Carry On

Each day is a story. Inside each day there exists a plot, as well as a sub-plot or two by the end of it. Each has a cast of characters, a beginning, middle and end. Somewhere in the rising action, a conflict presents itself, or perhaps a question is asked, and the author of the day attempts to resolve the conflict or to answer the question as best she can. On this day, the story is about how and if I can finesse a happy ending.

The main character is twenty-eight-year-old Cliff, my son, who is mostly like every other human being God made. He has preferences, opinions, people he loves and people he tolerates. His list of favorites includes egg sandwiches, music, dancing, his room, his family and his best friend Seth. He has routines, a full life, and the best laugh I've ever heard. He was born with a third copy of the number twenty-one chromosome, a condition that has rendered him...amazing. But he depends greatly on others and is unable to speak more than a few words. Unless he's singing.

 
As the story begins, I sit next to Cliff with my notes in front of me at his yearly ISP meeting, mangling my cuticles under the table as I smile at the four women assembled there to discuss his progress. My younger son accompanied me today at my request. With my husband busy at his office, Max is the logical stand-in.  Max is twenty-two and the second of my three children. The four women are people who spend many hours with Cliff during the week or have an official capacity within the organization. They are kind people, and they maintain a fondness for him. But they will talk about Cliff as if he isn’t there, as will I. It can’t be helped-- he is not capable of entering into the conversation, except for the occasional yes or no answer to questions with obvious answers. “Cliff, you like to go swimming, right? Cliff, it’s fun to come to work, isn’t it?”

I would prefer it if he wasn’t sitting in this small office, captive and bored. But he is legally an adult and it’s his right to be here. Therefore, no one has asked my opinion despite the fact I am his mother and legal guardian. The vans have already left to bring the others to their respective jobs or activities. If they had given Cliff the choice, which is also his right, he would most surely have chosen to be anywhere but here. I pat Cliff’s hand and make funny faces at him to make him laugh. There is no good reason for him to sit here with nothing to do when he should be off somewhere with his co-workers.  He and I are both tired of the rules. If you happen to be born with one more chromosome than most other people have, the rules can become tiresome.

Until the meeting gets underway, everyone indulges in small talk, prompting Max to sit still in his chair hoping he won't attract attention. I had promised he wouldn’t have to say anything; I meant that he would be an observer,  because I want him to learn what occurs at an Individual Support Plan meeting.  Try as he might  to make himself unobtrusive, the women are curious about where he went to school, what he studied, how he feels about being invited here by his mom. I feel his discomfort—we are very much alike—but I love to watch him good-naturedly respond to their questions; like his big brother, he is handsome and charming.

I don’t have to pay full attention in these first moments, and my thoughts drift off. I rearrange my notes and I think about being thirty-nine.  At thirty-nine, I made the decision to become a runner. I wanted to lose weight. Though I was initially motivated by vanity, I became addicted to the way it felt to become lost in thought, immersed in the calming nature of  sunbeams streaming through the breaks in a canopy of trees overhead, It felt peaceful to watch the way Autumn breezes moved leaves around in circles in the road, to catch the scent of freshly-mown grass, feel the chill in the air, even the pelting rain. Running made me happy. When my knee gave out last year, there followed months of physical therapy, then knee surgery followed by more therapy, and the pain moved beyond the physical. The reality was I was no longer a runner. It prompted periods of deep sadness that crept in like fog, and I didn't feel strong. I felt old. It felt a little like someone snatched the seat I was heading for during a game of musical chairs. Celia... you…are…out.

Cliff has been in this program since 2007 when he aged out of the Franklin Public School system. Two days a week he works for a small paycheck; three days a week is spent at a day habilitation where he does volunteer work, gets occupational and speech therapy and plays games. The two programs complement each other, but today our story centers around the two days a week he is here with the friends he made while he was still in school. Until two years ago, his paycheck came from a job he had in a high school cafeteria. When his position as a cafeteria worker was eliminated, the program coordinator had a difficult time finding him other work for which he was skilled. It hasn't been easy, due in part to the lousy economy. It affects the program as well as businesses who are unable to hire extra people. No one is immune. This is why each meeting since he lost his job has an elephant in the room. They dance around the topic because they know I want them to keep trying. It would be easier on them if Cliff went full time to the day hab. Cliff and I are against that plan.

