Hello Fall, old nemesis and arch enemy of school-despising children. How have you been? It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it? About 9 months – the time it takes to bring a child into the world. What’s new? You always have something new. So many people think Fall is the beginning of putting things to bed. They’re only right about the beginning.
I’m not sure why we never got along.
Wait, that’s not true.
We both know exactly why we never got along, starting with the school thing. How I dreaded what you signaled, how I loathed the turn of weather, how I hated you for accompanying it all with such flare and bright foliage. You couldn’t help but show off as you were instilling so much fear and worry. And I knew our schoolyard battles weren’t the end of it. You were far too tricky.
You always started out so pretty, with your gently-nodding goldenrod and cornstalk sunsets. You cajoled and cradled, but your heart was hidden, and no one has ever told whether something is there. You seduced with your coziness, with the promise of a fire, the scent of burning leaves… the hope of the hearth, but how insidiously you turn.
You know exactly what you did.
And you did it over and over again.
You made me fall in love.
Looking back, it was just the idea of love that I loved so well, but you made it an obsession. Maybe it was the cruel licks of the first few frosts, the way they made my lungs seize up when I rushed out unaccustomed to the cold. Maybe I just wanted someone to make me warm until I could do it myself. Maybe I wasn’t quite as grown up as I pretended to be. Whatever the reason, I lived for love, and you did your best to keep it ever elusive, ever out of my reach. You let it come close a few times, and you insisted that I did my part. You just never let it be returned.
As September ticked into October, and the days were increasingly marred with storms, you kept the hope dangling before me. Those golden days, when the sun still sparked joy, when you could believe that some shred of summer might linger a little longer than before, were always the cruelest, in retrospect. Or maybe they weren’t. The last full month of your season may hold that distinction.
Even the name ‘November’, with its vicious ‘V’ and the way it begins irrefutably with a declarative ‘No’ – so harsh, so unyielding, so absent of joy… we should know then that it won’t end well.
Oh Fall, ruthless masked marauder, taker and breaker of hearts, why should you be so wicked? Why leave such a trail of wreckage in your wake? Why make me make such a mess? Your indiscriminate nature does nothing to appease the pain. More devastation shall surely follow. We haven’t even begun to approach December, when the holidays might, if they’re being gracious, afford a bit of relief. We hang our hopes on that and plan accordingly.
In the meantime, we hope to find some balm of beauty to ease the sadness of seeing those rotting apples left for dead beneath their trees, the ghoulish melting and eventual molding of a pumpkin massacred for its jack-o-lantern purpose. The crunch of desiccated brown leaves on the sidewalk coupled with the desolate branches of the hands that once carried and cared for them – this is the callous nature of what you are. This is the sorrow that you have reaped.
They never struck me as all that striking until I grew one in my backyard. The banana tree, those tropical broad-leafed potted statement plants that some people grew in gardens or large pots on the patio, had always eluded my covetous glance. They felt like a tropical cliche, and destined for disappointment. Summers in upstate New York are not usually long enough for them to bear fruit, and the complicated burying process for the hardy varieties to survive the winters without rotting always felt too involved. For all those reasons, I never bothered with the banana.
But at the start of the very late planting season, there was a little banana plant at Troy’s Landscaping that called my name. It was just starting to leaf out, and it was so small and cute, and the foliage so handsome, I picked it up and nestled it into a relatively large pot in the backyard. The long and slow start to spring and warm weather meant that the little banana plant didn’t do much for a number of weeks. I looked at it without anguish or extreme disappointment – it was alive, and ever so slowly would unfurl a new leaf, but there were other things coming into bloom and taking off much faster. These took my attention while the banana, so small in its enormous pot, seemed to be merely in survival mode. My gardening style has been to abide the survivors, but thrill at the thrivers. It’s always been that way, and until a survivor proves that it can thrive, I’m the mean mommy with the stern gaze and unforgiving countenance. Worse, I tend to ignore the plight of those just getting by. Such was the case with this banana plant. Swimming in the gigantic pot – I thought they were supposed to get oh-so-big? – it looked lost, and barely required any water. All that moist soil with so few roots was a recipe for disaster, and for a while I was sure it would simply rot away before making the slightest tropical impression. As an angel’s trumpet plant took off and soared with the arrival of warmer weather, the little banana plant seemed to tremble in the slightest breeze. I pushed it off to the side, literally. Now and then I would notice a new leaf slowly emerging, the green underside wrapped tightly in an upward-pointing spiral was tinged with gray and the early veining of maroon. It was pretty enough, but I doubted it would ever put on a show. I favor the plants that put on shows.
A flowering maple shot skyward, to and beyond our canopy, and bloomed with an exquisite blossom of fiery red and yellow markings. A replanted lace-cap hydrangea that was an offshoot of an older plant came into its own thanks to a heavy helping of manure the year before. It bloomed extravagantly and courted bees and butterflies the entire time. A little line of Japanese painted ferns had happily appeared in a bare spot kept moist by the spring rain, taking quick hold once I took over the watering when the sky stopped. All the while, the banana slowly worked its way up and out. By the time the really hot weather arrived, I took new notice of it.
Watching a specific plant closely, one doesn’t always see or appreciate what is actually happening. One misses the roots and everything going on underneath the soil. One misses the gradual growth of leaves overall when focused too closely on height. When I had given up on such a close daily inspection, the banana surreptitiously made its advance. In the same manner that such visible changes only came into view after I returned from a vacation or time spent away, I noticed the banana anew. Suddenly it came into its own, filling its pot in pleasing proportions and rising to gain the glory of the sun.
