You’ve been reaching for yourself for such a long time
There’s so much to say, No need to explain
Just an open door for you to come in from the rain
On that first night reunited, Kira and I touched on what had gone on in our lives over the last year. In order to start the next chapter of our friendship, and move into the future together, we needed some reckoning with the past. We’d both been hurt, and we’d both hurt each other a little bit through miscommunication and misunderstanding. Kira had much to explain, and it is her tale to tell, so I won’t betray a trust; for my part, I finally could see a little into what had happened between us, and my expectations for friendship – always too high and too much – were set into a new relief. Too many moments of import had gone down in our lives together to give up now, and with some distance and calm analysis, I realized how much of my own shit had seeped into how we had been relating.
It’s a long road when you’re on your own
And a man like you will always choose the long way home
There’s no right or wrong, I’m not here to blame
I just want to be the one to keep you from the rain, from the rain…
Friends will have disagreements – it’s a sign that they mean something more to us – and the best ones get caught up in blame and hurt and pain like the closest family, because that’s what they are. Though I don’t have many fights with friends these days, I’ve always been one to be all right with them as they arise, because I trust that my best friends know that we can fight and still be friends the next day. At least, I hope they know that.
Friendships also change and evolve through the years, as we change. Long-distance friendships morph in ways that might feel more dramatic and dangerous – the buffer of time and distance working their insidious trouble without the reassurance of a shared daily existence. There is just so much a text or phone call can convey – and quite frankly I’m quite exhausted with both means of communication. Give me a handwritten letter over that nonsense any day.
As we wound up our Friday re-entry into Boston, and into a renewed friendship, the coziness of the condo took over, warming our hearts as we celebrated a weekend of Friendsgiving – a weekend of gratitude and thankfulness that we were still here, still together, still alive in this wild and wayward and wonderful world.
And it looks like sunny skies now that I know you’re all right
Time has left us older, and wiser, I know I am
Well hello there, good old friend of mine
It’s so good to know my best fiend has come home again
And I think of us like an old cliche
But it doesn’t matter ’cause I love you anyway
Come in from the rain
The first hints of holiday music played over the stereo, and I put up most of the Christmas decorations for the month to come. We gave in to the early indulgence because, well, we needed it a little earlier this year. When morning came, the sun was strong, the day looked promising, and everything was as if we never said good-bye – because we never did.
Our planned Friendsgiving/Reunion/25th Anniversary weekend went off as scheduled – a feat in and of itself these days. I wanted to ride the high a little longer, but Monday morning came, and with a backlog and deluge of work e-mails and issues, my stress level instantly decimated that peaceful high – another sign that eight years of work will not pass quickly enough until I can retire.
In that sour spirit, and the spirit of Monday mornings – and even the scary Sunday night before it – ‘The Meaning of the Blues’ feels like a fitting tune – and Shirley Horn’s ‘The Main Ingredient’ album will thread its hungry way through the next few posts.
Rather than sum up our lovely weekend in a single post, I’m going to try to elongate the feeling of friendship and comfort that I found during this Friendsgiving adventure with Kira. We begin with this little jewel of a moment, in which we pause before the journey. The rose bouquet pictured here was in a secluded little hallway above the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental, where we stopped for a sit-down and breather after walking much of the day away. We sat there in the expensive light of decadence, not able to afford it on a regular basis, but happy to simply brush against it now and again. We took off our coats and leaned back into the couch, content to take stock of the day, and the afternoon hour, before the darkness descended.
Rather than playing any more tricks with time, I’ll reset the narrative from the beginning, starting with this evening’s blog post, which will find us reuniting on a sunny Friday afternoon in Boston, back where it all began…
Our first fall baseball foray had the potential to be as magical as Boston can be at this time of the year, but as we set off on our annual BroSox Adventure, it felt like the world decided to continue taking a dump on any fun plans I might have made this summer, and with all the obstacles mounting, this trip was doomed from the start.
It began with our rescheduled structure- we had originally penned in an August Red Sox game, when summer would be at its height, but reality intervened and made our original date impossible. Shifting to September thanks to a lovely birthday gift from Sherri and Skip, it sounded like we might make our very first fall outing. That was fraught with its own memories – my very first Red Sox game with my family was in the fall of 1986, when they were in the running for the series. That trip remains a happy family vacation memory, as much for the game as for the brown paper bag of four paperwhite narcissus bulbs that I had procured at Faneuil Hall prior to the game. A return that reminded me of that game could be a welcome reminiscence, or prove a tricky bit of sadness if it only recalled things I’d lost – either way, Skip was a safe friend to have along for such a moment, and the idea of a fall baseball game without heat and humidity was a refreshing change of pace.
