travel – Page 2 – The Hillhouse

Tiny Trip

June 22, 2014June 23, 2014 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Pics5 Comments

I don’t get out much these days, but I did get out yesterday for what I’d thought would be a fairly straightforward overnight visit with an old friend from my elementary school days in Chicago, and who now lives in mid-state Vermont. It was a short trip, but densely packed with new and memorable experiences.

My childhood pal is moving across the country to the Seattle metro area. She’s lived here in the Northeast for three years and I haven’t yet been to see her (she and her family have, however, been to visit me). It’s hard to believe that it was only yesterday morning that I was throwing a toothbrush and a favorite pillow into a bag and hitting the road. It feels like I’ve been gone a week. My head is full of images, my heart is heavy with a final, impromtu stop I made on the way back, and I’m saddened to learn that shortly before I returned home this evening we lost Amity, our last pure white hen from the old flock. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed right now, siting here in my cozy chair in something of a daze; post gin and tonic, post review of new photos, post whirlwind tour of historic Vermont, post the loss of one more hen. And although I may feel uncertain about many things in life, there is one thing I do know for certain: I love being home. And after having just seen a thousand different ways to live, having a head swirling with images, places and possibilities – and even loss – I know one thing for certain, that I need none of it right now, thank you. I’m relieved at the peace of being still and doing nothing at all. I’m more than happy to be back.

Once again, some time away has given me the experience of seeing my own corner of the world through brand new eyes. And I remember again how much this place means to me. I’d rather look out at the distant mountains of Vermont than live in between them. I like to assess it all from afar, nestled as I am here in my small, hillside niche in the woods. I have just the right amount of sky and trees, and just the right amount of house, both which give me more joy than they had just the day before yesterday. A day trip is a lovely experience in of itself, and it’s also a healthy way to help remind one just how blessed a thing is home.

The road as I start out… Vermont has always seemed idyllic and just out of reach; now I mean to examine these once-distant hills more closely.

This shot is uncharacteristically ‘un-claustraphobic’ of the Vermont byways; the roads almost all run parallel to the many rivers that run in the valleys between impassable mountain ranges. Usually one is in the woods, under cover of endless pines, a stony river bed close to one side. This is what makes travel through the state either extremely tedious or a journey of great beauty and mystery, depending on how urgently you may want to get somewhere. I always start out intrigued, but after a couple of hours of meandering alongside a shallow river in the deep woods I can get a little short of patience.

There’s precious little flat land in between the hills, but farmers find and use what they can.

After driving two and a half hours on two lane roads, at last I’ve arrived at Dina’s house. The small town of Randolph is a mere stone’s throw down the road.

First things first; lunch at ‘Wright at Home’, an even closer stone’s throw from the center of town.

Chatting with the locals…

The kitchen is in full view of the dining room. Cute, sarcastic and vintage signage decorates the place.

Dina’s son Sam figures out how to use my fan (given to me by another classmate from our elementary school who spent the past year in Spain).

This cutie is Thomas, the younger of Dina’s two sons.

Small town action! The local hippie artist has a mild run-in with the town cops.

We walk back up the hill after lunch. Nice place, huh?

Sam stands in the doorway of the carriage house-turned apartment unit.

Earnest, the boy’s dad, made a catapult for them. When I left it was still on the front lawn for anyone to take. It could be yours…

Dina and her friends enjoy one last soccer game before she moves…

While the women play a game I go investigate a nearby river behind the athletic field. Spied several species of birds and enjoyed some time also doing nothing at all but enjoying the perfect breeze and the gentle sound of moving water.

I took a walk around the field and learned the name of the high school mascots.

The gals at game’s end.

The town’s high school class is graduating tonight under this tent in the same field, so we go to pay a visit. Dina and a friend wave to each other under a gloriously-clouded sky.

Ah, the good old U S of A.

The band gets ready. Love that sousaphone.

Dina knows a lot of people here in this small town. Turns out our visit is a perfect opportunity for her to say goodbye to many friends.

The graduating class and their teachers line up for the processional.

Families await the graduates.

Elihu will get a kick out of this kid’s cap.

A little window into the moment.

Dina says good-bye to Tom, a local cop.

Main Street, early evening.

Looking North, towards the ice cream shop, a favorite of locals. I myself don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but highly recommend both the ‘maple creamee’ soft serve and ‘coconut crunch’ hard ice cream.

A taxidermied white panther in the window of the local barber shop. When I was small, I’d heard stories about black panthers still living in areas not far from my current home, but never of white ones. Today, panthers are extremely rare, but thankfully their smaller cousins the bobcats can still be found in the woods around the Northeastern US.

A wonderful and successful addition to Randolph’s downtown, restaurant One Main offers an enticing menu and a casual yet upscale vibe for locals to enjoy. Send an energetic gift of good thoughts to owner Shane, as he faces some health challenges at the moment. Seldom met anyone so radiant and positive, I’m sure he has a successful future ahead of him.

But like in so many small towns, keeping it alive and vital is an ongoing challenge.

Every building in this town is picture-perfect, like something from a set. This is the train depot. You can catch a train here and be in New York City in five hours.

Plus there’s a movie theater – with first run films. Love that awning!

We visit a neighbor’s house for dinner – Earnest, Dina and hostess Phyllis seen here in what I think is probably the most inviting, homey kitchen I’ve ever been in.

At the dinner table in this landmark Victorian house. Hosts Phyllis and Richard are on either end, and we’re joined by Earnest and Dina’s two sons, two neighbor kids and one of the hosts’ twin daughters. I have not sat at a table with so many people in probably twenty years. One of the most enjoyable dinners in just as long, too.

Captain lives in this beautiful house too; she may be the world’s only one-eyed Bernese Mountain dog.

This house is known as “Mari Castle”, and it was built by a speech writer for Abraham Lincoln and named for his wife. And if you might be interested in living in this gorgeous gem of a house, it’s for sale! A beautiful coach house and small chapel-made-office building are also on the property.

Here’s a photo postcard of the place from years ago…

…and here’s a picture that Dina took of the place in winter.

The coach house and neighboring mid-century chapel.

Some readers may know my love of things mid-century. This was the first building to catch my eye as I drove into town. My heart skips a beat when I see such a roof line. I’m not kidding.

The main doorway.

The stunning original wood arches inside. It was difficult for me to see the interior so altered from its original beauty.

The same arches as seen from the second floor. Even though it pained me to see the place so transformed (into a doctor’s office), I gotta say they did a tasteful job of it.