In its growing season, and the right conditions, it is said that the banana tree will unfurl one large leaf a week. I like the marking of time that way, especially in the summer. Once we clicked into that tropical heat and humidity, the leaves got on schedule, one large magnificent work of art after the other. Some arched, some tore and fluttered in the summer storms, and some simply draped in gorgeous fashion, backlit brilliantly by the hot sun or basking happily in a warm rain.
And so the summer passed, in the ticking and unfurling of the banana leaves. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to mark the time. Next year I’ll be going totally bananas, because when a survivor becomes a thriver, I become a bit obsessed.
1. (especially as a direction) in a moderately slow tempo.
noun
2. a movement or composition marked to be played andante.
Origin of andante: 1735- < Italian:literally,walking,presentparticiple of andare to walk, go; etymologydisputed,butoftenalleged: < VulgarLatin*ambitare,derivative of Latinambituscircularmotion,roundaboutjourney; perhaps,alternatively,earlyLatinborrowing < Gaulish*and,akin to Latinpandere to spread(hence,stride);comparepassusstep,pace(actionnoun*pand-tu-), equivalent to OldIrishfootprint,track
TAKE IT EASY WITH ME PLEASE
TOUCH ME GENTLY, LIKE A SUMMER EVENING BREEZE
TAKE YOUR TIME, MAKE IT SLOW
ANDANTE ANDANTE, AND JUST LET THE FEELING GROW…
Andante, Andante indeed. August sped along quicker than I’d like, so I made a determined effort to slow things down. Summer is usually the time when I’ll delve into a literary classic. I still remember the seasons I trudged through ‘David Copperfield’ and ‘Treasure Island’ and ‘Moby Dick’, and after finishing ‘The Summer that Melted Everything‘ and ‘Less’, I started ‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’.
Suzie and I made a semi-annual summer pilgrimage to Chatham for a performance of ‘The Wedding Singer’ at the Mac-Haydn Theatre, and Andy and I went back for their production of ‘Annie’. Following the curving roads rife with full green foliage and waving fields of corn always eases the mind.
One of my favorite summer traditions, our annual BroSox Adventure, typically held in early June when the blush is newly on the rose, got scheduled much later in the season, when the rose is all but off the stem and only the prickly reminders remain. Skip and I made another set of riotous memories, from tracking down a possibly-non-existent serial killer, rummaging through garbage, to eating chicken wings and drinking way too much whiskey and gin. That was just the first day and a half. Right before the game started, the sky opened up and demolished a day of high heat and unbearable humidity with a quick downpour. We’d actually cut a couple of walks short because it was so sticky and oppressive, and we sat at Hojoku nursing a Suntory whiskey cocktail while ‘The Wizard of Oz’ played on a screen behind us (last year it was ‘The Karate Kid’).
As if on cue, the rain stopped right before the game began, and as we took our seats a cool breeze blew into Fenway Park. It whispered thrillingly of fall and closed out the evening in a zone of comfort. An excess of fun, accented with moments of contemplation made for a banner Red Sox weekend, and we continued our run as good luck charms, as they handily beat the Rays 5-2.
On the event of turning 43, I have one thing to say: two tears in a bucket, motherfuck it. Andy and I took a day trip to Manchester, Vermont ~ a favorite childhood haunt, where we enjoyed some shopping and a fine dinner (even if the flies refused to let us eat in peace).
By the end of the month, I’d returned to finishing my current project, slated for a late fall release. I’d taken much of the summer off, but when the nights started cooling down, and I figured out that kerosene was a much better way to burn things up than charcoal lighter fluid, I was back on track. Stay tuned for that explosive release in a couple of months…
MAKE YOUR FINGERS SOFT AND LIGHT
LET YOUR BODY BE THE VELVET OF THE NIGHT
TOUCH MY SOUL, YOU KNOW HOW
ANDANTE ANDANTE, GO SLOWLY WITH ME NOW.
We tend to forget how a flaming September is still mostly summer, throwing away all the post-Labor Day moments when we really should be celebrating the season as long as possible. Our Ogunquit trip was an example of this, as we changed things up by waiting until September to go, which is how it went down that very first visit almost twenty years ago.
Mostly though, with Andy’s health issues and my own advancing age (hello 43!) we kept it relatively quiet this summer, and that was ok. When the world goes to shit, and chaos is the order of the day, the best thing to do is enjoy a quiet summer with the people who mean the most to you.
I’M YOUR MUSIC, I’M YOUR SONG
PLAY ME TIME AND TIME AGAIN, MAKE ME STRONG
MAKE ME SING, MAKE ME SOUND
ANDANTE ANDANTE, TREAD LIGHTLY ON MY GROUND
ANDANTE ANDANTE, OH PLEASE DON’T LET ME DOWN.
On the news, oppression fueled by racism and hatred made daily marks on our lives. Surrounded by non-stop reports of such chaos and cruelty, where children and babies were being locked in cages without human contact, it was difficult to enjoy the sunny season. I thought back to other troubling times in our world’s history when dark forces stole power and fooled great swaths of people, and I remembered the little pockets of light and goodness and humanity that managed to survive, secret and safe and biding their time until the world got better. I want this space to be a refuge of sorts for anyone who needs to escape. I want this to be one of those pockets of warmth and reassurance when the outside world is crumbling and crashing around us. Most of all, I want us to unite here, in the land of frivolity and fun, to escape the troubles and pressures of life, and to find a moment of peace. If the summer was any indication, those moments are becoming fewer and further apart. If we are to make it through the fall and winter, we need a home base ~ a place of love and safety and acceptance. I can’t do it all alone, but I can do my best to make this place pretty and welcoming and witty enough to entertain the most jaded among us. Every once in a while I’ll rely on someone else to add to the party (thank you Skip and Suzie for the future posts you may not even know you are going to write here) and together we’ll make it through the wilderness. Somehow, we’ll make it through.
