September 1: Garden Hostas

A typical summer around here results in lots of August heat but not enough rain to keep up with the heat.  By this point in the year, my hostas tend to look wilted and sunburned, a little worn out by the effort of keeping up.  But this has been a rainy summer and so most of my hostas are still looking rather nice.  

Lush, even.

It’s hard to say goodbye to a summer with this much green still in it.  But the students return to school on Tuesday.  Clothes must be ironed; shoes must be worn.  

Luckily, there are still hostas to be admired.  And admire them I will. 

That’s happy!

August Book Report: Miss Read

I’ve written before about how much I love Miss Read’s books.  Over the years, both the Thrush Green and Fair Acre series have provided me hours of happiness and companionship.  I love these books, the characters in them, and the feelings and sentiments they describe and nurture.  

I read a lot of books in August but in the middle of the month, as I got closer and closer to moving JT to college, it was the Miss Read books to which I turned.  I re-read a handful from the Fair Acre series, aware that they would provide a familiar and pleasing comfort and while I rode the roller coaster of emotions involved in sending JT to college.

True to form, the familiar stories made me laugh and provided happy comfort, a reminder that lives are made of many moments.  My favorite books are just this kind of story, an entry into a another world; one that feels comforting and comfortable with characters who are companions that linger well past the final chapter of the story.

That’s happy!

Throwback: Year Two

This picture was made at my parent’s house and JT was two, a year he spent talking all the time.   Every picture I have from that year is of a little boy with his mouth wide open, talking non-stop.  That year (and for several years afterward), he was also a fan of carrying small items in his hand.  In this picture, he has the plastic bin for a roll of film (remember film?).

I have a collection of photo books that I’ve used to make a picture of JT for every month of the last 18 years.  I don’t look at the collection often, but it’s a precious to me and I enjoy its existence.  It’s a Hermione’s purse of memories, moments, and stories; the history a much-loved child in a book.

Ready, Set, Bake

T and I have been gobbling up Netflix showings of the Great British Bake Off.  We love everything about it, even the week that features the horrid English delight in meat pies.  The challenges are great and the competitions are so charmingly English, with nary a whiff of smack talk and good humor all around as the contestants bake and utter the most-charming of English phrases.  The show is a delightful Angophile’s dream come true.  We love it.

The English bake a metric ton of things so vastly different from our American efforts and I’ve been fascinated with the abundance of delicious-looking items they whip out of their ovens.  I keep threatening to try my hand at some of these things and this weekend I got my wiggle on and did some baking.  I baked a Victoria Sponge and then cut it into smaller heart-shaped cakes that I filled with my own lemonberry jam and homemade creme patisserie mixed into freshly whipped cream.

They were pretty to look at and delicious to eat.  I don’t think I’m in line for Star Baker, but I made a jolly good effort.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I make it a point to be polite and patient in commercial encounters.  It makes life nicer for all of us and it costs nothing to be polite.  But sometimes my patience is tested, as it was at the post office earlier this week.  

I was at my usual post office and a bit disheartened to see that the postal worker at the counter was the disgruntled postmistress, a woman known to us all for her brusquely unhappy manner at work.  I was the only person in line and though I know she saw me, she was busy talking to a friend and showing him a video on her phone.  I waited patiently and when she called me up I was friendly.  When she realized I wasn’t going to be cranky over the delay, she was friendlier than she had ever been; genuinely nice.

As I left I commended myself for my patience and kind nature, concluding that being nice makes the world so much better for all of us.  I was smugly pleased with myself for being polite.

I should have known better.

My next stop was the local market, known to me as the vile Acme because I don’t really care for it.  But I needed a few things and vile Acme was a seemingly quick stop on the way home.  I grabbed the bread and fruit that had brought me to the store and then decided to treat myself to some deli cheese.  The deli counter was manned by a friendly but soft-spoken woman who was clearly inexperienced.  She managed to slice the cheese without losing a finger and then could not figure out how to price it.  She spoke to me all along but no matter how much I politely asked her to speak up, I couldn’t hear a thing she said.  Five long minutes later, I took my cheese (priced incorrectly, of course) to the check out line.

I was third in line, behind a woman with a full cart and a man buying two items but paying attention only to his phone.  Under the best of circumstances, these lines are slow.  This was not the best of circumstances.  Once the first customer was finally loaded up, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Two items could be quickly checked out, I thought.

I was wrong.  

While two-item phone man stared at his tiny screen, the clerk at my checkout turned to have an off-topic conversation with the clerk at the next checkout.  This lasted through several iterations while phone man continued to look at his phone and I waited on a slow simmer.

When it was finally my turn to check out, I was friendly and polite and just hopeful I could make my escape before Labor Day.  On the way to my car I drew the obvious conclusion: this entire mess was all my fault, the legacy of being so smug about being nice to the cranky post mistress.  

I won’t learn my lesson, of course, but not because I haven’t had the chance.

Putting the Kibosh on Kavanaugh

As I understand the rules of the Senate, it requires 51 senators to be present in order to make quorum.  And quorum is required in order to move forward with all Senate business, including the matter of Brett Kavanaugh’s nomination to the Supreme Court.

