The house is quiet, not in the relaxing, lazy, summer kind of way, but in the empty, listening, waiting kind of way. Where are the thumps from above the kitchen, the sound of the phone that often drops from my daughter’s bedside table onto the floor when she reaches for it upon waking?
Where are the feet that emerge as the other one descends the steps into the kitchen, ready for the day, on her way to somewhere, usually with a plan? I turn expectantly, poised for that fresh, unlined face to appear above the feet. I never get tired of looking at their faces, judging what the mood is. Are they up for conversation? One usually yes, the other almost always no. Sometimes her eyes are puffy, her hair unbrushed. She beelines for the coffee machine, usually protesting having to answer some question. “I know, I know … I don’t know, ok? Please don’t talk to me right now. I’m sorry, I just need coffee.”
Coffee. The twins are 18, and this last year of high school — spent mostly at home because of Covid — has been all about coffee in the morning. “We are a coffee family,” one pronounced a few months ago, pouring herself a large mug. Sometimes the machine goes through three rounds in a morning. How can four people drink so much coffee? I wonder.
They have been in a summer resort town for the last month, working a few miles from the town center at a restaurant and living with friends. My husband and I recently came from spending a week there after driving them over. One morning in town, as I ducked out of a shop to take a phone call from one daughter, I looked up from my perch on a bench to see the other one running up the sidewalk, carrying a tray of iced lattes from the coffee shop down the block.
“Hi sweetie!” I wave. Into the phone I say, “Your sister is walking up the sidewalk!”
“Mom, we’re rushing to work! Sorry, I can’t stop,” says the drink-laden teen, zooming past me in her work uniform.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re parked up the street!” she calls back over her shoulder.
Still holding the phone to my ear, I proceed to follow her to the corner, where the car is idling and her sister is behind the wheel. As the coffee carrier scrambles into the car, I peak through the passenger window. “Hi!” I say brightly to the driver, and into my phone.
She barely glances at me and shifts the car into gear. “Why are you driving all the way into town to get coffee?” I ask incredulously as they try to make their getaway.
“We were out of coffee at the house!” comes the answer, fading behind the car now disappearing up the street.
It’s back-to-school time once again. There’s an oddly appropriate redundancy in that phrase — we’re not just going back, we’re going back again. Been there, done that to death. Nothing new to say — hasn’t it all been said? Doesn’t it get said every year?
Time to stock up on school supplies! Time to schedule carpools and classes! Time to shop for shoes and clothes! Maybe you’re buying shorts that the kids will wear for a few weeks in September, where it’s suddenly hotter than it was all summer, because the ones you got in May now don’t fit.
Time to set that alarm again! Time to get back into rush-hour traffic! Time to utter “Ugh, re-entry!”
Time for some people to say, “I loved summer, but by the end was counting the days til school started,” or, “I’m SO ready for back to school,” or, “It was the longest summer ever!”
Time for others to say, “Summer could never last long enough,” or, “I’m NEVER ready for back to school,” or, “It was the shortest summer ever!”
Goodbye to all that summer…
For some parents with full-time jobs and little or no vacation, maybe their kids were in camp or other programs all summer, and this “back to school” isn’t really back at all. It’s where they’ve been all along.
For others, maybe the “lazy days of summer” were a bit too lazy, and the schedule that “back to school” brings is a greeted with relief. Alternatively, maybe summer was more exhausting than the school year. Maybe you crammed every family member and the dog in the car and road-tripped your way up, down, around, and through summer.
And yet for others, maybe starting the school year again is literally like a rocket re-entering the atmosphere, the family shedding parts of an idyllic summer as it crashes back down to earth.
Yes, we’re all getting back in the swing, back to the grind. Back in the car, the kitchen, the office. Back on the sidelines, the bleachers, the ball fields. Back to reality.
But … Are we really back?
Is any season ever the same as it was in years past? Is any day, hour, minute? We’re all facing something new, no matter how “back” in it we are. My three children are, for the moment, all in the same school — the parental equivalent of a triple sow-cow, double toe-loop. So my landing “back” should be pretty well-cushioned. Not too many re-inventions this year.