THERE’S A SHIMMER IN YOUR EYES,
LIKE THE FEELING OF A THOUSAND BUTTERFLIES
PLEASE DON’T TALK, GO ON PLAY
ANDANTE ANDANTE, AND WATCH ME FLOAT AWAY
As for the finals days of a summer that started out with such hope, I was left with a melancholy feeling, haunted by stories of a mother bear hunted down by two men and slaughtered while her bear cubs shrieked in terror, or the orca who kept pushing her dead calf to the surface for days, lost in mourning and drowning in her sorrow, and I wondered at the sadness of life.
A sour note to end the summer and start the fall, perhaps, but it’s a note of truth, and one that will hopefully inspire you to be the best person you can be. God knows I will try. Thanks for coming back to see how it all plays out.
Sometimes I lay Under the moon
And thank God I’m breathing
Then I pray
Don’t take me soon
‘Cause I am here for a reason
Sometimes in my tears I drown
But I never let it get me down So when negativity surrounds
I know some day it’ll all turn around because…
All my life I’ve been waiting for
I’ve been praying for
For the people to say
That we don’t wanna fight no more
There will be no more wars And our children will play
Our summer party got a fresh spin, and a much-needed revamp in the form of simpler weekends and smaller gatherings for friends whom we hadn’t seen in years. Such intimate get-togethers make for more quality time with the people we love best. Looking back, much of these past few months was about re-connecting with people from the past – Missy and Joe, Anu, Tommy and Janet – these weren’t just friends, they were the friends who had become family to us over the years.
Sitting there around the table, I was instantly transported back two decades, when we’d be sitting around a smaller and dingier table, but no less happy or joyous because of it. Back then, we had all the fun of each other’s company coupled with the hope of whatever futures we would make for ourselves. In the last few years, life has battered us all, and we were in very different places than we were when I used to visit College Avenue in Ithaca. So much had changed, but so much of who we were remained. It was bittersweet – a comfort coupled with a reminder of the relentlessness of time. More than anything else, it reminded me of what was good in this world. I miss that, just being around the people who have always brought such joy into our lives. After the flurry of weddings and births, I worry that only the sorrowful stuff remains. But there are kids to carry on the next cycle, and as they splashed in the pool and ran through the house I realized that I was lucky enough to know some of the brightest hopes for the future. Now that the children are getting older and more self-sufficient, their parents, perhaps, are feeling a first sigh of relief in a long time. A little bit of breathing room. Also, a glimpse of a time when they’re no longer counted on to be there for every single moment, which I imagine is as daunting as it is thrilling. Entering our forties, we all felt a little more weighed down by the world, yet it was impossible to experience anything but elation when we came together. I held onto that for the weekend, and for the summer. There will be dreary fall and winter days when things seem dark and even doomed, but I will keep this summer memory safe within my heart for precisely such days.
One day this all will change
Treat people the same
Stop with the violence
Down with the hate
All my life I’ve been waiting for
I’ve been praying for
For the people to say
That we don’t wanna fight no more
There will be no more wars
And our children will play
The question was always asked and answered on the first day back to school. A bittersweet query, really, one that I kind of dreaded because it meant that summer was truly over, relegated to the dim corridor of Memory, perhaps resigned to the long trudge of Forgotten. Neither was particularly appealing for a kid suddenly strapped to the confines of school again. Even as an adult, I feel the dreaded sting of back-to-school specials and the parade of school supplies on sale at this time of the year. Still, the question begs to be answered: what did you do over summer vacation? Here, in a nutshell (or blog post or three), is how mine unfolded.
It began in fitting form on Cape Cod, with a graduation party at JoAnn’s. Tressie was celebrating her successful completion of her degree, and family and friends gathered at the Mermaid on Shore Road cottage. Seeing the future of our planet in such capable hands gave me momentary hope in a world otherwise-gone-mad. I returned home just in time to make it to my niece Emi’s dance recital. We arrived precisely on time for the start, then sat through the 57 songs that came before her performance. At least I got out of the Cape early enough to avoid all summer traffic. (Hint: there’s none at 5:30 AM.)
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
More wee ones were in our summer plans, as Andy and I headed to Missy and Joe’s new house; their sons Julian and Cameron were waiting for us as we arrived on a hot sunny day. We hadn’t seen them for a few years – the longest stretch of not seeing such close friends – but they are finally settling into a fabulous new home and hosted us for a lovely visit in late June. The heat was high, the pool was open, and an idyllic weekend was at hand. Doug and Julio joined us for dinner, the Paloma coolers were flowing, and everything came together perfectly the way it does only a few times a year. Cameron and Julian were the highlight of our visit – two young boys growing up and giving me more hope for the future. Julian gave us the best parting gift there is: a song. I’ve selected our Fall Return theme song based on his version of ‘Count on Me’ by Bruno Mars.
IF YOU’RE TOSSING AND YOU’RE TURNING AND YOU JUST CAN’T FALL ASLEEP
I’LL SING A SONG BESIDE YOU
AND IF YOU EVER FORGET HOW MUCH YOU REALLY MEAN TO ME
EVERYDAY I WILL REMIND YOU
FIND OUT WHAT WE’RE MADE OF WHEN WE ARE CALLED TO HELP OUR FRIENDS IN NEED
YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
In July, near our 18thanniversary, Andy and I made a weekend trip to Boston, where we saw the hot mess that was/is ‘Moulin Rouge’. It was a blast, though there was still much tinkering going on when we saw it. We sat close to the director, who was taking copious notes, so maybe they’ve made it hotter and less messy than when we saw it. It’s a spectacle, to be sure, and worth a look-see, but only if you’ve reconciled yourself to flash and fluff. That’s the mainstay of my life, so I may have to see it again.