Today, the director tells me, “Cliff is in a 1:4 staff to client ratio, but staff reports it’s difficult to keep him on task. We can’t provide him a one-to-one job coach due to budget cuts. (” Cliff is a “client”, which is program- speak for a person who gets services from the state. If I had the money, I would create my own business, hire Cliff and his friends, call him an employee and give him all the one-to-one he needs. But I don’t have the money.) Under the table, my knee twinges. 

Sometimes these “grown-up” meetings remind me of his school days, particularly those during which I had to endure the endless “can’t-won’t” statements. “Cliff can’t walk independently to the classroom; Cliff can’t focus on a task for longer than a minute or two; Cliff won’t look both ways when he’s crossing the street.” The statements would be delivered as if they were news flashes I wasn't already aware of. Despite my pre-meeting resolve to remain calm and strong, my voice would shake and I had to hold back tears.  I already know his limitations, of course; hearing them spoken out loud is like listening to the news in a looping news cycle-- just at the point of saturation it goes away for a time, only to return with new developments. Just when life has returned to a happy normal, someone reminds you it ain't over. And though you already knew that,some nuance makes it feel fresh again. It becomes magnified—Cliff’s main identity as our son, as Max and Olivia’s big brother, as a friend, a cousin, grandson, is usurped by his student- self or his program- participant-self. News cycles are notorious that way-- just when you think you’ve heard enough, suddenly we’re remembering the anniversary of this or that, and once again we’re struck by its significance.

As if the elephant isn't enough of a conflict, a second one enters. It’s an additional bone of contention lately each time we assemble for these meetings. “What we've noticed here at the program is the friends he followed from school to work--Alex, Meg, Molly, Matthew,--aren’t close with him anymore”, she begins, “so it’s not like they socialize together when they’re here.”  I think about running and my bum knee and the absence of leafy trees overhead.  Though I want to slap the table, I don’t slap the table. I pat Cliff’s hand instead, meeting his eyes, the part of this story in which the climax occurs. From somewhere outside myself, I find my voice. I am running down the road, my breath in measured huffs in sync with my footfalls.   

“Cliff may not socialize with them here," I begin, "but they are still important to him. They care about each other and I don’t think any of us is in the position to assume which people mean something to a person and which ones don’t. He has deep connections to both programs and he benefits from both. Please. It will be terribly disruptive to have him transition away from here completely.”

Everyone nods in assent. No one speaks. Max listens intently and I half expect him to say something in the silence. "Ok, then," says the case worker, "let's reconvene in six months."

Meeting over, my body seems to replicate the cool-down after a three-mile run, slower breaths, exhilaration. For now, nothing will change in Cliff's life.

This day's story has a satisfying denouement.  Cliff goes off to eat his lunch with the staff.  Max is mostly quiet as we leave in our respective cars; I wonder what he thought of his first advocacy experience. I hope he has begun to develop an understanding about the importance of speaking up for what his brother needs, wants, and deserves.

When I get home, I change into my workout clothes. Today I reject any propensity for weakness. My favorite route is flat and long, and a beautiful day stretches out before me. I walk until I can run, careful, short- burst distances at first, just enough to remember how it feels to be thirty-nine again.

 That’s how you do it—one story, one day, one step at a time.

 

 

 

 

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When, Still

"When, Still"

When he was twenty-three and boyishly handsome,

he asked his young wife, “Will you still love me many years from now,

when my hair is sparse and my beard is gray?”

 

“I will love you then, yes.”

 

When he was thirty-five and his arms

could pick her up and lay her down on their bed,

he asked his pretty wife, “Will you still love me many years from now,

when my arms and back are too weak to carry you?”

 

“I will love you then, yes.”

 

When he was fifty and his legs

could climb the stairs to bring her flowers on Sunday mornings,

he asked his beautiful wife, “Will you still love me many years from now,

when I can no longer plant the roses that grow in the garden?”

 

“I will love you then, yes.”

 

When he was seventy-one and he could take her

to all her favorite places in the world,

he asked his lovely wife, “Will you still love me many years from now,

when the only place I wish to be is home?”

 

“I will love you even then, yes.”

 

When he was eighty-five, and his eyes began to fail,

he asked his faithful wife, “Will you still love me when I can no longer

see how beautiful you are?”

 

“I will love you then, yes. I love you now. I’ve loved you always.

 

When he died, and she buried him in the town where

they had spent their lives, she imagined him asking her,

“Will you still love me when I am gone?”

At his grave she stood on unsteady legs and answered him.

 

“You loved me when I was young and pretty.

