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Farewell to the Office

Farewell to the Office

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Long ago, a family of three moved into a house that was far too large for them. In fact, even to say it was a family of three was pushing it. This was a mom, a dad and a six-month-old baby. The house, while not palatial, seemed so to us at the time. We rattled around in the four bedrooms and two-and-a-half baths. We parked a playpen in the living room, and put our dining room furniture in the, uh, dining room.

Except the dining room was barely big enough for a party of six, which we learned our first Thanksgiving when we had to turn the table diagonally to fit everyone in.

Meanwhile, the family of three became a family of four and then five. The dining room filled with toys, the hutch moved into the living room, and at some point it became official: the dining room was now … the playroom.

It remained that way for a decade or so, when I vacated the upstairs office I’d happily occupied to give each daughter a room of her own and moved down to this room, which absorbed two tall bookshelves and a “desk” (a hollow door laid across two filing cabinets). The office it has been these many years, also an ersatz den with a comfy couch — and a doggie haven.

Today, we move all the furniture and rip out the carpet. Tomorrow, a team of experts (my sister and brother) will help lay new flooring. The desk will be gone, and a new dining table moved in. The office is dead … long live the dining room!

Welcome Fog

Welcome Fog

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I woke up to a meteorological marvel, at least in these parts, something we seldom see around here. Morning fog is a soft way to begin the day; it blurs the edges of the world. It may also be giving the groundhog the conditions it needs to predict an early spring, but I won’t count on that.

For now, I’m content to look out my study window at birds perching on the chicken wire, awaiting their turn at the feeder. At the squirrels, hatching their next plan to commandeer the suet block. At the red fox, skulking behind the covered garden bench at the far end of the yard.

Every time I glimpse that bench, which is often, I think for a moment that I’m seeing the tiny playhouse we had when the children were small. It has the same outline, the same lightness against the dark green backdrop of the fencerow. 

But that place was torn down long ago, my girls are all grown up with families of their own. And I’m welcoming the fog, which promises a soft beginning to this new day.

Mom in Manhattan

Mom in Manhattan

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It is February 1, 2022, what would have been Mom’s 96th birthday. On this day, as on several previous February 1sts, I cede this space to the person who inspired me first, and inspires me still. In this post, written in 1994, Mom describes a snowy Manhattan and muses on what the city meant to her.

I have been snowbound in New York now for several days. I look out the window on 27th Street and watch the snow pile up. Hardy New Yorkers trudge through the ever-deepening snow. 

At home in Lexington when it snows, we rarely see a car drive down Colonial Drive and almost never see anyone venture out on foot. Here it is so different. The attitude is “nothing will stop us, even 18 inches of snow.” That must be a part of the chemistry that makes New York City what it is. 

I wish I had lived my life in New York City. It excites me as no other place has. There’s never been a time when I was ready to leave. And each time I have left, there’s been a little bit of myself that’s stayed behind.

(Photo: Vincent Paul, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)

Eighty Years

Eighty Years

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Shortly after publishing yesterday’s post, I realized that yesterday was the 80th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Eighty years … 

I looked back to see what I’d written on the 70th anniversary, and there was something I’d forgotten about: a special showing of the movie “12 O’Clock High” at a Lexington, Kentucky, cinema, which Dad had organized and hosted. 

I remember that now, how excited he was about it, how he had a little display area out in the vestibule of the movie house, with uniforms and medals and other memorabilia loaned by members of the Kentucky chapter of the 8th Air Force Historical Society.

Now, the World War II veterans are almost all gone. One of the more famous, Bob Dole, just passed away at the age of 98. My dad was not one of the more famous, except to me and the rest of us who loved him. But Dad was World War II to me, and since he’s been gone, I read as little about it as possible. 

(Photo: Genealogy Trails History Group)

The Message

The Message

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Say what you will about the cluttered house (and I’ve said plenty), but every so often it can surprise and delight you. 