At three in the morning, Dina and family get loaded into the car to drive to Logan airport. I suddenly realized that I hadn’t taken any photo of me and my friend of 45 years, hence my last-minute selfie (and disheveled appearance). I’m amazed I’m old enough to have known someone this long. Wow.

Like me, this fellow stops to gas up on Main Street before heading out (note the barber shop in the background).

Virtually all Vermont towns are situated alongside a river.

Kayakers wave hello as I shout a greeting to them.

Even in the fairly populated city of Rutland the mountains beckon from beyond the utility poles and roofs… What a sky, huh? I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to travel.

This trip, I decide to visit the mountain settlement of Killington. When I was small it was a modest and barely developed ski area. Now it’s a ritzy destination. Kinda reminds me of an American version of Zermatt, Switzerland.

The view up…

…and the means by which one gets there.

It’s just not possible to convey the feeling of being atop such a mountain; this photo doesn’t come even close. Those who ski (a population of which I am regrettably not a member) will know exactly what that is. So will those who hike and climb mountains. It’s the most expansive, exhilarating feeling. Also, in my case, it can inspire sudden bouts of panic. This didn’t happen to me in my younger years; I hope to discover a way to mitigate such altitude-related episodes, as they really suck and I can see them eliminating future adventures.

I continue South, down historic route 7, past Manchester’s famous Equinox hotel.

Had to stop when I saw this place.

Chickens everywhere.

If only I could afford one of em. Played the ‘hey, I’m an artist too’ card, but no go. Wouldn’t even consider the slightest mark down. I was seriously interested, but he seriously didn’t care. Ah well.

Onward I go, still heading South. I pass another farmer, doing things old school. One just doesn’t see those huge machines the way one does in the Midwest, where fields go uninterrupted for miles. Life here in Vermont has a gentler, more organic feel.

I saw these two fellows dressed in such odd-looking garb that I just had to stop and ask them what they were about. Daniel, left, and spokesman Michele, right, tell me they are cave enthusiasts, here from Montreal for the wonderful underground cavities unique to this region. Lots of white marble comes from this area too. Here, Michele writes down some sites I can visit to learn more. Tonight they are celebrating the birthday of a fellow caver by descending 140 vertical feet into a cave and sharing a glass of champagne at the bottom. !!

Off they go…

My ultimate destination en route home has been in the back of my mind all afternoon. I’m headed for Bennington. It’s the burial-place of poet Robert Frost, and the town in which my father, harpsichordist Robert Conant, was cremated. I need to see the place in order to give myself some closure. This obelisk is a monument to Revolutionary War soldiers which sits at the far end of Main Street, up the hill. The funeral home where dad was cremated is off frame and to the left, at the other end of Main Street.

Within a short time I’m at the base of the monument.

Here’s the church behind which Mr. Frost is buried. He himself did not belong to a church, but said if he were to have, it would have been the Congregational Church. His gravestone is the only one in the cemetery to face East instead of West.

Some ancient headstones just next to the Congregational Church.

The view of mountains to the East.

The signs that show the way are many and the effect is comical.

Here’s the Frost family plot. The center marks the poet, his wife and five children, the far one his grandchildren (one of whom is still living) and the marker in the foreground is completely empty. ! That’s thinking ahead, huh?

Here’s his famous epitaph; “I Had A Lover’s Quarrel With The World”. I placed the small, white stone in between that line and ‘his wife’ on the line below. Like hers too: “Together Wing to Wing And Oar To Oar”

Leaving the cemetery, the light is especially magical.

This next step is kind of surreal for me. Might be for you too. Get ready to see a side of life – or death, rather – that none of us ever really thinks much about until the choices are directly in front of us and ours alone to make. Even then we tend to think of it as some far-off, unreal sort of process that somehow doesn’t ever really happen, especially not to our beloveds. Cremation happens, and it has to happen somewhere. In this case, it’s on Main Street behind a cheerful looking house.

I walk around to the back. I’m ready, I guess…

It’s strange to see this for myself. The doors on the right are the last ones my father passed through looking as I knew him. My heart stops for a second when I recognize the facility for what it really is.

How bizarre it seems… That after such a marvelous, accomplished life, a body becomes merely something that must be gotten rid of somehow. And here it is. No pomp or circumstance to it, really. It’s just a super-powerful oven.

How mundane it looks, I think to myself – and in a way, it’s almost funny. The final end of my father in the un-glamorous back-end of a building with a wheel barrow and garden tools stashed behind. It makes me smile even. I wonder if dad too is seeing how hard it is to grasp for the earth-bound soul.

This is where my father’s physical matter met again with the world of its creation… And this is where I begin to cry. Please forgive me the next image; I realize for some it may be too much, but for me it’s the very reason I’ve driven so far today. I need to understand more completely what this process was. I remind myself the whole time that this happens thousands of time every day, in every single corner of the world. Most of us will never care to see it for ourselves, but some of us, whether we dare to express it aloud or not, may find ourselves unsettled until we see it with our own eyes…

The last place where hundreds of people’s loved ones – mothers, fathers, sons and daughters – have entered in bodily form. I look in the window in something of a trance. How can this be? I wonder over and over to myself. What an illusion we create and sustain for ourselves all life long that we shall ever be as we are now. We aren’t even as we were last year, or even yesterday for that matter. We weren’t even around one hundred years ago, and we won’t be here one hundred years hence. We know all this. So why is this idea of burning the bodies of our loved ones – and seeing the very sentence itself in print and the photo of the place in which it happens – so unthinkable? Why? If my father were here, he’d put his arms around me and tell me not to be sad, not to concern myself with the loss of his body. I know it. And I also feel very strongly that he still exists very close by, like a person on the other side of a one-way mirror, and he smiles at me and lovingly wishes I wouldn’t trouble myself so. But then again, I can’t help myself. I’m still on this side of the mirror, and no matter how hard I try to expand my consciousness on the matter, I just can’t. This feels creepy. It feels sad. But somehow, it does help.

I return to my car and see a tattooed dad and his family pass by the funeral home on a summer night’s stroll. Life keeps on goin.

Ok, for some this will undoubtedly be too far… I wanted something local to bring home from my trip, and this mom and pop store was across the street. It was here that I picked up some cheese and smoked meat; it was impossible for me to overlook the Monty Python-esque humor in it. I can promise you dad would have laughed too.

I’m headed home now. I pass the marble-enfused rocks of Vermont on highway 7 as I head North.

I’m a bit emotionally spent by now. Got lost a few times (in a region divided by vertical, North-South mountain ranges it’s not a simple thing to get from East to West) and by now had had it with winding, two lane roads and picturesque New England villages.

