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Did Someone Say Fudge?

Did Someone Say Fudge?

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It’s the last day of school in Fairfax County, which means little to me now except less traffic in the morning. It was our first year in 20 to be rid of elementary, middle or high school dates and deadlines.

But today is still special. It’s the day that for years we celebrated with matinees, lunches out, shaving cream fights at the bus stop — and a peculiar ritual: watching “The Music Man” and making fudge.

The tradition started more than a decade ago, when we popped in a video of this musical to watch in the evening after an afternoon at the pool. There’s a scene where Marian and her mother make fudge. And so we started making fudge, too. It’s a delicious summer pastime anyway, fudge being the most boardwalk of candies.  But even if it wasn’t, we’re conditioned now: Hum the first few bars of “76 Trombones” or “Till There Was You” and we’ll start to salivate.

So tonight, Celia and Claire will gather at the house and we will measure out the sugar and the cocoa powder and the milk. We’ll set the pan on the stove and tend it till it bubbles and boils. We’ll test it (often) and finally take it off the flame, beat it to glossiness and pour it onto a plate. If it all works according to plan we will be on a sugar high before it’s dark.

School’s out for summer! Who needs champagne?

Two Years and Counting

Two Years and Counting

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Claire and I escorted Suzanne to the train station when she left for the Peace Corps two years ago. It was Sunday, and not much traffic. Inside the train station, another story. The ancient rituals of leave-taking. Ours loomed large. As well it should. I haven’t laid eyes on my oldest daughter for two years to the day. When I tell people how long it’s been, they will often ask, “Skype?” “Once,” I tell them. Only once. It’s a lack of electricity compounded by a lack of bandwidth compounded by, well, Africa, I guess.

But I have seen Suzanne through the eyes of her father, sister and friend, all of whom have visited.  And I hear her every week or two on the phone.  And between these first-hand accounts and my mother’s ear listening for tone, inflection and the spaces between the words — I know what I need to know. She is, for the moment (God willing, “Inshallah,” as she has taken to saying), happy and healthy (minus — or plus! — an intestinal parasite or two).

Last year when I write “One Year and Counting” I thought Suzanne would be home by now. But she will stay another year in Benin, take on another Peace Corps job, another challenge. Still, my count-down to seeing her is only months, since she’ll be back this fall on home leave.

One observation I’ll repeat from last year’s post, because it only deepens with time: Suzanne is the happiest person I know.

(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

Summer Reading (in Tandem)

Summer Reading (in Tandem)

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Yesterday on the way home from work, I picked up a quart of local strawberries, a loaf of French bread and two books. I like thinking of books that way, as staple and delight.

When at the library I saw the poster for the summer reading program, which starts today. “Paws to Read” is the logo.

It all rushed back to me then. The lists of titles each of my girls would keep — each in her own distinctive scrawl. Our trips to the library on sultry afternoons, laden with bags of picture books and chapter books. Searching the shelves for old favorites — and discovering new ones in the process. The coupons the girls received upon completion. Redeeming them for a cookie at the bakery or an eraser at the office supply store.

I live in a different universe now, but the girls and I still trade titles and lists and favorites. We may not read together anymore, but we do read in tandem.

(Illustration: Courtesy Fairfax County Public Library)

Gratitude

Gratitude

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Parents need children, I once wrote, because they help them remember what it was like to be coming alive to the world. As a parent to young adults, I will amend that slightly. Parents need children because they remind them what it was like to be … a young adult. And no matter how wondrous and exciting that can be, it makes me appreciate every creak in my middle-aged body.

What prompts this revelation? Having one daughter return from a four-day music festival, for one thing. Apparently it was difficult to sleep more than a few hours at a time there because the music blared all night. No shade, no quiet, no privacy. No thanks!

And then, from another daughter, a description of her Monday. A double shift at the restaurant: working lunch followed by a two-hour break when she ran and worked out at the gym followed by working dinner. Waitresses are on their feet constantly. I remember because I once was one.

So I head into Tuesday glad that I’m not 19 or 22 anymore. Takes some of the sting out of the day, doesn’t it?

(Photo: Claire Capehart)

World That Was

World That Was

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I see them everywhere. They’re made of straw or cloth; they are jaunty or slouchy. Are men’s summer hats making a comeback? In my limited experience on the streets and in the conveyances of Washington, D.C., the answer would have to be yes.

The question is whether this trend is dermatologically or sartorially driven. Given the fraught nature of our times, I’d go with the former.

