The Changing of Time

When I was young, summer lasted for ages. Endless, languid days were spent frolicking on freshly cut grass, inhaling the fragrance of mower clippings, on our backs, hands shielding faces from the sun, identifying shapes of clouds against pool-blue skies. The perpetual excitement that arose as music from the ice cream truck grew louder culminated in a reward of ice pops dribbling down our arms in the heat because we couldn’t eat them fast enough. I swear it didn’t get dark until 9:30 p.m. in the 70’s. And no, I didn’t live in Alaska. 

We lived entire lifetimes in three months. 

As a mother to two young boys, the season felt extended as well. With no school schedules to fall back on, it was a challenge to keep these energetic beings busy on hot days. Parks and pools with friends, beach outings followed by thorough bath times trying to extract sand from tiny crevices, catching fireflies in the yard. All of us finally dropping into slumber only to start over again at the crack of dawn with What are we doing today, Mommy?  And if it rained? Oy.

Fun? For sure. Long? Definitely.

Now, our grown boys make their own schedules, leaving my husband and I to embrace the warm months ourselves. But the new pace of the solstice moon is relentless. Where once upon a time days lasted weeks, and weeks, months, now, our callous attitudes have us declare the summer almost over by July fourth.

The hands of the clock have grown stronger – this new strength moving time with merciless speed. Days bleed into each other until, without warning, leaves are burnt oranges and reds whirling in the wind of autumn and we have little to show for the warm season. Summers that long ago brought us joy and freedom are now fragments of time, gone too soon. 

We’re at the point in our journey where we’re peering over that proverbial hill. On the other side, life is supposed to take on a leisurely pace. We’ll stress less, eventually work less, and maybe, maybe, the clock will slow down once again. I hope so.

Truce!

In summer, we like to be outside enjoying the warm weather in the backyard. Especially this year, having just come out of a Netflix-heavy winter, it’s the first in a long time we have no travel plans.

July, though, was a rainy month. During a particularly wet evening, my husband suggested we sit out on our covered front porch. With a bottle of red and two rocking chairs, we watched the rain, listened to the soothing sounds of rolling thunder, and talked for hours.

It was wonderful.

Two nights later, more rain. Back to the porch, to the music of raindrops on dogwood leaves, on warm bricks along the walkway, to the clink of glasses as we toasted to the end of another day.

Truce, we say, our toast ever since I laughingly fumbled my words earlier in the season.

It’s been a strange fifteen months. We’re still adjusting to the changes in our world: working from home, fewer outings with friends, continuous together time.

We broke our quick tradition the following evening, sitting on the rockers when orange and pink replaced the gray sky. As the sky darkened, we watched fireflies dot the front lawn, the baby rabbits that seemed to have materialized this summer more than any other, graze the grass. Maybe we didn’t notice them in the past because we were too busy. Running out. Away on vacations. On the couch.

A car drove by. Neighbors walked their dog past.

“What do you think people are saying about us?” my husband asked as the Shepard pulled the couple along.

“There are those alcoholics who think they live in Brooklyn.”

He sipped. “You think?”

“No. They’re saying can you believe those old people still enjoy each other’s company?”

The truth is, we don’t care. We have a lot to celebrate: summer, marriage, friendship. Life.

A few weeks ago, during another night on the porch, a friend passed by on his way home from work, saw us and stopped. He sprinted up the driveway, dodging raindrops. We poured him a glass of wine and caught up. When his suit dried, he left us to continue home.

It’s August already. Things are moving fast, so we’re making every effort not to. If we’ve learned nothing else from the past year, it’s that slowing down is a good thing. Do what brings you joy.

Sitting on the porch in the rain with my husband brings me joy.

I put dinner in the oven the other night. He walked into the kitchen. “Is that thunder?”

We stopped to listen. I smiled.

“I’ll get the glasses.”

To Say Goodbye

We never quite know what our last words will be to those we love. We part ways with a hug, a kiss, or a wave, without a second thought.