One more Vermont vista…

… and then New York again, at last. I love a trip, but truly, there’s no place like home.

Home Again

August 15, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind5 Comments

I held up my end of the bargain; when I first saw my son at the airport I didn’t squeal with joy, I didn’t jump up and down, didn’t rush in to get my arms all wrapped around him, didn’t smother him with kisses and ‘I love yous’. Nope. I was cooool as a cucumber. And thankfully, he noticed. Thankfully, he was pleased – and relieved – by it. He just stood there waiting, while I presented my ID and signed for him, absolutely consumed by a toothy smile, with an all-about-to-burst-with-a-secret sort of glow about him. It was clear that he was supremely happy. And it felt nice, actually, doing this his way. Cuz he was jonesin to get next to me just as much as I was jonesin to get next to him. But moms, I’ll have you know I remained cool. He leaned in and said sotto voce ‘you’re ok; it’s just the way you keep saying “I love you” over and over that embarrasses me. You’re ok, you’re good“. He even took the lead and held my hand. And in baggage claim he sat next to me on the bench and leaned his body into mine. “My Mommy” he kept saying over and over. A ha! That’s the trick. As it was with me and my ex – as it is with any human relationship – you can turn things around on a dime by simply stopping a behavior. Shift the power. Reverse the polarity. All because I’d backed off, now I was the recipient of the overt affection! And yes, of course, I loved it. What a lovely reunion it was. He took up my hand as we walked back to the car, and, still beaming from ear to ear, and he just kept saying over and over again to himself “I got my mommy. And I’m going home.”

We made a stop at the store on the way home, and once more the newness we felt with each other was apparent. Elihu, in his short-sleeved white oxford shirt, dark jeans and slip-on sneakers looked striking. Well-dressed. The sight of him impressed me and refreshed me. His hair was a little longer than usual after his long time away, but it suited him well. ‘What a handsome kid’ I though to myself. Turns out he’d been sizing me up with new eyes too; told me I looked thin. Wow. Maybe he’s a little biased, but I’ll take it. (Clearly, we were each seeing the other in the energized space of this homecoming. Through rose-colored glasses, you might say.) Then later at home, sitting at the table during a lull between catch-up stories, he rested his heads in his hands, leaned forward and smiled at me. “You really are pretty”. Oh my. Be still my mother’s heart! What more could a mother possibly ask? I lingered there for a bit, smiled back at him, and told him that he’d made my ego positively sing. I thanked him for being the best child a mother could ever know, then broke the moment by playfully shrugging off the flattery. I ‘tsk tsk-ed’ myself up off the chair and walked away, shaking my head and waving my hands in the air.

A lovely first evening. Corn chips with salsa made from the garden. New tricks on the trampoline, A nice visit with the new fish in the improved pond, a moment to get reacquinted with Maximus. A visit from Grandma, a re-telling of the running-out-of-oil-in-the-Mohave-Desert story, a synopsis of Sea World in San Diego, and a demonstration of how two large quartz crystals (from said desert) rubbed against each other in a dark room emit a soft, orange glow. As much as could be condensed in a short visit. Mom had to get back to dad, so then I fed the kid a very just-thrown-together, picnicy sort of supper; a salad made of our garden’s greens, and some cajan-spiced chicken from the grill. Followed by a dutch cocoa cookie and a jam session on the drum set downstairs. If that wasn’t just perfect enough, we then went out to check on the flock.

Elihu’s head count finds the whole, happy gang safe inside.. We coo, we smooch, and I gather up far too few eggs – which doubles our motivation to take the non-producing gals to the Amish butcher on the first week of school. That’s what we always plan to do in the early fall. We mighta bagged on it last year, but I think we two finally have the resolve to do it now. We are done wasting our precious money on dead ends. We renew our resolve to become ‘real farmers’ once again. We will gather up the non-layers and new roos and take em all in. We’ll make the trip to Arnold’s grains once a month rather than make peicemeal trips to the corporate, over-priced Tractor Supply. Yup, we know what to do, and this year we’re gonna do it.

Back inside, pajamas on, Elihu calls to me from his room. “Sleep with me tonight?” he asks. I’d wondered where we were with this now. He’d been completely on his own all summer, no one to read to him at night, there were no real bedtime rituals in the tour bus… plus he’d found the gentle rocking on the road to be the best thing ever to soothe him to sleep. Maybe getting to sleep here might take some getting used to again. I paused, considering the possibility of back-sliding into his needing a lot of my presence at bedtime. I loved him so dearly, I really had no other pressing work, but still… I’d had hopes that this year he’d be a little more self-reliant when it came to getting to sleep. “Just for tonight. Ok?” he said in a small voice. How could I not? I went into his room and laid down beside him, and we began to recount the day. Such an amazing variety of experiences, from the ‘worst calamari of his life’ at Harry Caray’s at O’Hare to smooching his chickens. He said it all felt like a dream. As he looked around his room he remarked it was hard to believe he’d ever been away. “Yeah, life is like that. In the end, it really is all kinda like a dream. When ya think about it,” I said, “everything you’ve ever done til now is just a memory.” Then we laid there in silence, thinking. Thinking, breathing, and then finally… sleeping.

Family of Friends

July 13, 2013July 13, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind, PicsLeave a comment

Here are some of our dear friends. We really just think of them as our extended family. It’s these folks who motivate us to visit Chicago when we can…

We met Marja first. Been years since I’ve seen her, but it’s like no time has passed.

And next, Judy joins us. She’s had a rough year, losing her husband to pancreatic cancer. The following day she and her two daughters are going to Costa Rica for a well-deserved break.

The three of us together again after many years. Marja toasted to all of us finding our bright, new lives as re-created women. We three are embarking on husband-less lives for the first time. We’re in different places regarding those losses and life changes, but things will definitely continue to get better for all of us.

The core of Evanston women we almost always see when we’re here. Doree next to me, Della across from her, and our host Priscilla, in back on right (in whose home we always stay. It’s just across the street from our old house.)

We love Mr. Lee! He’s been feeding us for years…

And I love these three men too. Great musicians, but more important, men of warm hearts, each with a wonderful sense of humor as well. Gus, on the left, leads the Prohibition Orchestra of Chicago from the banjo chair; I thoroughly enjoyed singing with them for many years. Marshall in the middle is a multi-instrumentalist who, knowing me to be a guitar widow, once rode his bike to my house, guitar on his back, on my birthday, and serenaded me and Eli with an acoustic version of the Kiss ballad “Beth”. Tommy, why he pre-dates my ex husband, as he asked me out just a few hours before Fareed did, some 27 years ago. Don’t let his straight face and cool demeanor fool you. He’s a sweetie – as well as a deft, surfer-style guitarist.