JoAnn visited us for a weekend, and she brought another wonderful denizen of the Cape with her. Cheryl taught us how to make lumpia, and we had such a fun time we are already eyeing her next trip up for a lesson on the secrets of mahjong. The circle of friendship widens; the ripples of love cross and rebound. We are always better for it.
YOU’LL ALWAYS HAVE MY SHOULDER WHEN YOU CRY
I’LL NEVER LET GO, NEVER SAY GOODBYE
YOU KNOW YOU CAN COUNT ON ME LIKE ONE TWO THREE, I’LL BE THERE
AND I KNOW WHEN I NEED IT I CAN COUNT ON YOU LIKE FOUR THREE TWO
YOU’LL BE THERE, ‘CAUSE THAT’S WHAT FRIENDS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO, OH YEAH
Near the end of July, a series of storms ripped through the area – one of which had hail the size of quarters falling dangerously from the sky. One ripped a small hole in our backyard canopy -“ countless others ruined the up-until-then-pristine foliage of the garden plants. It tattered everything for the rest of the season. Plants are surprisingly resilient, but they don’t mend torn or hole-filled leaves. I took a video of the ice splashing into the pool, battering our unicorn float in dramatic fashion. Summer came with its own thrills and dangers, and it wasn’t nearly done yet…
The older I get, the more difficult I find it to let go of certain nights. Maybe the day was an exceptionally good one, where everything clicked at work, you felt at the top of your game, and there were more accolades and happy co-workers than complaints and aggravations. Maybe the night was one of those vacation nights where, after a day spent fully and luxuriously at the beach, you ate your fill of fresh seafood and were sauntering back to the hotel when your husband asked if you wanted to stop for an ice cream cone. Maybe the sky was simply the truest blue, the sun shone in all its splendor, and the gardens tipped from the height of June into the glory of July. Maybe it was none of these things, but an old friend came to visit and you remembered what it was like to be young, in the summer between high school and college, when all was hope and fear and love and danger, and the moon was low and September whispered it was on the way. Maybe it was just the end of summer.
THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE DASHBOARD, TAKEN YEARS AGO
TURNED AROUND BACKWARDS SO THE WINDSHIELD SHOWS
EVERY STREETLIGHT REVEALS THE PICTURE IN REVERSE
STILL, IT’S SO MUCH CLEARER
I FORGOT MY SHIRT AT THE WATER’S EDGE
THE MOON IS LOW TONIGHT
At the end of one of these days, when all our friends have left and the moon remains, the music has faded to memory and the scent of the angel’s trumpet tree fills our backyard. I slip into the darkened water of the pool and sink gratefully to the bottom. The warm tug of the day’s heat, caught in liquid form, embraces my skin, and part of me is reluctant to surface.
I struggle with the passing of time, doing what I can to slow it and still it in its tracks, all to no avail. It will have its way with us; we are powerless against it. Still, beneath the water things seem to move a little slower. I pause in the languid sweetness, gently kicking off the cares of the day, paddling away from the worries of tomorrow.
We do not want the summer to leave just yet.
NIGHTSWIMMING DESERVES A QUIET NIGHT
I’M NOT SURE ALL THESE PEOPLE UNDERSTAND
IT’S NOT LIKE YEARS AGO
THE FEAR OF GETTING CAUGHT
OF RECKLESSNESS AND WATER
THEY CANNOT SEE ME NAKED
THESE THINGS, THEY GO AWAY
REPLACED BY EVERYDAY
Water lapping at my neck and ears… the distant hum of an air conditioner kicking on… the faint bark of a dog’s warning… and I swim down again, lost in the muffled, giddy gurgles. Upon surfacing, I see the houselights bounce and reflect off the little waves I’ve made. I tilt my head back and see the sky and its infinite sadness. Clouds encroaching and covering the moon, a disappearing sea of stars, an oncoming storm.
Wind on the rise like invisible ocean, all power and might and terrifying beauty. A maelstrom of darkness choking out the heat of this summer day. Who knows when it will be this hot again… maybe not until next summer. There is melancholy dwelling there. A bit of relief too.
NIGHTSWIMMING, REMEMBERING THAT NIGHT
SEPTEMBER’S COMING SOON
I’M PINING FOR THE MOON
AND WHAT IF THERE WERE TWO
SIDE BY SIDE IN ORBIT
AROUND THE FAIREST SUN?
THAT BRIGHT, TIGHT FOREVER DRUM
COULD NOT DESCRIBE NIGHTSWIMMING
The night before I went away to college, my girlfriend dropped me off at the top of the street where I grew up. It was only a single block to walk, but I wanted to make the memory, and I wanted to make it last. We kissed each other goodbye, and without realizing it kissed our carefree childhoods goodbye too. We held on as long as we could, maybe a little longer than we should have, but it was harder to leave back then, back when it was new, back when we didn’t know we might still return, even if it was emptier and colder and different, even if we no longer belonged. Maybe we never did.