You left us a few days ago, during this strange time, and we weren’t there to say Goodbye. Instead, we’re left with mixed emotions: sadness, frustration, regret, and love.

There are things I want to say. I’m sorry. I’m sorry everyone who loved you couldn’t be by your side during your last days.

If I knew our last conversation would be our last, I would have said, Thank you.

Thank you for being the kind, humble, and giving man that you were.
Thank you for loving my children.
Thank you for teaching my husband how to sail, and for countless days on the water all those summers ago.
Thank you for sharing stories of your youth, and teaching us the history of our town.
Thank you for loving my mother for the past twenty-five years.
Thank you for sharing your family with our family.
Thank you for the wonderful memories that we have to hold onto.

As you sail into the setting sun, with the warm wind at your back, I pray you are at peace.

James I. Baylis 1930- 2020

Moving on

For the first years of my son’s life, he was my shadow. On any given day, you’d find him on my hip, or on my lap, or hugging a leg. When I walked away, he followed. When I went out with my husband or friends, he cried. When he woke up in the morning, or from a nap, he called for me. It was endearing, exhausting, and short-lived (if you consider three years short).

About 13 years ago, both of my boys wrestled. For a few months in the winter, I brought them to practice at the high school. I sat in the hall waiting for one, then the other, to enjoy rolling around on thick, smelly mats in the gym with their peers. 

One evening I was with my younger son, my shadow, waiting for the older one to finish his practice when a coach came out of the gym with a large box. He placed the box on the floor and asked me if I would help him to hand out tournament t-shirts to the players as they left. 

Of course, I agreed. 

As each boy came out, I found his size and gave it to him. To do this, I had to lean over and reach inside the box which caused my sweater to rise a few inches above my waist exposing my lower back. Each time this happened, I felt a small hand pull the sweater down to cover me. My son was almost five years old then. 

Last week we dropped this son at college for the first time. We found his room, unpacked his belongings, made his bed, set up his television, and too soon, said goodbye. 

I’m not sure why that memory, so clear in my mind, came to me. I can’t remember what I did yesterday. But I grabbed it, reliving the moment outside of that gym. Last week, I walked away from this child who used to pull down the back of my sweater so my skin wouldn’t show. I walked away and he didn’t follow, or cry, or call for me. 

My heart is full of small, yet significant memories such as this, and to know I can draw upon them when I need brings me comfort. 

This is the beginning of a new stage for us. And maybe, just maybe, the memories we’ve made over the years, the ones I hold like treasures, will make the moving on hurt less.

This is the face I saw at college drop-off 

 

“Do the Hustle…”

As I grow older and enjoy new experiences, my mind cannot hold onto every memory. I wish I could recall more from my youth or even the countless treasured ones of my babies before they so quickly became young men. I try, but I can’t. I guess it’s why we take pictures and videos. It’s why we tell stories. My boys are fortunate enough to be growing up with their grandparents. Grandparents are great storytellers. Through them, we learn about who we are and where we come from.

One significant childhood memory I do hold, though, is of my parents dancing. I don’t remember how old I was when they took lessons. Old enough to remember how they looked as they practiced the Hustle in the living room, and young enough not to want to be anywhere else but on that couch watching them. Maybe I can recall that with such clarity because it wasn’t a one-time incident. They practiced all the time, for hours.

We took a family vacation every year until I was sixteen. Holiday dinners, summer barbeques and New Year’s Eve parties at my house were the norm. So, when my parents decided to separate in my eighteenth year, it came as somewhat of a surprise. My friends were shocked. But they dance together! was a common response. They never fight, was another.

I learned then that you don’t have to fight or hate each other to no longer want to be married. Sometimes, it happens. Even to two people who are fond of each other.

For twenty years since, I’ve had birthday parties for my children, holiday dinners and various gatherings. Both of my parents attended, every time, each with their significant others. Dad likes Mom’s husband and Mom likes Dad’s girlfriend. Sometimes, they talk and occasionally hang out without me involved. They buy each other Christmas and birthday gifts. It’s the best possible scenario for the child of divorced parents.