And here’s Ann… Originally from Montana, she’s a long-time resident of the Chicago area now. She was Elihu’s first babysitter. Once a week she came to take over for a couple of hours. Fareed wasn’t around much to spell me, so this gal stepped in. She’s known Eli since he was just a few months old. I am still grateful to her for the respite she provided me.

Yay! Three-fourths of the Sniderman family! Dan plays trombone in The Prohibition Orchestra. I’d bring tiny Elihu to our gigs while his wife Lisa was pregnant with their first. Lil Elijah came after. (Joella’s sitting next to Elihu on my side of the booth.)

Rob, the fellow on the left was, was first known to me decades ago as ‘the guy who worked at Second Hand Tunes’. He’s a highly knowledgeable man of music, as is Bill, on the right, expert on all things R&B as well as a – gasp – published author on the subject!

And Richard is a greatly talented professional artist, specializing in vehicles of transportation. Trains, cars, planes. Elihu was deeply thrilled to see him draw. It was Richard who gave Elihu his first set of gray-scale markers. (Elihu sees no color.)

But at the end of the day, THIS is why we came. It was our old friend Carl Wilson’s 100th birthday on June 30th, 2013. He expressed a desire to see me at his birthday party – but was told it was impossible. He had no idea I would not only be there – but that I’d be singing, too! He wanted to hear ‘Stardust’ but got one better; he and I danced while singing it together as the music played. Everyone’s heart was bursting. A moment for the ages.

Carl, holding his great grand niece, who is just six weeks old. Wow.

Here he is, dancing with the always lovely Blair…

And check this out! Would ya ever have thought? He’s a hundred years old! Hope we’re all getting that! Inspirational indeed.

Folks danced…

…and danced

Folks also sat it out in the sun while a nice breeze kept things from getting too warm.

Christie, the gal in blue, grew up in our old house across the street. Her father, Eugene Stoyke, was the architect of that gorgeous mid-century gem, built in 1955. Charlie, her husband, now enjoys beekeeping and silently panicking his uptight, new-moneyed neighbors. That’s Priscilla behind me. It’s her house we’re in, and I’m wearing the requisite fighting badger red and white in honor of her late husband and UW alumnus, broadcaster Les Brownlee (who is known to have coined the phrase “eyewitness news”).

My old friend, Mike. One of the greatest jazz guitarists around. It was an absolute joy to sing with him that afternoon for Carl’s landmark birthday. Mike is also the parent of a ten year old child; daughter Gabriella is a talented singer.

The party continued long after we stopped playing.

These two each got to sing a couple of tunes on the mic.

Here’s Priscilla and Elihu in the living room of her home. Which also feels very much like our home when we’re there.

Now it’s on to friends Chloe and Brad. They’ve got the good stuff.

Now this is something lil man will never forget.

Man, Chloe. You and your house are too cute.

Wait – we’re kinda cute together too, aren’t we? She was in my wedding. Another lifetime.

Chloe and Brad lead a favorite Chicago-based band, The Handcuffs. Bye guys, thanks for such a great visit!

A too-short, but very enjoyable visit with our friends Stacy and Jeff. Once a rock guitarist who currently owns a recording studio, Jeff has just completed his training as a registered nurse. His wife, a performer, comedian, singer and writer, is a woman full of great warmth and spirit. In spite of some personal health challenges thrown at her over the past few years, she continues to demonstrate that it’s possible to live in love and kindness in spite of a profoundly crappy situation. This is their new baby Lulu. She is the gentlest, sweetest and most loving dog you’ll ever meet. She’s convinced me that Pitbulls are a very misunderstood breed.

And it’s on to the Stacey’s house. I played in a band with Julian and Jordan’s mom and dad – and I ‘knew’ Julian (younger, at left) when his mom was still pregnant with him. She was playing bass with a rather loud band in hopes of bringing on labor. Then, when the two were toddlers, I’d pick them up and ‘put them away’ when I was done playing with em. I’d pretend to squeeze the small boys into a bookshelf or bin, the refrigerator, sometimes even the stove. ! Made for loads of laughter. Now just look at em. Jordan (right) got married this past week. Julian’s the drummer in the family, and in fact he first learned to play on my old set.

Here we are with the addition of little sister Alaina. She has got the most beautiful voice, and her songwriting talents far exceed her age. Seems she’s moving to Nashville soon. Alaina Stacey. Remember that name.

And here’s mom Cindy! She’s trying on her dress for Jordan’s wedding. Not her usual attire, I feel I must add. !

Papa Chris Stacey.

The two pretend to fall asleep at the end of our visit. Cuties.

We stopped by to visit neighbors Rafael and Dennis on the 4th… Miss living next door to them.

And neighbor on the other side, Jan. She once gave me the best piece of advice ever regarding moving into a new home: don’t make any big changes – especially with the lawn and garden – until you’ve lived there for one full year. That advice helped me in my two subsequent homes to make the best choices possible.

We have a short visit with Fareed’s parents.

The whole gang (at Reza’s).

My ex mother-in-law, Nelly, and me.

Guess only Elihu can get her to soften up a bit. If he can’t, nobody can!

We did have a fun time hanging with Elihu’s dad. But there’s so much behind my ex’s eyes that I’ll never know – and that I probably never did know to begin with. Still, he’s great at just having a party (as a jam band guitarist, much of his time spent playing music is about creating that kind of energy). In spite of all the past hurt, I’m able to enjoy the occasional visit with this rather eccentric family, dad and grandparents too. But it’s probably just as well I don’t live near them anymore. Even after nearly three decades of living as a family, his folks have never seemed entirely thrilled with me. (But as Fareed always said, no one was ever good enough for him in their eyes. So I don’t take it personally). But we’ve been through a lot together, and I do love my former parents-in-law in spite of the craziness we’ve experienced through the years, so I made sure to tell them that when they dropped me off at the train. Never know when – or even if – there’ll be a next time. Life, after all – friends and family included – is full of surprises, both good and bad.

Culinary Tour

July 11, 2013July 15, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy Mind, Pics3 Comments

One of the main objectives of our trip to Chicago was to taste all that food that both of us miss so. When Elihu stays with his dad they’re based out of DeKalb, which is a good hour west of the city. So when Elihu visits the Midwest, he doesn’t get to eat in the city much. This time, we had a local favorite every day of our trip. I was in heaven. Saratoga Springs may have some fancy shmancy restaurants – but there aint nothing like the places ‘back home’. Indulge me, if you will, as I share the highlights…

I’d prefer it from a small neighborhood joint, but Al’s Italian Beef was the first place we saw when we got off the train…

This was lil man’s first Italian beef sandwich. He dug it. Me too. (My first real carbs in months!)