As we finalized our tentative plans, Skip noticed that the tickets he ordered were not for the Saturday game as we originally planned, but for Sunday afternoon at 1:30. We’d usually be returning home to upstate New York by 1:30 on Sunday afternoon. He put those tickets up on SeatGeek, but at this point in a losing season, there were no takers for seats at half that price. The weather forecast was suddenly looking pretty awful too, so we ended up going forward with the Sunday game plan. Honestly, I didn’t mind as long as it didn’t mess up our traffic flow, which would already be disrupted by a Friday afternoon departure.
That drive into Boston was lovely. The sun was out and behind us, just like summer on its final day of the season, and we made good time right up until the end, when a sign indicated that the seven miles to Boston would take 28 minutes. Skip was driving by that point so I leaned back, let go, and let God, as the quasi-religious gypsies say. It worked, as we made it into town half an hour later, found a parking space, and were slurping on pho in Chinatown as a warm welcome to a cozy fall weekend. We walked off the soup and made it home for a quiet Friday night in.
The next morning was overcast, with rain encroaching on the rest of the weekend. After the short misty walk around the corner, a pair of counter seats at Charlie’s Diner proved available for a late breakfast, which included some of the best biscuits Skip claimed to have ever had. We made a customary walk along Newbury for the tranquility of Muji and provisions from Eataly. A welcome nap (as we are at the age of necessary naps, and grunting whenever we bend over to reach something) and some snacking passed the bulk of mid-afternoon. Our favored stoop-watching practice was derailed by the rain, but we had a loftier vantage point from the window.
Dinner that night was at the Smoke Shop BBQ at the Seaport, where we’d also planned on checking out the mini-golf scene at Puttshack. Continuing the doom and gloom of this particular trip, the whole evening was booked, thanks to the weather at hand driving people indoors, and all the damn college kids now inhabiting the city. That’s the most blessed thing about summer in Boston: they’re all gone. And yet somehow we had a grand time at dinner. More than grand, in fact, as I was aided by an edible, and time seemed to still as I got lost in laughter in a way I haven’t done since before summer began.
Outside, the rain came down, and we made hurried motions to cross the river back into Boston proper, where we found our way to the Langham Hotel for a moment in their chill lobby. There were memories here too – fall memories, coming at the same time of the year in which they were first made – and they should have proved at least slightly problematic, but thanks to Skip’s indefatigable attitude, we found fun in a hopeless place. When at last our Uber dropped us off, we sailed deep into the night playing Heads Up until we both crashed.
Game day dawned with the threat of rain. With the closing of our beloved Cafe Madeleine, Flour would have to stand in, even if it was a longer walk, and a more annoying line. We took our food to go, had a brief siesta back at the condo, and as the rain started in earnest we began our trek to take the T rather than get gouged by a $31 Uber trip to Fenway. By the time the above photo was taken, in the muggy “subterranean hell” of the Copley Station T-stop, both of us were thinking that $31 would have been a steal after some crazy person jumped onto the tracks and stopped subway traffic for half an hour.
We arrived to a rainy game already deep into the first inning. Our seats were soaked, but a friendly woman in the next row up gave us a wadded-up pile of napkins to wipe them off. Our raincoats were working overtime, but the seats were good, and as we sat down and soaked our asses, it looked like the sky was brightening.
“That’s just the game lights,” Skip assured me. Oh, of course. And the longer we sat there, the more it rained.
The mind wanders at such times. I looked out onto the field and tried to remember the first baseball game that my Dad took us to – it was there, but the memory was different. That day had been crisp and sunny. We had been young. The world had felt hopeful. On this day, the rain came down harder. The world felt darker. But I was with a friend, and out again in the world, even if it had dimmed since earlier in the summer.
“Wait,” I said suddenly, as my eyes fell upon the other team going underground, “Is it called a dugout because it’s like ‘dug out’?” The revelation felt almost too simple – and what kind of simpleton calls a place such a stupid thing?
Skip laughed a little and said, yes, then marveled that the realization was coming 48 years into my life.
By the fifth inning, the rain was pouring down. We were soaked, but we hadn’t had our Fenway Franks yet, so we headed indoors, scarfed down the dogs, and walked around inside, heading upstairs as throngs of people began leaving.
“Where is everyone going?” I asked.