YOU, I THOUGHT I KNEW YOU
YOU I CANNOT JUDGE
YOU, I THOUGHT YOU KNEW ME
THIS ONE LAUGHING QUIETLY UNDERNEATH MY BREATH
NIGHTSWIMMING
And so, on this late August night, baptized anew by the water of life and seared by the pain of the passage of time, I float on the deep darkness of what has gone. All that we have already lost, all that we have yet to loose. There is so much tenderness in this world, and we live in such a tenuous time…
I don’t want it to end.
THE PHOTOGRAPH REFLECTS, EVERY STREETLIGHT A REMINDER
NIGHTSWIMMING DESERVES A QUIET NIGHT, DESERVES A QUIET NIGHT.
Ahh, the musical montage. That glorious bit of cinematic magic wherein a key song plays over a spattering of key dramatic moments, in which storylines are advanced, tied up, or busted open while a single snippet of music brings it all together. I love a good musical montage. I’ve also found one to see us off into summer break and take us through the rest of the season. It’s an oldie, from a summer long ago, and just in time it will save the day, take us to a castle far away…
It’s the perfect bit of languid music minimalism, ripe for a hot and lazy summer day when it takes every last ounce of effort to simply walk from one room to another. It’s ambivalent too, like summer can be. A certain tension informs these days, when too much sudden heat can clash with cooler realms and summer storms may be born into devilish, destructive offspring. We always pay for such heat.
Last year I took my first break from the blog, not knowing what to expect, feeling a vague fear and trepidation reminiscent of whenever I had had a really good year of school, when part of me didn’t want to break for summer, as crazy and incredulous as that may sound for a kid to think. I always felt older than the others. I always knew that that was the best time of our lives. At least, I forced myself to believe that. It worked well. Not expecting as much from these grown-up years has made them feel like a bonus. And no one wants to peak too soon.
On that last day of school, when even the teachers seemed to let down their guard in giddy relief, I walked a little slower, trying vainly to still the minutes, trying to enjoy them because somehow in the previous year I had forged bonds, made connections and even formed a few friendships that would last my lifetime. It was then, near the end of the year, that I started to feel a little loved. It always came so late, and it always overwhelmed me. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want it to end. Maybe we all wanted to be kids for just a little bit longer.
It only took the brief walk home, however, to turn off school-mode and ease instantly into vacationland. By the time I reached our house, that brief bout of nostalgia passed and only elation and the hope of a full summer ahead was left. I’d throw my pencils up into the sky, scattering them on the roof of our garage where they’d fade and warp in the sun and summer rains. I’d inhale the freshly-cut grass and begin the daily ritual of examining the gardens. Between bike rides and trading baseball cards, I would do my best to indulge in the traditional trappings of a boy in summer, and for the most part I enjoyed the days as they passed. Part of me longed for adventure, for something more exciting like we’d seen in ‘The Goonies‘ or ‘Stand By Me‘, and whenever we’d see a movie and were waiting for our ride, we’d roam the sparkly cement of the Amsterdam Mall parking lot and race into whatever dramatic scenario we’d concocted in our mind. The same spirit would accompany our night-time pool play, where we’d splash in the aqua light like some ‘Poltergeist’ meets ‘Jaws’ monster-mash. They were simple joys, and we never needed anything else. When left to their own devices, children will find a way to entertain themselves. Sometimes I think parents today feel some strange need to provide continual and constant stimulation, entertainment and occupation for their kids – when they really just need to be left alone. But what do I know? Andy and I remain happily unburdened by children. We are lucky that way. Besides, we have more than enough kids in our orbit to fulfill any sense of missing something, and we get to give them back at the end of the day. (Sometimes before the end of the day.)
I’LL KEEP HOLDING ON
I’LL KEEP HOLDING ON
I’LL KEEP HOLDING ON
I’LL KEEP HOLDING ON
As we wind down for summer, I’m reminded of those television shows that went on hiatus until the fall, leaving us with re-runs and non-challenging fare. Sometimes they ended with a bang, and a big dramatic cliffhanger (remember ‘Dallas’ and the whole ‘Who shot J.R.?’ mystery?) Just as often, however, they finished in quieter form, with a more contemplative place-holder. This post is one of the latter and that feels right for this moment in time – both for the blog and the summer. It’s simply too hot to work up a bombastic season finale. Instead, I’m putting ‘Music’ on repeat and holding on.
For now, if you remember last summer, this is not a goodbye. It is a quick little break to allow us both to enjoy the season of the sun without the onus of obligation, a chance to break away from the computer or the phone and take a swim, see a silly movie, or sleep in. It will pass too soon, the days will dwindle, and before we know it the cool night whispers of September will be tickling our ears and begging for the heat to be put to sleep. That heat has only just begun, and we’re at the point where we can embrace it.
In a very quiet room, I try to sit very still. Outside the window, I can see the heat rising off the pavement in those surreal waves that seem to bend the air. Already, the peonies have been overcome by mildew. The lilacs will not be far behind. Others come into their own with such heat – the sweet potato vines have finally started leaping out of their pots. A lion’s paw plant has begun its subtle but steady ascent. The cup plant, provided it gets enough water, stretches its staunch stems skyward. Soon it will bloom in happy daisy-like faces of bright yellow, to be visited by bees and butterflies, and later by the goldfinches. They will scatter its ripe seed on the ground, starting the cycle over again, continuing this beautiful circle of life on its wondrously infinite trajectory.
For most of my childhood summers my brother was my best friend. Away from the daily circumstance of school, and without cel phones or the internet, we lost touch with school friends that we had grown accustomed to seeing daily. Stranded in the same house, raised by the same parents, my brother and I are the only two people in the world who shared almost the exact same upbringing. No one, not even Suzie, has a keener understanding of what it was like to grow up in the Ilagan household, with all its requisite glories and flaws and luxuries and discipline. My brother shared all those things for the first decade and a half of our lives before we went our own ways and forged our own paths.