About four years ago, my mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. It’s taking its toll on a woman who was once vibrant, loud and full of energy. But it can’t squelch her drive to keep going. Mom joined a boxing class specifically for Parkinson’s patients. A put-up-your-dukes, hour long session where she pushes herself to stay strong. Its offered once a week. Not enough.

Earlier this year, my father married his long-time love. The wedding was beautiful, the guest list, intimate. Mom was there, as was her husband, her sisters and nieces. I kid you not. Mom’s family took up half the room. At one point, my father helped my mother to the dance floor. She was stiff and slow, but oh so happy.

Dad, an awesome dance instructor for over twenty years, decided to research the benefits of dancing for Parkinson’s patients. He put together a plan and presented it to my mother. Now, they get together every week. He teaches her to Rhumba, Hustle, Line Dance. She’s got the Electric Slide down. Her doctor can’t believe how her mobility has improved.

I’m thankful for so many things this year. But I count my blessings most for two people who have taught me, by example, that love comes in so many different forms. Though a marriage may not last, affection, respect and kindness endures.

The Big 5-0

Well, I’m here. I turned 50 this week.

It’s only a number, I know. But let’s face it. It’s a pretty big number.  Yesterday, I was twenty years old with my life in front of me. This age didn’t even factor into my thoughts.  And yet, now I can say…

I’ve lived half a century. Five decades. I’ve had friends for over 40 years. I’m a child of the 70’s and 80’s, when music was good, Mick Jagger was in his prime, Dudley Moore was Arthur, Rocky movies weren’t considered cheesy and we quoted lines from Sixteen Candles. (I should mention here that Molly Ringwald and Anthony Michael Hall are both turning 50 this year.) We ran around outside until sundown without anyone worrying about us. Fortnight meant two weeks. Atari, Space Invaders and Pac-Man were the video games we played and no one tried to kill virtual people.

Now I go to “reunions.” Songs I listened to in my youth and still do today, are considered classics. They’re re-making movies I watched in the theaters (yes, including Arthur). We no longer have David Cassidy, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett; icons of the day. I went to concerts with my friends and we  didn’t take selfies to prove we were there.

For these reasons, I embrace my age. I treasure my memories, the times I shared with the family and friends I grew up with and love and still see. I truly believe my generation enjoyed the last, great decades .

There’s a saying that with age comes wisdom. I can’t say. I’m still learning, still trying to figure out my path, which is always changing (Did I mention I work at an accounting firm?). Hopefully, I’ll always keep learning and changing.

Until you put a mirror in front of me, I still feel like the twenty-year-old optimistic girl with her life in front of her. I just might move a tad slower.

I wonder what the next decade will bring. I hope to God it doesn’t pass by as quickly as the previous ones. Maybe that’s what I’ve learned – that life is not to be taken for granted, that I should make the most of the time given to me.

ice cream, of course

 

Something to think about.

I’m going to go now. It’s nearing five o’clock. Time to eat.

Hello!

It’s me. You know. Me. The one who seemed to drop off the radar for the past, oh..several months.

Hi. (I’m waving)

The last we connected, I was sending my first born off to college, commemorating the event with a nostalgic, Nope, Not Me post which expressed my sentiments at the time. Since then, the boy finished his freshman year and has returned to the nest for the summer. In a flash. My son being away was not the reason for my absence these past months. I have another reason.

I got a J.O.B.

That’s right. My first full-time-out-of-the-house job in 15 years. Now, you may ask, Where does someone who loves to write get a job?

If you answered: An accounting firm, you’d be a little nuts, but correct.

I know what you’re thinking. An accounting firm is the place where creativity goes to die.

Okay, maybe that’s what I was thinking.