“They’re leaving!” Skip laughed.
“For good?”
“Yeah!”
We stood in the rafters looking at the scene below. A tarp had been pulled over the diamond, and Skip proposed leaving. The last time we left a game early, Neil Diamond came out and sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ live just minutes after we exited the park. This time, there would be no song and dance, and as the rain showed no sign of abating, we joined the crowds exiting into the pouring rain, and were back on the Mass Turnpike headed for home within an hour.
This should have been the worst BroSox Adventure we’ve ever had – instead, it was one of my favorites, and I don’t remember having this much fun with Skip in years. It was also one of the first excursions after the awfulness of this summer, and it was precisely what was needed. I think it was good for Skip too – his spring was as difficult as my summer, and we were both in need of letting loose. Looking at the pictures here, I am smiling because they don’t exactly portray the fun that was had, which cracks me up even more, and Skip would say the same.
I’d almost forgotten the powerful healing aspect of simply hanging out with a cherished friend. The older we get, the darker the world grows, and finding refuge in such a friendship is the surest method of finding your way home. Thanks Skip.
Thirty years ago I was experiencing my first semester at Brandeis University. That puts time, and age, in a very stark perspective. (Originally I typed ‘Twenty years ago’ then did the disturbing math and here we are.) A lot was learned that first semester, so much so that I thought I knew it all by the time the holidays rolled around that winter. Looking back, it’s amazing at how much I didn’t know, and how I still somehow had the balls to walk around like I had my shit together. Going back in time, it’s a wonder such hubris and insecurity could so functionally co-exist… and rewinding to the fall of 1993, I’m astonished at what I still feel when I allow myself to return to that time…
He said I must be dreaming But I thought I heard the sound The sound that lovers make As they drop down from the window Quiet as cats, across the courtyard Moving from shadow to shadow Past the guards to the forest So quiet in her still reflection Drawing them down, drawing them down to the lake To the centre of her attention
In that fall semester, I steal away to Boston whenever I have a chance, finding more comfort in the chilly solitude of the city than the student-filled campus. At the Tower Records store that once stood at one end of Newbury Street, and is now occupied by a TJ Maxx, I browse the bins of CDs, because it’s still only the early 90’s, and I’m still only a few steps removed from boyhood. On this particular night, I’m feeling particularly daring, and so I gamble on an unheard purchase – the ‘Laid’ album by James – based on the accolades in the advertising blurbs, as well as the gents on the cover, decked out in dresses and eating bananas. It spoke to me.
The album would become one of the most profound musical connections at one of the more profound formative sections of my life – that tender time of the very last teen years, still a child in some ways, not yet a young adult in others, and nowhere near figuring out where I might belong and who I might be, but absolutely hell-bent on finding out by any means necessary. Music discovered at such crossroads invariably becomes imbued with significance and import, even if it’s only to our own ears.
Steal the moon tonight Before the morning Steal the moon tonight I just love a good mystery And on the West Bank a boat is being pulled Across the sands they move so softly Slip into water Oars dip, don’t break the moon’s reflection And drift like a cloud To the centre Beneath her cool attention
On the recent evening of the Super Blue Moon – the last of its kind for well over a decade or so – this song was revealed to me via the latest album by James. It turns out this was a B-side to the epic ‘Laid’ album – and I can hear in its melody and delivery the same tone and majesty that first drew me into their fan base two decades ago. It seems a fitting song to introduce the fall season of 2023 at ALANILAGAN.com, and it brings me all the way back to 1993; those tender early days at Brandeis are rife for exploration, though I’m not sure I’m up for that kind of triggering right now.
This fall also marks the 25th anniversary of when I got my first office job – at John Hancock – and I recently stumbled upon the blank book I had everyone sign when I left that gig. The revelations there are as hilarious to me as they will likely be mundane to you, but since this is still my blog I may post them anyway. (Don’t let that frighten you off from boredom – some of the things people wrote are enjoyably embarrassing for those who love to see me in such ego-busting peril. You know who you are, and I know who you are.)
What I don’t know is what this season will bring – and after the events of this summer, I really don’t want to think about it. Getting through it, day by day, will be enough for us to manage. Let’s do it together.