The other night, while looking for something in the closet, I jostled a tube of silver wrapping paper, which dislodged a spool of curling ribbon, which brought down an old envelope filled with photos and a note from my father-in-law, who’s been gone for almost 29 years. 

What a gift this was, to hear again from this man who, even in the midst of his own illness was writing to share holiday photos and wisdom. The note was filled with appreciation for his home, his family, for the snow that had recently blanketed the woods around his house. 

The delivery system may have been a bit unorthodox, but the message was simple: love life while you have it. 

(A different snowfall, a different woods.)

Scott Hotel

Scott Hotel

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Only time for a short walk yesterday, but I had a destination in mind: the Scott Hotel, once owned by my grandfather and great uncle. Mom and her family lived at the hotel intermittently through the years, sharing quarters with the horsemen and the tobacco farmers in to sell their crops. 

The hotel was right across from the Southern Railway Depot, a natural place to stay for a night or two if you were in Lexington on business.

It was a less likely place to house three young daughters and a son. But these were different times, harder in some ways, easier in others.

The hotel is abandoned now, has been for years. It stands in mute testimony to those long-ago lives. 

Doing the Reading

Doing the Reading

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Finding the balance point for this new phase of life is not going to be an exact science, I can already tell. I crave big blocks of time but am also terrified by them. I tremble at not having enough to do, then compensate by piling on too much.

For instance, I continue to try and do all the reading for class, even though it can be an insane amount. Last night, for instance, I realized that there’s an entire book we’re supposed to read for today.

In my mind are the words of my children. “Mom, you don’t have to do all the reading.” Wise words from people who, as I recall, were taught that they should do all the reading. 

But as with so much of life, relationships shift, patterns change, wisdom develops. 

And tonight, I will go to class at least slightly … unprepared. 

Made by Walking

Made by Walking

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We make the road by walking. That was the sentence beamed on the wall of the Methodist church in Arlington where Bernadette was baptized on Saturday. Bernadette like an old-fashioned baby in her long white baptismal gown and cap. Bernadette who reaches out her arms to be held, who crawls like a house afire and pulls herself up to stand. She is a delight, though she can still cry with the best of them.

While she has perfected the piercing wail, her cousin Isaiah has mastered the wild bird shriek, his way of letting folks know he’s not getting his way. And he used this to perfection during the baptism, even as his parents fed him Cheerios, age-old food of parents in distress, and did everything else they could to occupy him during the service.

It seems like not that long ago we were the parents on the front lines, we were the ones grabbing those little pencils and envelopes in the pews, handing kids keys and trinkets they would never be allowed to touch otherwise. We were the ones carrying a screaming baby out of the sanctuary. We were the ones making the road by walking.

During the sermon, the pastor talked about how those who come before us make the way … just as we make the way for those who come after us. A lovely image not only for the Path of Life, capital P, capital L, but for every little lower-case section of it.

En Peu de Francais

En Peu de Francais

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With a new French-speaking grandson, I find myself dredging up phrases from ancient history — a high school class in French I. Today’s is “il fait du vent” … it’s windy.

But how much more trippingly does “Il fait du vent” fall off the tongue? Pretty trippingly, I’d say. 

Apparently, I could also phrase it as “Il y a du vent,” but I’ll stick with what I learned years ago. Which is way too little to converse with a bright 11-year-old.  

Once again, I’m struck by the paucity of foreign language study in the U.S. — or at least my language study!

(I met these children on a trip to Benin in 2015.) 

Bernadette’s Present

Bernadette’s Present

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Yesterday there was another first birthday, this one for our precious granddaughter, Bernadette. There were presents and cake and a special meal, a trip to the park with her mom and a visit with her grandparents and aunts and cousin. 

But the big present was still to come. She was going to meet it (him!) right after she and her mom left us at 8 p.m. That would be her new brother, age 11, arriving with his dad on a plane from Benin, West Africa via Istanbul. 

A year and two days ago, Suzanne and Appolinaire were a family of two. Now … they’re a family of four. We’re all rejoicing for them.