So, I’ve been adapting these past months to the daily grind, as I like to refer to my new lifestyle. As difficult as the change is (I know, most of the world works, but give me this, ok? I’ve been wearing shirts with hoods for the past umpteen years and my commute went from fifteen steps to my home office to navigating traffic every single weekday, both ways, showered (by 7:00 am!) and dressed in pants and a blouse),  I find the most difficult adjustment for me is knowing nothing and having to learn everything. At almost fifty. I’ll give you an example: Since my last foray in an office, at the turn of the century, copy machines can now staple. Clearly, I’ve missed much.

So, among other things (cooking, cleaning), I gave up blogging for a bit. To adjust. To focus. To learn.

What I didn’t give up, is writing my novel. Which leads me to my news: I’m so proud to share that The Fabric of Us will be out this summer. August-ish. Here’s the blurb:

On the eve of Olivia Bennet’s fiftieth birthday, she and her husband, Chris, toast to the next stage of their lives. Their children are settled; Ella is married and planning a family and Nick is starting his senior year at college. After thirty years of sacrifices and struggles for their family, it is finally time to do all of things they’ve longed to do as a couple.

But life, always unpredictable, has other plans for the Bennets when Olivia gets shocking news that threatens all that she and Chris have built together.

Alternating between the past and present, The Fabric of Us beautifully unfolds the layers of a devoted marriage, exposing an interwoven thread of secrets and consequences that threaten to unravel a relationship once believed to be built on love, trust and faith.

Currently, I’m working on the cover with my fan-tabulous graphic designer and friend, Suzanne, (who also runs a publishing company). Suzanne designed my first two books.  I’m in good hands.

So, that’s what’s been going on with me.

I’ve missed you guys. I hope you’re still within earshot (you know what I mean). We have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll be sure to touch base weekly bi-weekly more often.

I hope you’re all well. Drop me a line and let me know what you’re up to.

I’m all ears.

~Kimberly

Nope. Not me.

As we come upon the final days before taking you to college, I make a vow to myself. I’ll be strong, happy and excited, as you are. I’ll feel the optimism you feel, the readiness for you to leave us as I know you are.

I will not miss the sound of your infectious laughter in the house or your wonderful sense of humor at the dinner table. I won’t miss passing your bedroom and glimpsing you sleeping or listening to your music. I’m not at all worried about you being so far from home. I’m not concerned that you’ll make the right choices.

I will not overthink what you bring to decorate your new room, the space that will be your home for the next nine months and hope that you are safe and happy and comfortable.

I won’t worry if we prepared you well to be on your own for the first time.

I won’t cry when we say goodbye, when we drive away leaving you behind. I won’t see this as you wave from your building. 

I won’t count the days until Parents Weekend or Thanksgiving break or end of term.  I won’t wonder where the time went, how fast you grew, how beautiful you are.

I won’t miss you.

Nope. Not me.

Mother’s Day

So, this happened in the blink of an eye.

Yesterday

Today

Sixteen years ago I was in a mall parking lot, wrestling with a foldable stroller while my toddler waited in the car to be released from his carseat. A woman passed me and said “I don’t miss those days.” I glared at her, finally got the stroller upright and locked and watched her walk away, by herself, carrying only a small purse. The memory is so clear, it’s as if it just happened.

Tomorrow will be my 18th Mother’s Day. Eighteen years of celebrating the hardest, most rewarding job I will ever have. Through the years, this day has changed significantly for me. I no longer receive hand-made cards and gifts with cute rhyming poems, cut-out hands listing reasons why I’m loved. My sons don’t run into my room at six am, jump on me and try to pry my eyelids open because they can’t wait another moment to hug or kiss me.

I no longer want to escape for an afternoon, spend some time shopping by myself, eat at a restaurant where the only meat I have to cut is my own, wearing something feminine, a nice break from spit-stained jeans.

Now, I have more free time than I know what to do with. My boys sleep until noon on the weekends leaving my husband and I to eat breakfast alone, giving me a glimpse into our future. It will be just us again soon. He and I, before the adventure began.