Still water Still water Steal the moon tonight Before the morning Steal the moon tonight I want to drown in your moon dream I’ve seen you rising from shore to shore I want to drown in your moon dream I’ve seen you rising Steal the moon tonight Shine Shine Shine
As it was, just as the light drained from the sky and the fountain turned even more magical, it was time for us to board the Graveyard and Ghost Tour that I’d promised to take with the twins. I wanted something to rival last year’s Codzilla boat ride for thrills and chills, so this seemed like a logical next-step in progressive horror. If you can’t count on your Guncle to properly frighten you, what can you count on in this world? The guides to the pair of buses that were about to depart arrived in character, staring us down, or, in the case of the more frightening one, pounding his head against the side of the bus. Our guide was blessedly not quite as intense, as Emi had already indicated she was not getting a bus with the guy banging his head on any available surface.
Unlocking the chained entrance to the cemetery, our guide led us up and down paths and gravestones that had been there for centuries. Moving among the long-dead, our group spoke in hushed whispers, if we spoke at all, while the twins listened with rapt attention to the tales of those buried here. We passed the thin Spite House – and heard the tale of brotherly betrayal – then exited the graveyard and returned to the bus. The next stop was the Granary, where many of America’s historical figures were resting (except for Benjamin Franklin, who apparently hated Boston; the monument that was emblazoned with ‘FRANKLIN’ belonged to his parents and sister, I believe – the man himself was laid to rest in Philadelphia). John Hancock’s ‘pen’-shaped monument rose in the dim distance, while Noah marveled at the news that the man who built Faneuil Hall had to try three times before it took. The graveyard wasn’t as spooky with the tour groups in it – there is safety in numbers, right? – and soon we were back on the bus, pausing at the apartment on Charles Street where one of the Boston strangler’s victims met their early demise, then we returned to our starting point by the wharf.
The night was another warm and beautiful one when we began the walk back to the condo, and soon we stopped at the Omni Parker House to check out the mirror of Charles Dickens that we’d just learned about: each of us paused and stared until tears were coming out of our eyes (well, Noah’s at least) but no one saw the visage of Mr. Dickens. The light in the hallway did shut mysteriously off at that moment, so we made a hasty exit from the hotel.
A troublesome spirit must have tagged along, for when we got back to the condo my patience was at an end, and after the twins almost burned the place down I sent everyone to bed without movie or dessert. We needed the sleep anyway, as we had to wake up early the next day to avoid Labor Day traffic.
Back in the light of day, and the sunny refusal of summer to slow down or stop, we drove back along the Mass Turnpike, turning off at Lee for a spot of tea at the Red Lion Inn. We were close to home now, but no one wanted to rush along the end of what had been a mostly fun and enjoyable weekend away. In our little nook at the Inn, we sipped our tea, finding a bit of coziness even in the midst of a hot day. We walked around Stockbridge for a bit, taking a secluded garden path behind the library, and then got back on the road – our summer coda concluded. School would arrive in the coming days, and summer would recede.
Last year the twins and I made a last-summer-minute visit to Boston for Labor Day, and it went so well that we decided to do it again. Such a move to recapture former glory is always risky, and given the way the world has gone of late this one felt especially perilous, but for the most part we managed to have a good experience. Time spent with family feels especially important these days.
We arrived a little before noon on Saturday, in an unplanned sweet spot between the crazy Friday traffic and college arrivals for the new school year. The day was sunny and warm – summer looked to pretend she’s been a doll all this time when we all knew better. Our first order of business was to pick up some snacks from Eataly then return to the condo for a siesta before dinner. This was the first time I have been back in Boston since Dad died, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. Noah and Emi acted as a buffer and comfort for this entry, taking my mind off what might have otherwise been a more contemplative experience.
After procuring some food, we spent some time eating and talking over the things that concern thirteen-year-old kids these days, and then it was time to take a leisurely walk along the Charles River. This may be its most resplendent time – and it was this time of the year when I made my very first walk along its beautiful banks. The twins rambunctiously walked/ran ahead and behind, and somehow we made it to the Hatch without incident, where we crossed back toward downtown. After meandering through the Public Garden in the Golden Hour, we skirted Boston Common and made out way to Chinatown as the sun was going down.
Dinner in Chinatown was Noah’s idea and request, and we found a place which had one of the best bok choy dishes any of us had ever had. Simple joys shared with loved ones take on a special sheen when experienced in a new/old city. After stuffing ourselves silly, we walked all the way back to the condo in the hope of burning some calories. It was a beautiful and comfortable night – and summer smiled on us as we turned in for the night.