Back then, it was just him and me, and I didn’t mind in the least.
TONIGHT IT’S VERY CLEAR, AS WE’RE BOTH LYING HERE
THERE’S SO MANY THINGS I WANT TO SAY
I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU, I WOULD NEVER LEAVE YOU ALONE
SOMETIMES I JUST FORGET, SAY THINGS I MIGHT REGRET
IT BREAKS MY HEART TO SEE YOU CRYING
I DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU, I COULD NEVER MAKE IT ALONE.
We had friends in the neighborhood that we’d play with ~ Michael and Eric and Jennifer ~ but I was more content when it was the two of us, riding our bikes across town to grab baseball cards and candy, or down to the small corner aquarium store to see the fish. There was a huge 100-gallon tank of freshwater fish near the back of the store, filled with colorful decorations and large denizens slowly swimming above its graveled expanse. I remember the owner of the store, Linda, and how we could mark the passing of time in her hair and, later, her pregnancies. She had a short hair phase, then there was a tragic perm moment (from which she never quite recovered) and finally ~ thankfully ~ she started to grow it out. By then we had almost grown up.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
This song, an unabashed love song, is a strange one to intertwine among memories of my brother, but its essence could be read on a grander scale than finite romantic love. It was part of ‘The Karate Kid’ ~ a movie that I saw with my brother, and it filled the radio of one of those childhood summers. In the hot and humid nights, back when heat and humidity didn’t bother us (childhood has a way of making us weather-resistant), we’d listen to this on the radio, caring not a whit for Peter Cetera’s cheesy delivery or the banal cliches of knights in shining armor and castles far away. What did we know of romantic love at that point? Nothing, and we didn’t want to know. Sometimes children have all the wisdom.
Instead, we reveled in brotherly love, even if we would never say or acknowledge it. We emboldened one another. It’s often been assumed that my brother was more of a risk-taker than me, that he would make questionable choices and do occasionally-foolish things, acting as daredevil to my more sensible angel. That wasn’t really the case when we were kids. My brother was most often the voice of safety and reason when I wanted to do something really stupid. He was the one concerned about Mom and Dad and what they would do to us if we got caught. I just had the confidence to assume we wouldn’t get caught, and most of the time that carried us through. Like when I stole an expensive (or so I thought at the time) baseball card from one of the local dealers. We were browsing with a friend, and on a dare or desire to impress my brother (I could do crazy-ass daring things too!) I stuffed some rookie card down the front of my shorts into my underwear. I thought I did it furtively, but the owner, a cigar-chomping rotund gentleman with straggly yet curly hair that was running away from the top of his head, must have seen me, and immediately stopped me from leaving the store. Alerted at this point by the accosting, but unaware of what I had done, my brother looked at me and waited. The owner said he saw me stuff a card down my pants. I denied it, and through sheer force of will and defiance, one of the only times in my life when I have been so bold, I stood my ground and dared him: “If it’s in my pants, why don’t you come and get it?” (I didn’t watch all those soap operas for nothing.) He backed away and just yelled at us to get out of his store. We got on our bikes and quickly pedaled away. Amused and a little irate, my brother asked, because he didn’t quite believe me, whether I had taken the card. “Of course not,” I replied. Then I rode ahead of him a little, pulled the card from my underwear, and waved it in the air to show him without saying a word. Older brothers have been doing stupid shit to impress their younger brothers since the world began. Most of the time it doesn’t work.
YOU KEEP ME STANDING TALL, YOU HELP ME THROUGH IT ALL
I’M ALWAYS STRONG WHEN YOU’RE BESIDE ME
I HAVE ALWAYS NEEDED YOU, I COULD NEVER MAKE IT ALONE…
We had our arguments, like all brothers will, and at the end of them we’d separate for a while, cooling off in our respective corners. The world would turn a little dimmer whenever that happened. I remember one time we were building a fort in the forest and we got into a ridiculous fight about how to make it or something, and it ended with us going off to make our own separate forts.
We eyed each other suspiciously, scrambling for materials before the other could get them, racing to see who would finish first and whose would be the better. Neither of us ever won then. We were better as a team, stronger when we were together and on the same side. But sibling rivalry runs deep. We did not see that then. Our forts, and the loneliness that resulted from erecting them on our own, were emblematic of our struggle. We abandoned them. The summer storms ripped their walls of twigs apart. Every time we’d return after a heavy rain, more had washed away. The floor, which we had raked and swept and kept free of debris would be littered with leaves and branches. Deciduous boughs, bent and tied to form a canopy, broke free of their string and returned to their natural form, taking the make-shift ceiling with them. Summer could be as destructive as she was sunny.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
For a summer best friend, one could do a lot worse than my brother. He had the qualities I lacked but so often admired. He wore his sensitivity on his sleeve; I kept mine hidden. He was more open and raw about getting hurt, emotionally and physically; I kept my pain quiet and private. He was quick to play and please; I was quick to run and hide. Yet for all our differences, for all our childhood summers, those differences bound us together in ways I still don’t completely understand. We each seemed to supply what the other lacked, whether we realized it or not. But maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe we just wanted a playmate. When the sun was out, and the summer beckoned, the best thing to do was share it with someone.
