sight: Thumbs Up had fallen from the bench and was now propped up, wings spread, on the laundry detergent bottle. She was breathing in and out very, very fast. I tried to move her, and her head wobbled. Then she erupted in a spasm of movement, writhing her way across the floor, faltering on wobbly legs. This reminded me of a nervous disorder, but until now it had only seemed a gastric affliction. None of this mattered now. I gathered her up and put her in a nest on the floor. I tried to share her experience, breathing in and out breath for breath. Shit. This was horrible to watch. I couldn’t touch her, it would have caused her more pain. Her eyes were half opened; she was trying to maintain. Mom was waiting for me; she’d gone all out and made a thirteen pound turkey and all the works of a Christmas dinner. I really did not want to leave my precious girl. My heart yearned to hold her as she died – but I knew it could be an hour yet. Showing my mother love by being with her for supper was ultimately more important. I left reluctantly, and before I closed the door I told my beautiful red hen goodbye and that I loved her.

When I returned two hours later Thumbs Up was dead, as I’d expected. But her death had been violent; she had gotten up and out of her bed and died a few paces away, her bowels evacuated on the floor. I imagined her last minutes, I knew they were painful. The only consolation now was that she was gone. I was surprised by my immense and immediate grief; I ran to her, held her close to my heart and wept as I hadn’t – in two years.

She died on Christmas, and I placed her underneath the tree that night. The next morning I held her for a long time before I dug the hole, called Elihu, and finished saying goodbye. Yesterday I made my errands, and today, while I’d planned to finally assess my overflowing office, I’ve done nothing but choose photos and write. As casual as this blog may appear, it takes hours to create a post – even longer when dealing with pictures. Uploading is tedious and time-consuming. In between I take little breaks to look at the tree, or out the window at my flock. Like prodding a fresh wound to see if it still hurts – I’ll rest my eyes on the little white marker under the flowering quince bush.

Everything has its time, everything has its season. We get fat, we get thin. We get sick, we get better. We lose our way, and then we find it. We all flourish, we all fade. And whatever goes up, no matter how we might wish it otherwise, will eventually come back down. What a path is this life! Bless us all as we make our way through this great, mysterious journey. A hearty thumbs up to us all, and also to that little red hen who gave us such delight along the way.

I got to spend some time with Miss Lucy, the newest addition to the neighborhood. That was a treat.

Got busy getting down to all that grunge at the bottom of everything. This takes time. Glad it’s done.

The day before Christmas. All is well, and it sure doesn’t look like anyone will be dying anytime soon. Thumbs Up is the light red one on the left in back.

Butt shot – look away if you find it gross. Part of chickening. Austin, our comic guinea fowl enjoys the platform feeder. He thinks he’s a songbird.

Thumbs Up was calm in her bath as I removed scar tissue and gunk. It almost seemed as if she knew I was trying to help her. Such a good girl.

Getting her warm and dry. Again, while many hens might have protested, she stood there willingly. Perhaps because she was almost done with it all… Who knows.

Christmas day, she was different. After all, she herself had sought seclusion. I brought her to the stoop for a last visit with her flock.

I opened the door, and as she has so many times before, she hopped up and walked inside. I know no one else would have been able to tell, but she had an unsettled look about her. She made strange sounds and stood a little too erect, plus her eyes had a distracted appearance. Call me crazy, but hey, she died only hours later. I try to honor the ‘God voice’ when it tells me something. It’s a mistake to ignore it.Specks, the only hen who we’ve had longer then Thumbs Up, watches as her sister comes inside.

See how her tail is drooping? This is an unhappy hen, likely in physical discomfort.

I would take her pain on myself, if only I could. How can I love a hen so much?

My new friends at the nursing home, Phyllis and Nellie. Oh, and Lucy, the bulldog.

A sight I’ve seen all my life. Mom does it all.

Always superb.

This silver had been in my father’s family for a long time.

I smooch my old cat, Mina. She can’t live with us as Elihu is very allergic. My ex husband and I got her over 15 years ago. She is ancient now, and she won’t be here too much longer herself.

I expected to see Thumbs Up gone when I got home, but it was shocking nonetheless. My heart positively broke. Strange that we’ve butchered and eaten so many of our own birds, but this, somehow, was entirely different.

So beautiful were her colors.

I finally place Thumbs Up in her little grave. Pumpkin, the only remaining red hen, comes to see what’s going on.

A small piece of limestone marks the spot where Thumbs Up rests under the flowering quince bush.

Thank you, little red hen. Don’t tell the rest of the flock – but you were always our favorite.

Light in Spite

December 24, 2015January 8, 2023 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Growing Older, Mommy Mind, Pics, Vids2 Comments

This year there’s no snow here for Christmas, but the dove on our garage looks just the same as it has in years past.

This morning on Facebook I saw that someone had shared a video of the horrific ways in which extreme fundamentalist Muslims meted out punishment for perceived crimes. I will not relate here what those were; at this time in our culture, we’re all well aware of the medieval practices that still exist on this planet. I realized that the intention behind sharing this gruesome post was to make sure that this behavior wasn’t being ignored, but instead was being exposed and brought to light. Intrigued, and in spite of knowing what I would find, initially I had opened the link to watch – but then quickly closed it when I realized what I was doing. I was about to – as my young son so often puts it – “give my energy” – to the wrong thing. I was about to empower the very thing that I wished to disempower. “Where attention goes, energy flows”, yes? We know this stuff exists, but do we need to bear additional witness to it? Me, I’d rather send my attention in more life-affirming directions.