Right before I woke, I had this dream, and first visit, from Dad. If I was unsure about whether I’d still feel him here, it was confirmation that I always would. After drying my tears, I felt comforted and ok – in fact, better than ok, and my good mood inspired the day as I woke the twins and we headed over to Cambridge for a brunch of ramen noodles at Porter Square. From there, we walked to Harvard Square taking a familiar route I’d traversed many times during my years at Brandeis. We spent some time going through the Harvard campus, perhaps sewing the seeds of a future college goal with the twins, perhaps not.
Our server at Tia’s was a buffoon, delivering Noah’s dinner ten minutes after Emi and I had received ours, but it resulted in an exchange that the twins loved so it was worth it:
Server: “Our kitchen is as bad as the New York Jets.”
Me: “I don’t know what that means.”
Next table over: [Smirks and snickers]
With another half-hour to go before we were due at the tour, we found a fun fountain that had a few kids running through it, as streams of water would randomly and without warning shoot up at various heights, illuminated by colorful lights. The twins watched, completely transfixed, as kids mostly younger than them dashed in and among the lights and shooting water, trying to dodge getting wet while thrilling at every splash and unsuccessful avoidance. On the cusp of aging out of such adventures, they wanted to join in as much as they wanted to appear that they were supremely uninterested in joining in – the adolescent push and pull of conflicting emotions and wishes – and if we weren’t due to sit on a tour bus for the next hour and a half I’d have encouraged them to run through it and enjoy these last days of summer and youth.
Late on an almost- summer night, this video played in the bedroom of our Boston condo. The air conditioner hummed in the window, the room was dark except for some light from the bathroom, and there may even have been a fan circulating providing additional air movement. The video evokes a childhood memory of summer camp, of two kids sneaking out past curfew to play in the lake, and the sweet melody and sentiment were primed for summer. On the bed, I kicked off the sheets and tried to stay cool.
That summer I spent a great deal of time in Boston, working at Structure and roaming the city streets when the sun went down and things turned slightly cooler. Not quite old enough to drink liquor, there were no bar scenes or cocktail corners to frequent, and so I spent much of the nights simply walking and peering into places that felt alive, spurred on by some unseen impetus to roam and find something – anything – to help me discover my place in life. This sweet song, a rather innocent ode to romance, did what it was supposed to do and made me feel like the perfect match was just around the corner, or somewhere in my past, just waiting to be reunited in some Hallmark kismet moment. Obviously, that wasn’t how things played out, and as I clicked off the television and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, I didn’t feel any closer to finding someone. Looking out onto the street, I raised the window for a moment, feeling the wall of heat and listening to the trickling of the fountain outside.
Retail work provided daytime distractions and when I returned home at the end of each day, there were hours of daylight left with which to occupy and entertain myself. I’d taken up jogging around the South End, as much to get out and feel participatory as to stay in shape. I’d pass the neighbors on their brownstone steps, with their fancy plates and dinners and glasses of wine, enjoying the privilege of eating outside in an act that would have been unthinkable in the ice and snow of a mere three months prior. How drastically the New England world can change in just a short time, I thought.
Whizzing through the crowded sidewalks of Tremont Street on a pretty summer evening, I averted any gazes as much as I internally invited them. If I thought I could meet anyone while running quickly by them, it was a testament to my own self-fulfilling failure in finding someone. Clearly I was not ready for any such thing, despite the simplicity this song so deceptively dangled as a possibility.
I spent a few more weeks in Boston, before retreating to my parents’ home with central air and a swimming pool, and even fewer romantic prospects. The heat continued, along with the longing, and it was the latter that would refuse to diminish even with the arrival of fall.
When left with the luxury of a day to enjoy, I tend to slow down and savor the simple minutes. Even when looking back on otherwise-busy weekends, it has been the downtime and in-between moments that were often the most memorable. On this morning I made a stop at the South End Buttery, one of the local haunts that I’m auditioning for the sorrowful vacancy left by the closing of Café Madeleine. It’s actually been around a lot longer than that beloved Café, and has some delicious scones – it’s just a little further from the condo. A regular haunt is a comfort when one is used to structure and routine. When I worked at the Structure store, and later John Hancock, I would make Finagle-a-Bagel part of my morning schedule, but that got pricey to do every day. (I imagine it’s even more ridiculously exorbitant now.) But a coffee at the Buttery would be doable on a daily basis.
From there, I wound my way through the South End, and the morning was so magnificent – the way May can be at its most beautiful – it was a thrill just to see the flowers and tiny squares in bloom. I thought of how charming the scene would be at other turns of the year. By the time I meandered along the edge of Boston Common and skirted the Public Garden, it was early afternoon – a favorite pocket of the day to be back at the condo when the sun began streaming into the bedroom – so I headed there.