Our first dinner was at the iconic Heartland Café in Rogers Park.

I had what I’ve been ordering for over a quarter of a century: the Dukes Tostada.

It always ends just like this.

Aha! Finally, after two long years, we’re at Dave’s Italian Kitchen in Evanston!!

Such a great, warm vibe in this place.

Dave’s wife Ellen (at left) is such a magical and loving hostess. Always has little surprises for the kids. Never ceases to impress.

The ubiquitous signed wine bottles and cozy booth.

Elihu pays a visit to Dave himself in the kitchen. Ellen first carried Eli through this kitchen when he was not quite a week old.

Elihu visits Tuan, who’s worked there for decades now. He’s from Vietnam, and Elihu has wanted to learn Vietnamese for several years now (have no idea why or where that came from). Tuan’s telling him to learn Mandarin instead as it’s more useful.

There’s Paul (and Jimmy’s backside). Bye guys! Love ya!

Ok, time for some REAL Mexican food.

I woulda had the goat if I’d seen it first. Phooey.

Ah, Jarritos de tamarindo in a bottle. Yes.

The next day, a little something sweet from Belgian Chocolatier Piron on Main Street in Evanston.

And away he goes with a cool $10 bag of treats. !

Our friends Chloe and Brad took us out for sushi at Hot Woks, Cool Sushi in Chicago! So nice of you guys! (Tastiest, most delicate spring rolls I’ve had in years.)

Next stop, Ethiopian Diamond in Rogers Park. Man, have I missed injera. This was SO good. Even better leftovers, too.

You just use your hands to eat by picking up the food with the flat, spongy injera bread (which has a lemony sort of flavor).

You know this place is the real deal cuz all the Ethiopian taxi drivers eat here. They were so kind and shared some of their fish with us. It was off-the-hook good.

And with a cold Ethiopian beer – heaven.

Being in the business ourselves, we just had to stop in and see what this was all about.

These poor creatures are caged in the same room in which they are dispatched. Ich. But they had room to move and were fed and watered generously. I forgot to ask the guy if he said prayers before butchering or if he used any different techniques. Not convinced there was necessarily a more humane element to the preparation of halal meat.

He can’t resist.

These are the cones. The birds go in upside down, the necks are slit and they bleed out. Doesn’t sound like it, but it’s actually a rapid and fairly humane way in which to do it. No matter what you think, it’s way, way less stressful on the bird than the whole factory experience.

On to my MOST important culinary destination of this whole trip. Can Evanstonians guess where this might be??

You’re right! The Evanston Grill! Bless this place, unchanged in thirty-some years.

And this is what we’re here for. Mr. Lee’s Bi Bim Bop. Like none other in the world.

I just love the Lees. They are the hardest working people I know. No time off ever, except Sundays. And they go to church on that day, so I sure don’t know when they rest. !

How touching – Elihu’s drawing and our photo, sent at Christmastime, have been put up on the wall. (Those are the Lees’ son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren to the right of our pics.)

This might be a new item on the menu. But then again, maybe I just never noticed it before as I was so focused on Bi Bim Bop. !

The Lees have known Elihu since before he was born. I fueled up here often during my pregnancy with him. Later, as a mere baby, Elihu himself ate – and very much enjoyed – the Bi Bim Bop too. (That’s Oscar in the back, a tall Mexican fellow who has been the only cook at the Grill – besides Mr. Lee – for a decade. He DJs on the weekends.)

One of my favorite views. Mr. Lee always has WFMT playing (the local classical station) and a stack of newspapers by the door. Never a more soothing and peaceful feeling was there in a diner.

And speaking of diners, this join hasn’t changed in forever either. Yay!

Love the homey, unpretentious feel. Such a wonderful neighborhood hang. Sometimes there’s hardly anyone there…

But on weekend mornings the place is packed.

I just LOVE that you get your cream in a pitcher. No fumbling about with those crazy-wasteful tiny half and half containers. !

One of the major reasons I come here (aside from the turquoise vinyl booths): their home made hot sauce. You can even buy a bottle. For $2.50. Why, oh why did I buy only one? I shoulda left with a case! My tiny bottle’s almost empty now!

I cannot explain how exquisite this sauce is, and how it simply transforms an ordinary breakfast.

Well, diners may be just fine for the commoners, I guess, but the fancy folk go downtown. We’re finally at Reza’s for Middle Eastern food – and of course for Elihu’s number one favorite dish of ALL TIME: roasted quail.

This place has high ceilings, a courteous waitstaff and doors that open to the street outside. It might be a classy place, but there really is no classy way in which to eat a quail. It really is a hands-on sort of thing.

The enthusiasm just can’t be contained.

It’s all over in short order.

And so ends our culinary tour of Chicago. Undid a bit of my previous weight loss success, but there is no question but that it was entirely worth it. I have no regrets, because nothing beats really good food.

A Post Script: Can’t find my pics of Cross Rhodes in Evanston. That was another important stopping point on our tour. I’m still trying to re-create their vinegar-y, oregano-y sauce on my own here. I’ve come close… but no cigar!

Two more post-post items, called to my attention by Facebook friends: first, Cross Rhodes owner and familiar face to all who ever entered the place, Jeffrey Russell, died last September. Thankfully, I knew way ahead of time so my heart wasn’t broken all throughout my meal. Second, there are two Ethiopian Diamond locations, each run by the same family – one’s on N. Broadway, one on N. Clark, both in Chicago, both fantastic.

If you haven’t tried any one of the places mentioned in this post, then DO. Each one has something extraordinary and unique to surprise and impress you.