I am keenly aware of the suffering that fellow creatures continue to endure at the hands of man. My outrage, however, is not an answer to the problem. It’s my personal feeling that the best way I can combat the evil that exists in the world is to act in my own tiny world with love, kindness and respect. That being said, I’ve lost a few friends over the years because I have sometimes not offered the kindnesses I perhaps should have; I may not have given thanks where they might have been deserved or have kept up with ongoing small talk and pleasantries, or perhaps insulted someone without meaning to. In some cases, sometimes life has simply carried me in other directions. But never have I wished any of my onetime friends – regardless of how our relationships may have ended – any ill. Not even my ex-husband. Or his wife. Instead, I send them my best wishes and continue to move forward in my own world, interacting with those around me in the most positive ways I can.

When you no longer have small children in your home, or when a parent is no longer alive or a dear friend absent, this time of light and love can carry a deep, poignant pain. There’s already so much heartbreak in the world, and one doesn’t ever have to look far to see it. Add to that the contrast of what we imagine such holidays should look like – and how they actually do look in our lives – it makes it even harder for some of us. I’ll bet that there are far more people who don’t experience anything close to the picture-perfect scenarios that the media will have us believe are the norm.

How many folks actually know the experience of ‘dashing through the snow’ on a sled pulled by beautiful draft horses? Me, I was a lucky girl; I actually did know this experience first-hand. (As kids we found it very funny when the horses stopped along the way to drop steaming poops in the snow. And let me also add that occasionally horses fart at they walk. Again, as a kid, hilarious stuff.) I was blessed to experience old-fashioned country Christmases with trees fresh cut from our woods, bells jingling on harnesses, the smell of wood fires in the stove and beef from our own animals on our plates for very special meals. Of course, as a child, I had no idea that this wasn’t how everyone else experienced this time of year. Instead, the things that I did wonder at were more the logistics of it all; just how on earth did Santa make so many deliveries? And just how did he manage to get into our house? We had no fireplace! (I also remember one year deciding that I really had heard sleigh bells outside and being thrilled and a little frightened at the same time.) Those memories are so distant now, but I still have them, and I will always have them; those past experiences have been the best gifts of all.

My son has only ever spent one Christmas here with me at the Hillhouse. And it wasn’t the magical time I’d hoped for. It certainly didn’t live up to the times my brother and I had as children here in Greenfield. That was another era, for sure. The year in which Elihu stayed here was sadly missing in some sort of magic. I knew that it would be a challenge to maintain a cheery atmosphere in a household of two, and while I did manage to cultivate some of it, it just wasn’t the same. While it breaks my heart that I will never have a memory of a happy, familial Christmas with my son here in our home – or elsewhere, for that matter – I know that it’s far more important that I make that opportunity available to him by whatever means. And so once more, my son is with his ‘other’ family for the holidays. He’s with his little half-brothers, his father and his father’s wife, and theirs will be a bustling and full household. So, in spite of how empty it feels for me, I’m happy in knowing that my son is experiencing his own magical time.

Tonight, I’ll go visit my old friend Jim, a man who once worked for my father, and whom we Conants consider to be family. Ironically, my mother and brother will go to visit another old family friend – coincidentally also named Jim – who also worked for Dad’s Baroque festival years ago. My brother is so full of rage and hate for me that he will decline to attend an event if it means we must be in the same room at the same time (not to mention a car ride – that would be out of the question. This is why Andrew did not join us for Thanksgiving. His choice.) So thankfully mom, Andrew and I will each have a destination tonight.

I may miss my child, but being alone is not something I dread. Honestly, it’s something I cherish. So being alone on a holiday isn’t so bad really. Like my mother, I enjoy having my space and solitude. And, like my mother, tv acts as a modern-day hearth in my home, a conduit to the outside world which gently animates the quiet space and gives the feeling that one is not so all alone. (For me Facebook also helps alleviate the quiet without disturbing my privacy.) My mom has always been a gracious (and talented) host, and I, like her, strive to make guests – planned or otherwise – feel at home when they stop by. I try to find food and drink, and I make an effort to keep energy up, positive and lively, even though sometimes I’m far from in the mood. This is the good aspect of having guests. They require that one keep human connections; their visits keep things enlivened, and sometimes they can offer happy distractions. (For me, the other side of the hospitality coin is that I love to be alone, chatty and entertaining though I may appear, and I get a bit agitated if I have to share my space for too long. Guess I’ve turned into something of a hermit here in the country!) I also have a never-ending list of things that need to be tended to, and I always look forward to the long stretches of kid-free time I have over holidays. Without them, I have no idea how things would get put away, baseboards dusted, or the floors washed. It’s a time of utility for me, and this I consider a huge gift.

The one thing I find lacking at this time in the year is not so much the holiday hubbub or the presence of children and happy chaos, rather I’m sensing that I’ve received more than my share of good fortune and experiences in my life, and somehow, I wish I could offer up something in return to the world. So I’ve decided that this year I will do something. I’m going to give something back. In years past I would have paused because I had no ‘real’ reason to do such a thing, no group affiliations, no projects, no ‘excuse’. But this year, I find I’m too old to care. I am going to visit some local nursing homes. I’m going to see if anyone needs a visitor. I may even bring a book of carols. I don’t know. Not sure how it will pan out. But I don’t care. My solitude is welcomed, but theirs may not be. So tomorrow I’ll be making a gift of my presence. Hopefully, I’ll spread a little light where it’s needed.

