Thursday, February 28, 2013

I was walking up my driveway yesterday, just coming back from a leisurely walk with my dog, Snickers.  We had walked the long way around as I was feeling guilty about going to work for the rest of the day and she would be inside alone for awhile.

                As I got close to the front yard, catching my eye was a small round piece of white paper sticking up out of the grass. It was weathered and worn from being outside in the recent rain and wind. There was a pre-existing hole in the top like it was meant to be attached to something by a string or ribbon perhaps.

                I started to walk on by, thinking it wasn’t worth my time and energy to stoop down to pick it up and put it in the trash can.  My justification for my momentary laziness told me it was a meaningless lightweight piece of paper and it would most likely blow away again, to another yard or into the ditch perhaps.

                Almost past it, I looked to my left one last time and noticed writing on it.  An involuntarily force took over, I turned and walked across the front lawn and bent down to pick it up. It was made of sturdy weight paper and was sitting between two blades of winter brown grass, perfectly upright. My eyes quickly scanned the endearing words, “I Love You Holly.  Jason.”

                The words hit me, taking my breath for a second and I felt guilty that I almost passed it by.  Holding it in my hand felt as if I were holding Jason’s heart; filled with his deepest emotion of love.  It felt disrespectful to throw it back down, yet having it in my possession felt intrusive to their intimacy. I stood for a few moments and reread the words.  It wasn’t a gift tag with the typical “To and From” lines to fill in, where he would just sign “Love, Jason.”  There was something about the   words being uncentered on the round space and the imperfect penmanship that made it feel more perfect in meaning because he had written, “I love you Holly.” 

                With one small change of wording, he had personalized this simple inscription giving her his truest testament of love and commitment. It wasn’t just that he had love for her – he loved her.  Just as she was.  I felt his complete acceptance of her, and more so, I could feel his respect and gratitude that she had chosen to be in his life and he loved her for that alone.

                  Who are Jason and Holly?  And what should I do with this tag? It felt sacred. Are they a young couple, perhaps newlyweds who enjoyed their first Christmas together?  What was the gift that Jason had attached this tag to?  It must have been something she really wanted, or something he really wanted to give her.

                  Or are they a more seasoned couple who are celebrating a milestone anniversary?  Are they both still alive or has one of them left the other now to finish out their life alone?  Why did it end up on my lawn?  Why was it standing so perfectly upright to catch my eye?  The tag itself was worn and weathered but the ink was well intact. Words aren't meaningless and they aren't lightweight;  they are powerful when written down so as to relive their meanings for years, carrying it into a heart over and over again, for as long as the mind is able to remember.  

                I may never know who Holly and Jason are, or were. What matters is that for a period of time, someone deeply loved someone.

 I still have the tag.

Post Summer/Pre-Thanksgiving

November 22, 2010

                As summer time in Virginia hands over the reins to fall time, I am surrounded by beautiful leaves, cooler days and much colder nights.  We have had the heat on for the past couple of weeks and I’m filled with a certain sadness of saying goodbye to the warm sand and ocean for another season.

                My husband and I, after achieving the milestone of our second and last child “almost” grown, made the decision this summer to buy a boat.  Talk about a dream come true..  Mike is terrific at scouring Craig’s List for whatever it is we are looking for and he found several.  We found our dream boat in Virginia Beach and didn’t waste any time making the connection with the owners.  They were an active duty Navy couple and the second owners.  The boat originated in Charleston, SC which just happens to be one of our past duty stations as well, and also where our son was born. 

                The wife explained that they had orders to Japan and her husband had already gone.  She was here alone, like many military wives, finishing her job, arranging the rest of their move, tidying up loose ends – like selling their boat!  She stood ~5’2” and was a bundle of energy – nervous energy and rightfully so.  She offered to let us come over and not only see the boat, but to take us out for a test drive.  Really?  This lady doesn’t even know us.  But military families have an unspoken trust between them. 

                After finding the marina where the boat was kept, the boat was trailered to the ramp next to Bubba’s Seafood Restaurant.  The boat was successfully launched; we all climbed in and went on a ride up the inlet near the Lesner Bridge.  I was finally seeing this land I have had mixed feelings about for 15 years from the water.  I can never quite decide if Virginia is my “home” even after being here so long.  Even though our daughter spent her last four years of high school here and our son was 3 when we came here with the Navy and it’s all he’s ever known, I still have wanderlust about living in my “ideal” location.  But that’s another whole story for another day.

                The boat rode like a dream, quiet and smooth and comfortable.  It is a 24’ Crownline with white seats, bimini cover (a lifesaver from the hot sun), a stereo radio, and even a fish finder!  This little apparatus is wonderful if you really want to see what’s swimming underneath you, right before you are considering jumping in to cool off.   As we rode through the channels and observed the beautiful million dollar plus homes along the shore line, I silently wished we could have had a boat when the kids were still young.  The lost memories...

She showed us all the ins and outs of the boat and then it was time to head back.   We gladly listened to her frustrating stories of people who showed interest in the boat and never showed up; someone who actually gave her a deposit, only to call her back the next week changing his mind and wanting his money back.  This poor lady needed to vent.

                Mike and I talked alone and decided to make the purchase.  The boat had been meticulously cared for, it was the perfect size for us to start with (did I just refer to it as a “starter boat?”) and the price was more than right – she just wanted to unload this boat as time for her was running out.   As we shared our decision with her I watched a 5’2” grown woman fall apart in grateful tears and uncontrollable laughter.  She knocked off another $500, gave us all the life vests, the large tube, ski ropes, the works; even a small two-man blow up dingy followed by several hugs and other expressions of thank you. 

                So we had our first outing on July 4^th weekend; the primitive boaters we were and knew we had a lot to learn, but we instantly fell in love with our boat and the sport.  We spent the remainder of the summer weekends going out as much as we could (afford to fill the gas tank and commit ourselves to the cleaning of it after each trip).  Didn’t know salt water could cause so much havoc if not cleaned off each time. We took advantage of the many different waterways here and chose a new one each time. We explored channels, rivers, and the Chesapeake Bay as our hair blew in the wind (mine anyway) and we marveled at how different the view is from the water.  We rode under interstate bridges and watched cars buzz overhead through the steel grates. Pulling over to a quiet area, we enjoyed our lunch from the cooler while listening to the radio. We waved at other boaters, feeling elated to be a part of this new family. They easily accepted us without even knowing our names by displaying their smiles and hand waves first.  We amused our proud little selves with examining other boats as we passed, assessing the size and cost, liking or disliking the colors and commenting on the brand. We watched our son (and his friends) tube behind the boat, took turns learning to drive and found a favorite swimming spot. We spent his 17^th birthday out boating and tubing and I’ve never seen such unadulterated joy on three boys faces.  (..what were we doing before this?)

In August, we made a road trip to Miami to see our daughter and grandson for their birthdays. We enjoyed family time, beautiful beaches and water and a drive down to Key Largo for some snorkeling and great seafood.  We spent a week of great vacation time, exploring South Beach and also talking of what fun it would be to have our boat with us.  We were home just one week when on a Sunday we were hit with a harsh reality of how fragile life and fun can be.  Mike suffered a stroke, spent three days in the hospital and I felt like the world spun upside down.  We were fortunate, it was a small one and he recovered fairly quickly without any damage.  (Where did that come from and why now we ask?)  Not to be deterred from a positive attitude and good faith, we were back out in the boat the following weekend. Mike’s brother had flown in from California and we wanted to resume life as we knew it.

On October 10^th, we made our last boat ride of the season.  Brooke and Dylan had surprised me with the news that they were moving home (did I say home?) from Miami and had only seen pictures of our boating fun via Facebook. (God love it) Being able to take them out completed my summer in an indescribable way. I had missed them dearly for two years and the smiles on their faces were only slightly less than mine.  Dylan, who turned 8 in August, sat upfront with eyes closed, head up, wind in his face, enjoying complete freedom and happiness.  He looked at me and said, “I’m so happy to be back in Virginia, Grandma.”  He can’t begin to imagine how happy I am.

Many of our projects at home were put on hold, knowing we would get to them when the water cooled off, the air got cold and we were forced to put the boat away.  This past weekend I reluctantly gave in to the force. We winterized it, filled the gas tank, emptied out all our half-used bottles of sunscreen and other personal belongings.  Mike backed it onto the new cement pad (after a few attempts) and we put the final cover over it (after much struggle with which end was which) and walked away. 

                It was like putting a baby to bed for a long winter nap, knowing that when the warm sunshine of spring makes its appearance next year we will be eager to uncover her, bathe her down, and check all the equipment and head out for our new playground.

 For now, we are busy catching up on those “put-aside” projects and my mind is wandering to my next addiction, the ski slopes. 

Norfolk to Chesapeake - Just a Thursday Afternoon

Although the temperature yesterday was 91, I can feel it coming – fall time; and I love it. Always sad to give a fond farewell to summer and all it offers here, I do love the fall. I drove home from work yesterday appreciating the first turn of a few leaves here and there on trees lining both sides of the highway. It made me drive a little slower, calmer and take notice of the beautiful oranges, slight yellows and tinges of apple red that were quietly present among the many green leaves, against a cloudless blue sky backdrop. As I merged into the heavy traffic that throngs us all Sunday thru Sunday, I felt lighter, happier and peaceful. I stayed in the left lane where necessary and when I could, I moved over to the right lane so as to time my drive home to my own pace. I turned the radio off and just enjoyed the brilliant sunshine and quiet rhythm of my tires on the asphalt. I became unaware of the hurried fast-pacers around me and felt grateful for the change of seasons that gives me something new to look forward to every few months.
The beauty of fall time always sweeps my thoughts directly to where I consider home, Upstate New York; Saratoga Springs to be specific. If you have been there you know the magic of the downtown area and the wonderful feeling of a Victorian town, steeped in history. Although I don’t get there enough for my satisfaction, when I do make a trip back I find it to be differently the same. There is something there with the beauty of the Skidmore College campus, the drive around Saratoga Lake, the well-maintained sprawling Victorian homes lining many of the streets and the sight of the Olde Bryan Inn that captivates my heart. Even with the expansion on the outskirts now offering more shopping and places to stay, I still feel the peace and comfort that I felt the six years I lived there.
I watched my daughter begin Kindergarten there, take her first school bus ride and saw her smiling face through the window while I wept and laughed at her evident independence. I had a house up on a steep hill in Greenfield Center which is approximately a fifteen minute drive from downtown Saratoga. It was a challenge in the winter, with the cold, snowy roads to make it up the hill, turn left into my steep inclined driveway without sliding into a ditch. Sometimes I made it, sometimes I didn’t. I had wonderful neighbors there who helped me as much as they could with my many trials and tribulations. My memories hold all of them in a special grateful and thankful place.
The house sat on almost a full acre lot, complete with woods behind me and across the road. Fall time was something to behold; it was a huge canvas of bold red, yellow and orange for as far as I could see. Unlike Halloween here, where many years my pumpkins have rotted on the porch from the heat of the autumn sun, there is no shortage of frost on the pumpkin in Upstate NY. Trick-or-treating was even done in a snowstorm one year; much to my young daughter’s disgust at having to cover up her costume with a winter parka. If you haven’t ever seen a New England fall, I implore you to make the trip – it’s breathtaking. If you have, you know there is nothing else like it.
Fall time beckons to us to get in our cars and take a leisurely ride or to climb back on our bicycles and gaze at the beauty around us.
And for some, it even says, “come home.”

A Reunion

Late last night my husband, son and I drove out on I-64 to Route 58 towards Suffolk, VA. We were heading out to find a gas station to meet up with a family from N.C. We had exchanged phone numbers earlier in the day and agreed to meet where we were "pretty sure" there was a Shell gas station. The night sky was dark, filled with storm clouds and some much needed rain was hitting the windshield in a sort of reassuring rhythm. Although it felt a little strange to be leaving home so late at night, we all had a bit of excitement at seeing old friends. They had lived next door to us when we bought our first house here in Chesapeake fourteen years ago. Our son Jon-Michael was just three when we moved in and their son, Zack was closer to four. It didn't take long for them to become best friends, inseparable most of the time.
At that age they were playing with firetrucks and still taking an afternoon nap, when we could get them apart. Over the years the toys went from firetrucks, to GI Joes, to miniature hot wheel cars. We shared so many days together, and so many deck parties behind our house at the end of the work week. The adults would all wander over, we would cook simple meals of hot dogs and hamburgers and rinse them down with adult beverages; usually wine for the women, cold beer for the guys. When darkness fell, we weren't deterred from our good time by anything, including hungry mosquitos. The boys ran non-stop into nightime activities of chasing fireflies, running with flashlights and playing hide-n-seek. We gave it up usually late into the night whenever we just couldn't stay out any longer.
As we approached the gas station, we discovered it was a "Kangaroo," not a Shell station but we knew we had the right place; it was the only one out there for miles. We pulled in and saw we had arrived first, so we sat and waited. We quietly talked about how much time had gone by since the day Zacks Mom told us they were moving away to N.C. The boys were around eight and it was the first time I witnessed true sadness on our son's face. We had walked over to their driveway and struggled with holding back the emotions of saying goodbye.
As we watched headlights come and go in and out of the gas station, we finally saw a vehicle with N.C. plates and it pulled up beside us. As we all got out, I couldn't believe the 6' plus frame that climbed out. After the hugs and hellos, we took Zack with us to our house for the next two nights. The next morning, they made plans to drive to the Outer Banks to spend the day with friends at the beach. The boys who used to push their little cars across the floor, complete with the sound effects and dream of driving one someday, had arrived. I watched as they drove away in Jon-Michael's Honda Prelude with sun roof open, windows down, radio blaring. From eight to seventeen had passed in the blink of an eye, even when I thought I was looking. It was good to see them together again. The bodies have grown, the toys have changed, but their smiles remain.