Yet I find myself looking forward to the coming school year mostly when I ponder what’s new about it, what’s changing, and what’s maybe even surprising — the unknowns in store.
This may be triggered by something as simple as a new sport or teacher, a new volunteer or work project. But it’s something that shakes up the routine, that energizes the field. Because otherwise, when I think about going “back” this time of year, I feel a bit complacent, a tad bored, a little stale.
No, I much prefer to think about going “onward” to school, moving “into” the fall, heading “toward”… good things to come.
Today’s post is something a little different. I’m participating in a “blog hop,” an effort by some of us bloggers to introduce readers and each other to other interesting blogs. It includes answering four questions to give an idea of why we write and how our blogging process works.
One of my fellow blog hoppers is Denise Powers, an American in Paris who, when she moved there, created her blog “I Would Read That.” Denise and I were in a writing group a few years ago, and I’ve loved keeping up with her through her very funny, sharply written posts about life in France with her French poodle, Ferdinand. Here are a few bon mots:
“Apparently standard poodles are virtually unknown in France, except by reputation, much as one might know of a hippo or a giraffe, but never expect to meet one on the street.”
One of the things I love about Denise’s blog is living vicariously through her. Many of us dream of one day picking up and moving to another country, and she actually did it.
Also check out “Literary Mileage,” a blog from another wonderful writer, Judy Leaver. She splits her time between Washington, DC, and South Florida, balancing supporting herself through writing while living a fun and art-filled life. For instance, currently Judy is living in Mexico for a month, studying Spanish.
OK, so here are my brief answers to the four questions:
1. What am I working on (think about that metaphorically)?
The short answer is that I’m usually working on a) being a better person — because it’s often so hard; and b) finding the humor in being human.
2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I’m not sure it really does. I write about what I’m thinking about, what I’m observing. So it differs from other first-person writing in that it’s coming from me. It’s my voice, for better or worse.
3. Why do I write what I do?
I write for sanity, for clarity, for my own enjoyment and hopefully for others’ too. In writing something specific, hopefully I can touch upon something universal. Writing can be frustrating and confounding and the hardest pursuit imagineable when you’re trying to figure out what you want to say. But when you’ve written what is true and in the way you want to, it’s extremely satisfying.
4. How does your writing process work?
I’m a deadline-oriented person (I used to work in newspapers, the perfect job for procrastinators), so this blog is supposed to act as my external deadline, my place to publish. I have set up a system to try to meet my (internal) blogging goal of once every two weeks by having to “turn in” a piece to “an editor.”
This seems to be working pretty well for me, with the exception of these past two months. I look forward to summer and hopefully more writing since I was inspired to begin this blog last summer.
Bonus question: Is there a better word than “summer”?
I’m basically a lazy person. I really don’t like to exert myself unless there’s a good reason. I’m also basically an optimist. I think life tends to err on the plus side, and things usually turn out how they’re supposed to. These two traits can sometimes lead me down a tricky path, one strewn with over-confidence and under-appreciation of reality. I’ll give you a recent example.
I’m a fair-weather runner, meaning that in the wintertime, unless I’m feeling particularly disgusted with myself, I will find all kinds of reasons not to run (like, it’s 35 degrees outside, or, I’d rather nap). This also means that when spring comes around, I don the running shoes and hit the pavement as though I’ve been running all winter. I have learned over recent years that I need to stretch and strengthen in order to begin again, but for the most part, I just start running.
Two years ago a friend–I’ll call her Olivia–convinced me to run a half marathon just after Labor Day. For a “seasonal” runner (sounds much better), I surprised myself and took this fairly seriously. I trained a bit over the summer and built up my mileage to where I finally ran 10 miles. If you can do 10, I’d heard, you can run a half on race day. Still, I was nervous.