In spite of how things may appear right now on this planet, let’s continue to shine our own little lights in our own little worlds as we’re able. Maybe one day the light will make it into every forgotten and neglected corner. One never knows, and it certainly can’t hurt to try. So tonight, I’m wishing all of us creatures on Earth happiness and peace wheresoever we may find it.

Click here to hear me singing “Santa Claus is Coming To Town”, complete with the seldom-heard verse at the top.

The night this video was shot I stayed in my old house in Illinois, if you can believe it (I hardly can), along with my husband and his then girlfriend. All of us – my husband, his girlfriend and their new baby – my son and me too – all had Christmas together. If it hadn’t been for the antidepressants I was on, I can tell you that this super-human feat would not have been possible. But in the end, I was doing it for my son, in spite of the bizarre and painful situation, so that he might have a happy Christmas, undisturbed and unchanged by our recent move to faraway upstate New York.

When Is When

December 16, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Birding, Farm Life, Growing Older, PicsLeave a comment

Our sick hen holds back from the flock and stands still in the sun to keep warm.

Our urge, as humans, is to help other living creatures survive. (For the sake of expanding on this idea, for the moment let’s forget that we humans have also created entire industries and careers out of actively killing fellow humans and creatures as well…). Although most of us will probably squash any spiders found ‘trespassing’ inside our house, there remains a part of the population that will search out a cup and piece of paper, and safely transport the innocent to the great outdoors. That is a population to which I belong. (My own fine line is drawn at mosquitoes, however I have been known to offer apologies and ask forgiveness before smacking the little devils into the next plane of existence.)

Recently, we had a chronically not-well hen take a downward turn. For months I’d seen the way she hunkered down on the floor of the coop at night instead of joining her mates up on the roosting bars. This alone told me something was amiss. But aside from keeping good coop hygiene and feeding them a robust diet, there was little else I could do without stepping into a whole circus of tests and expensive dietary supplements. I wasn’t going to give the whole flock antibiotics, as that would have rendered all the eggs unsafe for eating (and cost us our modest egg-selling business). Naw… Aside from saying a little prayer for her each night as I closed up, and telling her softly that I loved her and was on her side, there was little to do but wait and see how things would turn out.

About a month ago I’d had her in my kitchen, along with our treasured Thumbs Up and another new white hen. The young leghorn had a chronically prolapsed cloaca; the last bit of muscle of her digestive (and laying) tract kept coming out. I would oil up my hand and massage it gently back in, but within hours her body would begin to push and squeeze it out again – against her own will, poor girl – and I could see the look of distress in her eyes as a plum size piece of her insides (which was bright red and quite challenging for me to look at) would emerge, unable to retract back inside the poor hen. After two days of physically manipulating her back into shape only to find her elongated and pushing uncontrollably, we knew there would be no lasting fix for this gal. So our neighbor Zac helped us out by chopping off her head in one deft blow, ending her misery and pain. (We call this method “Zaxupuncture”. Sometimes the most humane of all.)

Thumbs Up kept the vigil with her ill flockmate for a long time. I was also amazed to see our nervous, perpetually-moving guinea fowl, Austin, walk up to the sick hen and stand there by her side, virtually motionless for a good ten minutes. Animals just seem to feel when things are changing in the creatures around them.

Recently, the chronically not-well gall, whom we call “Mother of Martha” had begun to hang around the kitchen door, almost as if suggesting she might like to come in for a respite. Thankfully, the true, biting cold of winter hasn’t arrived yet, so our flock is still in relative comfort. But this is a gesture that shouldn’t be ignored; it can be a sign that something in the bird’s constitution is amiss. And so I took her inside. But instead of perking up after a few days of r&r, she flagged even further. Home-made concoctions didn’t even do the trick this time. Believe me, I waffled inside. Was I prolonging her discomfort? Was I making her out to be more important (read: anthropomorphizing her) than she really was in the grand scheme of our small farm? Did she warrant – more to the point – did she herself even want more assistance?

This appeared to be a sign of vitality, but ultimately it was just a last blip of activity.

Just a few days earlier she had been ticking her way across the wooden floor to observe a piano lesson one minute, head deep in the birdseed bin the next. Seemed she was doing pretty well. But the following day, she hunkered down in her corner and took on the look of an animal waiting for its time to go. And so at this time I chose not to fight it; the tiny ‘God voice’ inside me told me to just leave things be. Instead of intervening, I turned the heat up in the mudroom and made sure she was comfy with water that was very easy to get to. What else could I do now? It was really up to her. It truly felt as if she was finally at death’s door. So, having done all I could, I retired to the downstairs office to get some work done. A couple of hours later I had gone upstairs fully expecting to see her on the floor and gone from this world, but to my great surprise, instead, I found her bed empty. Keep in mind that she had been pretty well snuggled in there, and she’d been hard-pressed to move at all the last time I’d seen her; it woulda taken good bit of oomph to get up and out of her nest and onto the floor. But somehow, up and out she had gotten herself. I was so moved at seeing her silhouette in the hallway, standing there alone, waiting for someone to watch, to follow or sit beside… She was seeking some final companionship, I think. One can never know of course, but it sure felt like it.

Mother of Martha came out into the house for one last visit with me. This was quite a surprise, as she’d been too weak to move only hours earlier.