You loved me when my bones ached and when dark shadows

formed under my eyes. You loved me as I became forgetful and when I cried

for our children moving away.

 

But of all the days I loved you, I loved you most

when you worried I might not.”

 

In all the thousand days that followed, she tended

the garden, and placed flowers in a vase by her bed;

She traveled to the places he had not yet taken her,

and carried his picture in her purse.

 

In all the thousand nights that followed, she closed her eyes to sleep,

dreamed of him standing in the garden,

looking as he did when he was twenty-three,

until one night he held his arms out to her and smiled.

“Come.”

She went, because it was time.

 

And the garden bloomed.

Missing Mary Boies

On a cool fall day in 1986 I received a phone call regarding the shocking death of a dear friend.  I had known Mary for ten years, and lived with her for the first three of them. I was holding Cliff, my then-eight-month-old son, watching as Ken was about to take the air conditioner out of the kitchen window of our first apartment in Port Chester. It’s an odd thing to remember, the removal of an air conditioner. If you ask what I was doing when JFK was killed or where I was on 9/11, I could tell you those circumstances as well. Details small and large become interwoven with tragedy, vivid and enduring bits of memory that complete a story. I stood in my tiny kitchen with the phone to my ear, wondering how in the world she could be gone.  Cliff and I stood at the now unobstructed window, staring out at the trees and sky in silent remembrance. The last time I had seen Mary was soon after Cliff was born. She stopped by my apartment for a visit, before catching a train to the Buffalo suburb where her mother lived. By then she had moved to California, far from the cold climes where she had grown up.

She’s been gone twenty-seven years, but in my middle age I miss her more instead of less. I miss her voice but I can still hear it, the deep, confident tone and the distinctive Buffalo accent. In all this time I have not stopped wishing to sit with her once again, to talk long into the night about all the things we’ve done and seen. My friendship with her made a difference in the way I lead my life.  She taught me not to be afraid of becoming a grown-up.  I’ve not had a friend like her since, and likely won’t again.

“Only your real friends will tell you when your face is dirty.” That was Mary E. Boies, the person who immediately came to mind when I read the Sicilian proverb in a writing journal I own. She had no reservations about telling me the truth. She was funny like that. Never one to keep her opinions to herself, there were occasions in our time as roommates when I failed to honor the roommate contract in some way-- I hadn’t cleaned up after myself for instance, or she was annoyed with my boyfriend for overstaying his welcome--when Mary spoke up like the head of the household, no holding back. After the boyfriend graduated and left Buffalo to return home, I was fairly consumed by student-teaching and developed a mad crush on my cooperating teacher (the term used at the time to describe the teacher-mentor in the classroom) The mad crush lasted for the entire semester, and it concerned her. When I started with the “Mr. Goraj-this” and “Mr. Goraj-that”, she saw the dreamy far-away look in my eyes and warned me to snap out of it. In matters requiring the sensibility usually reserved for grown-ups, Mary excelled. Sometimes I think she burst out of her mother’s womb already filled with the wisdom of a woman, skipping over the awkward years when one makes most of the dumb mistakes of youth. She was ahead of her time, living her dream, like a bigger, blonder version of Mary Tyler Moore’s Mary Richards. She even had the same hat, the one Mary Tyler Moore throws up into the air, come to think of it.  

 I first met Mary in the winter of 1976 when I answered an ad thumb-tacked onto the commuter board, the type with phone number tear-offs at the bottom. She had hand-written the words with a fine-point Sharpie on sturdy construction paper, “Looking for a third roommate—female only”.  Her sign, adorned with her signature graceful bold lettering, stood out among the messy, loose leaf-ball-point-pen signs. We made plans for an interview to take place the next day.

The house was located on busy Elmwood Avenue, a mostly residential area on the main road near our college in Buffalo. Across the street was a submarine sandwich place, a Laundromat and a small convenience store. On the next block was a restaurant named BullFeathers, where Mary and I would later splurge on what were possibly the best Buffalo chicken wings I’ve ever tasted.

I was nineteen years old, naïve, and desperate to find housing after my first apartment didn’t work out. At the interview, I assured her I was not unruly or into self-destructive extra-curricular activities. She trusted that I would be able to pay the rent and utility bills on time. She smiled at me, and made me feel comfortable. Not easy, considering my generalized anxiety and the fact she had a prepared list of questions and house-rules in her hands. We liked each other right away, and I moved into the second floor walk-up right after the Christmas break. To this day, I can’t believe my good fortune.  It was a great apartment, more roomy and cozy than my last place, with a balcony perfect for the consumption of alcohol and people-watching.  Other roommates would come and go over the next three years, but Mary and I remained faithful to our commitments to school and to each other. We got along like sisters, groaning about the amount of schoolwork we had to do, drawing up schedules for bathroom cleaning, and planning the occasional beer and wings party. We’d have hilarious conversations about guys, student-teaching, our third roommate, and the relentless snow. She loved Joni Mitchell and I was obsessed with K.C. and the Sunshine Band.

