My mother died a year ago last Monday. When someone so close to you passes away it seems the world should shudder to a stop. Or come crashing down with loud, harsh fanfare that rattles you to your core. It seems the world should sense this enormous loss, recognize it, quiet down and wait. But it did not. The cars passed by and the birds chirped outside my mother’s home the day I stepped into her bedroom. She had been taken out of that very room only 24 hours before. But the sun shone in. The breeze blew by. Her recently planted bulbs fully bloomed swayed in the yard below.
****
I inherited my mother’s camera after she passed. And I still have not deleted the last pictures she took. They were of branches strewn across her yard. They were also of a tree. An enormous tree in front of our house had been the object of her recent frustration. This tree, one that towered over and awed me as a child, was not well. The root structure was compromised and the city had been pruning it on the street side only. She knew it was not viable. And so in her usual determined way, she pressed the city, wrote the mayor and rose as much of a ruckus as she could about that damn tree. They never responded.
****
This past Monday I was on Cape Cod, with family all around. My aunt called me. “How are you today?” she asked. I was ok. I figured this was the best place to be to honor her that day. I just wished I could get some sign from her, you know? Just so that I knew she was still around. She understood. She told me she loved me and we hung up.
****
An hour later I stood in front of my mother’s parent’s grave. And my father’s parent’s grave. Both are buried in the same cemetery here on Cape Cod. I dropped a hydrangea bloom on each stone and packed the kids back into the car. We were on our way to collect my father from the airport.
****
I stood in the wind at Race Point on Cape Cod, the northernmost tip of this peninsula. There was a small airport and we expected my father’s Cape Air flight at any moment. And at the top of the visitor center I finally found cell phone reception. “What do you mean the tree is down????” My brother had just called. There had been a terrible storm a half hour earlier and the tree – my mom’s tree, the one I still had pictures of on my camera in my bag – had fallen into my parent’s home. An entire telephone pole had snapped in half too. Wires were down and alive in the yard. The entire root structure exposed. No one could even see my home. No one knew the extent of the damage. There had been a great deal of fanfare this July 25th. Thundering crashes, traffic blocked, the everyday was stopped for the time being, total chaos.
****
My father was on the phone. We were all gathered in the living room of my family’s Cape cottage listening to him on the phone with my brother. “Who is there? Channel 7???… The Mayor????” We stared at each other. With live wires still sparking in my parent’s front lawn and the downed tree blocking the entire view of the house, the Mayor had arrived and had just held a press conference. Right there. At our home. He promised the city would be taken care of and that power would be restored.
****
The tree is off the house now. The power lines are being restored. The damage doesn’t seem to be anything desperate. I think it’s going to be ok.
Dusty, creaky, familiar sounds from decades before. Comfy couches, National Geographics, the TV stand next to the brick fireplace. Slamming screen door, daddy long legs, pails and shovels left on the front stoop. Family pictures hung on the wall, chipped dishes from my grandfather’s cupboard, knotty wood beam, pink tiled bathroom floors. Musty, quiet, flashes from the lighthouse cross the night sky. Leaves shifting, squirrels leaping through undergrowth, towels hung on laundry lines, moss and lichen climb the trees, weeds wisp past my calf. Sand on the floor boards, sand on the rugs, sand in my bed. Same old bed frames, same old sheets, same rusty faucet, same clinking latches on the doors. Same certain sense that my family is here, just over my shoulder but out of sight, whispering welcomes and bids to stay awhile.
I haven’t been back to Cape Cod in two years. It has been almost one year since my mother passed and about seven since my maternal grandparents passed. It has been over twenty years since my paternal grandfather passed and I never met my paternal grandmother, who I was named after. And the small Cape cottage we are staying in right now was hers.
I was brought up on Cape Cod, during summers and occasional winters. Both sets of grandparents adored it here – one set retired here for over 25 years. Both sets are buried in the plot right up the road from here. I spent part of 4th grade here. I got my driving licence here and when we traveled abroad, we came “home” to Cape Cod.