She stayed with me in the living room as I taught a piano lesson. But before we wrapped, I looked up to see that she had left us. Later, I found her close by the heaters in the mudroom. Now I got it. Yup, now it was probably time. I made one final effort to feed her; I slid the eye dropper full of probiotics along the length of her beak, hoping she’d take it on her own. She did. She swallowed dutifully, and uncharacteristically, without protest. Her eyes remained closed the whole time. But this time, something was very different. She clamped her beak tightly shut as I attempted to feed her the remainder of the dose. I tried a bit to pry them open, and if I’d put some more muscle into it, I might have. But somehow, it didn’t feel like the right thing to do. So instead I gently wiped her chin clean, hoping to restore whatever appearance might be necessary to maintain her avian dignity, and then let her be.

After a few hours she was unchanged, eyes closed, breathing in and out. I tested her strength, seeing if she could stand, but she collapsed under her weight. No point forcing things. Rather than leaving her to sit in her mess and all alone in the mudroom, I made a brand new and clean bed for her and placed it in between the two radiators by the kitchen table. There was privacy enough, yet she was still within our sight. I turned up the heat to make sure she was comfortable. And then we waited.

At last she’s resting comfortably in the kitchen. We’re just waiting now.

A friend dropped by and he joined us for supper. We were a noisy bunch; laughing, talking and continuing to live life as usual. When our guest left, quiet finally returned to the kitchen. I sat beside the hen for a while. I didn’t stroke her; that would have been more for me than for her, and by now I felt strongly that she needed to be left alone. So instead, I talked to her in a low tone, and assured her that she was loved, and that she’d been a good hen. I thanked her for all the eggs and told her what a good job she’d done, and then I turned out the light and said goodnight.

That night I’d had a feeling she’d leave us, and as I’d expected – and at this point had hoped for – I found her dead in the early morning light. I’ve come upon several dead hens in my day, and none has ever succumbed in such a graceful pose as she. I took the one breast feather that had fallen from her as a keepsake, then put her body to rest in the screen porch until I found a moment (albeit several days later) to bury her.

She left us like an angel in flight.

She now rests with the other favorites; King George, the button quail who lived with us cage-free and nightly uttered his plaintiff wail for a mate as he scurried along the baseboards of the house (imagine that at the same time we also had a cat – and the two of them were absolutely oblivious to each other), and there was Molly, our very first hen, white with a necklace of black dots, as well as a few songbirds who’d crashed into windows. Our three-legged gecko was also buried in this small plot by the flowering quince; this little girl had had a cancerous rear limb amputated shortly after we’d moved here (the vet took pity on our heavy emotional load at the time and did the surgery for free). Our little pullet Martha rested there too, and now her mother had come to join her.

I’ve been present at the end of a few friend’s lives – as well as a few pet’s – and from those experiences have come to recognize the ways in which living beings behave as they near the end. My father’s passage was my most intimate experience with the death process. I remember wanting desperately to know exactly when it would happen. What to look for, what signs might immediately precede the moment of death, so I would somehow be readier for his leaving us… I remember hounding the hospice nurses for more information as they cared for my father, and as his life’s end grew obviously closer. As Martha approached her death this past summer I felt more familiar with the process, and although hers was also a welcome end to a full life, it was nonetheless a deeply strange and sad time. But sad as it may have been, I was relieved to actually recognize some of the signs and events in her progress towards death, and it made me better able to handle it all.

But that’s clearly not how everyone feels about things; my mom just couldn’t seem to adjust to the reality that Dad was on his way, and for a long while she seemed to think that somehow, somehow, things might still turn around for him. Signs that were obvious to me were easily ignored by her. Funny what comes to mind – but I remember how Dad had come to a point where he could not drink on his own; a time when he needed a straw. I remember suggesting this to my mother, but she strongly resisted the idea. Inside I’d gotten very angry inside about this – couldn’t she see what was happening? He was dying already! He was thirsty! He needed to drink, and he needed our help! What on earth was she waiting for? “Someday when” was here; ‘when’ was now! Until the very last few days I don’t think she wanted to believe it. But even she had to acquiesce, and realize that ‘when‘ had finally arrived.

Every day I pass the spot where a nineteen year old boy was recently hit by a car, shortly after which he died. It’s very much on my mind these days, as there is no avoiding the roadside memorial. Also, the boy’s middle name was Elihu, and so the tragedy has fixed itself even more personally in my thoughts. I think of his mother every day too, and naturally think then of my own child, and how his life gives so much meaning to mine. I take not a moment with him for granted. Also, the older I get, the more deeply I understand how very important it is to live fully, courageously and compassionately in the moments still remaining. Those flowers at the side of the road will not allow me to forget this.

The other day at breakfast Elihu asked why grownups were always so worried about the past and the future. Why, he wanted to know, were we always worried about ‘when things were going to happen, or what things were like back when‘? “Forget the future!” he said, almost angrily as he swept a hand in the air. “Forget the past! Now is all there is! Now is when!” He apologized for sounding annoyed. I told him he was right, and that I heard him. I agreed with him that we can’t always make plans for ‘when’, but as humans, it was what made us feel safer in the world. Then I thanked him for expressing himself. I told him he really was right. I sat in our little kitchen and looked in wonder at this insightful, loving person whom I’d been so lucky to have beside me in my life, and I breathed in, grateful. Yes, Elihu was right. The most important when of all – was now.

Post Script: A heartfelt thanks to those who contributed towards our campaign to expand our media storage here on WordPress… We were able to purchase a package that will likely support us for another couple of years. Thanks to you we can continue to post new photographs without saying goodbye to the old ones! Yay!