We didn’t have much in common, really. We got along well because she had a kind heart and an irreverent attitude, two qualities I found appealing. She once talked me into accompanying her to a strip club, where men in skimpy outfits danced provocatively on a five-foot-square “stage” made of cheap plywood.  I was certainly a strip club virgin, and I couldn’t remove the shocked look from my face once the show began. Naturally, Mary thought my expression was priceless, and I didn’t hear the end of it for weeks afterward. My mother doesn’t know this, but Mary and I dared each other to stuff dollar bills into the nether regions of their barely-there thongs. It was odd, it was weird, it was funny, and a little uncomfortable, but it was an experience I’ll never forget.  

I’m not sure why Mary liked me; perhaps she enjoyed being a mentor, and I was like an empty shell waiting to be filled with all the life I hadn’t yet experienced or understood. My innocence, my tendency to follow instead of lead, and my general lack of worldly knowledge put me at risk of screwing up royally. She was only a couple of years older than I, but she had a strong mothering instinct; she handled all the bills and dealt with the landlord. I was immature and mostly clueless about such things. She nurtured and encouraged me, gave me advice and was interested in what I was doing. She seemed to know all the answers.

After she graduated, she chose to remain at 1021 Elmwood Avenue with me and our most recent roommate.  One day, Mary came home in tears. She had found a job as a long-term substitute teacher in one of the local high schools and the kids had been giving her a hard time. Mary was a big girl, but she didn’t have the kind of tough exterior one would need to work with the occasional smart aleck. I thought she was  beautiful, but I don’t think she was comfortable in her curvy body at the time. After four years of working towards her secondary education degree and finishing with honors, she began the process of reinventing herself.  Teaching was in her blood and she was good at it. Ever the optimist she made lemonade out of lemons by working with college students instead.  By that time I had graduated and had moved back home to Westchester, where I found a job teaching junior high school English. Eventually she moved to Hawaii to work at a college as a dorm director; she had found her niche.  

The following year she moved to California to work, again as a dorm director. She was working on her second Masters degree in teaching writing.  I still have a few of the cards she sent me from her home in Arcata. One of them alluded to wanting to experience life as fully as she could. I believe she didn’t see herself growing old. I dismissed it as nonsense, but it wasn’t the first time I had heard her voice her concerns. Because she’d had an older brother who died young, Mary felt a longing for adventure, and a true appreciation for each day in the event a long life would not be her destiny. It was eerily prophetic.

In one of her letters dated 11/6/1984, she asked a question, “Dear ‘Ugly’ (her pet name for me), my thoughts have been with you a lot lately--is there something new? Love, Mary.” I hadn’t yet told her I was pregnant with my first baby.  And when Cliff was born, she was happy for me, giving me the advice and encouragement that was her specialty. She didn’t make a big deal out of the fact that my baby was born with Down syndrome. It didn’t seem to matter.  “You and Ken are lucky to have him, and he’s lucky to have you.” I hope she knew how grateful I felt to hear those words.

 Our all-too-brief friendship remains a jewel in my box of memories.  I can’t explain how it’s possible to love a ghost more and more as I grow older but I do. I especially miss Mary on the days l feel most alone, days where I dwell on what I don’t have, or days I doubt my abilities to write or to teach. I could sure use her advice, though she’d probably just tell me to snap out of it.

She was one of the strongest people I have ever known. But at thirty-one years old, driving her car on a dark, wet and winding California highway, she lost her life. My guardian angel through my college years, Mary had become my ethereal, true guardian angel dressed in white wings.

I still keep in touch with Mary’s sister, Annette. She’s the only connection I have to Mary now. But every so often I sense her big, blond presence and I swear I can hear her voice, “Hey, Ugly, wipe that dirt off your face--it’s not a good look for you.”