The morning of the race, Olivia showed up at my door red-nosed and stuffed-up, tissues in hand, but still determined to run. (Her work ethic is much stronger than mine.) Suddenly feeling a little lighter, I valiantly told her we’d go as slow as she needed. During the race, I, martyr-like, velcroed myself to her side (“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you!”). At our thankfully civilized pace, I crossed the finish line feeling pretty good about my “accomplishment” alongside my sniffling friend, who’d run 13.1 miles suffering from what her doctor later diagnosed as a full-bore sinus infection.
After skipping last year, we decided to run it again this year. With a big birthday looming, I thought, why not? Half marathon for a half century? Sounds good to me!
Except, I was having a bit of trouble getting motivated this summer. Down at the beach, I’d go running and have to give up after several miles or take breaks because of the heat. I rose early a few mornings, but was also coveting the extra winks and the fact that my children are finally old enough not to burst into my room asking for breakfast or an early schlepp to the ocean. (Guess I love sleep more than running.) I figured I was taking the stairs daily at this three-story beach house. Besides, I’d run this race before, right? It wasn’t so bad … Right??
But by the end of the summer, it hit me: the most I’d managed to run was 8 miles. Once.
Then, a couple of days before the race, Olivia emails me: “I think we should leave at 5:30 a.m. to get to the race in time.”
“I have clock shock,” I email back. I can’t remember the last time I was up at 5:30 a.m. And stayed up.
This isn’t like last time, I start to realize. I am truly nervous. This isn’t just a lark. I could get seriously injured.
But this is also a matter of pride, I tell myself. I am going to run this thing, even if I have to walk it. Although I’d rather not walk.
Well, as it turns out, the week before the race Olivia’s back is acting up (not from running, ironically), and whether she will even participate is a question. While I don’t want her to run and get injured, I am secretly relieved that if she does run, we will not be trying to break any records. Once again, I could be called on to “sacrifice” pace, refusing to leave her in the dust as some other lesser and more competitive friend might do. No, I will be the trusty sidekick, ready to catch her if she collapses–but hopefully not right on top of me.
Considering her track record (ha), I’m not surprised when Olivia decides last-minute to run. The day of the race, she appears at my doorstep having popped three Advil and armed with her phone in case she needs to call for backup. I cross fingers for her and breathe easier for me. This may just work out, and no one will be the wiser that I’m practically winging it.
The starting gun goes off and we are keeping a nice pace, chatting and dodging runners here and there. But as the race progresses, I see that Olivia has not clued into my secret plan. She is barely slowing down at the water stations, and her eyes are focused and determined. Mid-race, as another friend and I stop for some quick stretching, Olivia keeps scooting along with barely a glance backward, calling to us that it’s hard for her to stop and start again. I realize with growing alarm that the only way she’s going to run this race is by not stopping at all. We are the ones being left in the dust.
My friend and I turn to each other, eyes wide, acknowledging that the runner with the ailing back and back-up phone is ahead of us. Somehow, we summon some energy and kick into gear, trying to catch up with the female Forrest Gump.
In the final stretch we do just that, and cross the finish line within a few seconds of each other. As we slap backs and guzzle water, I marvel that it is not even 9:30 a.m. I begin plotting my nap time.
“The obstacle is the path,” as the Zen proverb says. It’s the idea that what we dread or fear is actually what we need to face in order to grow. But starting down that path, and staying on it, isn’t easy, and sometimes we need a few signposts along the way. I’m not saying running a half marathon is the ultimate answer–it’s just a foot race, after all–but it was a challenge I certainly was dreading, and I’m thankful for the friend at my side and the other one up ahead, pulling me further than I thought I could go.
But boy, are my calves sore.
Sometimes you need a little push to get down the path.
I am sitting here on a screen porch on a breezy, cloudy, 70-degree day, in the center of this sand-swept New England town. Strangely, all is quiet except for the chiming of church bells, the murmur of voices in one of the nearby houses (screened windows and doors are always open here this time of year), or conversation from cyclists on the street, their voices rising and fading as they pass. Dishes clink from the small inn next door. Cars and mopeds do venture up this narrow, one-way lane leading out of town, but today, at this moment, the loudest sound is the wind rustling the leaves. And, now, a propeller plane in the distance pricks the silence, and is gone.