I used to row my grandparents boat over to this library – the library which is currently closed and where I am stealing wi-fi to post this. I used to check out Nancy Drew books. I used to pet the library cat and maybe skip up the road for some M&Ms at the town Superette.
This is my home.
I have been here less than 24 hours, but memories previously adrift now swell, break and crash at my feet. Ghosts of those here before surround my soul and startle my heart. Familiarity washes over me and moves back, leaving me left to shake out what is current and what is past.
This is my home.
(And my home also has very little internet access. So bear with me. I have so much to say but just not all that much wi-fi to say it. )
(Oh and I should specify that this is not a pic of my family’s cape cottage. It is a pic of the Coast Guard Station on the beach just a couple miles from the cottage. But it is such a familiar image from my childhood, it may as well be “home”…)
I am madly running around my house right now packing and cleaning and making my family’s life fit in a few pieces of luggage for three weeks. We’re heading north. I’m thrilled. It’s home, there are so many people to see, old haunts to visit and adventures to be had. My four year can’t remember what its like to fly so the fun will start there.
That being said, my favorite place to escape – HERE – will be shelved a little more often. I have no idea what sort of internet connection I will have access to. And if you weren’t exactly sure who the last blogger on earth was without a smart phone? Well, you reading about her now.
Lame.
But not lame.
Because we all need to switch off from these fan-dangled internets now and again. So. I will check in when I can. Because I can’t totally stay away. But until then, consider this post a little Morningside Mom elevator muzak of sorts.
The day wasn’t going as planned. We had meant to go bowling. But after arriving to a local alley filled to capacity with senior citizens in the middle of a tournament, our plans changed. So after a couple vanilla milkshakes bought to stopper disappointed little boy tears, we found ourselves at the library. My youngest wandered over to the toys in the corner and my seven year old found himself next to me at a table with a stack of baseball reference books.
So we sat there awhile. Enjoying the cool and the calm inside the library.
And that’s when I looked over and stared at my son.
Bent over his books, he was lost in their words. His face still, thinking. His eyes beautiful and brown, liquid and lashed. A button nose; smooth, sweet skin. New over-sized teeth this way and that; cherry lifesaver lips biting, moving, grinning. Newly cut hair, light brown and so much like his father’s. And an enormous smile under crinkled eyes revealing his old soul, as if he’d been smiling for centuries and had perfected its art.
And staring as I was, I held my breath and willed myself not to fold him into my lap. A friend once described my son as being a little bit like a bird on a wire. When he settles next to you, you dare not disturb him in case he flies away. And while I didn’t fear that he would flee, I couldn’t startle this moment of still beauty.
My boy is amazing.
I am sure every parent stares at their child this way and comes to the very same conclusion. Of course they do. They have unearthed their own wonder of the world and are quite certain that there could be nothing more amazing. Ever. In the history of the universe. The end.
I also know that losing yourself in your child’s perfection is, at its core, a reflection of a parent’s own vanity too. But I couldn’t help it.
It blows my mind that I could have anything to do with something so fantastic. Really. Again considering myself in my child reveals even further vanity but forgive that and just humor me.
This boy came out of me. Me. Me?
He’s too perfect. Too exact and just so.Too much more than anything else.
I could hardly swing a B in math. I can’t see past my nose without my contacts. I slouch, I talk over people, I have a very bad habit of feeling sorry for myself. I never “applied myself enough” at school. And I believed the word “gullible” had been taken out of the of the dictionary for a very long time.
But I am still half responsible for THIS?
Impossible.
So I stared. I don’t think he noticed. He stayed put. Reading. Sharing a quick fact now and again.
And I waited. And watched.
