Father's Day

Driscoll Reid died 13 and a half years ago. This one's for him.

Father's Day

He taught me
how to put seeds in the ground
with a string for the straight row
a stick to measure the distance,
And watering, weeding and cow manure
to coax them along.

He taught me
how to take the guts out of a chicken,
Patient,
Trusting me
with a knife,
crop, lungs, liver
Ice water.
But I have forgotten
the necessary details.

He tried to teach me
algebra
and chemistry formulas,
the only time I recall
his impatience
directed at me.
I was
His baby daughter after all
And could do no wrong.

He helped to clapboard the porch,
working so cheerfully
with my friend Patti, the carpenter
that she has not forgotten him
to this day

He stained woodwork with me,
hearing, for the first time,
My pianist husband, playing
Over
and over
and over. . . . and over
a pattern of notes
Fragment of a Beethoven Sonata.
Finally understanding,
Finally
 Leaning his head against the window frame,
Saying
"Just let it go, Michael.
Just let it go."

He tried, and failed
to fix my washing machine
and sink
Connections dripping, streaming,
water on the floor.
After all, he was not
a plumber.
He took me
to  Maine to look at a horse, 
Ohio, to college,
Boston, for my Masters program.
Burlington, for restaurant equipment
And countless times,
to town, school, Chandler Music Hall, the cabin,
home.

He told me terrible jokes
that I still recall,
And laughed,
'til his eyes ran
and the bald crown
of his handsome head grew red
when I told him
my own.
He never could
ask me about difficult things.
Where I was last night,
What life was like, not driving, not seeing well enough to recognize friends.
Which injustices made me angry, and why.
How
I would manage without him.

 I remember him,
frail, bones broken,
in bed for good.
telling me he was tired.
In our last phone call.
I remember telling him
he had to do
what he had to do.

On that day
the bus was late.
I am so grateful.
I decided
To stop,
to give him a kiss.

Late for my own party,
Under the moon,
we sang "Angels are Hovering 'Round"
Geese, honking through the dawn
in the hours between life and death.
Then, morning sun on the valley fog
and my brother and mother
climbing the stairs in the sunlight
to tell me he had died in the night.

He is gone
with the chickens,
algebra,
plumbing,

But not the gardening,
the jokes,
the cheerful patience,
and the steadfast love.

Just What I Needed

Not every need for a ride is the same.  Sometimes it has to be just the right person for the job.  Thanks Leeds.  

 

At first, I picked myself up and started toward the grocery store. After all, I'd been headed that way when I hit the patch of ice and went down. I still needed groceries, and I'd certainly fallen on winter ice before.

 

But then I tried to move the fingers on my right hand, and nothing happened.

 

I turned and headed around the corner for home. It was a short walk, and soon I was in my kitchen, cell phone in hand, thinking through my options. It was Saturday, and the emergency room seemed to be on my agenda, so I called Leeds.

 

When he picked up the phone with his customary, drawn out "He-ello" I got my first sense of how upset I was. It took me a moment to get into shape to talk.

 

"Leeds, I . . . need a ride to the emergency room. I think I broke my wrist."

 

"Oh hell!" he said. Leeds and I had been playing music together for ten years, and he knew instantly what a mess this was for me. "I'll be right there."

 

I have many fine friends who will willingly give me rides, especially under such circumstances, but Leeds was at the top of my list for this particular ride for one big reason. Leeds inevitably gives me a raft of shit about things, little things, important things. Nothing is sacred. It's all fair game. I needed someone who wouldn't make me cry, because I was on the edge of a truly amazing abyss of grief. If I went over the edge, I knew it would be a long, bad fall. Leeds is also absolutely there when needed, whether it's home repair, moving large items in his truck, or joining me for some strange, low paying, musical gig.

 

He was at my door within 15 minutes, honking, as usual, rather than coming to the door. No special treatment. Good.

 

He did open the truck door for me, and helped me with the seat belt, laughing at my one handed ineptitude. His outraged "Reid, what did you go and do that for?" was pretty helpful.

 

The only bad moment came when I said "I'm not sure if I broke it or just sprained it."

 

"sometimes a sprain is a whole lot worse." he said.

 

I sat back in misery, hoping it wasn't a bad sprain, not quite hoping it was a better break.

 

At the hospital, Leeds was quite matter of fact, helping me to "sign in" which seems simple, but becomes difficult when your right hand is out of commission.

 

"Call me when you're done." he said, once he knew I was in line for care.

 

I felt like I was in a parade. There were three of us who had fallen on the ice that morning, all three of us going through X-rays, finding out our wrists were indeed broken. Because one of the breaks was particularly ugly, they called the hand/wrist surgical specialist to do the splinting, explain our options, and write prescriptions for pain medications.