 

 

 

 

Thirty-One

Thirty-one

Ten minutes. That’s how long it took me to walk from my house to the corner of Westchester and Wesley Avenues, where the bus stopped each morning around 8:20 in the summer of 1980. Port Chester to White Plains and back again, bus #13 brought me to my summer job at the health department, where I worked logging water samples and reports about bacteria counts from beaches and pools in the area. My first year of teaching just completed, I still needed income for the summer to buy gas for my Chevy Chevette and save money to move out of mom and dad’s home.

Ten minutes. That’s how long it took me to walk from my office to the bus stop at quitting time. Somewhere between my third week of work and my sixth, road construction by my usual bus stop forced me to trudge another block and a half to a different corner. I didn’t much like having to walk the extra distance in the heat or worse, on the occasional rainy day. But I didn’t regret my decision to keep the car parked at home in the driveway; I would have had to pay for parking, and money was tight.

Ten minutes. That’s how long a guy with curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and a killer smile stood staring at me from the alcove of the corner store at my new bus stop, where they sold newspapers and Coca Cola. I was seeing someone at the time, a Social Studies teacher seven years my senior. He was a nice man, but he wasn’t “the one”. I liked that the blonde guy was staring. I was a flirt, I confess, and I wanted to see what would happen. Besides, it was a nice way to spend ten minutes waiting for bus #13. The flirting persisted over several days, until actual words were spoken, and I realized I liked the sound of his voice.

Ten minutes. That’s about how long our first conversation took on the day we first sat side by side on the sticky- hot vinyl seats, where Ken revealed to me that he didn’t own a car and therefore had very little furniture in his apartment. I revealed that I did own a car, and would be happy to drive him downtown to look for a couch and a rug for his living room. In the interest of full disclosure, I mentioned the nice Social Studies teacher boyfriend because I didn’t want this cute blonde guy to make assumptions about my motives. We made plans a few days later to shop at Redi-Cut Carpet and the Salvation Army on Main Street.

Ten minutes. That’s how long we sat on the hood of my car making out (I like the repetition here, but you and I both know it was longer than that), and all thoughts of, and allegiance to, the nice Social Studies teacher had been as easily swept from my brain as tumbleweeds on a breezy day . Just hours before, Ken and I had successfully located a low-pile oriental rug woven in reds and golds, as well as a rust-colored furry couch. (I think furry couches were trendy at the time, even a little bit boho chic.) I was the one to suggest we celebrate our finds at the Cobblestone Restaurant, where I had parked the car where we later, well, you know.

So here we are, thirty-one years later and I realize I have never thanked the city of White Plains, New York, for the excellent upkeep of their streets, especially their bus stops. So thank you to whoever wrote up the work order to dig up the sidewalk where I used to stand and wait. It probably took you all of ten minutes to write it up, but isn’t it amazing how ten minutes here and there can really add up?

Sweet and Sexy!

I am a consumer of junk. I eat junk, I watch junk on television, my husband would say I listen to music that is mostly junk, and I read junk. Malted milk balls, The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Macklemore  (Have you listened to “Thrift Shop” yet? What, What What, What? Poppin’ tags!), tabloids by the grocery store checkout. Preach to me all you want, but junk is FUN!

This week’s junky reading material included People Magazine, specifically the one with the gorgeous country singer on the cover wearing a barely-there cardigan wrapped around her petite frame, one pretty shoulder peeking out of it. I did a double-take when I read the headline. It said, “My Sweet & Sexy Marriage”. The quote underneath was, “I want to be a hot wife.” Once I absorb that critical information, I see that the article will include something about dates at Subway, flirty texting and long-distance love.

If you’re any kind of a real girl, (like I am) as you’re perusing the front cover, you are going to compare yourself to her, as I did. My hair may not be tousled and blonde, but I’m sure I have a sweater just like that, except with pills. I can’t help but have my shoulder stick out of it because apparently wire hangers are bad for polyester blends. But none of that is important. What’s important is comparing her marriage to mine. 

She has a sweet and sexy marriage?  Well, so do I! For instance, she says she feels “bad” that she isn’t home often enough to make sure there’s food in the refrigerator for her husband. All that time spent making gazillions of dollars singing to packed houses is sure to make going to the local grocery store an event that doesn’t happen too often. Ha! That’s nothing! I’m home ALL the time and there is nothing to eat around here.

Flirty texting? Puh-leeze! Here’s how my husband and I flirt: Every few days he replaces the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom but he does it WRONG. On purpose! There is a sweet and sexy reason he installs the roll incorrectly. He knows darn well, after being married to me for almost 31 years, I prefer to pull the paper OVER and down, not UNDER. Sometimes I think, How adorable! He’s teasing me. He’s saying, “See honey? I’m thinking of you every moment. Even in the bathroom!” I hardly ever grumble anymore while I turn it around and install it the correct way. Take that, Carrie Underwood!