Until his wonderful, bubbling bull in a china shop brother finally leaped up into my lap. He patted my cheeks and wound an arm around my neck and stage whispered about some Elmo toy over there in the corner. My youngest boy is a wonder in his own right. Pink cheeked, effused with glee, blue eyes alight, his body humming with motion. He shines joy and wonder and drama into every crack and crevice of any room. I find myself needing to step a few paces back at times – he is bright, beaming and often very overwhelming. He weighs down the wire and shamelessly radiates glory all around.
But when I looked back to my eldest, he had flown off into the stacks. His chair empty, the books gone. Eventually he peeked out and laughed at his brother. And then re-emerged, asking if we could go to the playground.
Our moment was over.
But my soul took flight and my heart soared. These moments remind me what I’m actually doing everyday. While I spend lots of time feeling sorry for myself (see above) about Groundhog Day and the challenges of entertaining little boys during the summer (uh muh guh, I need a vaca…), its moments like these that slap some sense into me. Maybe getting me to apply myself as a parent just a little bit more. Because low and behold, I am kind of responsible for guiding along the two most amazing things I will ever have any part in creating. And that’s kind of a big deal. So at attention. Long summer days or not, I’ve got some parenting to do.
Sometimes I wish there was a way to pay back my readers for everything. For all the bumbling posts they’ve patiently read through, for all the support they’ve offered through comments, and for their patience during quiet moments when life keeps me from posting more often. Now’s my chance.
The time has come to give away another computer here at Morningside Mom.
*Giddy clapping*
And in case you’re wondering what kind of computer I’m giving away, well you might want to read my review here or go to the Lenovo website to learn as much as you can about it.
Because it is a very cool PC. It takes no time at all to set up, it starts right away, it runs very quickly, it has everything you need in one spot. And it is simply a keyboard, mouse and monitor. That’s it. Well, there’s much much more to it of course, but you would hardly know considering how simple, clean, fast and space saving it really is.
And I get to give one away here.
(Cue *giddy clapping* once again.)
Now if you know anything about me, you know I like to have some general well meaning purpose to my give-aways. I love to see good done and nothing makes me happier than seeing great things like this go to fabulous people.
So I’ve been brainstorming about how to run this give-away.
Of course, if I could, I would demand every entrant to make a donation to oil spill relief. Or donate products needed to assist with oil spill relief. Or maybe cap the oil leak itself with their bare hands.
But that’s hardly realistic. So I’m going to keep it simple. Here are the rules.
1) Comment here and tell me how this computer could be used for good. And please don’t just type:
“The Lenovo A70z could feed the children in Africa. The end.”
Gimme a break.
Be cool and be thoughtful. Maybe a particular non for profit could use this in their work. Maybe you could do something for your local PTA. Maybe this would be a great addition to a new community center or library. Just be meaningful. Think things through. Imagine what kind of good you could do with something like this. I know I can’t guarantee that this PC will certainly be used for good, but it can’t hurt to imagine how it could be. You never know what kind of good could be inspired along the way. *wishful thinking*
2) Only real comments with full sentences and actual thoughts will be entered to win.
3) It counts as an entry if you tweet: An all in one A70z Lenovo PC is being given away on @morningsidemom – enter here: http://www.morningsidemom.com/ Just be sure to come back and comment here that you tweeted.
4) You may enter up to three times.
5) Entrants must reside in North America (US or Canada).
One winner will be chosen at random and announced on July 11th. An entrant will not win if they have won at any of the other 20 contests currently underway for an A70z. The winner will be contacted by via email for shipping information.
(Also, if we’re related or you come over to my house or KNOW me know me? It’s really not so cool if you enter. But you might want to go check out one of the 20 other contests. You know I’m rooting for you.)
Good luck to everyone!
FTC Disclaimer: An A70z Lenovo all in one PC was given to me for review purposes.
********* UPDATE:
WE HAVE A WINNER!
Congratulations to Michelle S.!
Thanks to all who participated, the contest is now over and the comments have been closed. Don’t forget to check out all of the other contests still underway – the last one runs until July 24, 2010. To see which blogs still have contests, check my post here.
