Switched At Birth

Homeward Bound

Buck is not a natural early riser. When he was on his feet, turning on lights with each foot fall, at 4:30 this morning, I knew he was ready to get back home to Maggie, Longleaf and the wildness of our piney woods retreat.

Buck drove the 637 miles with only a couple of brief stops. I made us several peanut butter sandwiches for the road and stuck a quart of milk and a hunk of basic cheddar into a cooler. Buck tossed three bananas onto the back seat. I walked out the back patio of our hotel room in the dark, opening two iron gates along the way to walk beside an eerie, steaming hot tub, and into the back door of the lobby to check us out while Buck finished loading the car.

Yesterday, the Naples/Ft. Myers area was the warmest in the United States, at 86 degrees, but this morning it was a sweet 62 when we left. Sometimes, there is no greater pleasure than downing a glass of cold milk and smear of peanut butter on whole wheat bread while watching a sunrise and hurtling homeward like bats out of hell.

Yep. This was one of those days.

Late Autumn Beauty

 

We begin life like smooth green shoots. Think of the silky texture of a newborn's skin, their fat toe nubbins and impossible fingers; the fresh rain smell of their hair.

In life's late autumn, humans grow skin tags, brown spots, and moles. They develop ingrown toenails and scaly skin. What is it with skin tags, anyway? Doctors say they are harmless, and are loathe to remove them. "They'll only come back."

Like this fallen log, we become hosts for things "not us;" homes for the burdens and weariness of others, our dreams cramped for space by squatters and parasites.

No. Not me. Not yet. I can still turn the heads of construction workers in my black skirt and pullover sleeveless top, short boots and leopard print scarf flying. They get this goofy look, smile and wave. Nothing crude. At 53, this rubs my vanity the right way. I'm still in the sweet spot of age.

But I spent some time yesterday in a doctor's waiting room. The elderly, limping, curved, confused, in-pain dear creatures I saw there made me think of this log. And they were beautiful to me.

Synthesis

It has to do with us, this feast. What we long for, and see, and do not see. "And so the angels are here," says St. Bernard, whispering, like a child.

Two crows interpose themselves between me and the golden trees - ash, oak - between the blood-red maple and a full moon grown pale in a cloudless blue. Their cries, on the child wind, come as mystery, much like the question Bernard tosses up to God: "What are we, that you make yourself known to us?"

from October 2, Guardian Angels, The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris

I stopped blogging yesterday when serial guests began arriving; when life and hugs and crayons and walks in the woods and earnest young children chunking rocks into the stream and running wildly with Maggie down the dirt road and teasing and laughing and holding hands kicking the toe of our sneakers in the cool dry sand took over and became the ineffably lovely ground of my being. When Buck told me I was the sweetest woman in the world, and he was going to find me a merit badge declaring it to be so. Was ever my smile wider than on this day? When the littlest amongst us presented precious drawings declaring her love in the full-hearted way of the innocent and never yet hurt?

I vow to be her bandaid for life as best I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: In this blog post archive restoration project, there is no way for Comments to organically appear the way they did in their original incarnation. Because I have a photocopy of the original posts and comments, I am going to add the comments after each re-created post. Comments are integral to the interactive loveliness of the blogging process. Maybe we'll reconnect with some old blog buddies . New comments and visitors are wonderful, too!

Comments

So love is mainly purple, with a green fruit tree, a pond and (i'm guessing) a warm kitchen in the middle. . .

Posted by: dave/November 27, 2004 08:12 am

 

 

 

 

A Place for This Time

He was drawn to the window wall and stood there, gazing toward the far mountains, hands clasped behind his back. He and Buck went out on the deck, while his wife and I sat on stools at the kitchen island bar, she asking questions and me providing answers for the mundane but essential details of life in this house.

I could see her husband talking with Buck, shoulders slumped into his chest and belly swayed out over his pants, in that way of too-long deskbound newly retired executives. His mannerisms and short, ash-blond hair reminded me vaguely of the actor, Brian Dennehy. Stubby fingers chopped the air as he talked. Every moment or two, he turned back to the view and rested his elbows on the deck rail.

His wife of more than forty years watched him from where she stood with me in the kitchen. "It's always been his dream to have a glass house in the mountains," she said, a trace of something in her voice. Wistfulness? Worry? "He had better live at least ten years, because I don't plan to move again. They're going to have to carry me out of here in a box, or down the hill to the old folks home."