Away… and Home

July 7, 2013July 7, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Mommy Mind6 Comments

This is one very, very big world. And there are so very, very many ways in which to live. Naturally, there is nothing like a trip away to highlight the differences (or similarities, as it may be) between the way you like to live your life, and the way others do. And there’s nothing like going away and then returning to your own house to help you to see it as others may. That certain way your house smells, for example. Living in it, you don’t notice it. But when you first open the door to your house and step inside, that first – and only that first – inhalation tells you things about your place you can never know in day-to-day life. When I lived in my giant, mid-century home, visitors would always tell me the place smelled ‘old’. And I could only know this for myself in that first, fleeting moment back. It smelled of wood, dust and dry, aging formica. Yeah, it did smell kind of old. Kind of like grandma’s. But within minutes it would be back to life as usual again, and once again I’d need an objective outside party to tell me how the joint smelled, because the scent became unnoticeable almost immediately. As it was here too. When I opened the door last night, the first thing that I smelled was the damp. (Here in upstate New York I always sense the relentless humidity first.) As I ventured into the living room, I noticed a particular scent that brought me back… it was the smell of the places where my father had taught, it was the smell of our older friend’s homes….I knew it, but what was it? I pondered as I stood there, noticing it for the first time, when it came to me as plain as day. Wet piano. And wet harpsichord. Yes, that’s it. The smell of slightly moist wood – but not just any wood. Not furniture, not floorboards, but instrument wood. Yeah, and the other stuff too… the felt of the hammers and plectra dampers, the varnish, the oxidation on the strings… Ok, maybe I’m being a teeny bit dramatic, but the funk of instruments left to themselves was unmistakable. Was it always like this? Did I just not notice? Interesting what appears in the wake of a short absence. (Mental note to myself: running a dehumidifier would not be an extravagance.)

Whether you fly, drive or take the train, you’re gonna pass a lot of homes. For me, most of my window-gazing thought on the train is spent considering all those tiny scenes as we slip by through people’s backyards, pass within feet of their back porches or speed over their neighborhood parks… From the country to the innermost city, we pass it all. A cross-section of the American population, unawares, just doing their thing as they do every day, and me, their most appreciative and grateful (and perhaps a bit apologetic) audience. It is simply too much to comprehend. I wish I could know what it was like to enter each of those homes, from rotting farm house to luxurious high rise condo – and furthermore, to live as the residents do. What is it that motivates them each day? What’s important to them? What’s the first thing they do in the morning? What’s on their minds? Some are content to live as hoarders, others cannot see life without granite counter tops. And so much in between. It blows my mind, so I try not to wonder at it too much. I just take it all in, reminding myself that just my tiny witness is enough. I’m lucky to be seeing so much of my world. I’ve also been lucky to have visited much poorer and more remote places on the other side of the planet in my lifetime, so wondering at the variety of this world is not a new thing to me. But nonetheless, it is always, always fascinating to me.

Elihu and I visited the beach this past week, and while we didn’t swim in the beautiful water of my beloved Lake Michigan (it hadn’t warmed up enough yet by my perhaps too-uptight standards) we did pass a lovely couple of hours just taking it in. The horizon, the clouds, the sky and water. And, of course, the seagulls. ! We brought several bags of bread and had fun feeding them. But even my own super-deft bird catcher of a son realized he wasn’t grabbing a gull and gave up his pursuit in favor of playing in the sand. I joined him. What a perfect moment in time we had. It’s a joy to have such a thoughtful son as mine; soon we were making metaphors between our play and life itself… It seems to me that any thinking human might have a hard time resisting the sort of contemplation that millions upon millions of grains of sand evoke. It can’t be just us. We note that even though there seems an infinitesimal amount of them – crazy as it seems, there is a finite number of sand grains on the planet. ! The many grains of sand remind us of all the people we’ve seen here. In the city, it seems not a single square foot is uninhabited. Everyone is out and about, each on their own chase, each with their head swimming with their own world of thoughts. There are millions of stories, sub-plots and interactions going on each single moment. As I’ve said before, this is a big world. And the beach seems to highlight it for us both. Yet at the beach, immensity and peace exist together, almost as the very same thing. We notice the juxtaposition, and we both marvel at it, continuing all the while our fruitless scooping out of the ever-wetting sand…

Contrasts slap you in the face when you partake of modern travel. One morning you can be feeding your chickens, and that night you can be on a city street in a valley of office buildings. This is not new to any of us in the Western world. This morning, as I awoke, I hardly felt I’d been away. While the images in my mind were somehow refreshed, they were still, just memories. (You got it – it all kinda felt like a dream.) I heard the clucking sounds of my flock from inside the coop and realized the timer hadn’t opened the door for them this morning. Automatically, I rose from my bed, donned my muck boots, and in my nightgown went to let the girls out. In the middle of my path, I thought back on a moment not more than a few days earlier and paused to let it sink in. Just a couple nights ago I’d been on stage at the Green Mill in front of a packed house doing my thing. Fan in hand, arms outstretched, belting out an old-timey jazz tune. Doing one of those things I feel I was just meant to do. Man, it was natural. And man, did it feel good. Came back like I’d never been away. But so did tending the chickens. Funny the latitude of experience in any one person’s life. So many folks have different careers, different homes, spouses… It’s nothing new to experience such vastly different things, but the rapid succession from jazz singer to chicken farmer still amuses me. I imagine myself on stage in my nightgown and boots, basket of eggs on my arm and it makes me smile to myself.

So here I am. Back. With a month or more of child-free living before me. Many might ask me what I plan to do with ‘all this time’, as if I might sunbathe or catch up on old episodes of a favorite show, but since I get all the sun I need working in the garden, and since I don’t watch much tv, those things don’t enter into it. Some of the things that are on my list are to get my piano teaching method book formatted and done, to learn some new computer skills so as to enhance my blog just a wee bit, to begin to prepare parts of my blog for a release as an eBook, as well as a myriad of ’round the farm type stuff. Enlarge the chicken run (involves digging fence post holes, yeeks), clean up the perennial garden outside the door, power wash the house on the side students and guests see first when they pull up, mow the lawn, paint the outside stairs. Lots and lots to do. Never mind the mess in the basement left in the wake of a busy school year – projects, supplies and out-of-season paraphernalia that haven’t yet been put away. If it weren’t for the photos on my data cards I might not fully believe that I’d ever even been away. But there is some tiny evidence of my trip; a deeper appreciation for space, clean air and nature all around. I am one lucky gal, I am. Lucky to have been given the gift of being able to go away for a while, and luckier still to know the even greater gift of coming home.

Evanston Post

June 30, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy MindLeave a comment

Did this two years ago from this very stool. At the local corner cafe, offering a quick hello before returning to my hopefully still-sleeping child. This trip has been alternately magical and frustrating, the latter such events presenting me with opportunities to ‘walk the talk’… that is to say, to stop and take a breath, step back, accept the unplanned and await the happy, unexpected surprises that appear as a result. Just now I greeted my old next door neighbor – it’s tiny surprises like that that keep one’s spirit bright (in spite of having lost one’s favorite sweater somewhere on the road).