Back on Braddock Park, the tea kettle whistled and I sat down at the table in relief. I haven’t been in Boston much, or anywhere for that matter, and my distance-walking legs were not what they used to be. It felt good to sit and be still, and I realized that yes, this was something I could handle, and embrace. I hadn’t had to crack a book or scroll through a phone or find any method of amusement because I hadn’t come close to being bored, nor was there any sense of needing to occupy the time or fill it with activity, despite the pace to which I’ve grown accustomed.
I also hadn’t cooked or baked anything in the kitchen for a while – another thing I’m looking forward to doing in Boston more when there aren’t a hundred new restaurants to try. All of these abstract ideas took more solid and defined form in my head, and I allowed myself a brief indulgence of the planning process that will ensue in more concrete form in a few more years. Time will pass all too quicker than I want it to, so I’m putting these thoughts back in their pretty box for now, content to focus on the moment at hand and fully inhabit the present. And so it is that I end this post, and this little jump to the future, and return to life as it currently stands. I don’t want to wish any of it away.
Calm down, I tell myself, just calm the fuck down. My retirement eligibility won’t kick in for another eight or nine years, but having made it through more than two-thirds of my working career part of me understands that it’s not too soon to plan that far ahead, particularly when it comes to such a major life-shift. And retirement is something I’ve longed for since the day I first started as a Data Entry Machine Operator in a year that still had titles like ‘Data Entry Machine Operator’. I’ve always joked that I’d retire yesterday if it were a financial possibility, but at this point working has become part of the fabric of my existence, and I’m not entirely sorry that it has become so.
There is noble work that my agency accomplishes, and I’m proud to be part of the HR force that supports everyone doing that important work. Still, I’m starting to feel the earliest tinges of burn-out, and I’ve noticed the slow slump of either age or cynicism that seeps into my walk into the office in the morning. It’s the state worker slump, and no one is immune. In a few years it will be time to retire, so when I was recently afforded some unexpected time alone in Boston, I decided to plunge into what a day in retirement mode might look like.
Part of my retirement plan is to spend more time in Boston during the week, something I don’t get to do right now. It would allow me to simply be in Boston – and by ‘be’ I mean to simply live and exist – without having to jam-pack a billion different things into one wicked tiny weekend. I did that once in my youth, and I’ve missed it. That would also give Andy a break from me when I get a little too extra. (One thing that being home together during the early months of COVID revealed was that we very much appreciate our own alone time.)
Most of the weekends I currently spend in Boston are filled with shopping and eating and the occasional show – and all of those require money. Fine for the visits that happen just a few times during a year, but not something sustainable for retirement purposes. What would I do when the paychecks dwindled and I had nothing but hours to fill? Would I get bored or long for something to do? I set about in the morning to see how it might feel, and how I might navigate or plot out what will hopefully be the rest of my life. As I opened the door and stepped outside, I studied the shadows of the handrail on the steps – this shadow has followed its same trajectory for over a century. I felt myself approaching some sort of realization of the scope of time, then backed quickly away from dwelling on it. This was not the day or the moment to start tackling that kind of philosophical conundrum…
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in twenty years of blogging, it’s how to paint a pretty picture even when the source material is flawed and far from idyllic. I’ve taken gray days and made them shine, turned rainy vacations into sunny-spirited romps, and transformed the rattiest of outfits and surroundings into the stuff of sparkle and pizzazz. There is so much negative stuff everywhere else I try to offer an alternative of tranquility and serenity here, occasionally coupled with a laugh or ridiculous complaint. But there are darker and more somber and serious moments here, when real life interrupts how pretty we might want it to be, and sometimes that creeps into even the most happy of events, like our wedding anniversary.
Rather than pretend it was all hearts and flowers and chocolate candy, I’m at the point where it’s a disservice to anyone looking for some real resonance or meaning in what I post here to feign some impossible idea of perfection or even a vague notion of prettiness when the heart feels anything but pretty or happy.
A full Flower Moon and Mercury in retrograde motion made for a startlingly dismal crux of emotional crisis, and so it was that I arose on the Saturday of our anniversary weekend in Boston alone and without Andy. I wish I’d taken the astrological mayhem into account and backed down when our argument began to escalate, but sometimes we lose sight of things and get confused and accusatory in the moment.