 

Four hours later, Leeds met me at the emergency room exit, and drove me back into town to fill that pain med prescription. "Broken?" he asked, and that was all.

 

When we got to town, Montpelier Pharmacy had just closed, so we went to Rite Aid. The pharmacist, brusque and clueless, asked me to fill out a bunch of paperwork. I looked at my wrist, looked at her, looked at Leeds and just started laughing. So did he. She didn't get the joke. Leeds filled forms out, and we went for coffee at the Coffee Corner while Rite Aid processed paperwork and put together a pain killer prescription.

 

Mike, co-owner of the Coffee Corner took one look at me when we walked in the door, and handed me a coffee. "On the house." he said.

 

I realized as I figured out the sugar packet, that I'd have a lot of learning to do.

 

Leeds laughed at me, of course.

 

Just what I needed.

 

Half the fun

Last night, as Mary and I cruised up and down Route 118 in Montgomery, looking for the home where we were to sing and play for a private party, I kicked myself for not bringing a printout of David's directions. I knew there was something about a school, a tan and white house, and the next driveway after that, but we weren't having any luck finding a house with a party..

Only after the second pass did I remember that I had the IPod and the directions were in David's note to us about the gig. 5 minutes before show time, we pulled up the driveway to the garage where we'd be entertaining a family and friends for the evening. The house was well set back from the road, in the woods. We wouldn't have found it without that mailbox number.

It was the second time I'd been lost in a week, and I was again reminded of how little I like that late/lost feeling.

Getting lost was a pretty common experience for me back in my younger years.

In my teens and early 20s, my cousin Marjorie and I had some epoch experiences with this. We've gotten lost in the South Chicago ghetto, on narrow Vermont roads after Midnight, in New Brunswick, Washington DC, New York state, New Hampshire. . . You get the idea. Marjorie and I spend most of our time laughing and talking about books, history, food, and of course, our big, complex family. Is it any wonder we lose track. Once, to add insult to injury, while driving up and down the same stretch of road looking for a turn off, we got ticketed for speeding. 

In college my friend Liz and her boyfriend gave me a ride to the Akron/Canton airport. No one had thought of directions. There were no smart phones, no GPS units. We spent about 40 minutes in greater Akron-Canton hunting before we finally found it.   Fortunately this happened before Security, taking off your shoes and full body scanners, so I bolted into the airport, and 20 minutes later I was in the air on my way to Colorado to visit my sister, heart still thumping.

Once, in my late 20s, I got a ride to a meeting with a school administrator I'd never met. On the return trip from Brownington, we got lost somewhere in the back woods of Wolcott/Elmore. It's the only time I've been unnerved when riding with a stranger. Why, I'll never know. I've definitely ridden with more questionable characters. He was a polite clean-cut guy. Perhaps it was the grey November woods, the tension of the meeting we'd just left, or perhaps a mystery novel I'd been reading at the time. The relief I felt when we popped out onto Route 12 and known territory was astounding to me.

And I got lost with my buddy Leeds, looking for our friend Dave's house in Middlesex. We wandered around for over an hour on rutted back roads, and ended up finding the other end of Bear Swamp Road, and backtracking our way to the party. It turns out the local teenagers had amused themselves by removing road signs. Not much else to do for entertainment on Bear Swamp Road I guess.

The earlier incidents of cousin and college friend came at a time when I didn't feel responsible for directions. I wasn't behind the wheel, therefore it wasn't my job. I didn't pay attention to places I'd been, even when I knew I'd be going back. Someone else would be driving. I was just a passenger.

The real change came when I worked for the Association for the Blind and had the luxury and responsibility of a paid driver. My territory covered the northeastern third of Vermont, the most rural third as well.   Since I scheduled the home visits, I was the one who got the directions. If we were travelling for two and a half hours up to Canaan, or even an hour and a half up to Troy or over to Guild Hall, I needed to get it right, or I'd waste a lot of time and money. I got pretty good at getting route numbers, street names and landmarks, and we almost always found the home we were looking for.

Once or twice the directions just didn't give us enough to go on.   The "big maple at the corner" had been cut down, the left hand turn in Hardwick at "the eatin' place" which turned out to be Route 16, the third left at the third restaurant.  It took us two tries to get to that one.    There were unusual landmarks too.  the big manure pile (It was) and the life-size wooden moose,  to name a few.

Over time I got good at spotting a sharp turn-off, a yellow house set back from the road, ponds, green mail boxes and other such markers. And I could find my way back to places after we had found them once.

