A new ritual of return: Cleaning out the email inbox. I tried to be diligent this time. I curbed that index finger. It wanted to hit delete far too often. Instead, I took my time and gave every email the time it deserved. From a week’s worth of general announcements, spam and cc’s, I ended up with a handful of genuine must-attend-to’s. Now, the real work begins…
When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll remember scenes like this.
Here on Chincoteague, the Firemen’s Carnival ushers in a month of activity leading up to the annual wild pony swim and auction at the end of the month. We went last night to see the fireworks, a brief but brilliant display that seemed to have ended but then — when everyone had their heads down walking away — surprised us with another burst of color and light.
As I sit on the motel balcony this morning, the parking lot is a scene of mass exodus. Beach chairs and umbrellas go into the trunks of cars, bicycles are lashed to the backs. I’m packed and ready to leave for my new place, one that’s closer to the beach. The rest of the family just left for home; I’ll stay for a few days on my own.
I check the girls’ room to be sure they haven’t left anything. All I see is a cicada exoskeleton they found and set on top of the TV. I brought it outside with me. It’s cute, in a fierce little way. I’m staring at it now, willing myself not to be sad. It’s strange to be staying behind. Strange but good. It may be July 5, but today is my Independence Day.
It is the elemental other, where land and ocean meet, and since arriving here yesterday I have pondered the wonder of it all. When you have been often to the shore and you arrive again, you think, ah, here it is, the smell of the sea and the roar of the surf and you forget about the fundamental difference of this landscape, its churning activity, the drama of two worlds coming together. It takes a long walk to absorb it all. I’ve had two of those now. Let the absorption begin.
More than a week later, I’m still pondering my high school reunion. I replay conversations, especially ones that pierced the shell of convention (occupation, children or — gulp — grandchildren) and ventured into some place deep and true.
What I realized (and I knew this all the time, I suspect) is that having gone through high school (and in the case of some folks, grammar school) together automatically took us to a place deep and true. One woman and I reminisced about the beanies we wore in eighth grade. I reminded another about how her mother would always honk the car horn every time we rounded a curve or crested a hill when she was driving us to horseback riding lessons in seventh grade. The hostess of our Friday night picnic surprised me with a photo of us and other neighborhood kids taken one Easter when we were about six years old. We lived on the same street then.
In my hometown, I am not just a mother or an employee or a neighbor. I am the person I was before the roles began.
It stands for Ride Around the Pioneers in One Day, and it’s happening right now in northwest Montana. Tom and his brothers and hundreds of other riders are riding 130 miles through the Pioneer Mountains to raise money for Camp Mak-a-Dream, a camp for children and families affected by cancer. This is the 10th anniversary of RATPOD. Last year it grossed $1.7 million for the camp and has become such a hot event that registration fills up in 20 minutes.
By our reckoning the riders have passed the scenic byway turn-off at Mile 14, they’ve moved beyond the breakfast stop at Mile 30 and pushed up the 6- to 8-percent grade to the Crystal Park turnout at 8,000 feet. Soon, if not already, they will be flying downhill for a full 20 minutes, past the town of Divide and along the Big Hole River. They will cruise to Wise River Mercantile, where they’ll have lunch. After that comes a watermelon break at Mile 85 and an ice cream and pie stop at Mile 107. Twenty-three miles later, they’ll end up where they started, in Dillon, Montana.
I’m not there, of course, but I know enough of the landscape to breathe the tang in the air, to see in my mind’s eye the lodgepole pine, the alpine meadows and the big, big sky. We here at sea level, we ride with them in spirit.
Photo © Lucy Capehart, 2002
The office in summer — trying to bring the beach in. I wear a bright shirt of tie-dyed-style orange, pink and white. It is light enough to be billowy. It could be wafting in an Atlantic breeze. Instead it is pulled up to a desk. Will it give me the beach-induced calm to make the most of this day, to whittle the to-do list and start the story?
Devotees of meditation say if you practice it long enough you can take yourself to the beach in an instant. Mentally, that is. You can whisk yourself away from the dentist’s drill, the airless waiting rooms of life. I am working on these skills. And today, I’m counting on the tie-dyed shirt.
Last night we saw my brother off to a faraway post, where his (civilian) job is taking him for a few months. The international terminal was quiet; soldiers dressed in camouflage gear sat alone at the bar, flipped through magazines at the newsstand, called home one last time before boarding their flights.
We sat with Drew, chatted, had a beer. Before long it was time for him to pass through security and check into his flight. I waved until I couldn’t see him anymore; I watched as as he squared his shoulders and moved his tall frame toward the future.
I was struck by how alone Drew and all of the camo-clad seemed. Where they are going only they can go. What they are doing only they can do.
It’s a scene that plays out here every day of the week without fanfare, a scene I never think about but on which our easy lives are based. The timeless march of soldiers heading off to war.
Sometimes the old brain is too full to process what it has stored. Today is one of those days. A high school reunion, the wedding of a dear friend’s son and now Father’s Day have all run together this weekend to create a mass of memories, thoughts and impressions. Should I write about dancing last night with people I haven’t seen in decades? Or the tears that surprised me as I watched Jean’s son kiss his bride?
A second ago I showed my dad photos of his father that my cousin had posted on Facebook. The kitchen of my Dad’s boyhood home on Idlewild Court — a home we’re about to see on a sentimental journey through the streets of Dad’s past — came alive again in one of those pictures.
The multiple layers of meaning in that event — layers of nostalgia, wonder and mystery — are about as close to depicting this weekend as I can muster.
The strawberry pickings of my youth happened something like this: We would drive along a Fayette County lane some crisp morning in early June. We wouldn’t know where we were going; we would just follow a hand-lettered sign down a rutted driveway. And there, in a sunny acre or two, was the soul of summer — juicy berries that stained our fingers and fell, plump and forgiving, into our hands. It was hard work, if I recall, and blissfully worth it.
Here’s the beauty of the blog. It allows for the virtual. Ever since I bought homegrown strawberries at the farmer’s market two weeks ago I’ve longed to taste them again. On Friday I read about a pick-your-own place in Loudon County. Saturday filled with errands and chores. And yesterday, when I called the place first before driving 45 minutes west, I learned that the berry patch was closing for the season — in an hour. There would be no strawberry harvest for us this year.
So I turn to the berry patch of memory, where fruit is always ripe and the picking always easy.
Photo: Images of Green
What to call the storms that don’t happen, the sky darkening, distant rumbles, the first few fat drops — and then no more. “Strom” perhaps? Akin to “strum” as in “strum and drang,” the German phrase loosely translated as “storm and stress.” I think also of the late senator Strom Thurmond, who caused some “strum” in his day.
Stroms are disappointing occurrences, or perhaps I should say non-occurrences. The swim is postponed. The plants, parched, still need watering. For nothing I drag the new green rocker off the deck and into the living room. (I’ve given up on the old green rocker with its creaks and peeling paint.) We wait for that which never comes.
The summer strom. Not for the faint-hearted.