I wonder, with my 37th birthday looming, if it is a little late to learn this lesson. I am thinking it is.
As a child there are constants in your life. People. Places. Things even. There are traditions and cycles and schedules we depend on. This is where we always go for groceries. This is the bowl I always eat from. This is how my grandfather’s garden smells. This is where we go on summer vacation. This is what my mother always says. This is how it is.
I think as children, we fixate on these constants. In the first years after we arrive into our world, we experience extraordinary change. There is so much to learn and realize and grow up into. As our world moves and shudders under our feet, we steady ourselves with what is always there. What we know. If I walk into my home, my room will be up the stairs and straight ahead. The Cheerios are always kept in the cupboard over the stove. The house key is kept on a string inside the hall closet door. Always. And, as children, if we find our constants change even slightly, we panic.
My boys depend on routine. It is their religion. They move in their cycles, they are comforted by them. I joke about their OCD tendencies but completely understand them. What do you mean a fat man named Santa comes into my home once a year to deliver stuff? Are you sure thunder is perfectly ok even though it sounds like the world is exploding above my head? Wait, we’re floating on a planet in the middle of a wide unknown called space? *breathe* Mommy will have my favorite yogurt ready for lunch, we always drive this way to school and I get to stay up until 8:30pm on weekends. All is well.
But then there are life changing moments. You move. Your school changes. Your friends are far away. What was constant is no longer. A new normal is established. I understood these changes well as a child. And, because children do learn new things quickly while clutching onto remaining constants, I assimilated when needed.
Because there is always some familiarity somewhere. My grandfather’s garden still smelled the same, no matter how many years had passed before I stood in it again. My mother always said those same kinds of far too annoying but strangely comforting things. And decades later, that very same grocery store I shopped at as a child still exists – with the same graying employees smiling down at me in line.
Death does a fairly good job at ripping most constants (the constants that were always always there no matter how far or how often I moved) apart.
Voices that soothed and moved you through a new world are gone. The world’s they created, the homes they kept, the things they bought to fill them, the foods they made, the gardens they grew, the traditions they kept, the sayings they always said over and over again… that is immediately gone.
You can’t return.
You can’t hear the door creak the way it used to and slam behind you. You won’t find the Cheerios kept where they always were. You won’t hear the sounds of your mother – her certain clicking, scuffing pace down the hall. And, when you wake up far too late on a Saturday morning, you certainly won’t hear your grandmother singsong from the kitchen: “Good morning Merry sunshine, how did you wake so soon? You chased the little stars away and shined away the moon!”
It’s gone.
And that is how the world is.
Things fall apart.
Things change.
Nothing is constant.
And as adults, we regroup and reshape and recreate our families. We make new constants. We surround ourselves with new everydayness. The Cheerios find a new home in your pantry. And maybe you redo what they did. You recreate it subtly with every hope that the constant in some quiet, private comforting way remains.
I miss those people. I miss those places. I miss those things.
With a nostalgic, regretful, desperate ache rooted and wound into my gut – I. Miss. It.
Still. I have new people and new places and new things.
Apparently this is how life goes.
Things fall apart. Things change. But they renew again. And move forward.
Breathing and hoping.
But missing.
And eating Cheerios for breakfast every single morning.
The girl inside the ticket booth could not have been older than 15. A swath of bottle dyed black hair was swept over eyes, she had braces and a few piercings circling her lips. How did those piercings avoid clashing into her braces? Brain dead from my day, I considered her mouth while the kids bashed my legs and pulled at my arms.
“Uh, you better get here like SO early.” She peered out at me from behind the swath.
“Yeah good call. I was planning on it. How early do you think?”
“Uh, like an hour?” She leaned forward. “Like, at least? I mean, we did the midnight showing here last night? And like every theater? Was sold out. Seriously.” Her eyes were wide now. I was impressed.