After my itinerant teacher stint I started taking responsibility for navigating when I'd travel. I still had meetings to attend in my next job, along with parties, medical appointments and such. Later, when I became a chef, I had to get food to events, and it had to be there hot and on time.

Now it's travelling to music gigs, weddings in picturesque and remote places, dances in schools or granges in small towns. Often we are the ones fueling someone's special occasion, so being late is truly bad form, particularly if there's gear to unload, or a sound system to set up.

I have discovered that I like knowing where I am going, and sharing in the responsibility for getting there. It's another way of carrying my weight, like keeping a driver awake, or helping with gas, since I can never be the person behind the wheel.

I was not entirely on my game on that trip to Montgomery. I was only saved by luck. I'd have been sorry to miss the rowdy garage party, people in their 50s dancing on the cement floor, older folks, sitting, tapping their feet, smoking, drinking beer, and kids eating potato salad and blowing bubbles.

Knowing where I should be going when I'm on the road is one aspect of a trip that I can control. Everything else is in someone else's hands, but I can bring the directions for getting there.  I'd hate to miss something because I left the directions to an over-worked friend.  Getting there is, after all, half the fun.  

Is it Really Over?

Is It Really Over?

　
Was it something I ate?
Was I caught with pomegranate juice,
Dripping rubies from my chin?

　
Or maybe
Everything I ate?
Generous feasts, prepared, shared eaten,
The thick waist and hips,
Overtaking and embracing
The long legged girl.

　
Was it something I said?
Some magical every day word
Like whisk or rhubarb
That broke the charm,

　
Or could it have been
Opinions spoken with too much force
Laughter, bubbling, helpless, joyful,
Fearless,
LOUD!
Not fit
For the romantic evenings of summer?

　
Or perhaps
Something I lived?
Years squandered
on novels, naps and solitaire,
Still other years
Spent wisely
On music, work, art and love.
But gone by,
Adding up to white hair,
A thick waist,
Breath short at the top of the stairs.

　
They never beat down the door,
even before the pomegranate,
The grey hair
and the guffaw

　
Now they stay away entirely,
Unless they hold up friendship
Like the cross before the vampire.
The mirror before the Medusa.

　
But I hazard a guess.
I am the mirror they most fear
youth and beauty vanished.
Love looks impossible without these

　
But, if they should grow bold
and ask me
"Is it really over?"
I will look out,
Silver haired,
Plump,
Pomegranate juice dripping from my chin,
Laughing.

　
"Absolutely Not!

Lost and Late

Thanks to my mother, sister and nephew who put up with my "issues"

I sat in the back seat, leaned back, eyes closed. The pose was anything but relaxed. We were somewhere on New York Avenue, having missed the turn onto 295, on our way to the airport. Our flight left in less than two hours.

When we had hit the road from the Delaware shore, I'd asked my sister if she knew how to get back to Reagan/National airport.

"Haven't a clue." was her reply, but she figured we could back track from the directions we'd used to get to Route 50, which seemed logical at the time. We had allowed plenty of time, and traffic was light. Traffic didn't even slow on the Bay Bridge, where the wait could be as long as two hours during high summer.

We had travelled to Bethany Beach for my brother's wedding. My mother, my sister, my nephew and I had been able to stay on for the week, since beach houses can't be rented for just the weekend, and leaving early would have been a waste.

Now, after a week of sun, shelling, playing with the waves, card games, art projects and food, we were headed home.

The car was packed to the gills, suitcases for four, food from our cottage, shells, beach bags supplied to us by the bride and groom, even a bouquet of flowers from the wedding. For a miracle, we had gotten away on schedule after cleaning the fridge, washing the dishes, stripping beds, and making multiple trips through rooms to make sure nothing crucial was left behind.

It helped that we'd been up since 5. My new sister in law likes to watch the sunrise on the beach, so we'd been out early, walking along the beach to sit on their deck, drink coffee, and say our farewells.

But now, we were in Washington, travelling down a street we didn't mean to be on, unsure of what to do next.

I have trouble in these situations. I am anxious about being late, especially when flights are involved, and I am helpless. Because of my vision impairment, I can read neither maps, nor road signs. All of my control buttons, and friends will tell you there are plenty of them, get pushed in these situations.

I did suggest pulling over to think things through, rather than just continuing to drive. I'm sure there was an edge to my voice.

So we turned in at a burger joint and rolled up behind a big station wagon in the drive-through line. It was not fast food. We sat for a few minutes, then, when the tension in the car got pretty high, my sister hopped out and asked the women at the picnic table next to us for directions.