Sonnet

November 21, 2015November 28, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Elihu's Room, Mommy Mind, Pics, Waldorf Life4 Comments

frog in pond

If I learned how to construct a Sonnet in my school years, I certainly can’t recall it now. Elihu, however, is in the midst of a creative writing block in school, and the form is very much on his mind. So are frogs. Yesterday the seventh grade recited Shakespeare’s Sonnet 60 for the school assembly. All of these elements combined have resulted in this work…

Sonnet:

The Wide Variety of Frogs by Elihu Conant-Haque

There are so many different kinds of frogs

They jump, change color, swim and even fly

Frogs live in woodlands, rainforests and bogs

But frogs need clean, warm climates or they’ll die

The Wallace Frog with hands outstretched, soars high

His skillful twists and turns no frog can match,

The distance of his fall is what he flies

Below him treefrogs climb like acrobats.

The Golden Treefrog speedily doth climb,

How graceful is he sitting ‘pon his log

And tho’ they didst for naught to help my rhyme

We’ll note the Pickerel and Leopard Frog

And whilst I stand for my anuran friends

If e’er you hated frogs, please make amends.

Tribe

November 14, 2015November 19, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Growing Older, Mommy Mind, Pics3 Comments

Elihu loves everything low – especially if it’s made of metal. There is no doubt about it, this kid’s found his tribe.

Elihu’s flight got in very late last night, but the kid, he’s a trooper. He’s traveled a lot more than many adults I know, and in spite of having to deal with some really draining hurry-up-and-wait situations, his spirits seldom flag. Last night was no exception; he passed through the exit hallway as nonchalantly as if he were merely getting off the school bus. He coolly walked up to me this time – for the first time ever – without being followed by an employee of the airline holding out a clipboard for my signature. No one checked for my ID to see that I really was his mother. Nope. None of that stuff anymore. Just a lone ‘young traveler’ (as Southwest now officially refers to him) returning home.

Our reunions are different these days, and I struggle to remember what it felt like to see that tiny boy coming around the corner and running into my open arms. Now we just sort of pair up and begin walking to the escalators as if no time had passed, and as if we were nothing more than casual acquaintances. Which is ok, cuz however brilliant I may think my child to be, he is still 12. And self-respecting 12-year-old boys, no matter how much they love their mothers, do not want to be seen running into open arms, being gushed-over and animatedly doted upon. It’s my deepest desire to hold him tight and have him return the embrace, but I check myself. And secretly, I congratulate myself for holding back; because I actually do think that I’m settling into my new role as mother of a pre-teen with some style and dignity. It’s not easy, but it’s important to adjust, to respect the change that’s taking place here. And it’s got me thinking.

The little boy chapter is coming to a close, this new teenage chapter is yet to begin, and what follows is almost too much for me to even contemplate. One day, in a mere minute or two at the rate things are moving, my son will move out. And away. The way things are looking now (with his growing love of all things German), it may well be very far away. Our airport reunions will be far fewer. They may one day become more joyful, animated events, but nonetheless, there will be less of them for sure. As I sit beside him at baggage claim, I can see in the super-bright overhead lighting that there is a darker and more obvious patch of hair above his lip, and my heart sighs heavily. It’s coming. This young man is changing right before me. And one day, he’ll be out in the world doing his thing, and by then… it’ll be just me. I don’t mention this observation of mine, but as I study his elongated fingers and note how he sits almost as tall as me now, my heart whimpers. This will not be easy. I’m definitely gonna need a plan.

As we chat on the walk back to the car Elihu asks what I did this evening. I tell him that a friend had come over, and we’d had dinner and hung for a bit. Elihu asked about the nature of my relationship, and I told him. Me, I don’t want another element in my life. Not romantic, an any rate. I’m just not interested. “Does he know that?” Elihu asked me, sounding more like a bestie than my young son. I told him that yeah, I’d made it clear. There was a pause. “So, then, what do you want?” Elihu asked. I thought about the wide-open expanse of life in front of me and considered it a bit more critically than usual.

Recently, I’d made digital copies of some ancient videos. They represented so many of my old worlds, and it blew my mind to see things that I never thought I’d see again… My son, a tiny baby, being given a bath in the kitchen sink in our old house in Evanston. A clip or two of me at the radio station getting ready to go on air. Seeing Elihu’s father and me, performing together, happy and doing what I’d loved so well, it had cheered my spirits and saddened me all at the same time. Seeing me as an even younger, huge-haired rocker was amusing, and remembering that world was like peering into a dream… Then there were the alt-country bands, the indie projects and a million little worlds in between. Bits and pieces. A haphazard mosaic of my young adult life.

And then even longer ago here were fuzzy clips transferred from my dad’s super 8 reels of us as a young family – back in the early 70s when the Studio was just being built. Clips of concerts and rehearsals, of harpsichords being loaded into old Volkswagons. family dogs running underfoot, too-long scenes of cherished family cats doing nothing much at all. Almost every adult was smoking, and all were laughing and happy in this world of their own creation. I was peering through a magical window to see my mom, dad, Frank and Martha, and the many musicians who’d spent time with us in summers past as young adults – most of them far younger than I am now. These people were my whole world when I was young, and now many were simply dead and gone.

I thought of all the friends and peers whom I’d loved who were now so far-flung across the globe and fully embedded in their contemporary lives… All these groups I’d also been a part of once. All of it – the distant past and even the not-so-distant past – seemed in stark contrast to our current life. We had friends, yes, we had wonderful neighbors and truly good people in our lives, but still, there was something still missing. “What do you really want?” Elihu asked me again as we finally reached the car in the airport parking lot. After another moment of thought, I answered him, happy to have finally identified it for myself: “A tribe.”