They like to go to Subway for “dates”? Does anyone besides me think that’s ridiculous? If I had a gazillion dollars, I would cease and desist with the Subway sandwiches. In fact, Ken and I refuse to go on dates at all, to Subway or anywhere else. We don’t need no stinkin’ dates. We can stay home and have just as much fun, if not more, eating a more respectable rotisserie chicken from Stop ‘n Shop whilst watching “Dancing With the Stars.” Is there a better date than that? I think not.

Let’s discuss long-distance love. First of all, it doesn’t work. I mean, sure, it’s a novelty in the beginning. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. And then you’re all hot for each other because you haven’t had sex (in theory) for a long time. But I’m a firm believer that being away from your spouse for weeks at a time is a recipe for disaster. At some point he’s going to come home and suddenly have an interest in weird food that some co-worker introduced him to. Like sushi and something called shabu shabu. Or worse, he’ll start doing Tai chi in the back yard in full view of the neighbors. She’ll think, what the hell is on this plate and why is he waving his arms around like that? Is he sick? You’ll make him come back into the house and ask, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” When you finally train him back to some semblance of normalcy, it’s only a matter of time until he has to go away again and the cycle repeats itself until you want to stab yourself in the ears when he brings home yet another fusion jazz CD that he purchased from the piano player at the hotel lounge.

My husband and I don’t have to worry about long-distance love. Besides the fact that we never go anywhere (and we like it that way), Ken works in the basement. If I need him, all I have to do is start vacuuming the kitchen. He stomps upstairs to remind me he’s on a conference call and ‘WTF, it sounds like a train arriving at the station above my head’. But it all turns out okay in the end because now he knows the garbage disposal is stopped up.

The best thing about his working from a home office is I don’t have to worry about him cheating on me. Unless he’s got her stashed in the storage room next to his office, I don’t have any doubts about whether he’s faithful to me. Also, I almost never have to vacuum.

I love that Carrie Underwood is worried about her weight, which is somewhere in the 100 to 101 lb. range. She says, “I want to be a hot wife” and uses a personal trainer when she’s on the road, presumably to make sure she works off all the Subway sandwiches she eats. I weigh about a smidge more than she does, and by smidge I mean, well, never mind. I used to have a personal trainer, but had to give her up because I have a slight problem with authority. She was always telling me what to do!  Still, in the “hot wife” department, Carrie has nothing on me! Even if I’m wearing skimpy lingerie, I’m so hot we need to turn the fan on. No, really, we have to turn the fan on. I’ll say something sexy to Ken like, “Hot flash! Turn on the fan and hose me down!” It’s a real turn-on for him, I have to admit.

By the time I finish reading the People article, I almost feel sorry for Miss Carrie Underwood. What she knows about how marriage works over the long haul is about as much as I know about how to fix a garbage disposal. For instance, since neither of them is home for very long before one of them has to leave again, they can “both kind of enjoy missing each other.” Her husband is a hockey player, and he’s on the road a lot. But being a hockey player means he’ll retire sooner than most guys because you hardly ever see an old guy playing hockey.  So she hopes he’ll find another job after that because otherwise he’ll be home all the time and end up miserable, which will make her miserable.  

So let me get this straight: they’ve been married all of three years, and she’s already worrying about him being underfoot when he isn’t “working” anymore? Can’t she just set him up in the East Wing of their mansion? That way, if things are getting moldy in the sweet and sexy department, she can always leave him there for a few weeks and pretend she’s not  home so they can “enjoy missing each other,” just like the old days. Actually, there are times I’ve considered locking the basement door, but just for a few hours while I blast my Justin Bieber album and finish reading The National Enquirer in peace. Then, when I start to miss Ken, I can let him out. What a sweet and sexy time that would be!

Seriously though, I’d like to see the People Magazine cover about thirty years from now, just to catch up with those two lovebirds. That is, if she ever lets him out of the East Wing.

 

Choices

How many choices do we make in a single day? Fifty, a hundred, a thousand? And of those choices, how many are simple decisions like what to eat and how much, or which route to take on your drive home? What of those choices that carry more importance like whether you’ll quit your job, ask someone to marry you, spend money you don’t have, have the baby.  Each choice, large and small, has a reward or a consequence, and nowhere in our imaginations is there a thought that one seemingly harmless choice could carry a weight we may not have the strength to bear. Sometimes, that is precisely what happens.

