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A Family

A Family

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Mom has been gone nine years today. Almost a decade. Nine rich years for me — though not always easy ones. Years she missed.

What I would give for one more heart-to-heart, sitting at the kitchen table with everyone else asleep. What would I tell Mom?

I would fill her in on the new additions to the family, the grandchildren and the sons-in-law. I would tell her about my work and my travels. She would marvel at it all, I’m sure.

And of course, as was our habit, we would try to solve the world’s problems. We would find it more difficult than we used to because the world’s problems have grown considerably thornier since she’s been gone. But we would give it a go.

There would come a point, though, when we’d say enough. Let’s end on a high note. And that would be this: I’d be sure Mom knew that the four children she left behind are always there for each other. We live our own lives, of course. But we are, and we always will be, a family.

Mom, center, in black shirt, with her sister, brother, sister-in-law, children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews (1997).

Grandparents Day

Grandparents Day

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For the most part, I consider Grandparents’ Day, which happened yesterday, to be a Hallmark holiday, something ginned up only for consumption value — cards, flowers, brunches out. 

But my Grandparent’s Day was the real thing. It started the night before, when the four of ours who were sleeping over (thankfully, with their mothers) were running crazily through the house, doing headers off the coffee table, brandishing suction-cup arrows, and regaling us on the latest “Frozen” characters. 

It included a laugh fest so long and so thorough that it reduced all of us to tears, and it continued with a sweet (and yes, early) morning, waking up to the sounds of little voices in the house. 

In the four years since I’ve been a grandparent, I’ve marveled at how these kiddos change our perspective, test our resilience (how long can I pretend to be a mean tiger while crawling around on the trampoline?) and expand our imaginations. Most of all, my grandchildren remind me of youth, when all seemed possible. Because, for them, all still is. 

The Cassidy Kids

The Cassidy Kids

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At the reunion, my cousin Cindy reached into a little basket and pulled out what appeared to be party favors to give each of us. They were small tulle drawstring bags, tied with narrow white satin ribbon. Inside each was a thumb drive full of old family photographs.

Talk about good things in tiny packages! I’ve been spending time I don’t have today ogling the photos, ones I’ve never seen, glimpses of the past. 

One of my favorites is the one you see above. It’s titled the Cassidy Kids.  They are, top row: Kenneth, Christine and Bernard, and bottom row: Lois, Dolly and Frank. 

The only one who looks like a kid here is Dad, who wears short pants, and even he shares the solemn, muted expression that was expected in formal family portraits of the day. 

I have no date for this photo, but I expect it was taken in 1929 or 1930. These kids are gone now. But their kids, grandkids, great-grandkids and great-great grandkids live on. 

Family Reunion

Family Reunion

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We gathered yesterday in Ohio, more than two dozen of us: brothers and sisters, kids and grandkids, aunts and uncles and cousins. Some of us traveled a few miles to be there; others flew or drove for hours.

There were burgers and brats, iced tea and lemonade, potato salad and jam cake. There was a poem, a song, a prayer and a hymn. And stories, of course, so many stories.

Most of all, there was connection — not just to each other but to those who came before, to the absent ones. It was as if in gathering we brought them back.

There was the spitting image of Dad in the face of my oldest cousin. There were his sisters in the eyes and smiles of their sons and daughters.

And then there was all the life and liveliness of the newest generations. They are the future. But it’s good to remember where they — and all of us — began.

Maximum Capacity

Maximum Capacity

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Yesterday a four-year-old birthday party here that must have strained the deck to maximum capacity. 

What is maximum capacity anyway? Hard to know when the deck is as old as this one. 

All’s well that ends well, I guess. I write this post from the deck, which is still standing — in fact thriving — on this lovely, low-humidity morning.

(The trampoline was full, too.) 

A Cabin in the Woods

A Cabin in the Woods

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As I re-acclimate to a quieter life from the whirl that was last week, I keep seeing our cabin in the woods. It’s a tucked-away place but close to hiking trails and sand beaches. 

Seeing it empty, as I do every year in the final minutes of our stay, making the rounds to check that windows are locked and trash is emptied, I’m struck by how much people animate place.

The couch and tables, beds and chairs, even the perfect porch that spans the back, are nothing without the daughters and sons-in-law and grandchildren who animate them. So even though I’m missing the cabin, I’m missing the people more.

Pee-Wee Olympics

Pee-Wee Olympics

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Into this week of lake and family come scenes from across the seas: Strong-shouldered swimmers who wiggle like dolphins. Graceful gymnasts who defeat gravity with nerve and style. 

The children imitate them, do somersaults and dance on coffee tables. It all starts here, the advertisements say. 

I think, yes, maybe it does … with renewed appreciation for the families of those who twirl and swim and dive. 

Writing Quickly

Writing Quickly

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I woke this morning, as I did yesterday, to the scamper of little feet and the noise of life being lived, hard, above me. It’s the configuration of this shambling old cabin by the lake that the deck that runs the length of the main floor also runs above where I sleep. 

It’s not until the respectable hour of 8 a.m. that the little ones are let loose, but once they are, further winks are impossible. 

They scamper, they giggle, they push plastic kiddie chairs across the floor. If there is a quiet moment, it’s when bowls of cereal are being offered, fuel for further activity. 

I’m writing quickly because I don’t want to miss a minute of it. 

Bluuuue Sky

Bluuuue Sky

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It’s not cerulean or azure or aquamarine. To describe the sky I saw on yesterday’s walk, we need a new word. I propose bluuuue. Not blue, or even bluuue. This is bluuuue (four ‘u’s) at its purest and most intense. The hue of a cloudless sky.

I have a reason for describing this on Father’s Day.  Dad was the king of blue skies. He didn’t seem to notice the clouds, or if he did, he chose to ignore them.

So in honor of him, and fathers everywhere, the bluest bluuuue sky photo I can find.
Circle of Life

Circle of Life

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Yesterday felt more like a weekend with a daughter and two granddaughters here. At a visit to a nearby farm park, I found myself on the merry-go-round with Bernadette (pictured here with her mama a year and a half ago).

Yesterday I was the one holding way too tightly to the rider, too tightly being a relative term, I suppose. Bernadette will be 4 in October, but hold tight I did. And as we made endless rotations to patriotic favorites like “Stars and Stripes forever,” I thought about how many times I took Bernadette’s mother on carousel rides, and how particular she was about her mounts — her favorite being the rainbow pony at the National Mall carousel.

Now Suzanne was standing on the sidelines with her newborn, and I was back on duty. The circle of carousels. The circle of life.