Everyone needs to belong. Groups – in whatever form they manifest – are for most of us, essential. And all of us belong to several groups at any one time. Even here and now, in my somewhat smaller life, we belong to certain populations. The Waldorf school is one. Elihu’s peers, another. And there are those who help to make up our family by virtue of their physical proximity to us. But in revisiting these videos and recordings from another era, I’m reminded of the bonds that are absent in our current life. I miss being part of a community – of musicians.

Musically speaking, things appear somewhat fragmented in this area. I meet musicians who seem to know only folks whose genre they share. I inquire about folks outside their worlds, and they don’t really know much. Back in ‘the day’, in Chicago, while there were surely separate and distinct genres of musicians and scenes, there was often an overlap. Pop musicians would hire jazz guys to play on their tracks, jazz guys would stop in the dive country bars and marvel over the hidden talent there, hard rockers and R&B artists would mingle at the same parties. And me, I benefited from all of it. Me, I floated all over the place. As a result, I felt at home in many worlds. But the thing of it was, all these disparate musicians were aware of each other on some level. There was a commonality among all musicians, and one almost always felt an inherent sense of belonging. At least that’s how it felt to me. But here, in this small town, it doesn’t feel like that at all. Granted, I’m not working here as a musician, and I don’t get out a whole lot, but I’ve made some small inroads, and from what I can see, there are a lot of ‘micro scenes’, and no substantial cross-pollinisation between em. I’m not sure which population I might belong to. Honestly, I’m not convinced I belong in any of them.

Secretly, I’ve held the hope that one day I might bring the music to me; that I might create my own scene here, rather than searching for one out there. While the Studio is currently a bit too ambient and live a room in which to host anything but the most acoustic of musical ensembles, I hope to figure out a way to deaden it up a bit so I can begin to think of casting a wider net. As I imagine a future in which all things might be possible, I envision the room, once again full of people. Alive with music. A place in which people can meet each other. A place where a new tribe might assemble.

It is beginning to happen. Maybe not in a terribly obvious way, but things are starting to take shape. There is now a weekly yoga class. I see the looks on the faces of folks who are seeing the space for the first time. And just as in my father’s day, I hear people remark with surprise as they scan the room that they had ‘no idea’ a place like this existed here. But it does, and it calls for people to gather within its walls.

As the room fills with a dozen middle-aged moms in search of time for themselves, I begin to see more possibility growing… When Kristin dims the lights and begins to coach our bodies to move and our minds to relax, I begin to feel a future growing in this place. The way isn’t clear yet, but it isn’t as vague as it was a year ago. This is a time of transition, I remind myself again. I need to be patient. I also need to stick to my to-do lists and be vigilant about following through and keeping on the path. Things will get better, the way will get easier, and someday, oh I pray, I’ll find my new tribe along the way.

Retro Post: October’s Bright Blue Weather

October 17, 2015October 19, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics, Retro PostLeave a comment

This was originally posted on October 12th, 2012.

Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)

October’s Bright Blue Weather

O suns and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October’s bright blue weather;

When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

When Gentians roll their fringes tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields, still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;

When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
October’s bright blue weather.

O suns and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October’s bright blue weather.

________________________________________

Each year there is one crisp, blue and yellow day that expands almost til it bursts; the day on which I instantly recall this poem. I first learned about it from a friend, Les Brownlee, who, when in his eighties and nearing the end of his incredibly full life as a pioneering black journalist in Chicago (he coined the phrase “eyewitness news”), robustly recited aloud the first lines of the poem on just such an October day many years ago. I knew instantly that I would make it part of the landscape of my years, a personal tradition to keep for my own. While I would never commit the poem to memory in it’s entirety as Les and those of his generation did so often and so well, I would work to learn the first few lines and to have them on the ready as a surprise autumnal gift to give at just the perfect moment.

Surrounded by the red and white of Les’ beloved alma mater UW Madison (and the occasional fighting badger adorning a wall clock or hand towel) my husband and I would join a generous-sized gathering at his home on many Sundays throughout our life in Evanston, Illinois. He and his wife Priscilla were the family and hearth we were missing in our contemporary, parent-less lives. That era has long since come to a close, but how lucky I am to take with me those memories of friendship and inclusion – as well as a few choice poems and stories.

One or two days a year, when the weather turns just so, I think of you, dear Les, and I send you my gratitude for helping to write a lovely stanza in my own life’s poem.

Post Script, October 2015: The mild days of fall are fast disappearing now, so too are the leaves. Fall is stunning for one or two brief weeks, but by month’s end, there’s not a leaf left. It’s hard to imagine how the landscape will transform in the coming days. We’re savoring it all here at The Hillhouse, as we’re not quite ready for all the dull, gray branches and cold air ahead.

Here are some pics from our colorful life this past week…

The view here is bright and blue.

Spin

October 12, 2015October 12, 2015 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Growing Older, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, PicsLeave a comment

If I can get to sleep by ten, I’ll be waking to see the clock by three. If I push my bedtime back to midnight, it’s almost certain I’ll be up again by five. Even with the prescription sleeping pills. My mother’s body has worked this way for years – so it’s not really a surprise. The difference between us is that she accepts it, but me, I don’t want to. I cherish my sleep, and I’ll do whatever I need to do in order to get it. My dreaming world is far more interesting and compelling one than this waking one. Besides, my body has always needed and wanted sleep. Always. I find that either exactly seven or nine hours is best. Less or more seems to throw me off. But five? That’s more my ex-husband’s speed. Not only do I need sleep – but I fairly live for it. I exist for those heavenly departures from the constantly-running mind. The endless worry over money, over heating oil, over my worsening arthritis. The endless tangential branches of thought that almost never return to their origin, the constant interior spinning of my head.