IT’S LIKE A KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR, FROM A LONG TIME AGO
JUST IN TIME I WILL SAVE THE DAY, TAKE YOU TO MY CASTLE FAR AWAY
And so we carved out our summer adventures. When my brother would journey out on his own or with a neighborhood friend, I’d sometimes stay behind and immediately regret it. At those times I’d stay inside, watching out the window like a dog waiting for its owner to come home, hoping they wouldn’t be gone for too long. Solitude was my resting stance, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be alone all the time, and certainly not on a sunny summer day.
It takes me a long time to feel safe and comfortable enough to make friends, so my brother was often my conduit to social interaction in those days. He was a talisman of sorts whenever I felt anxious about being accepted or part of the group. In that way, he was more like an older brother, and me his younger charge in need of a little help. He was better at talking to people whereas my shyness was crippling. He probably did more to bring me out of my shell than anyone else, and in his company I could feel bold and brash (and apparently bodacious enough to steal a baseball card). Without knowing it, my brother was the protective hero that I would so long for when the world turned its back and closed its doors.
I AM A MAN WHO WILL FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR
I’LL BE THE HERO YOU’RE DREAMING OF
WE’LL LIVE FOREVER, KNOWING TOGETHER
THAT WE DID IT ALL FOR THE GLORY OF LOVE.
All these years later, summer is still the season that seems to bring us together as brothers again. Christmas does that in quicker and shorter fashion, but summer, for whatever magical reason, finds my brother and I able to see each other more, to visit and hang outside while his kids swim, or have a sleep-over without having to worry about anyone getting up to go to school. We’re able to travel easier and get to see each other more in the summer months.
Tomorrow marks the last day of new posts on ALANILAGAN.com for a while – at least until September (or possibly until Madonna drops a new single and I’m excited enough to write about it). As such, this is going to be one of those lengthy, linky entries with lots of avenues to summer posts from the past. Like it does with songs and scents, summer seems to make memories more indelible. Here are some of my favorites, for your leisurely perusal when the site goes dark. Bookmark accordingly.
This is almost it – our second annual summer hiatus is practically at hand and I cannot wait! The last day of new blog posts for the season will be this Saturday, June 30, 2018. Then we will go dark until September. Those four remaining posts will hopefully see you through the summer days, and there are more than enough links in each of them to keep you well-occupied should you miss this place.
Personally, I won’t miss it much. While I love writing and creating content, the promotion of these posts is done mostly through social media, which of late is a nasty place to visit. Taking a break from here will enable me to take a break from there. FaceBook and Twitter are both being taken over by dark forces, and though I fight back as much as possible, I’ve been finding more joy in the simple pleasures of pictures on Instagram. That’s where I may be spending most of my online time this summer, so watch that space and follow!
As for this site, I recently spent some time outlining a rough long-range trajectory for the rest of its time here. All things, good and bad, must eventually come to an end. Nothing lasts forever. The temporal nature of life, especially online life, has been on my mind. Someday this blog will end, at least my part in it. In the past, I’ve sort of skirted and avoided the topic because ending something is often a sad affair, and the thought of being forced to stop doing something I love is not pleasurable. But this labor of love is indeed laborious, and after last summer’s break I realized there was a lot to accomplish when I didn’t need to worry about writing thousands of words a week. I’ll always find a creative outlet as that is my way of surviving such a mundane world, but it need not be here. Merely keeping a diary is enough. That said, there is something to sharing things with those who want to listen and who might relate to something I’ve said. For now, I’m not quite ready to give that up. I do, however, see that this endeavor has an end date, and for perhaps one of the first times I am facing that and stating it now. There is an exhilaration in such a declaration, and I hope it gives this blog, when it returns in the fall, a renewed jolt of inspiration and urgency.
I’ve been doing this since 2003. This website is over fifteen years old. It’s a dinosaur among dinosaurs. If we liken the lifespan of the blog to the seasonal cycle, I’d gauge us at somewhere within the fall portion of the year. We’ve had our spring and summer, and we are beyond the half-way point of its existence as far as I can see. The good thing is that fall and winter carry their own charms and enticements, some of which are richer than anything spring or summer can conjure. Good things are yet to come.
We’re leaving together,
But still it’s farewell
And maybe we’ll come back
To earth, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame
We’re leaving ground (leaving ground)
Will things ever be the same again?
Behold the simple daylily. Found roadside on many a stretch of America, these common plants are synonymous with summer. Fiery, fresh, and gone too soon, they share many of summer’s traits. Each blossom lasts but a single day (if that) but many buds are held by each stem, giving the appearance of a longer blooming period.
One of my self-imposed childhood chores was to deadhead these in the border I planted in our backyard. I’d ordered a collection of hybrid daylilies from Wayside Gardens, to supplement the single substantial mound of the traditional form you see pictured here, which up to that point had been our only brush with this easy-going plant. Its strap-like foliage stayed handsome year-round, and even though the blooming period of a single bud was a day, their voluminous grouping of buds made for a decent few weeks of successive color. For that reason, daylilies became the early backbone of our garden.
Today, I still thrill at the sight of a wild patch of these blooming in almost unassuming fashion. They occupy a rare room of memory in which the reality matches up with the fantasy. For me, the fantasy was finding a flower like this blooming in a stretch of forest edge beside an unlikely section of road. It was near my old elementary school, down a bank littered with mostly deciduous trees. There, beside the sidewalk, was an impressive stand of daylilies, nodding their orange blooms beneath the dappled sunlight. They were set back a bit from the road, and I wondered whether anyone else had seen them. For me, it seemed like a delicious secret. I ventured down there one day to inspect them up close. The walk was longer than I’d usually go, and that section of forest was unknown to me so I had to be more cautious. Eventually, after a battle with some hefty wild grapevines, I found the daylilies.