Life can sometimes seem like a great big game of ‘good news, bad news’, and so it’s been with this trip. I can’t relate much here and now, but suffice to say that Elihu had a dangerously allergic reaction on the train somewhere between Utica and Syracuse (and I learned that yes, one can have a train stop and arrange to be met by an ambulance) then thanks to Benadryl, a worse reaction was prevented. The panic and fear that we experienced would have been nothing to what we would have experienced if a sink hole opened up underneath the tracks and derailed the train. The way it did just 24 hours later on the very same line. Good thing for us. (Just so you know – although it was a great mess, thankfully no one died.) Bad thing for me – I might have to take a bus back to Schenectady. Ah well.

Gotta get back to the kid. Besides, I’m finding all this noise and activity around me a bit unsettling. After all I’m not a city girl anymore.

Packin It In

June 25, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life5 Comments

There might be a little pause between posts this week, as I’m getting ready to make a trip to my old hometown. These days, traveling kinda makes me nervous. I wonder what I’ll forget (I always forget something – and in fact harbor a suspicion that a trip isn’t off to a proper start unless I’ve forgotten something), I fret about over packing, under packing… I fret about not only my stuff, but my son’s. I cannot begin to imagine traveling with more than one kid – nor can I begin to remember the reality of packing for a super-young one, with toys and books and cheerios and tiny distractions in the bottom of the bag in case of delays… This time I have a gig awaiting me in Chicago, and it’s the cornerstone for this trip. Without a ‘good reason’ I can’t justify all the expense and hassle. And because I have a gig, I need to bring my book. My music book, that is. Even though I’m pretty good at remembering the hundreds of songs I’ve sung throughout my life, my current life has been more about chickens than ‘Cheek to Cheek’, and I want to make sure that I at least have a few sheets ‘just in case’. Silly, actually, cuz the fellow I’m playing with knows more than enough tunes to call all afternoon, and if I stop and remember my old life for a minute, I probably do too. Got up early (as in 5:30) in order to go through my old book and sort things out. It’s been a three hour job thus far. Been full of stops and starts and lovely re-discoveries. Memories, too. Coffee stains and scribbles for last-minute arrangements, phone numbers and titles of songs to learn one day… It makes me wistful, and even though I enjoy my new life quite well, I wonder if I don’t miss my old life more than I’d thought.

But what a wonderful opportunity I have before me… a place to stay, a car to borrow, fifteen fewer pounds on my frame and a couple of nice dresses. Did some calling and reconnecting and I might end up sitting in at a few places. Makes me a mixture of nerves and anticipation. I miss singing so very much that it’s hard to approach this trip with much nonchalance. After all, as the old song goes, I ‘don’t get around much anymore.’ Hmm, do I remember all the lyrics to that? And is there a verse? Oh dear. Can’t do it all. Gotta remind myself. Can’t sing all the beautiful gems I’d like. Can’t eat at all the old favorite restaurants I’d like, and I certainly won’t be able to visit all the old friends I miss. No matter, this is going to be one hell of a great trip.

Before I pack my bags I need to get a few more things done in the garden, need to check on the timer in the coop, attend to fixing some holes in the fence, and I need to give away the last remaining extra eggs to neighbors. Soon enough it’ll be time to pack my bags for the city and pack it in on the farm for now.

Indo Rant

January 2, 2013January 6, 2013 Posted in An Ongoing Journal...1 Comment

So just who are you, out there, somewhere, in Indonesia? Who are you, Indonesian readers? Bored expats? Unintentional visitors? On your way to another blog down the street a ways…?

Oh, I have such a feeling for that place, that country of many smaller countries… I have dream-like remembrances of that place, those places…. or were they just dreams? I think not… I do remember the call to prayer, the workers atop construction cranes stopping to kneel before Mecca, I remember trading menthol cigarettes for a ride in a Bajaj through a monsoon-like rain… I remember a river of vehicles, scooters passing Bentleys, chickens hanging off the side of the family bike.. a mass of humanity in motion some ten lanes wide…I remember a volcano, I remember the cicadas were so very loud in the heat of the morning… I remember funeral processions, blossoms everywhere, shadow puppet shows, gamelon orchestras, exquisitely beautiful dancers whose eyes moved eerily side to side, I remember rice paddies, terraced, green… carved rock with chunky reptile faces, I remember the man in Celuc who made enormous penises out of wood… no joke… but he laughed with us and let us take a picture… sat with an ancient man and his prize cock – who’d won every battle he’d ever been in. Sat with the bird on his lap, stroking him gently… remember the scents, the heavy scent of fruit just turning, the fruits probably belonging to the offerings left; left on stone walls, tucked away in corners, offerings with bright flowers and ripe fruit… scents of humidity, of the dirt road, the coconut-based curry sauces the likes of which I’ve never had since… I remember a nightclub in Denpasar… then leaving the nightclub so that I could go outside and listen to Maribeth singing Denpasar Moon on my headphones while tourists danced with people from absolutely everywhere… the whole time covered in sweat…. Oh I loved Indonesia. It’s a place I want to return to one day.

So, who are you, you there in Indonesia? And where in that incredibly long and diverse country are you? I would love a hint, a story, something, anything… (maybe even some real Beef Rendang if you can find a way to send it thru the post… it just doesn’t taste the same when I try to make it!)

Ok, I’m done. Thank you all. I feel much better now.

Touchdown, Takeoff

December 2, 2012December 3, 2012 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Mommy MindLeave a comment

It was almost midnight when I picked my son up at the airport last Thursday. I arrived a few minutes early, so went to the observation room in hopes I might actually see his plane land. The huge glass walls mostly showed the reflection of the room itself, so I had to lean way in and raise my arm above my head to register the inky black airfield. As I looked at my reflection in the glass, superimposed against the blinking lights of the tower beyond, the strange mix of the archaic and the futuristic struck me. I was in my farm jacket, my hair hanging messily about me – an untidy figure in a clean, modernistic room of glass; the farmer come to meet the sky ship.

This time I was lucky, for as I casually turned my head to the right I saw two lights approaching at what seemed to be a breakneck speed. I couldn’t see the plane itself, but knew my son was there somewhere in the darkness between the two lights. I watched as it zoomed past, wondering how on earth something like that can possibly stop in time, and never taking my eyes off of it as it then turned and taxied briskly back towards me. As the plane came closer, I saw big, fluffy white snowflakes in its lights. My son was home safe, and it was snowing. Perfect.