Once, when remarking that I hardly knew what to do first in order to get the Studio completed, a friend asked if I had ADD. The idea had come as a complete surprise. Did I? I didn’t think so, cuz I did manage to pull off a lot – but maybe, maybe… Further contemplation on the question tells me that that’s not the issue. It’s just that I have so many interests and goals, and for the time being, it’s just me getting them all done. As my son gets older, he does more for himself, and that helps a lot. And soon, with any luck, it won’t be just me piloting the Studio into its future. But for the moment, it feels like the world won’t turn unless I figure out how to turn it… And my thoughts just won’t turn off.

Rooting hormone – where can I get that stuff? And how much longer will those cuttings last before it’s too late to root them? If I get a 32″ wide door for the utility room door and frame it smaller, will the sink fit inside? Will people fit through ok? Who’s the biggest person who needs to get in there anyway? Gotta measure that sink. Can’t forget to cancel my old car insurance and call the new agent back asap… How will I afford the additional storage space for the blog? Gotta get a sweep for that east-facing door, have to make sure the thermostat works in the outside closet before it freezes, gotta pay Al, gotta pay Joe, gotta buy a new door – and is that door still sitting at the side of Locust Grove road? – gotta pay the lawyer, the dentist, the electric bill for the Studio… I’ll need more students to make the new expenses… Man, how will I make the insurance payments? How can I get people in the place? How do I keep going with no money? I’m getting fatter these days and sure am glad I kept my bigger clothes… How will I ever get back into shape again? Shall I start Weight Watchers again this week, and how embarrassing will that be? Why oh why did I let myself go over the summer? How will I make Elihu’s costume? Wonder if the head or the shoulders support the weight… Damn these arthritic fingers, I can feel them crossing now…. When was it I first noticed that? August? Beginning of September? There’s no going back, my fingers will never, ever be as they were… God I wish my fingers would just stop getting worse. No sense worrying about it, but damn it, I can feel them right now, rubbing against each other. But then again, what am I complaing about? I have fingers. And they work. Could be so much worse. I don’t have cancer… yet. Dare I even think that? I used to think I’d never get cancer, but just look at all of my friends who have had it, they probably didn’t think they’d get cancer either…

And on it goes. But deeper still, beneath the white noise-like chatter of my conscious thoughts is a near-constant sense of fear, of imminent doom, rumbling away. I used to wonder if I was the only person – but I’ve always known that I couldn’t possibly be; there are enough of us here on the planet that I can be damn sure that I’m not the first to do or think anything. Just yesterday I came upon the blog of a fellow who describes himself as a constantly depressed ‘type’. And for him, as it is for me, it isn’t that he’s unable to laugh or to enjoy life, it’s just that he always starts from a melancholic place. That’s just the way he’s always been. It relieved me to hear someone else talking like this. Someone else for whom good cheer and positivity must be cultivated. When I read his ‘about’ page, my first thought was finally. Finally someone else who isn’t always up, who isn’t wired to see a glass half full. Someone who knows better, and has to work go get there. I honestly do feel it’s easier for some than others. Me, I look at my hoarder, depressed and alcoholic brother and I realize there’s a physiological component to my temperament as well. Aside from the general ill-ease I feel, there’s always the threat of panic attacks – or at least acute pre-panic episodes. My panic attacks may be helped along by certain triggers, but at the end of the day, they are physical events over which I simply do not have the sort of control I might wish. People may think it’s a way in which to shirk responsibility for oneself, but it’s not so. That being said, there are some things I can do to help keep myself aloft as well as to keep the panic events to a minimum, and they’re on the list. Even if I can’t control the panic thing entirely, it’s true that I need to take more action. And I think of the things I mean to do about it as I lay in bed each night, spinning.

“You know why you’re having panic attacks these days” my new friend miChelle said with complete confidence. “It’s because you’re not meditating”. I knew that she was, in part, correct. I also knew that I wasn’t exercising in any way, and that contributed. So did drinking alcohol daily. The challenge about drinking is just as it was for me with smoking; you’re always chasing that buzz, that wonderful, warm and ‘hopeful’ feeling, but it’s gone almost as soon as you feel it. It’s elusive, and demands you chase it down the hole. But in the end, it just makes it even harder to sleep, adds more useless calories to your day, and leaves you with a fuzzy headache the next morning. It helps to know that the Studio’s hump is behind me now, and so too are my taxes (which I got done late this year!) so I can afford to turn more of my attention to figuring out a game plan for living better. At least I don’t smoke anymore. That God for that.

Another spin cycle starts… People who know me personally might think of me as energetic, positive and outgoing, and on the outside, yeah, I am. But that’s not how my soul feels… Daily, sometimes even hourly I think of the horror that fellow humans live with; the poverty, the disabilities, the indignities, the physical torture at the hands of other humans. I’m always aware that unspeakable pain and fear exist on the planet at this very moment. I also realize that because I’m powerless to change anything other than my small sphere of influence; fretting over this stuff is wasted mental and spiritual energy. So instead I take moments throughout the day to send my love and peace to these people. Even those back through history. I try to comfort them across time and space, because I feel for them. Remembering them should help me to understand how fortunate I am, but somehow, I can’t get it as I know I should. Why am I so deeply bothered by other people’s traumas? Why do I feel as if I myself might also be only steps away from a horrible fate? The view outside my window is lovely, my child is thriving, and so far, I’m not in pain or acute distress. So far. Man, what is with me? I feel like Woody Allen here.