“Wow. Ok, I’ll make sure to get here early. Thanks.”
She smiled widely and her braces twinkled. She and I had connected. She was more than half my age and yet she made eye contact and offered her beautiful smile because she was into what I was into at that very moment. Yeah you’ve probably guessed it (*insert reader eyeroll here*). I’m talking about Twilight.
I’ve written about this before. I’ve justified my fascination in about ten different ways. I felt that I needed to get on my soapbox and spout off why I’ve lost myself in this whole saga. And I got on that soapbox because, well, I am a little embarrassed about liking it. I still am.
And now the third movie has come out and I have collected a small crew of women to head out and see it on Saturday.
Acting, special effects and plot aside – I ask only one thing of it. One thing. And that is to escape for two hours. Make me pretend I am not where I am and somewhere very very different instead. Transport and transform me. For two hours. That’s all I ask.
Because have you seen the news recently? Here are some headlines from today alone.
And then there’s the usual stuff. You know, scraping it together to pay the mortgage on a house worth half of that. Parenting boys alone while your husband travels. Never getting anything done – or if done, done well. Ear infections preventing any pool time for two weeks. Forgetting to schedule that mammogram. Frustration over childcare. Screaming tantrums in the grocery line. Jello dropped on the carpet. Missing your mom. A lot.
Life is what it is. Sometimes it’s tough. Sometimes it’s not so bad. Everyone has their stuff. But I am simply looking to the end of this week as a way to check out for two hours into a kind of cheesy, fairly predictable but highly addictive little storyline which takes me out of blistering hot Florida and drops me in a small rainy logging town in the corner of our country.
Is that so bad?
With all the horribleness going on in the world alongside the general stressy crap that goes on in our day to day lives, being this invested in a campy, over commercialised tale about vampires and werewolves fighting over the same girl is hardly anything to get your panties in a bunch about.
Jacob and Edward aside, I’m Team “Mommy go out and get a life”.
Consider this a summer time gift. And maybe a fun little “heads up” too.
We have another contest coming – another really big, BIG contest.
Remember when I reviewed the Lenovo ThinkCentre A70z? If not, go take a look. Really. You’ll want to. Trust me…
Ok, remember that? Yeah well there are 21 blogs giving one of these PCs away starting now until July 24th. I kid you not. Check out the schedule for our giveaways here:
(Be warned however. Feel free to enter any of these contests but we don’t expect that one person will win more than once. We’re keeping track of everyone. So be cool, people. I’m just saying.)
An in case all the excitement made you miss it, Morningside Mom is on that list. So get ready. My contest runs July 7th – July 11th. Each blog will run their contest differently so I will post details about how to enter right before my contest dates.
And I hope you enter. I get a twisted kind of glee over giving away cool stuff to nice people.
Summer fun. There’s nothing better. So stay tuned.
Apparently I’ve been nominated by my peers under the category “Blog You’ve Learned the Most From”. Which implies brilliant people whom I adore and respect and read regularly and who do fantastic things in bigger ways than you probably even know have learned something. From me.
Huh.
To say I am honored would be an understatement. I mean, have you seen the company I’m keeping on that list? Sheeeeesh. Come ON now. I’m grateful simply to be nominated. And blushing. And muttering “aw shucks” and kicking imaginary stones at my feet. Really.
But you can vote for me (once a day until July 12 which happens to be my birthday so no guilt about maybe helping me get a really nice birthday present, you know, for something I adore and give to from deep down in my soul).
I inherited my mother’s camera after she passed. And I still have not deleted the last pictures she took. They were of branches strewn across her yard. They were also of a tree. An enormous tree in front of our house had been the object of her recent frustration. This tree, one that towered over and awed me as a child, was not well. The root structure was compromised and the city had been pruning it on the street side only. She knew it was not viable. And so in her usual determined way, she pressed the city, wrote the mayor and rose as much of a ruckus as she could about that damn tree. They never responded.
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