Sixteen years ago, Ken and I made the choice to move to Massachusetts for a new job and the reward of a better quality of life for our family. It has taken a long time for me to feel at home here, as I had left many friends behind, both mine and those of our children. The closest family members are three hours from here. The transition wasn’t easy, but at some point along the way, I chose to bloom where I was planted.

That choice, like so many choices I’ve made, was for the stability and happiness of my husband and children. Massachusetts is a fantastic place to live, a place full of culture, of natural beauty, of devoted Red Sox fans. We have the best hospitals in the world, some of the best colleges and universities, parks and beaches. Boston has duck boats. Boston has the North End and the Freedom Trail, the Public Garden and Faneuil Hall. We have Quincy Market.

We celebrate Patriot’s Day, and on Patriot’s Day, we have the Boston Marathon.

Thousands of people made the choice to take part in the Marathon as runners, helpers, spectators or fundraisers. There were people of all ages who ran for the sake of running, the challenge of Heartbreak Hill, in memory of or in honor of someone special, or to proudly say they’d done it. Mothers and fathers brought their children, choosing that day to do something fun and exciting, perhaps something out of the ordinary. Some came to support friends or family who had qualified after training for months. For some it was a first foray into an important part of the culture of Boston, while for others, it was a tradition begun years ago.

That Monday, April 15, 2013, the Boston Marathon became a place where tragedy, incomprehensible and heartbreaking, would take the place of an ordinary day. Someone made a choice to place pressure-cooker bombs in benign-looking trash cans. Someone packed each one with BBs, nails and metal brads along with explosives. Someone wanted to inflict grave harm, to make innocent people suffer trauma, injury or death.  The choice was so fraught with hatred that no one standing ten deep in front of the grandstand could have possibly understood it. Who can truly understand that kind of evil intent?

Certainly not an eight-year old boy holding a sign that read, “No more hurting people. Peace”. Certainly not his father, mother and sister standing with him. Certainly not two young women who had their whole lives ahead of them.  And certainly none of the men, women and children whose blood pooled in the street by the finish line.

It’s impossible not to think of the simple choices made that day by a staggering number of unsuspecting victims. Where shall we stand? What time should we stand there? Shall we stay a bit longer? They will never, ever forget what they said to themselves that day, in full expectation of the happy rewards inherent in the spectacle of the triumphant finishers. In the pursuit of an extraordinary day, they instead came away to sit vigil with memories of chaos and pain, loss and grief.

We lost our innocence that day, but not our resolve to maintain our exuberance for life despite the sick efforts of others to erase it.

 As long as I live, New York will always be my first home. But two days ago, on a beautiful sun-filled afternoon of devastating consequences, Massachusetts became my true home. That is my choice. I stand with Boston Strong.



I have asked a friend and fellow writer for her permission to print a powerful piece she wrote on the subject of the Boston Marathon bombings. She has kindly allowed it.

GUEST POST:  by Evelyn Zepf

April 15,2013

 

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how they understood

 Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating, or opening a window,

or just walking dully along

                                                W.H.Auden – Musée des Beaux Arts

 

I think of this poem whenever I hear of senseless, brutal violence against innocents.  After the sick churning in my stomach has passed, and the tears that well up in my eyes have dried on my cheeks; after I see in my imagination what people must be experiencing when their normal lives become a tragedy in just an instant – then, as I come back to myself and feel the sun on my face, I continue on with the task at hand, and I think of this poem:

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters; how they understood

 Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating, or opening a window,

or just walking dully along

 

After learning of disaster, we have to choose how to respond.  If there is no immediate connection, nobody to go to to offer comfort or practical help; if, practically speaking there is no action to take that will make a difference at this moment; I carry on, drive home, cut up vegetables and eat dinner.  My life goes on, but what do I do with the residual miasma of sadness and dread that lingers?  Is there any practical action to take to counter adversity?  Should I tense up, avoid crowds, make my children move out of the city, be ever vigilant?  All of that is energy wasted.  There is no protection against random violence.

 

I choose to let the emotions wash over me.  The miasma of sadness and dread will linger until a breeze blows it away and I recognize that there is still joy in the world, still the joy of simply living.  I know there is pain and suffering but I also know that joy is inherent in the universe. 

As long as I have a choice, I must choose joy. 