My sister takes time with people. She's kind, friendly, thoughtful, all wonderful things, but in my current state, I just wanted her to be FAST. Although I kept telling myself that it was only a flight, that we would probably make it, that even if we didn't, life wouldn't end, in my tense, roiling gut, I didn't believe a word of it. Watching my sister asking for directions, I could almost hear the easy, relaxed conversation, and my knuckles grew white.

It seemed like hours before she returned to the car. But she had directions, and they turned out to be good ones. However, even after what seemed an eternity of getting the directions and getting back in the car, the station wagon in front of us had not moved.

My nephew Joshua was picking up on the tension, and made some pithy comments about the speed of service, and people blocking our exit. We tried to be soothing and calm, but there was a car behind us now. We were blocked in and our flight left in an hour and 45 minutes, and reassurance rang false to us all.

Finally the car behind us gave up and backed out, and so did we.

Soon we were wheeling down New York Avenue, hitting half a dozen traffic lights just before they went from amber to red. But in the promised three miles, there were signs for 395. We went into a tunnel, good, since we needed to cross the Potomac to get to the airport.

But wait, we were still on the wrong side of the river, having merely gone under a few big office buildings and a sports arena. When we came out, there was no river to our left, there were no signs for 295 and 395, and we were lost again. No burger joints, no passers by. We were in a no man's land of concrete.

Helplessness seemed to have swamped our car. I couldn't read the signs or map. Mom could read the map, but was having trouble translating what she saw on the map to my sister, and my sister was in that state of "just tell me where to go, and I'll go there." It wasn't a good scenario.

Meanwhile, I was sitting in the back seat, thinking that I was going to be physically sick. I could feel bile rising in my throat, fed by unreasonable, illogical fury: at the situation, my sister, my mother, the engineer who designed the complicated DC road system and the jerk of a highway planner who failed to put up big, clear signs to REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT!

My nephew was also getting pretty upset, so I started murmuring "It's going to be fine" lying through my teeth, and repeating myself too often in an effort to calm the waters with the false mantra.

My sister snapped "Josh, it's OK for you to be anxious too."

All the while we were driving, not sure of where we were going, nowhere to pull over.

"Joshua, Call your uncle." My mother said, tension clipping her words.

My nephew Josh did so, but he too had caught the helpless disease.

"What do I say?" he asked.

"Pass the phone to your grandmother." my sister said.

We got my brother's voice mail.

"Call us as soon as you can." Mom said into the phone. We're in DC, and we're lost, and about to miss our flight."

Just then my sister saw a sign for 395 WITH an airport indicator.

"Woo Hoo!" she said, just as the phone rang, my brother calling us back.

"We're fine." Mom said, "Not lost any more."

The rest of the trip went smoothly, but I was tense for the entire drive. All we needed was to miss one turn off, and that Burlington plane would leave without us. Needless to say, our batting average failed to instill confidence.

At the airport, we hugged goodbye, but the tension was still strong enough to make the parting pretty subdued. We weren't on the plane yet.

There was a huge line at the US Air counter. Mom went straight to a ticket kiosk at the front of the line near the first class agent. Until she cut in line, something she would normally never do, I hadn't realized just how tense she was In her anxiety, she printed boarding passes, and didn't print baggage checks. Since we were cutting the line entirely, and needed help, I headed for the back of the line, in case our bad luck held and we got sent there by an officious airline staffer.

Our fortunes had turned though. By the time I had ducked under one cordon, a kindly US Air ticket agent was helping Mom get baggage checks. I ducked back under the cordon, they put baggage tags on our suitcases, and we dropped them for scanning and loading. 40 minutes until our flight boarded, and still TSA to deal with.

When we arrived, there were three or four long lines coming from security, and our hearts sank. but luck was with us again. An official must have seen our traumatized faces, or maybe Mom's advanced years. Anyway, he took a look at our boarding passes, led us under some cordons, through a few lines, right to the fellow who looks at passports. Miraculously, within minutes we were out the other side, putting on shoes, collecting belongings out of plastic bins, walking to our gate.

We had to walk to the far end of the concourse, but we had about half an hour to spare.

Mom pulled out her phone to call my brother, and found a message from my nephew. He and my sister were waiting, parked outside the terminal, to make sure we made our flight.

As our heart rates settled, Mom called Josh to let him know we were OK, and also let my brother know that he wouldn't have to host us for the night.

I could feel the sleepiness that follows great stress, and looked forward to an hour and a half on the plane where, presumably, the pilot would know where he was going, the only things to look at would be magazines and sky, and the biggest decision would be coke, or tomato juice.