This is rare, this moment comprised of sounds that have nothing to do with my voice, with the yelling and calling and cajoling of my three children (and yes, sometimes my husband). How can a house in this bustling summer town be so close to that town, actually in that town, and still be so quiet? I am aware of the neighbor behind our rental house whose back patio I look down on from my kitchen window. There is a large blue and white surfboard propped up against the gray-shingled house, and I see her at her own kitchen sink, wisps of aging yellow-white hair visible, as I do dishes at mine. Is she a renter too? I’ve decided that she is the mother and there is what looks like at least one teenage girl, a long-haired brunette in cut-off jean shorts, and a man–but I can’t figure out if he is the husband or the son; lean and clad in a polo shirt and striped bermuda shorts, he looks too young for one and too old for the other. And who is the surfer? Who wears the wetsuit hanging from the tree out back, drying in the wind?
Who are all these people crammed together in this quiet and bustling little town?
We are the loud ones, I notice. If you don’t know who the loud one is, to paraphrase a saying, it’s probably you. Yes, I had my daughter walk out with me to the street and listen while I instructed her siblings to talk loudly from inside the house. How much could we hear? Not as much as I thought. But then, they weren’t yelling, because of course I asked them to, and that was the end of that.
These quiet, peaceful moments … it’s hard to really inhabit them and fully appreciate them because of the anticipation of their ending. Any second now, the twins could burst through the door, having walked back from their friend’s house where they’ve spent the night. My son could clamber down the creaky back stairs from his bedroom, where he has been reading all morning, and ask for breakfast at lunchtime. Even if I tell him to get his own, there will be conversation, help needed, and the moment (in my mind) will mostly likely be gone. But for now…
Yes, this is a rare sweet spot–this place on the back porch full of intermittent sounds that mark the silence between. I contrast this moment with the same one two days ago, when I was walking into the charming and distraction-filled town with my twin daughters, age 10, and my son, 12. He was lagging behind, having brought his book so he could sit on a bench while I took the girls inside a clothing shop. The girls, on the other hand, were walking so close to me, I was consciously sticking out and slightly waving my hands to keep them from walking on my flip-flopped feet. They are experts at “the box-out”–one on either side of me, slowly nudging closer to each other until I, exasperated, come to a dead stop, quickly scoot around them and run forward a few steps to snatch three seconds of free walking until they run and catch up with me, and the cycle starts again. I remember when they were younger that they often clung to me so successfully as we walked down the street that I felt like I was “wearing” my children. For someone a bit claustrophobic, that’s not a good thing.
I guess things haven’t really changed that much. Yet.
I see the shift happening in the soon-to-be 13-year-old. He is sleeping later, more reluctant to do “kid” things like go the pool for no reason or take a long bike ride. Yet he is the least high-maintenance of the three in some ways, not complaining as I drag him into town with the girls, as long as he has a “Ranger’s Apprentice” volume to read. He stayed home last night when my husband I went to dinner, perfectly content to watch sports on TV, not afraid to be alone. We gave him money to go grab a slice of pizza.
When we got home, he was watching a movie and I asked what he’d eaten: “Two Luna bars,” he replied. I caved and made him a PB&J. Then I settled in next to him on the couch and we watched the rest of “Swindle,” a Nickelodeon original.
He’s still a boy.
Ten and 12-year olds. The sweet spot, I hear my friends say. That time when you still have your kids as kids but can give them enough independence to give yourself some independence. It goes quickly, I hear these friends say. Suddenly all that independence you’ve been waiting for them to get, for you to get — “please stop walking on my feet” — arrives, and you are walking freely, waving your arms ever so slightly at the phantom children closing in on you.
A lone plane slices through the cloudless blue sky.
Through the trees 