There are times when I think if I only had a partner, things would be so much easier. Someone to say ‘don’t worry, I got the dishes, you go and update the website.’ Or someone to make supper, go shopping, run into town… But then I scold myself. I know damn well that while it might be nice to have a dear friend and peer in my camp (and having someone who actually made decent money in the household would undoubtedly lift an enormous burden) I’m not sure it would fix everything. In fact, it’d be one more person who needed a piece of me. And the way I feel about life these days – I just don’t have the energy for that.

I can tame the spin a bit by getting it down on paper. Seeing the lists helps. And I’ve collected half a dozen small spiral notebooks in which nearly every item has a line through it. Lest I lose myself in despair I must remember that the Studio is open for business and populated each week (albeit by only a couple dozen people), and one year ago the place was gutted and barren. So I got that going for me. Which is nice. (Yes, my in-the-know friends. Caddyshack.)

Elihu and I walked in the woods just down the road and visited the beaver pond this afternoon. Years ago there was no trail; my mother gave us the directions she’d used in those days – we were to head east until we came upon Sessleman creek, at which we should take a right, following it until the waterfall at the pond’s head. (Elizabeth Sessleman, of the family for whom the creek was named, married Ralph Ellsworth and they built the home in which we now live.) As we entered the property we met a fellow walking two big dogs, and he told us to follow the trail, crossing the bridge and continuing on to the lookout. I expressed my surprise at the infrastructure, and he told me that the property had been donated to Saratoga PLAN, a local land conservation group. Martha had given her land to them too. While it was ultimately good news, it did kinda sadden me that the old days of finding one’s way through the woods without benefit of a trail were gone. But the trek didn’t disappoint, and in fact my previously cranky pre-teen enjoyed himself thoroughly. We were met with cairns everywhere, and there were even Tibetan prayer flags hung at the entrance to the lookout, which perched over the waterfall at the creek’s end – the creek which my mother had followed years ago on foot.

In the woods, all my panic-related thoughts eased. The scent of a damp forest in continual, soft decay restored us both. Penny-sized flecks of mirror-like mica peeked out from beneath the moss, and the roots of huge trees hugged giant boulders, coaxing them gently out of the ground in super slow motion. The trail had some pretty elevation changes throughout, with large ledges of exposed rock marking the topography. We found our way down to the water’s edge and although we found none, we kept on the lookout for frogs. Elihu wove me a bracelet from sedge grass and noted that he really was a Waldorf kid. ! We followed a small penninsua out into the water and had a fine time exploring. As the sun began to dip down below the treetops, we turned and followed the trail loop back to the road.

Now we’re home. It’s been just about as fine a fall day as one could ever have, and we’re pleasantly tired, holed up in my bedroom and waiting for the electric space heater to take the chill off. I feel better, both for having moved in the fresh air, and for having had the chance to express a little of my inner world to the outer one, so very far from the confines of my tiny room. For now my head is clean, and even though my house might not be the same, I feel fairly content. I’m in my favorite chair, and Elihu is here beside me in my big bed, cozy and playing a game on his Ipad. Every now and then he tells me he loves me. He asks if I’m happy, and I tell him that I am. It feels good to be home, healthy and safe. So for now, I’m going to try not to worry about anything at all. Because I know very well that the world spins just fine without me.

Not far into the woods we came upon Sessleman Creek. The bridge is fairly new.

It flows pretty well here, glad there was a bridge to cross it.

A ridge of rock pokes out from the forest floor and has me imagining a sleek, mid-century home atop it…

After a short walk we come to our destination, the big pond formed by beaver dams.

We’re on a ridge about 30 feet above the expanse of water, but Elihu can’t see anything but the closest trees. He gets that there’s some ‘white’ out there, but that’s it. I promise him that when we get home I’ll show him the pics of the water on the computer. This kind of stuff always breaks my heart, but I don’t dwell on it – especially not in front of him – because it’s simply how things are.

Next comes the bridge over the waterfall. Not long ago this bridge wasn’t here either.

Looking back at the waterfall bridge. We found dozens of small cairns throughout this part of the trail, so I left one too. It’s at the bottom of the pic, silhouetted against the water.

The forest floor, a gorgeous tapestry.

Mica glowed like diamonds everywhere. They looked beautiful to Elihu too. Thankfully the up-close world is visible and vibrant to him.

Down at the surface of the beaver flow.

The view back at the place from which we came; it hardly looks like any elevation at all, and yet the bridge and waterfall are mid-way to the tops of the trees, in the center of this pic. (I felt the elevation on the walk back up!)

Now Elihu can finally see the open area, and he gets how big it is.

The enticing shoreline of the other side.

Contrast – the visual component Elihu appreciates best of all.

Cairns on the trail back.

Up, up and out of the woods.

At the trail’s head Elihu leaps from boulder to boulder. Sometimes it really is hard to believe he’s legally blind. !

He’s hardly stopped running all afternoon. We get home and what does he do? Goes straight to the pond to look for frogs.

Me, I head inside to start supper. This is a view I enjoy very much. I love an excursion, but oh how I love to be home. Like the woods, it’s one place where the world doesn’t always spin so fast.

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Category: Pics