A Walker in the Suburbs

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.

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

We went to the beach for a day last weekend — we had enough time to walk the shore, explore the boardwalk, wade in the surf, spot dolphins beyond the breakers. We had time to get sunburned and wind-whipped and eat too much ice cream. But we (or least I) came back to a house transformed. The place looked tidier than I remember leaving it. And the mental break seemed much greater than what 15 hours could merit — it felt like we’d spend a long weekend at the shore, at least. All of this from just one day away.

An update on yesterday’s post: I called the number, listened to the sad announcement that the service would be discontinued and then, miracle of miracles, heard Rob Luchessi’s brilliant forecast. Was it just my imagination or was there a special lilt in his voice when he said, “Have a GREAT day!” The Verizon weather line has been spared. Hooray!

I dialed the number this morning, just to be sure — but it’s true. The message we’ve been hearing for months — “Effective June 1, 2011, Verizon will no longer offer time of day and weather services” — is all I hear when I dial 936-1212. No more Neal Pizzano, Howard Phoebus or Rob Luchessi — voices we’ve come to know through years of hearing them say, “Here’s the latest weather forecast. Brought to you by Verizon.” A service that’s been offered since rotary dial phones became popular in the 1930s is gone.

People don’t need dial-in forecasts when they have the Weather Channel, weather.com and scores of other ways to plan their day. But we aren’t big TV people, and it’s easier to pick up the phone than to fire up the computer. Besides, you learned more than just the weather. Pizzano, who was profiled in the Washington Post a couple years ago, might tell you that it’s National Peach Cobbler Day or Hug Your Sister Day. And he always remembered to say “have a nice day.”

So today we mourn the replacement of the little with the large, of the personal with the anonymous. Today we miss the friendly voice on the other end of the line. Today we’re going to boycott the weather.

Photo from Past Times.

I’ve sometimes argued with folks about the existence of this day. “May has 30 days,” they’ll say. “We’re sure of it.” And in the old days, when May 30 was Memorial Day, May 31 did seem like an afterthought. An inconspicuous date tucked between two showy months. A sliver of a possibility. An opening.

I know May 31 exists because it’s my birthday. But now that I’m older I wouldn’t mind if we skipped it every year. I would still be here, would still exist (non-existence being the chief reason to embrace the birthday when it comes, since it is ever so much better than the alternative), but I would be spared the reminder that I’m another year older.

It’s not that I’m a birthday dreader. I’ve always approached the day with an attitude of celebration. It’s just that time moves so quickly; there is so much to do and an ever-declining amount of time to do it in.

But May 31 is still on the calendar, and I’m still here, so there is nothing left to do but to greet the day and live the day and think about all that other stuff tomorrow.