He’d proclaimed those words in the impassioned heat of an argument and reconciliation, and if we could still be so fiercely affecting one another twenty-three years after we first met, then certainly that was a sign that we still vitally cared.
Walking around Boston, I passed our favorite haunts, remembering all the moments we’d had here. With the tumult of the full moon behind us, things seems sillier and less portentous in the morning. The vast scope of a life shared offered perspective on a single fight, and the power of the bond of marriage bound us together even when we might disagree.
I texted an apology to Andy – a rare but not entirely unprecedented act when I knew I had a hand in what had gone wrong. I said I was sorry, and then I wrote that we shouldn’t be alone and away from each other on our anniversary. My heart hurt with hope while I waited for a response.
It came a few minutes later, and he said he would come to Boston the next day. Then he sent his own apology, which may have been the best gift ever received for an anniversary. Thirteen years into our marriage, we are still learning, still trying to be better husbands.
We had our fancy anniversary dinner at Rare, and the next morning we took our traditional stroll through the Boston Public Garden after having our wedding rings cleaned. Happiness had returned, like the waterfowl that honked and squawked on the water, and our hearts felt lighter than they had in days. The world had been righted for the moment. We’d had a less-than-ideal anniversary weekend, and it wasn’t a complete disaster. We survived, and the morning was beautiful.
Maybe there are those couples who have it entirely together and every moment is wonderful and dreamy and perfect. We are not one of those couples. We have to bicker and argue and be angry and upset and work it all out every once in a while. We have to let things go even when we are certain we are right and the other person is wrong. We have to forgive and acknowledge and accept, and decide whether it is still worth it to keep trying. Underneath it all is a foundation of love and care and commitment, and hopefully that is strong enough to see us through to get to more of the good stuff – the majority of peaceful and happy and calm days of living that makes the difficult parts as worth it as they are meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
Thirteen years into our marriage, and almost twenty-three into our relationship, we still have mostly good days and happy times. Laughing our way through the silliness and insanity of life, even and especially when our own foibles trip us up, even when we are the ones getting in our own way – that’s a wonderful gift to open up every day, so here’s to lucky #13 and all that we’ve already been through.
A curtain of willow branches closes out the morning and our time in the garden, and the rest is between me and Andy…
After almost twenty-three years of having a partner – thirteen of which we’ve been husband and husband – I rarely had occasion to see a Broadway show alone. That’s one of the comforts of being with Andy that I’ve never taken for granted. So it was unorthodox and unfamiliar to be attending a Friday night performance of ‘Beetlejuice’ at the Citizen Opera House in Boston completely on my own, with an empty set holding only my Burberry coat and the Playbill. It was even more strange, and ultimately sad, to be there on my own at the start of our anniversary weekend.
Before I met Andy, this would not be such an unusual circumstance. One of my favorite things to do when I was going to Brandeis was to escape the mind-numbingly dull trappings of campus life and take the train into Boston to see the newest movie release. The shows before noon were usually at a discount, and I could make a large popcorn into a very satisfying brunch and not worry about eating again until dinner. Sitting there with a small spattering of attendees, I felt relievedly alone and isolated, left to my own devices and happy to be so unbothered. There, in the dark, I didn’t worry about the social anxiety that plagued me in the light of day, when people made encounters at best wearying and at worst highly stressful. I didn’t realize at the time that it was ok to embrace such solitude, that it was ok to be alone, yet as much as it was a relief to me, it also came with its own set of neuroses.
Sitting by myself in the Opera House, as the purple and green lights slowly raked the audience while menacing Tim Burton-like music made a macabre joke of my situation, I remembered those movie days but found no comfort in the memory. My husband was not with me. I’d driven to Boston alone. It looked like we would spending our wedding anniversary weekend without each other.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way, if anything can even be planned as ‘supposed to be’ anymore. I’d scheduled our anniversary weekend in Boston – an annual tradition from the time we were officially married on May 7, 2010 (with the exception of the COVID year 2020, which we still honored, albeit it in our upstate NY backyard) – with reserved dinners at Mariel, No. 9 Park, and Rare. The surprise gift was a pair of tickets for the musical version of a movie that Andy loved – ‘Beetlejuice’ – which was playing that very weekend. Planning went back months to get the tickets and dinner reservations, and I thought everything was set, until the morning we were set to depart, when Andy decided to pick a fight before we were even out of bed.