 

This Moment

 

When her son was born with Down syndrome, thus began the season of her life she had named “The Changing Season”. His arrival had rearranged everything—her focus, her purpose, her future, and her general view of life. She was no longer responsible for just herself; the world could be cruel and uninviting and she needed for it to change. The season would run the span of the rest of her life, but she believed it an honor and the opportunity of her lifetime, one which she considered a gift bestowed upon her for some greater purpose.

He became a watched child at every age. These days not a child exactly at 28, but still, her child.

At night there are moments when she stands in his room after a he’s had a bad dream, if that’s what it was (she doesn’t know for certain why he wakes up from time to time shouting, “No!” over and over), until his eyes close again and his breathing seems less apneic. She watches him chew his food in fewer bites than is healthy, saying, “Slow down, Cutie Pie. I don’t want you to choke.” She watches him for signs of illness or for boredom, for dry skin or hunger, for icy patches on the driveway he could fall down on, for speeding cars in the road, and for proof he is unaware of people's stares.  She watches because he is a child who must be watched; the probability she’ll miss something is too high. Lately, she’s been watching him for other signs she keeps expecting to see but that haven’t materialized yet. What the hell she’s looking for is not so clear, but she’s hoping to recognize it the way one might recognize a watermelon growing in a strawberry patch.

There is a slim hope nothing will materialize, and that would be best. Considering how close her son was to his grandfather, however, she knew down deep that line of thinking was unrealistic. Each time they travel to visit her mother, she is certain he senses his grandfather’s absence in the rooms he wanders through. On their most recent visit, when Grandpa had been gone for a month, her son listened to the music on his iPod, rhythmically pacing Grandma’s living room. He stopped for long moments to gaze at Grandpa’s picture as he passed it, the one taken at Christmas and placed prominently on the piano. The last time he’d seen it was at the funeral home on a table next to the casket. In the picture, Grandpa is sitting in the dining room with his arms crossed, looking slightly over his right shoulder directly at the camera. It reminds her of  paintings in a museum, the ones with eyes that appear to follow you wherever you move. Except, Grandpa’s expression is more benign, and seems to say, “I’m still here, watching over you, loving you beyond this life” …so it doesn’t surprise her that her son is mesmerized by it.

 “In this moment, I am halfway into the next.” The quote from a Saul Bellow novel was the best description she’d ever heard about the nature of anxiety. It was how she had lived her entire life, a bothersome thing that created disasters in her head—car crashes, planes falling from the sky, broken bones, broken hearts, failures. Each day she fought against it, winning some days and losing others. Most times she kept the sound of it at a steady hum, but from time to time it would rise to a crescendo before she beat it back down into manageable beats.

On one particular day, when her family had traveled to Grandma’s house to celebrate his birthday, she was especially worried because his birthday was one day before Grandpa’s and he would expect Grandpa to be there like he always was. He knew that Grandpa had died but she thought he might not remember or understand the permanence of it. Every birthday they had sat together and sang, wore silly hats and blew out candles. Together, always together.  

When the time arrived to sit at the table in front of his birthday cake, she sang as well as she could though her throat had swelled until it felt like she had swallowed a walnut. But this was the best day of the year, better even, than Christmas, so he was smiling and singing along in his atonal style. Her sister had the idea to sing a second rendition of Happy Birthday to their father, in case he was present in an Other-Dimension. Her son sang to his Grandpa and looked around at his aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings, laughing and laughing. He didn’t cry, nor did he yell, “No!” in the manner of his nocturnal disturbances. His face showed no confusion at singing to someone we couldn't see.

 

 

Sometime later, after the cake and presents, her daughter said excitedly, “Mom, do you see Cliff?” and pointed to her watched brother, his new birthday headphones closing off all but the music in his ears. A sudden quiet descended on the room, because everyone had stopped talking to look over by the piano where he lingered in front of Grandpa’s picture. She understood something essential at that moment, in the midst of grieving and watching, waiting for the anvil to fall: The more she watched, the less she could see. Watching was not free; there was a cost. Her daughter’s delighted observation of her brother brought clarity to the epic fail of the past weeks. All the watching and waiting and worrying had made no difference, except that she had missed so much. At that moment, she did see. It is not within her power to prevent pain or sadness in this child or in her other children for that matter. In seeing, she allowed herself to let go and simply be.

 

Cliff swayed in small movements with the music, his head tilted as if contemplating where to place a puzzle piece. Gazing at the expression on my father’s face, Cliff laughed because Grandpa was there after all.