　

　

The Road to Pumpkin Rim

As we made the turn to the cabin, our headlights caught the fur along the bear’s back. He had bounded off the bank, and fortunately he was quick, since he was too close for us to even see his lower body. Those pumping legs were totally hidden by the hood of the car.

Mom and I were headed up for a weekend at our cabin Pumpkin Rim. The road is one of the most adventure-packed roads I have ever been on.

Turning off from the main road, the dirt roads for the first few miles aren’t so bad. But when you cross the culvert and make the turn up Bouvant Road, life immediately becomes interesting.

There’s a steep climb, with a drop to a beautiful brook to the left, and a bank too steep to support trees, or much of any growth, to the right.

About 50 feet into the climb, the road takes a sharp bend to the right. At night, car headlights point uselessly into space. A driver just needs to trust and crank the wheel around to the right. Otherwise, that brook is there, over the bank, now straight ahead, and full of white water and rock

Once, farmers haying our field came down with a wagon full of hay, and didn’t make the corner, filling the stream with hay and dangling their wagon and tractor over the drop off. Fortunately, Mr. and Mrs. Ilsley were unscathed, but it was dramatic, and extricating tractor and wagon was not easy.

Vehicles of size have made the trip. A friend of mine came up in a motor home, and at my niece’s wedding, an entire school bus full of her college buddies made it up, and down the hill. It seemed wiser to rent the bus, than to send 40 Middlebury students to their doom after a fine night of partying in our field.

The road beyond the sharp turn is pretty reasonable, but it is prone to wash outs. Ten or so years ago, on a night with heavy thunder storms predicted, my mother, sister and nephews opted to stay at Mom’s house in town, better for laundry and packing, rather than get my nephew launched for the airport at 6 a.m. from the cabin.

It was a wise choice. Robert and Rose, who live on the road, just below our cabin, called to let us know that there wasn’t a road anymore. For a few weeks we had to walk up the center of the road on a narrow path, balancing above 4 foot ditches on either side, gouged out by water pouring down the mountain.

A few years ago, Mom and I returned from a party one evening, driving into a downpour as we headed up Route 12 toward our turn off. The roads up to Bouvant were fine, and even the steep stretch was, but just below Robert and Rose’s house, there were deep ruts. Sliding on the mud and grimly clutching the wheel, Mom kept on rolling, and got us through a very rugged patch of road. Up at the cabin, bourbon in hand, Mom allowed as how she would ask Robert to get her car out in the morning . She wasn’t sure if she could do it twice.

In fact, Robert was out with his tractor, filling in the ruts when we drove down to leave. Since he and Rose have to get out for jobs and other necessities, and live there year round, he has to plow, deal with minor wash outs, cut up trees that fall across the road and more. We contribute heavily to the big overhauls, when loads of gravel are brought in, or there's a need for real backhoe work, but Robert keeps the road passable, unless taken by surprise.

Now, when I invite friends for music weekends, I advise them to get to the cabin before dark so that their first experience of the road will be in daylight. Adventure being one thing, disaster, quite another

When you make the turn off to our cabin, the one where Mom and I almost hit that bear, you leave a leafy tunnel of trees, climbing out into daylight. The field drops away to the right, and you can see all the way across the valley. It’s such a spectacular surprise that drivers will reach the cabin without realizing they’ve passed a pond on their left on the way up.

When one of Hannah and Tim’s wedding guests stepped out of the car at the wedding site in our field, her first words were "holy Shit! Was that for the view or the road? Probably both.

Bethany Beach

Straying from the theme in a way, but then, how do any of us get to where we are?

Bethany Beach

Dawn

"I have come to a realization." she declares.
Walking toward the beach
with the moon riding her shoulder.

"I can't be helpful anymore,
really,
If I just take care of myself,
Dress myself and such,
and am not
a pain in the ass,
that's the best I can do."

Her daughters,
knowing her for lifetimes,
envision a girl child
unhesitating,
picking out purple pants,
a beloved red dress,
orange boots,

And follow their mother
to the beach,
laughing
into the sunrise.

Noon

In the full sun of summer,
on the beach,
she tugs at our hands.
pulling us into the surf,
with the persistence,
shared by children
and octogenarians

Her strength comes from a tension,
tugging as she is tugged,
torn
between the joy of the surf,
and the sorrow
of being the last of her generation on shore.
Her sister and brother,
husband and friends
gone,
riding that bright, inevitable tide.

Then, the big wave hits the line
of children and grandchildren,
She holds fast to their hands,
the center of the line
as the spray leaps,
and undertow tugs the sand from beneath our feet.
She is left,
Wet to her hips,
laughing,
feet firmly planted on the shore.
holding our hands.