They were even more exquisite at close range, where I could better appreciate the bright green leaves and slender stems, along with the brightly-colored flowers – all fire and glowing embers, like little goblets of flame held aloft on torches of green. There was a dip in the ground nearby, which filled with water during the wetter parts of the year. It lent a tropical aspect to the space, and next to the daylily blooms it was like some snippet of paradise, as far removed from upstate New York as one could be.
I savored the moment and embedded the memory in my mind, where it remains to this very day. Summer works its wonders…
This is the last week that ALANILAGAN.com will be up until our return in the fall. I have a couple of kick-ass posts before then, however, provided I can overcome all these 500 Internal Errors that keep happening. In the meantime, a look back over the last week for anyone who missed it.
Just before taking off for summer break, we lucked out on the timing of this post, which allows me to post several photos from Adam Rippon’s ESPN Naked Body Issue, a very happy time for the world, when athletes doff their uniforms in favor of their God-given suits and strut their stuff in fully nude form. That always gets a big celebratory post here, as we’ve seen here and here and here, particularly among such favored luminaries as Julian Edelman, Rob Gronkowski, and Michael Phelps. Now we can add Adam Rippon to that esteemed list. Mr. Rippon was featured here a number of times, notably in this post and that one. (Ok, this one too.)
Sea had stayed at bay during the night. I’d kept the windows closed as it had cooled down considerably. Upon waking and walking to Cafe Madeleine, however, I noticed Sea was still around, a bit more sulky, perhaps, and she would follow me to Cape Cod, sifting through the sky and pouring down once I reached my destination. JoAnn and I sat near the bay window of her little mermaid home on Shore Road as the rain poured down, a worrisome state of affairs for Tressie’s graduation later that afternoon. The radar showed it moving off shore in the coming hours, though, and I remained hopeful it would clear. As JoAnn and I caught up, the sky lightened. Sea had thrown her fit and let Eel Pond take over for a bit.
I took a short walk to the Lobster Trap for a seafood fix, where I had the fortune to run into JoAnn’s sister Kate and her daughter Madison. They were good enough to join me for lunch, and celebrating Kate’s birthday as well, which is just how the universe sometimes works. The guests were gathering for the party. Excitement was in the air like the Sea.
On the walk home, I rounded the house and went a few more blocks out of the way to extend the beauty of the Cape. Privet and beach roses were in full bloom, sweetly scenting the misty air. Sea ran in channels all about the area, and I breathed her in alongside the oceanic cologne that wafted off the lichens and moss and wet-loving organisms.
Sky was gray, but her sister Blue had found habitation among the iconic Cape Cod hydrangeas. They don’t get any bluer than here. Subtler shades were found in the wet wreckage of the roadside vegetation, but there were accents of bright color if you got closer and slowed down to see.
Back in JoAnn’s backyard, her work on the gardens over the last couple of years was coming into beautiful fruition. Proper cultivation brought about bigger blooms, brighter colors and a pleasant richness that usually begins in a garden’s third or fourth year. The lessons of a garden were working their own magic – patience, persistence, perpetual failure followed by moments of redemption and gorgeous success. She’s a relatively new gardener, but she’s doing well and finding her way. It came about at just the right time, in just the manner the world intended it to be. A bit of grace, perhaps, in a mad world.
Hope was to be found in the future at hand as well, and celebrating Tressie’s graduation from college was a happy way of bringing everyone together, which is what JoAnn does best. I’ve had the pleasure of being her friend for almost twenty years, and in that time I’ve had the occasional favor of getting to peep in on parties and gatherings where her family members would enter and exit at various stages in our lives.
This was one of those times when everyone seemed to be at a good place. That rarely happens in such fortuitous fashion, not when there are so many of us treading so many different paths, but for one afternoon in June, when the rain held off and the breeze wasn’t too cool, a group of hopeful college grads christened us all with the bit of hope that we needed so badly.
Early the next morning, I departed for my niece’s dance recital, continuing on the circle of life. The day began uncool, gray fashion, and I was leaving Sea behind for the moment. We will be back to see her before the summer is over.
Sea whispered to me when I arrived in Boston. She peaked around corners, she skulked in the shadows, she stepped alongside me in the sun. Everywhere I walked, I felt she was there. She tickled my nose with her salty seduction, teasing and tempting with her mineral-laden scent. On certain summer days, that’s what Sea did best, and as I began my perambulation of Boston, she was in the air.
The weekend would be informed by Sea, who had a strong backing wind, one that brought her all the way to Braddock Park and the South End, and one that would follow in the misty air as I made my way to Cape Cod the next day. First, though, a few glimpses of the flowers that were in striking form along the streets of Boston.
Roses tumbled out of every little square of dirt – full, multi-branched mini-bouquets of roses, arching and weighing down their thorny boughs, reaching out to entice all passers-by with their prettiness and perfume. It was a beautiful afternoon, but I could still sense Sea, could feel her in the humid, murky descent of evening. I made my way through the cobblestone streets of the oldest parts of the city. Some of the steps were haunted, by Sea and by History. Her story too. I was scoping out scenes for the upcoming BroSox Adventure with Skip, and found some new possibilities in the night. It will be a summer weekend when we go, but the autumn may beckon a bit, hinting of mystery and impending coziness. August plays out that way. But I’m getting ahead of myself, and early summer is not the time to do that.
I did not have the option of making it a late night, having to get up at dawn to beat the traffic over the bridge to Cape Cod. Besides, when Sea is in the air, memories and spirits move easier among worlds, especially at night. It’s better to hide in slumber at such times. I hurried home to the condo, ran up the steps, and locked the door behind me.