That being the case, McCain’s absence, though obviously regrettable, opens a political door for the Democrats.  I don’t mean to be cavalier or grossly political, but politics is the business of power and opportunity and without Senator McCain, the Republicans cannot make quorum on their own.  Vice President Pence can cast a tie-breaking vote but he cannot make quorum.  And without quorum, the nomination is stalled.  
In my mind, the path is now clear for the Democratic leadership in the Senate: hold the line on quorum until after the November 6 midterm election.  It presents the risk of seeming obstructionist (quite frankly because it is obstructionist) and some of the Democratic senators standing for re-election in states that lean Republican (Joe Manchin in West Virginia; Joe Donnelly in Indiana; Heidi Heitkamp in North Dakota) may find the strategy problematic and risky.  But for each of those senators there are some facing re-election in competitive states (Claire McCaskill in Missouri; Bill Nelson in Florida; and Jon Tester in Montana) who could benefit.  All of them can claim to be taking action to hold the line against Trump corruption and a Supreme Court nominee determined to support presidential power even in a circumstance where the president is an unstable, corrupt, tyrant.

As I see it, we are in the political battle of our generation and all strategies and tactics must be on the table. So I am calling on the Democratic leadership to take the risk and lead.  This is your move, Senator Schumer, and I’d like to see you be decisive.

Throwback: Year One

As I transition to being the mama of a college boy man man child, I’m going to indulge myself every Thursday with a reflection on the last 18 years.  Last night, I was texting with my sister, who just dropped off her youngest child to start college.  I mentioned that I had spoken with JT that day and that it was nice to hear his voice.  She agreed and then noted that hearing his voice was nice but it wasn’t the same as having the smell of my baby.  

So true.  

I’d give a lot to smell that babine again; in this picture my lunatic baby is 5 months old.  I remember making this photo; he was freshly bathed, sweet-smelling, and happily shirtless.  These days, he smells less sweet though, thanks to his running habit, he’s nearly always freshly washed.  He’s sent me quite a few pictures of himself from the start of his cross country season at Springfield College.  It’s the same lunatic baby, just a little bit older.

He never did like to wear a shirt.

Of Course I Cried

Early yesterday morning we piled into the car and drove JT 3 hours north to Springfield College, where he will spend the next four years.  There was a pile of things one needs for college…..soft sheets and towels, a fan, laundry supplies, electronics, a metric ton of Cliff bars, running shoes and the paraphernalia of a runner, all of it surrounding my precious boy.  

The last few months have been a roller coaster of emotions as I prepared to send him off.  For the past month, I would look at him and find myself breathless with joy and pride in the young man he’s become.  These emotions were compounded by the realization that my daily life as a parent was about to change; this boy of mine will no longer rest his head in my home each night. In the last weeks, as the moments together grew more precious, I felt like holding on to every moment.

I cried at the very thought of separating from him and, as the day of departure grew near, I could no longer hide those tears from him.  Just looking at him was enough to make me cry.  But neither could I put those tears into words.  I’ll be sad not to see him every day, I will miss him (though, perhaps, not his voluminous laundry needs).  My house will be much more quiet. The cats will be at a loss for his presence.  I’ll miss making his supper and sitting together over that supper to share our days.  I’ll miss his presence.

But it’s time and he’s ready. He’s chosen a school with a community he’s excited to join, with academics that appeal to him, and a cross country coach who is pleased to have him on her team.  And if I had any doubts, they were answered on Sunday.  We unpacked his things and I made his bed (because of course I did) and then we hugged him and went on our way.  Two hours later he texted me this picture.

It's a photo of his running watch.  At college less than two hours, he’d gone on a a ten mile run with some of his new teammates.  He’s found his tribe and that is so very, very happy.  

Living in the Moment

Twenty-four hours from now, we’ll be on the road headed north to drop JT off at college.  In the past week, I  have fed him all of his favorite foods .  There are cinnamon rolls baking in the oven as I write.  He’s excited and nearly packed; he’s more than ready.

I am alternately fine and then a tearful mess.  One moment I am thrilled at the coming chapter of our lives and the next I am terrified, riding the wave to the next emotion.  It’s exhausting and expectant all at once.  Fittingly, the last time I felt this way was was February 2000, as I eagerly awaited the arrival of the bundle of a boy I am about to launch into the world.

I’m trying not to mark these moments as “lasts” and just enjoy them as they unfold.  But good golly, for all the sometimes long days, these years have flown past.  And here I am getting ready to deposit my bundle into his next adventure.  I take deep breaths and marvel at the wonder of it all.

Feeling Every Moment

Early Sunday morning, we will load up the car and drive JT north to start pre-season practice for his first season of Cross Country at Springfield College.  On September 4, he’ll start classes there while I will go to the first day of school here at home.  

For the first time in 14 years, we won’t be at the same school.  For years, I worked at school with the daily prospect that I would see my boy…..walking across campus with his fellow pre-K classmates, running to the gym for PE, or in the lunchroom with his friends.  I have loved these years and while I’m excited for the both of us to start this next chapter, as each day of August closes, this beautiful passage from Ru by Kim Thúy echoes in my mind, “I never had any questions except the one about the moment when I could die.   I should have chosen the moment before the arrival of my children, for since then I’ve lost the option of dying.  The sharp smell of their sun-baked hair, the smell of sweat on their backs when they wake from a nightmare, the dusty smell of their hands when they leave a classroom, meant that I have to live, to be dazzled by the shadow of their eyelashes, moved by a snowflake, bowled over by a tear on their cheek.  My children have given me the exclusive power to blow on a wound to make the pain disappear, to understand words unpronounced, to possess the universal truth, to be a fairy.  A fairy smitten with the way they smell.”