Whatever the explanation, I’m enjoying it. The other day on Metro, my seat mate removed his straw fedora and for an instant I was back in the dark, downtown church we sometimes attended with my grandfather when I was very young. There were hooks in those old wooden pews, little pincers perfect for playing with during Mass, and that’s where my grandfather would hang his hat.

Metro cars, of course, do not supply this amenity, so my seatmate simply held his awkwardly on his lap. I shifted in my seat, tried to give him and his hat as much room as possible. I thought about anachronisms like hat hooks and how they seem so fussy and antiquated in our streamlined days. And I thought about what the world was like when we had them.

Home Again

Home Again

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Tom returns today from three weeks in Africa. Though work took him there, he had time for a wonderful visit with Suzanne, including a stay in her village, Toura.

Traveling in Benin is not for the faint of heart, so I imagine the house will look pretty good to Tom — running water, electricity and one or two more sublime blue-sky days for deck-sitting.

But the place — this house, this neighborhood, these woods and fields — is looking better and better to me, too. Freed of school schedules and young children, it is no longer a nest but a refueling station. It’s a place for the girls — and their parents — to leave from and return to as we make our way (separately and together) in the wide world.

(Photo: Katie Esselburn)

In Memoriam

In Memoriam

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What you remember is the precision, even in death: straight lines, markers in rows. Such even rows that it’s hard to tell if there are hundreds of graves or thousands. Of course there are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands when you add them all up.  The final resting place of those who served.

There are 131 national veteran’s cemeteries in this country and many more state and local ones. My dad lies in the Camp Nelson National Cemetery, only miles from the Kentucky River. It has a history of its own — a civil war camp where the wounded were treated and African American soldiers enlisted.

It’s a sunny, placid place with a roll to the land and a few big trees along the borders. I visited in April, got a better view of what I couldn’t quite take in before. It’s proper and dignified, the grounds meticulously maintained.

It’s amazing the pull the place has on me now. I wish I was there today.



(This photograph is of Arlington.)

The Child in Spring

The Child in Spring

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“We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it.”      —  George Eliot

I often think of these words, especially this time of year. In mid-May, childhood runs rampant. Kids frolic at the bus stop, forgo homework to dash outside the minute they get home from school. After dinner they ride bikes and scooters around the cul-de-sac. The end of the school year dangles tantalizingly in the future. It won’t be long now.

I caught this excitement the other day on a walk through the neighborhood. I inhaled it in the aroma of cut grass, felt it in the sun on my face. So many memories as I amble. Not even memories, but deeper than that. Sensory impressions. A whiff of juniper. The musty odor of a storm drain.

We forget how close to the ground we were in those days, how the earth rose up to meet us then with all its sounds and scents. But because it did, I can stroll through the world now with my middle-aged self — and the whole world comes alive again.

Remembering Dad

Remembering Dad

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Today would have been Dad’s 91st birthday. And I’ve been seeing him everywhere. In the graduation celebration we just had. In the new spring leaves. In the finally warm, “not-a-cloud-in-the-sky” day.

Where I’ve not been seeing him is in the arm chair where he used to read. Or the corner of the couch where he sat to watch TV. Or the McDonald’s where he hung out with his coffee buddies. It’s still a shock that he’s not in all those places, not alive and laughing in the world.

“Come on, Annie,” he’d say to me during episodes of childhood drama. “You’re living your life like it’s a Greek tragedy.” At the time it bothered me. Did he not appreciate the full implication of having bad hair on picture day?

Somewhere along the way, of course, I realized that he did. But he also knew how to swallow hard and move through life’s sorrows and disappointments. He knew how to make the best of things. It’s a valuable skill. One I’m nowhere near mastering.

Luckily I have his words and his example.  And I think of them often — especially today.

Commencement

Commencement

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Two college graduations in a week. One for my daughter, one for my brother. The latter happened yesterday. It was a special one, long delayed.

Not many of us go back to school for an engineering degree in midlife. But Phillip did. He solved problems, wrote papers, took ever-more-difficult classes. And life being life, he also worked, took his parents to doctor’s appointments, and, just a few weeks ago, said goodbye to his father.

That’s what I thought about most as “Pomp and Circumstance” swelled and the students students processed in. I kept thinking of one of my last visits with Dad. “If I’m alive,” he said, “I’m going to see your brother get his diploma.”

He almost made it — but not quite. So the rest of us were there for him. That’s how it works, I guess.