As I expected, Elihu seemed taller. But more had changed than just that. No longer did he run into my arms as he had at nearly every other reunion. He stood, shy, waiting, giggling somewhat uncomfortably. Huh? I hugged him, I exclaimed how happy I was, and after thanking Dave (our friend at Southwest) we were off to baggage claim. But what’s this? Tears? Already? What the hell just happened? This: apparently I made ‘too big a deal’ of seeing him. I ‘treated him like a baby’. Oh man. Are we here already? I mean, really? I swear sometimes there’s a teenage girl lurking somewhere close to the surface… sheesh. But I try to honor his feelings, after all I remember very well that horrible kind of embarrassment that only parents can create, and it’s made worse because they keep telling you you have no reason to be embarrassed… Well, yes, you do! If a kid’s embarrassed, no matter how hormone or insecurity-induced, if it’s what the poor kid’s feeling, it’s real! So I have to respect it at the very least. I let him talk, cry, explain. Might also be the late hour, I think, but I don’t say that. Eventually, we reach a new understanding. I’m not to call out his name, run towards him, nor open my arms in hopes of a huge, public reunion. I will simply stand there, arm around him as I sign the release, maybe give him a subtle sideways squeeze and a quick kiss atop his head.

In my mind’s eye I play the scene of my adorable six year old boy squealing with delight at seeing me again. I remember his little lisp, his tiny body. Did I savor those moments? I guess I did. I can’t have regrets. I just need to switch gears, because those days are over, and we’re entering a new chapter. As we drive home through the fluffy flakes I wonder at the new stories ahead of us. This week alone there will be plenty, from lessons to chores to his first school assembly (he sings the harmony part and will likely carry his section with great pride and confidence…) and the many other unexpected events that will pop up before us. We two live a full and interesting life here, and now that we’re both refreshed from a week away from the routine, we’re ready to begin it all again…

Up and Away

November 22, 2012November 22, 2012 Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Divorce Diary, Mommy Mind4 Comments

Up at 3:30. Laundry’s in the dryer, Elihu’s bag is packed, including his carry-on, which is a large FAO Schwartz shopping bag from our summer trip to New York City. He’s bringing his Christmas gifts for his little brothers early, and one wouldn’t fit into the suitcase. I remind him several times that the book he’s brought to read is in the bag too – so when someone offers to stow the bag in the cabinets above his head, make sure to get the book out first. That’s all I can do. In the past, he’d most likely forget, and sit idle the whole trip, not wanting to make anyone get it down for him. This time, he’ll probably remember, he might even ask for help if he needs it. He’s getting older. He’s doing more for himself, but still, I advise, I remind, I worry…

I touch his soft, perfect face while he sleeps and behold this boy who’s fast changing… The other day he told me he really wanted to have a beard when he was older. Will a beard actually grow one day from his velvet-smooth cheeks? If I try, I can kind of imagine it, but secretly I’m a bit horrified. Yet is this not what parents aspire to? Raise our children to be healthy, happy autonomous adults who may live as they choose? I’m far from ready. These days it seems he’s readier than I am. He’s been flying alone for four years. It’s no more eventful to him than a car ride to the grocery store. He’s smart, he’s funny and he’s got a natural savvy about life in general which far exceeds his years. But in the end, he is my little boy. And knowing that in a few hours he’ll be speeding through the sky away from me at hundreds of miles per hour, his plane becoming a mere speck in the sky… that thought has me feeling a little light-of-being, a little empty. It’s always in his leaving – and then again in his homecoming – in which I feel the passing of time most acutely.

But I’m excited for him. He is seeing his father at long last! And his baby brothers (for the most part I omit the word ‘half’ as a descriptor, depends on how equanimous I’m feeling at the moment). “They’re not babies” he reminds me. “It was a figure of speech, baby” I answer him. He smiles. We choose some paper to wrap their presents ahead of time. We finish, and they look nice. “I’d be happy to get one of these, wouldn’t you?” I ask him. Elihu waits for a minute. He’s looking down. For a second it looks like he’s thinking about something else. “Thanks,” he finally says, “I know this isn’t easy for you”. I tell him it’s all ok – I really am so happy for him – how excited I am too to know that his brothers will love the presents. He doesn’t stay in the sentiment long, it seems he believes me. All I can do is hope that he really does feel my support. He’s right. It’s not always easy, even now. But it does get easier. And knowing how excited he is helps motivate me to move past my own hurt.

He’s been hugging me a lot today, saying extra “I love yous”, getting ready in his heart to make the parting. To switch parents. We’re alternately easily frustrated with each other and needy of each other’s affection. It’s been just us for months now, and frankly, we could both use a little break from each other. And yet…

I move around the house getting ready. The kitchen cabinet handles are sticky with his clementine-wet hands. I see the charge lights on his toy helicopters blinking, ready. His drawing paper is out and waiting for a new bird sketch… signs of a nine year old boy living here. One minute they’re parts of the house as usual, the next, they’re strange, ghost-like suggestions of the absence all around me. I try not to let my mother’s mind wander to that unspeakable, remote possibility that my son may not come back… I leave the sticky door handles to remind me of him, just in case. I scold myself for being so morbid. I remind myself to stay positive, to cancel those thoughts immediately… This trip is nothing new or remarkable, he’ll be fine. A parent has to let go eventually, right? Maybe our time in practice will help when the time really does come for him to move out. Maybe.

I’ve just returned from the airport. It took a while for his Southwest flight to get going. The only person in the vast observation room at the Albany airport, I watched as the plane was de-iced, watched the plane taxi away and waited. And waited. Finally, as I began to despair that I must somehow have missed his plane take off, the morning sun crested over the hills just as his plane sped past, the wheels lifting off the ground precisely as the sun freed itself from the horizon. A movie moment. I watched it all the way as it got smaller and smaller… until it banked and headed west. Finally, the tiny dot was gone.

As I was leaving the garage I called his father to tell him Elihu was safely off. Strangely, we often talk for a while on these occasions. Fareed chats about things going on in his world, we catch each other up on our parents, we try to make sure we’re on the same page about Elihu. It’s all so strangely civil – more than civil actually, maybe, not sure if it’s the word, but it’s something close to friendly. In the past it’s thrown me off – it’s like I see a window to the man I used to love and share my life with, and it almost seems he’s still there, that this has all been a dream… But now, somehow, it’s easier. Easier to understand. After all, we both love our boy so.

I get home, have a snack. I smile to myself when I feel the sticky surfaces. I wipe them clean. I take a bath, and just as I get out and wrap myself in a towel, the phone rings. It’s Elihu, safe and sound. Father and son are together again and both so happy. And for now, I’m a free woman. Clean the house? Work out? Walk in the woods? Meditate? Go to hear some live jazz on the weekend? So much possibility! Wow. The sky is amazingly clear right now, I’d better fly while the flying’s good…

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Tag: travel