Andy usually gets in a mood right before we go on any trip or vacation – he’s always been that way, and I’ve learned to accept it and go with the flow so as not to make it worse. On this morning, with all the stress and awfulness of the world, I foolishly decided to engage and argue. Now, this was a mistake on several levels – the main one being that I’d entirely forgotten that there was a full moon and Mercury was in retrograde.
For many years, I’ve made it a point never to argue or fight during such tremulous times; it never ends well, and usually ends up in a bigger blow-up than would ever be warranted under saner circumstances. I forgot about that then, and in the end I wound up driving to Boston on my own, while Andy stayed home. Even the reveal of tickets to the show as his gift wasn’t enough for us to calm down and disengage, and so it was that I found myself sitting beside an empty seat, utterly unable to enjoy the spectacle and riotous laughter as ‘Beetlejuice’ made for a fun theatrical romp for everyone other than me.
After the show, I walked back through Boston Common, winding my way to the Public Garden where we’d been married thirteen years ago. It was where I always ended up when I found myself in doubt or worry, and on this night, as the heart was heavy, and the head wondered where we had gone wrong, I followed the full moon and realized what we had done. What I didn’t know was how deep the damage had gone, and whether we’d find our way through it. What I did know was that the world was always off when we weren’t getting along, and the notion of a life without Andy was something that filled me with dread and sorrow and an emptiness I understood would never quite be fixed.
Pausing on the footbridge of the Boston Public Garden, I watched as the clouds parted, revealing the full Flower Moon – that meddlesome, beautiful bringer of mayhem and madness and aptly-named lunacy. I checked my phone for a text or call from Andy, and there was none.
Beneath the full moon, the garden was gorgeous. Haunted and forlorn, but gorgeous…
Thirteen years ago today Andy and I stood in the Boston Public Garden and proclaimed our love for each other in front of some of our closest family and friends. The year was 2010, and we had been together for almost ten years, so a wedding felt like a formality, but as with most weddings the words transformed the day into something more meaningful and life-altering. I didn’t understand or believe it would happen to us, and after being denied such a simple rite of passage for so long, it meant something more to me and Andy. That’s the reason I always make such a big deal of our anniversaries – and why I look back on this day more than any others.
A view from the walking bridge at the Boston Public Garden, this shows a swan boat out on its typical trajectory, rounding the island that forms a home for all sorts of waterfowl. This seems a wonderful as weekend as any for a visit to Boston, and so I’m listing a few links that exemplify all the Boston love I’ve been feeling of late. It is a most magical time in that fair city…
There would only be one good afternoon of sunny, almost-spring weather in my quick weekend visit to Boston, so I made the most of it and walked leisurely through the Southwest Corridor Park. The gardens were just beginning to come alive, and I found this grand swath of snowdrops to herald the upcoming season.
Given the lack of perspective in these photos, it should be noted that their stature is diminutive, but they make for that in their multitudes, while also demanding closer inspection. Greater pleasure is always gleaned when you have to work for the beauty you find in the world.
Happy harbingers of spring, the snowdrops here are accustomed to wintry weather, though I’m not sure what this recent storm has done to them. If it’s a quick dusting, they usually bounce back in a day or two; prolonged snow cover or freezing temperatures will take them out until the next year. Mother Nature isn’t always compassionate. I’m grateful to have found and appreciated these when I did.
Usually I enter our Boston place from the front – walking along the main street from a visitor’s parking space that’s hopefully-close and doing the sensible thing of sticking to the sidewalk. Once in a while I’ll find parking a street or two over, and find myself closer by going through the back alley behind our condo. These little alleys are the secret side of Boston. They’re not through-ways so the only people driving into the dead-end spaces are residents, or garbage pick-up, so it’s rare to see regular traffic there.
This is where the real lives of Bostonians play out – the balcony dinner parties, the bedroom window peeks, the precious outdoor lots and parking spaces that only some select units can utilize. It was also where I chose to enter for a quick weekend visit to survey the place for spring.
Treading the gravel-lined driveway, I looked up at our condo from a vantage point I rarely use. It was the back-end of business in Boston, the behind-the-scenes machinations of those beautiful brick and brownstone buildings that line our historical streets. It felt hushed there, like I’d stumbled upon some reverential sacred spot where secrets were revealed and kept, and hints of spring in the afternoon sunlight added to the enchantment.
A magnolia tree behind our building provided support for a few vines of ivy, still evergreen in this relatively-mild winter Boston has had, and I made an internal promise to come back more when the trees started blooming. In the brown gardens nearby, a friend from the past rested in the sun, perhaps as grateful as me for the promise of spring in the air.