I’m not saying Mother’s Day is not wonderful now. It is. I’m surrounded by three men who I love more than I thought was possible. I can’t ask for more. It’s just…different.

I am also fortunate enough to be able to spend the day with my mother. Many of my friends don’t enjoy the same luxury. Their Mother’s Day will be spent with the memory of the very first person who loved them unconditionally. If you have your mother, hold onto her a bit longer when you see her.  You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

I look at the moms of young children, at the store, the exasperation on their faces as they try to focus on their task while the repetitive Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, follows them up and down the aisles. Don’t take it for granted, I want to tell them. Don’t wish for these days to pass because they will – without mercy. And you’ll be nearing fifty, getting ready to send your baby to college, wishing for one more peanut-butter crusted, sticky-hugged, Sesame Street filled day.

I am now that woman in the parking lot who passed the younger me, struggling with the stroller. With one difference: I do miss those days. I miss them like crazy.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Hold The Turkey

Growing up, Thanksgivings were spent at my grandparent’s house. Seventeen to twenty of our family members (depending on what year it was) would congregate in their small house for the day. While the adults passed the time in the kitchen and living room, my cousins, my brother and I would hang out in grandma’s bedroom. We had no games, no videos, no music, but we were never bored. We made up things to do – anything to keep ourselves entertained while we waited…

Let me pause here to say that I love my family. My aunts, uncles, and cousins are my favorite people. We’re close and I am truly thankful to have them. But I would be remiss if I didn’t admit that the highlight of the day was the moment my grandfather announced supper was ready. In a rush of euphoric glee, we’d drop what we were doing, gather around the extended table in the kitchen and watch as he placed the large, tan ceramic bowl in the center with the simple instruction. “Mangia!”

Under a thick haze of Camel cigarette smoke, and amid the threat of misdirected fork prongs, we simultaneously dug into that bowl and feasted on homemade, melt-in-your-mouth raviolis. There was no one serving us. We learned to fend for ourselves. I became a fork-wielding master at an early age. Over conversation and jokes, we inhaled in minutes what took Grandpa hours and hours to make.

That ceramic bowl was center of every holiday spent at that house. When that bowl came out, it brought the sun with it.

After every ravi was gone, we rolled ourselves from the table and in a self-induced food coma, continued our play. Two hours later, we were called back to the table for the traditional turkey dinner. Life in an Italian-American family.

I never went for the turkey. I’d sit at the children’s section of the table, still full, and pick on stuffing and potatoes, reminiscing about the beloved ravis I hadn’t yet digested. I also knew there would be desserts coming later. It was an eat-fest. It was wonderful.

When the sky darkened and the dishes were washed (no dishwasher mind you. As we got older we earned the coveted position as head washer or dryer), the children retired to the living room to watch The Wizard of Oz, while the adults stayed in the kitchen playing cards for money.

Every Thanksgiving without fail, this is what we did, until we lost our grandparents. I was twenty-five when my grandmother died. When my grandfather passed four years later, I stood at his casket knowing that life would never be the same. Thanksgiving would never be the same.

I was right.

While I stood at his casket saying my silent so long, one of my cousins stood next to me and she asked the question that was on all of our minds that somber day. “Who do you think will get the ravioli bowl?”

Of course, it went to one of his children.

I’m almost fifty now and I sit at a different Thanksgiving table with my husband and our children. Tomorrow, as I do every year, I’ll give thanks for the childhood I had, the family I love, my grandparents, who I miss terribly and for the raviolis I enjoyed for almost three decades. I have a replica of Grandpa’s ravioli bowl, sent to me a few years ago by an aunt who found it at a flea market down south. When I opened the box and saw it, I was overwhelmed with sadness and gratitude. I treasure the countless memories of my youth spent around this bowl. Laughter, tears, always love, and raviolis.

So, no turkey for me this year. I’ll be feasting on memories of times gone by.

I wish you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving.