Sounds of the Past

As I walked out of my house this morning, into a day so freshly scrubbed from yesterday’s rain, I thought of other days, long-ago days, spent in the same town, when I was quite young.

I have been told by many people my childhood sounds perfect. No one’s life is perfect, but my folks certainly tried to cushion us from reality. Our town was middle-class. The standard of my childhood was one car per family. Despite that, many of my friends had two cars at their disposal. Either their fathers required a vehicle (as in my case) for their work, or there were so many children a second car was needed just to get someplace.

My mother did not drive. So although we were a two-car family, she never drove anywhere. This was not a problem for us as our town supplied buses to shuttle us back and forth to school. Those buses were also available for after-school activities. So, my brother could get the late bus home from practice each night.

We walked to any activity not associated with school. Scouts, an emergency run for milk or cigarettes, the odd mysterious errand to the drug store. I walked to the store and back. I enjoyed these walks, despite having a steep, long hill in the middle of them. I could usually get a friend to come with me, and we giggled together along the way.

Our house was modest, yet there was room for us. There was only one television growing up, and I don’t ever remember watching television on a black and white set. There were plenty of shows that were not in color, yet, I never watched a show filmed in color in anything other than color. I can still remember the tail of the NBC peacock unfurling to announce the following program was in color. We all watched television together.

My dad sat in the ‘Dad Chair’, reading the newspaper and occasionally looking up at the screen. My mother sat on the sofa, the dog cuddled next to her. My brother would sit in a chair, struggling with his homework, my mother, always close by to help. Having completed my homework long before dinner, I was free to focus entirely on the television. I watched it with my back to my family, lying across the floor.

Bed time was negotiated at the beginning of each school year. In retrospect, it was more of a pronouncement than a negotiation. My mother issued her decree and we followed suit. We received an extra half hour of grace on the weekends.

Food was consumed together as a family. Not only dinner, but breakfast. My life-long aversion to eggs is due to the fact my father ate a soft-boiled egg every morning with his breakfast. To this day, the sight of eggs, prepared in any manner, evokes the smell of his daily egg. I ate cereal with fruit every morning. Cold cereal on all but the most bitter of winter mornings, and then, hot oatmeal. Usually the sight of oatmeal indicated that school had been closed for the day due to snow.

Despite living in suburbia, we rarely barbequed. My father took us to the diner to eat on very hot humid days as our house was not air-conditioned. Perhaps we did this a handful of times during the summer. My mother made a lot of tuna salad during the summer to be eaten with green salad and fruit as dinner. If, after dinner, the house was too warm, my father would drive us to the aerators at the local reservoir. Families from throughout town would be there. Grownups would sit in lawn chairs, reading the newspaper, catching up on gossip, while my friends and I found ways to occupy ourselves. The force of the water cooled the air around us. The 60’s version of a water park.

Our friends tended to be from the neighborhood, so there was always someone around. We played in our yards, on the street, or sometimes simply roamed. Everyone had swings and some had jungle gyms. Usually the street was reserved for games of Dodgeball or Tag. Kickball or Whiffle Ball were played in yards as the street was too narrow to set up bases. My favorite game was Red Light, Green Light. My brother and his friends often took over the backyard to play basketball.

There was a pool in town, but we had a pool in our yard. I don’t think I ever saw my parents swim in it. We could each invite a friend at a time to swim. I remember my father skimming the water after dinner each night and checking the content of the water. The inner tubes and beach balls were left in the pool and my father and brother covered it each night.

My dad was a volunteer fireman in town. When the fire alarm rang, any fireman around was expected to drive to the firehouse. My friends and I knew to seek safe ground on a lawn when the horn blasted. There were a number of firemen on our street, and stop signs were often ignored in their race to get to the trucks.

Once a year the firemen had a picnic for the families. For years they rented the grounds of the convent. The nuns would shock the firemen by coming down and asking for beer. My friends and I were in turn shocked by seeing the bathing suits of the nuns hanging on the clothes line. Basic black one piece suits, yet, so intimate when considered that the only skin we ever saw was their face and hands. The nuns of my childhood wore full habits.

Almost all my friends were Catholic as ours was a town of Catholism. I did know a few Protestants, but always felt their lives were pale in comparison to those of us schooled by nuns and priests. I was 16 before a Jewish family moved into our school. Glenn graduated with us, but I don’t know what happened to him after that.

My father would take us to Rye Playland at least once during the season. I love those days. When my brother grew too old and no longer joined us, my father allowed me to invite a friend. To this day, I love the color and sounds of a carnival.

We were all the same back then. No one wanted to stand out, to differ from the norm. However, one way my family did stand out was the fact we had two telephone lines installed. One was for my father’s business. We were taught how to properly answer it and how to take a message. As my father fixed and sold major appliances, these messages were rather detailed. What type of appliance, approximately how old was it, what was wrong, when would be a good time to return the call. Even as a young child, barely in double-digits, I could coax information from most callers.

One major disadvantage to the second phone line was the number was but one digit removed from the local movie theatre. And as most people seemed to call during our dinner hour to find out information about that night’s movie, my brother was no coward in telling them the theatre was closed for renovations. I lacked such bravado, convinced that somehow the nuns would hear of this and their punishment would be swift. That theatre closed long-ago. I hope it was not due to a lack of customers, discouraged from seeing the latest release by rumored renovations.

The cardinal rule was to be home for dinner. Each mom had a unique way to call at the magic hour. One mom used a bell. She had nine children and it would have taken too long to summon each child. A couple of moms used piercing whistles. My mom would call us by name, always starting with my brother. As we both had two syllable names, it became a sing-song. We might sometimes ignore the first call, but never the second. The outcome of no game was worth the wrath of an ignored summons.

If I had to point to one thing that differs today from yesterday is that I never hear mothers calling their children home for dinner. My neighbors have three daughters, yet the children never stray from their yard. No bells clang, no whistles cut the air, no sing-songy names ring out. The clamor of children playing one minute, and then, suddenly, quiet reigns. I may live in the same town, but it is quieter now than it was those long-ago days.

Separation

23 years after the fact, The Future has separated from us. It is sending ripples throughout our lives. Not smashing waves borne of a hurricane, seeking to damage all that it touches. No, these ripples are like waves slapping against boats in the harbor following the wake of a larger, stronger boat. Look at me each crest seems to say. Look at me. And so we have. We have looked and taken note.

Our first separation came when The Future decided he was no longer a fan of the NY Yankees. He switched his allegiance to the Amazin’s. Many of our friends could not understand how we could let this happen. I still don’t understand the question. After all, he is still a baseball fan and we can still share the love of the game together. In fact, in the early years of his switch, he and I would drive out to Shea Stadium for a couple of games each year and those games are very special memories I can touch upon.

Baseball is a pastoral game, with highs and lows. Each game lasts approximately three hours. During the course of three hours, you talk about the players, the plays within the games, the various fans around you, and life. Basic declarations and simple stories. I basked in those special days, soaking up everything he did and said. I knew those days were limited, soon to be replaced by The Future going to games with friends. It was like being offered to drink from a 100 year old bottle of wine. The wine is limited, but that does not make it any less sweet. And you are left with the memories of having imbibed a sweet, rare vintage.

The second separation happened when The Future moved into an apartment when he was 20. He still lived close enough to come home to do his laundry, but he no longer lived with us. I was very familiar with the apartment he lived in for the first two years of this period. And he even had The Schatz and me over for dinner one night. A dinner he organized and prepared. It too hangs in the Pantheon of Memories. Sitting around a table I knew as well as my own, eating food he prepared himself, sharing laughter in a room that seemed filled with our laughter from over the years, it all had a warm glow. Life does not get any better than this.

And now we enter the spring of the most current separation. The Future has accepted a new challenge at a University. His second job after graduation from college, and he has chosen wisely.

The Schatz has been providing the play-by-play for Iona College’s men’s basketball team for over 25 years. And The Future has been by his side since he was five years old. In a testosterone-fueled Take Your Son to work program, The Schatz provided the team’s play-by-play and The Future provided the water and towels to the players on the bench. As he grew, so did his responsibilities. And to many of the Iona family, The Future was as much of a fixture in the program as was The Schatz.

When he enrolled as a Freshman at Iona, he began an unpaid internship as Manager. Although busy with the requirements of this position and the demands of his college degree, The Schatz and The Future still shared the same team, traveling with the team, living and breathing the ups and downs of a program. And when he graduated, he became the Video Coordinator of Iona. We continued to be a family of Iona.

Now, The Future is part of another family. The Schatz and I are thrilled he is moving up in his chosen career, yet, we mourn the loss of one of the common denominators of our family. We recognize that he is fortunate to now be a part of arguably the best basketball conference in the country. But for the first time, we feel the ache of a child that is leaving.

The Future stands between then Head Coach Jerry Welsh and Assistant Coach Jim Bostic, circa 1994.

A Taxing Situation

Last night I finally opened the last two envelopes from my accountant, signed the tax returns and wrote out the checks. These returns were for my New York State and New Jersey taxes. Yes, I know, I do not live in the State of New Jersey. So, why am I paying money to New Jersey?

The short answer is because The Schatz works one of his jobs in New Jersey. So the Garden State takes out their share of each of his paychecks. However, they are not happy with that amount. So each year, we dutifully send them a tax return with even more money. Last night I wrote a check for over $860.00. I will now pause to allow you to reflect on that figure.

We do not live in the State of New Jersey. Therefore, we do not vote in the State of New Jersey. However, we are paying taxes to the State of New Jersey. I thought Americans had fought a war to protest just such a situation – “No Taxation without Representation”. We are not represented in the State of New Jersey. Yet, each year, I pay money to the State of New Jersey.

In an ironic twist to this situation of taxation with no representation, the State of New Jersey will send me a bill in a couple of months. The bill represents a penalty that they will levy against us because we owed money at the end of the tax year. So, each paycheck they take money out. At the end of the year, we owe them additional money, and then, we are penalized because we did not satisfy our tax obligations in a timely manner.

 And we cannot vote in the State of New Jersey.

What’s in a Name?

Some people have natural nicknames. Susan becomes Sue. David can be shortened to Dave. Some of us received nicknames as children that stuck. My brother had a friend called Fuzzy. His given name was the same as his dad’s, yet he was always called Fuzzy. As far as I know, he uses Fuzzy to this day.

Neither The Schatz nor I have names that can be shortened. I gave The Schatz a nickname when we began to date, and still use it to this day. When we named The Future, we chose a name that is not easily shortened, but we created our own shorthand and used his initials. We are probably the only ones left that still call him that. He never used it outside the house. 

I never had a childhood nickname. However, I was reminded of one today a friend developed. She alone used it. No one ever picked up on it, and when I graduated and lost touch with this friend, my nickname was lost. Until today. She contacted me and used that long ago name in her email. And it brought me back to a time of innocence. Of sleep-overs and passing notes in class. And giggling.

Quite often, those that have childhood nicknames revert back to their given names as they grow older. Often they make excuses; “Charlie is for a kid and I’m a grown man”. I’m not quite sure what that’s supposed to mean. Names come in and out of fashion and once so named, very few people go to the lengths of legally changing it. (I do have a friend that did it, but chose to wait until she changed schools. This way she had less explaining to do.) So why change a nickname simply because you can now legally drive?

I like living in a world where there are Fuzzy’s and Babe’s. Yes, there is a time for formality, but I really believe that most of life can stand a few more Fuzzy’s and a lot less Richard’s. Not that there is anything wrong with one name over another. But I suspect that just hearing the name Fuzzy makes people relax. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Looking for Heaven

Be honest. We all do it. I suspect women do it more than men, but we all do it. If you are reading this blog, you have sent a mass email at least once in your life. You find a joke, a story, a picture, and you think your friends will want to, need to, see it. So you click forward, type in a bunch of names, and hit send. I recently sent one that spoke of a man walking along a road, with his dog, who realized he was dead. The point of the story was the man was looking for heaven.

I liked the email because I found the image of The Couz and I wandering around looking for Heaven very soothing. However, as a card-carrying, Sunday go to meeting Catholic, I attached a note to that email explaining that Catholics are taught animals don’t go to heaven. I find the image soothing, but the fine print codicil is that it’s never going to happen in my Catholic hereafter.

(The basic tenant is that pets don’t know right from wrong, so therefore they can’t go to heaven.) I can’t think of another email I’ve sent through the years that generated as much feedback as that one. Apparently many people (Catholics and non-Catholics alike) did not know that Catholics are taught that pets do not go to heaven. And not one person admitted to believing what the Church taught on this subject.

Please note that I have said Catholics are taught. I did not say that Catholics believe. This is one of the major differences in the Church of my youth and the Church of 2010. We are taught. Hands up if you can recite an Act of Faith. And for those who can’t and for the non-Catholics:

O my God, I firmly believe all the truths that the Holy Catholic Church believes and teaches; I believe these truths, O Lord, because Thou, the infallible Truth, hast revealed them to her; in this faith I am resolved to live and die. Amen.

(The emphasis above is mine.) We are taught, therefore we believe. Except we don’t. Not anymore. At least not in America. We are taught, and we’ll decide what to believe thank you for asking.

Hands up all those who gave something up for Lent. I know, that’s not a rule. (Note to non-Catholics. If it was a rule, Catholics would have to confess not giving something up for Lent before receiving Absolution before we could receive Communion which we believe is the Body of Christ. Which in turn might lead to shorter Communion lines on Easter Sunday.)

However, we were all taught to give something up that we enjoyed or something we do a lot to identify with Christ’s suffering (among other reasons). And so each year I give something up. Sometimes it’s a slam dunk. Sometimes it’s harder to think of something that I will truly miss. (It’s easy for me to give up ice cream. I’m not a big fan. If I gave it up for 40 days, I probably wouldn’t even notice it’s absence.)

I tend to go towards the breaking of questionable habits. Give a habit up for the 40 days of Lent and the bad habit is gone. This year I gave up Chinese food and Black and White cookies. I am always a better person for having given something up.

OK – I know, you’re asking, how the heck are you a better person for having given up Black and White cookies for Lent? Well, for one, I saved $1.75 each time I wanted a cookie and did not buy one. Therefore, my family finances gained. I won’t embarrass myself by estimating how much was added to my finances during the Lenten period.

OK – I know. All you died in the wool taught by the NUNS Catholics are saying I should have donated the $1.75 each time I wanted a Black and White cookie to the poor box. Yes, but then I would be perfect, and that in itself can lead to trouble.

Now, I know that many of my Catholic friends no longer give something up for Lent. I know this because it occasionally comes up and I hear Really? You still give something up for Lent? As the mere fact of self-depravation makes me a better Catholic. Which it doesn’t. (The mere fact I follow RULES makes me a Catholic. And yes, only Catholics are going to understand that.)

OK – let’s make this more real. Abortion is one of those absolutes in the Church. Can’t be Catholic and have an abortion. (I know, I know, you can. Catholics have this magic ceremony called Confession. If you confess to the abortion and are truly sorry and do not plan to have another one, you can have an abortion and still be a Catholic. Kind of like a cake and eat it too scenario. Which brings us neatly back to Black and Whites.)

Abortion goes a bit further. Because not only do Catholics not believe in abortions, they are taught not to support those that do. In other words, we should not vote for a candidate if that candidate supports abortion rights. So, now hands up – how many of us do not support a particular candidate if we know they support the right to choose? Yeah, I thought so. Oh, I know, there are those whose hands shot self-righteously up. But if we are being truthful, sitting in the dark confessional, behind the curtain truthful where no one can actually see you truthful, your hand remained at your side.

Who is right? Is the Church correct in its assessment that if we set the rules you should follow them? Perhaps. It seems easy. Yet, we have a lot of outs. Confession being one of them. Annulments for those who need to opt out of an ill-conceived marriage. The complicated practice of Indulgences.

So if we are taught and choose not to believe, who is the Church to condemn? Haven’t they always found ways to forgive us? Aren’t there always Get out of Jail cards available for the faithful? And in the end, does anyone really know what God will decide on Judgment Day?

As for me, I still give something up for Lent and I am still soothed by that image of The Couz and I walking along together, looking for Heaven.

Friends

Our home wouldn’t be complete without the cutest puppy in the universe and our foster pet, Shooter.  The Future was not in favor of leaving Mt. Vernon to move to a house.  The Schatz and I were trying to sweeten the deal, and we offered a dog.  A cat that The Future had rescued already lived with us, but a dog had been forbidden by the rules of our co-op.

One Sunday, before moving, we trooped off to a pet store that allowed you to play with all the puppies.  I had a certain breed in mind, and while the store did not have that particular dog, The Future and I were soon petting and playing, kissing and hugging to our hearts content.  Unbeknownst to us, The Schatz had made a deal for the store to find us our dog.

We got a phone call not long afterwards to announce the arrival of our newest family member.  They were willing to hold her until we actually moved into the house. So on December 17^th, The Schatz and I and The Future met with the sellers and the legions of realtors and lawyers, signed all the paperwork, wrote all the checks, hugged and kissed the sellers and wished them luck in their new life, promised to take good care of their home, and met the movers in our new driveway.  When everything had been carted in, The Future and I drove to the pet store and picked up the cutest puppy in the universe. The Future named her after his favorite NBA player, Bob Cousy:

Our dog, whilst cute, tenaciously knows her mind. As long as the program is working to her specifications everything is lovely. And she has relatively few needs. She likes to be with us. Because she was but 10 weeks old, and not trained, I wasn’t willing to let her run around the house unsupervised. And I had a house to unpack.  But I found if I put her in an empty packing box, and dragged it from room to room as I worked, she was happy.

And so it continues to today. Cousy’s main goal in life is to be with her people. She doesn’t care what you are doing, as long as she can sit with you. She loves everyone. She loves us, she loves the UPS man, she loves food delivery people, she loves the Girl Scout that sells us cookies, she loves our friends that visit our house, she loves her vet, she loves her groomer, she’s a people puppy.  She’s all wags and wiggles.  If you see her walking in town one day, please come up and introduce yourself. If you don’t, and she sees you, she’ll cry.

The Future adopted a kitten a couple of years ago in the spring during his Junior year of college. At the time, he was living in an apartment in Mt. Vernon. He loves his cat and his cat adores him. During the following college basketball season, when The Future is at his busiest, he worked his usual seven days a week, 15+ hours a day. I didn’t think that was fair to the cat, so I offered to foster him during the season.

I adore Shooter. At the end of the season, The Future suggested Shooter continue to stay with us and I willingly accepted the concept. Shooter is the feline embodiment of The Future. He knows what he wants and will not give up until he gets you on board. And for the most part, he wants to go outside. Morning can’t come soon enough for Shooter. He is almost three now, and he and I have settled into a routine. I let him out first thing in the morning. He comes back inside before I leave for work.

Shooter, also named by The Future, loves to jump. He jumps just because he can. I often pass him in the house, eyeing a potential spot, as if to say “I can make that”.  And he does.  He loves to jump on top of doors and sit, perched, waiting for you to come by.  He jumps on top of the kitchen cupboards and the seven foot high display cabinet.  He spends part of his day on the roof of our house.  Sometimes, I hear him crying to be let in, and when I go to the door and call his name, his head pops down from the roof.  And because he is only comfortable coming in from the deck, you can track his steps as he gallops across the roof to the other side of the house; where he jumps onto the deck and then swaggers into the house.

If we don’t let him out, he will look for ways to let himself out. He can open the screen door of our deck. He is very agile and quick, and can slip out the door as you come in, without you knowing it. Of course, this works against him too. I have heard him crying, and upon investigating, found him shut in a closet.

He and Cousy get on. They run together and wrestle each other. She does not like him to be in the bedroom, ‘her’ room. But as her arthritis prevents her from getting on my bed, he simply walks in at night, jumps on the bed, and watches television with me. At some point, he leaves. I think he likes to sleep in the guest chair of my home office.

After our older cat died at the end of last year, I felt Shooter was isolated; as if he did not have a proper place in the house. In the two and half years he had lived with us, I had never heard him purr. So earlier this year, I began a concentrated effort to spend individual time with him each day. I hold him, and pet him, kiss him and talk to him. He wasn’t comfortable with this attention at first. He would hold his body rigid, and the moment I relaxed my grip, he would jump down and slink away. But he looks forward to it now. He often stalks into my home office and jumps on the desk when I’m working at home to sit with me. (There is also a window there that he likes checking out.)  And after many months, I finally heard him purr. He is now at home in my house. And because of Cousy and Shooter, our house is truly a home.

Memories

Memories, pressed between the pages of my mind
Memories, sweetened thru the ages just like wine

Where does your mind take you when you close your eyes and drift? Not to sleep, just drift; away from daily life and the people around you. Some people are very good with memories. Others not so much. Although I clearly fall in the Not So Much group, I would like to share my earliest childhood memory.

I am standing by the storm door, looking outside. I can feel the cold air creeping in through the glass. And when I reach out to trace patterns on the glass, it feels cold to my finger. It is a sunny day. Although that sunshine is weak, the sunshine of winter.

A walkway extends past the doorway and leads to the street. On either side, the lawn is brown, dormant, dotted with patches of snow. The walkway ends at a small, brick staircase. Five or six stairs lead you up to the street. From my low vantage point, I can’t see the street, but I can see some cars parked on either side of the staircase.  

 Quiet thoughts come floating down
And settle softly to the ground

I am standing in this doorway watching my mother walk towards the door. My maternal grandparents lived in White Plains and when my mother had some shopping to do, she would leave me with her mother. I don’t see any bags in her hand, except for her handbag, so perhaps she just needed to get her hair done.

I see the coat she is wearing and the small matching hat. I know that coat well. A dark swing coat, trimmed with fur. The matching hat is trimmed with the same fur. Although, in later years, she only wore the coat ‘for best’, it was always in the hall closet. I wonder if I could check that closet today, that coat would still be hanging off to the side.

She walks, looking down at her feet. We are separated she and I in my earliest memory. Me on one side of the door, she on the other. But it is more than that physical separation. I am looking at her, yet, she is not looking at me. Perhaps she is not aware of me yet, waiting for her by the cold door.

I touched them and they burst apart with sweet memories,
Sweet memories.

When Part II

It is said that when you can love your parents despite their flaws, you are finally a grownup. In many ways, I was never expected to achieve that goal. Indeed, I was raised to be a porcelain ornament. Loved and admired for my qualities, but no one expected any strength. Much like the priceless Waterford my mother carefully dusted each week, I was admired for my sparkle. But just as no one expects a Waterford vase to jump off the shelf and vacuum the living room, no one expected me to actually do anything with my accomplishments.

Although unusual in my day, my parents provided the means by which I would develop a career and support myself by sending me to a good college. However, my career was the frosting on the cake as I was the baby, and my parents fully expected to always be there to rescue me from any crisis. My father worked with his hands and there wasn’t anything he couldn’t fix. Cars and motors, cut up knees, and little-girl nerves in new situations, my dad could fix it all. My mom was truly brilliant; she consumed books much like a refugee facing water after a long march through a desert. She did the New York Times crossword puzzle for fun and helped countless people with their tax returns simply to keep her mind nimble. Theirs was an old-fashioned marriage, and when their kids had grown, they settled into a comfortable routine that they custom-designed. My brother and I were allowed to observe, but active involvement was not encouraged.

In 1996, they both got sick at the same time. Separate hospitals, different doctors, individual diseases, and therefore, unique treatments. I became a card-carrying member of a traveling troop designed for entertainment, running back and forth between the two of them, trying to spray color in their otherwise monochromic world in hour-long increments. My presence was demanded, but solely for the purposes of distraction. Once a day I was expected to show up with newspapers, gossip, and the odd lottery ticket. I did become skilled at shedding some light in their somber lives, but that light could not be tolerated in long doses. They did not look to their baby for help because that was not their way. My brother and I had been relegated to the role of spectators in the final act of their married lives.

 I was sitting next to my mother’s hospital bed one day when a nurse entered to perform some small procedure. I stood up and walked towards the window to give the nurse room. The day was gray, rain threatened in the distant sky and a tired, weak light struggled through the room. As the nurse chattered to my mother, I sighed and thought “When are the grownups coming to take care of this?” And then it hit me, I was the grownup, and I had to take care of it. I turned to see my mother bathed in the dim light of the gray mid-day, and realized I had to be her voice and legs since she could no longer talk or move from her bed. And that is when I became a grownup. Not exactly as anyone would have planned it, but I did see both my parents through their final scenes. And then, as the house lights dimmed, I planned their cast party, fitting enough to close their marriage with style. Not in my style, but in the style they chose for themselves all those many years ago.

The Future

The Future walked through our front door yesterday for the first time since Christmas Eve. We were not planning on seeing him on Easter, so it was an unexpected and welcome surprise.

When he came in the front door, I jumped up to hug him. I noticed, not for the first time, that he is taller than I am. Not just a little bit taller, I have to stand on tip toes to put my arm around his neck.

The Future is now an adult and he is doing an admirable job of managing his life. He is currently facing uncertainty in his job. And he is handling that stress like a pro. Days like this make me realize that there nothing in my Mommy Bag of Tricks that can fix his specific situation. I have never had to deal with anything remotely similar to his current  reality.

It’s a delicate balance of being a parent and having an adult child. The Schatz and I don’t always get it right. While there are hundreds of reference books available for parents to help you though all the different stages of childhood, I have yet to find a manual on how to be a parent to an Adult Child.

I spent yesterday reflecting about The Future. How he became the person he is today, how much can be directly attributed to my influence and how much he learned on his own. The moment after he was born, when the doctor announced The Future was a he, I thought “Make the most out of the next 18 years, because then he’ll be gone.” And I did. Although I had a career, I walked that delicate balance of women everywhere, and gave up my personal life (that which makes me The Franchise), knowing I had a very small window to spend with The Future.

We shared a lot of laughs. A lot of books. His friends were always welcome. I encouraged him in any interest he developed, from sketching dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History, to annual trips to the Bronx Zoo, wrestling (ask me about The Undertaker), to his love of competitive sports. He taught me as much as I taught him.

I tutored him when he couldn’t follow his class work and openly and enthusiastically encouraged his love of college basketball. We are fortunate to live in a town that provided enough security that we could let him go as he started on his personal road to Independence. He made some questionable decisions during those years, but he got more right than wrong, and he developed his own style.

I opened Mommy School. The Future attended Mommy School each summer when he grew too busy for summer camp. At the beginning of the semester we would chose a Life Project. And the summer was spent learning until he was ready to graduate and move on to the next Life Project. At the time, I told him I did not want some woman cursing me out when he got married, but in reality, it gave me a little more time with him. A little more time that was just ours, when I could tarry just a little bit longer in my role as his parent.

And so he learned to cook and how to do laundry. He learned to shop. We reviewed the benefits of a healthy diet. The lessons continued into college as we worked on selecting an appropriate work wardrobe. I also taught him the benefits of a well composed thank you note. And he has carried all these lessons into his life.

When The Future left for college he was prepared in many ways that his friends (both those he left behind and those he made in college) were not. He would still need help, both financially and emotionally, but slowly, during his pursuit of his degree, he became able to handle the fast breaks that life threw him. The Future has not lived with us since he was 20. He graduated on time and has a job in his chosen profession. The profession he selected when he was 14.

I am occasionally asked if I have children. That question makes me pause. Yes, I gave birth, but I wouldn’t consider The Future my child. He is an adult. He has a wicked sense of humor and if you look up the term Hard Work in the dictionary, you will see his picture. I think he looks like The Schatz. (Although I take secret pleasure in knowing he inherited my eye color.) I am proud of him and often wonder how much input I had in who he is today.

I know what The Future would say. And I laugh because I felt the same at his age. What I discovered during the last 30 years is sometimes we are who we become because we chose to do the opposite of what our parents did. And so I wonder, what The Future will take with him. And what lessons he will have to modify for his children.

Home Again

I went home again the other night. That may seem odd given the fact (as explained in a previous blog), I live less than five miles from where I grew up AND I work in that same town. But I don’t often go home. Yes, I went home again the other night, and I found myself.

I went to a Wake. It was not a member of my family. My best friend sent me an email to let me know that the mother of a mutual friend had died. My best friend and I have been friends our whole lives. Literally. Her parents and my parents were friends. Her older brother and my brother were friends. By the time we came along, we just joined an ongoing party. We have been friends ever since.

We all graduated together and have kept in touch all these years, occasionally running into each other in town as you do. The Future went to school with her son and daughter (fraternal twins). And I knew her mother from a Woman’s Club to which we had both belonged.

And so, naturally, I went to the Wake to pay my respects. The funeral parlor is in my home town AND was once a bar. I would often go with friends before I met The Schatz, because there really wasn’t much else to do in town. I believe the room in which the wake was held was once known as the Drunk Tank. Should you exceed your limit, and were considered a danger to get behind the wheel of your car, the bartender would put you in the Drunk Tank to allow you to sober up a bit. A mini-drunk driving campaign before there were state-sanctioned ones.

As I approached the room of the Wake, I saw the owner of a deli at which I sometimes stop. As luck would have it, I had stopped that day for breakfast. And he had served me. Seeing him standing outside the room, I teased him, suggesting he was following me. It turns out he was friends with one of my friend’s brothers. Small world we both agreed.

I entered the wake and signed the book. Then stood on the line to pay my respects. I held a card in my hand, to leave with the others. As I got closer to the front, I saw a man with which I had gone to school. His back was turned to me, so I touched his shoulder and introduced myself. He and I chatted, and then he introduced me to his mother and sister who had come up behind me.

She was one of the smart kids my friend told his mother. I slapped at his arm with my card. “Don’t tell people that” I laughed. I am not ashamed of my grades, or place in the class, yet, it seems so long ago, it was odd to be introduced that way. Odd, yet nice. I had made an impression of this man. And he had not forgotten who I was before I became who I am.

I saw my friend’s son. He remembered me right away and asked after The Future. We chatted for a few minutes, I caught up on what he had accomplished since high school. I asked after his twin sister and it turns out she is in the same line of work as is he. We joked how he can’t escape that twin connection.

And then, I spoke to my friend. Her mom had been ill, yet, she did not dwell on the darkness of her mom’s final illness. Instead, she shared jokes about those days. She and her mom share many characteristics, their sense of humor being just one. I had missed our last get together and she told me of the next one planned. I won’t miss it I promised. And I won’t.

I placed my card with the others and studied the floral arrangements. I recognized many of the names on the cards that were attached. It has been a long time since I have sent flowers to a funeral. I wonder if one gets specific as to the flowers and colors to use when ordering an arrangement. Some of  the arrangements seem to reflect those that had sent them.

I knelt by the coffin to say my final prayers. I had come to know this woman as an equal during our days in the Woman’s Club. Her eyes were always smiling, and she had such a wicked sense of humor. She was not one to hide from any of life’s pleasures, and she was always fun to be around. I will miss her. I made the Sign of the Cross and stood to leave the room.

I stopped to talk to a few more people and then saw a couple who had been friends of my parents. I know the woman is now 80 and realized with a start that she was the age I am now when she attended my wedding. With the exception of the color of her hair, she looks the same as she did 30 years ago. We chatted about the neighborhood (they both still live there), people I would know, and I left them, feeling as if I was still young, with all my life ahead of me. 

I went home again and found everything I had left. I marveled again at how small a life I lead. A small life; but definitely not a shabby life. And it’s really all in my own backyard. Just like buried treasure.