We all walked around the house together. Buck and I demonstrated the many light switches, how the fancy faucet in the kitchen sink worked, the quirk in closing the dishwasher door, where the satellite dish wiring enters the house, and the various other small details any of us could think of. Then it was time for them to go, to return to their home several states away, pack up and return to move in on June 11. The house will be empty and ready for them, by then, only a bottle of champagne and fresh Smoky Mountain Roasters coffee beans left in a basket on the kitchen counter.

We gathered at the top of the steps near my desk, looked through a French door to the tree-lined ridge, and stood there in silence. He spoke quietly: "I had a bout with non-Hodgins lymphoma about four years ago. Went through a round of chemo." Thud. I felt it in my belly. I could see Buck tighten, too. We waited. "Last month, a spot of something turned up on the Cat scan. I may need to go through another round." He hit the subject lightly, and with considerable grace, but there it was.

They came early the next evening to meet with a contractor to talk about adding another set of exterior stairs and a garage. We went out to visit with them for a few minutes and wish them safe journey. Just before leaving, he shook our hands, and this man -- who I suspect is considered by many to be undemonstrative -- hung onto Buck's hand an extra beat, looked at both of us intently, and said, "You've just given us everything -- everything. Thank you."

Upstairs, alone again, Buck poured a scotch and water for me and made himself a Manhattan. We stood in the kitchen and looked at one another. Finally, I spoke. "This man needs some time here, looking out over these mountains."

"Yes," Buck agreed. "They need this place at this time more than we do."

Note: In this blog post archive recreation project, there is no way for Comments to organically appear the way they did in their original incarnation. Because I have a photocopy of the original posts and comments, I am going to add the comments after each re-created post whenever I can. Comments are integral to the interactive loveliness of the blogging process. Maybe we'll reconnect with some old blog buddies.

Comments

That's really, really, beautifully done.

Posted by: dale/May 27, 2004 06:08 PM

"You've just given us everything -- everything. Thank you."

These words brought tears.

Posted by: Penny/May 27, 2004 06:56 PM

Nicely told, again. Thanks.

Posted by: Tom Montag/May 27, 2004 09:59 PM

This is one of those rare posts that has become a story, intact. And a signature moment in your lives. I love the beautiful simplicity of your writing. Of the hundreds of writers I have enjoyed over the years, I love this sort of thing best.

Posted by: Denny/May 28, 2004 07:56 AM

It's easier to let go knowing that it will be a peace-giver for the next family.

Posted by: Kathleen/May 29, 2004 04:37 PM

A very poignant piece and so beautifully written.

Posted by: susanne/May 30, 2004 03:56 AM

Hey, Beth, this was an incredible piece. Why not submit this one to Sun Magazine? Do you read Sun?

Posted by: Fran/May 30, 2004 05:39 PM

Your thoughtful words and sensitivity brought tears to my eyes: "They need this place at this time more than we do."

You are such good people. You deserve the very best in your new life in Florida.

Posted by: David St. Lawrence/June 2, 2004 07:55 PM

Seven Thousand Seedlings

This is the first day I can remember when the weather symbol on my laptop shows only a big bright sun with nary a cloud. I have been standing at a window, binoculars bringing the bird feeders up close. A rose-red pine grosbeak is sitting smack in the middle of a wooden tray suspended from a handmade feeder/house arrangement made for me two Christmases ago by my step-son, Darryl.

The tray was newly filled with seeds yesterday afternoon, and the big bird appears to have taken possession. A round-eyed titmouse is at another feeder, chowing down. I saw a little black snake sunning himself under the nearby magnolia tree when I filled the feeders yesterday. The snake and Maggie seemed to already know one another. She put her nose down on the little slitherer, who did not move, and then Maggie moved on to check out a buzzing insect.

The phone will ring today, tomorrow or the next and a big fellow named Vince will say: "The trees are here!" Then, within a few hours, a crew will descend on our woods, and with consummate professional skill, will plant 7,000 longleaf pine seedlings. The seedlings are "containerized" and will be about 15 months old at the time of planting. This gives them a great head start.

In early March, a state forester and wildlife biologist will pay a visit to "certify" our place for the forestry stewardship program. We're following a plan they helped develop to reforest this land in the longleaf pine that used to be here, planted in irregular fashion rather than like a tree farm. Part of the plan involves nurturing the native plant populations here and their various communities, including the pitcher plant prairie that is in one section.

I'm as excited as a kid the night before a fishing trip!

Cleaning Closets

When Buck and I leave the North Carolina mountains to return to northwest Florida's pine woods for the winter, I usually throw a nightgown and my favorite kitchen knife in a bag, along with canvas satchels of books and sheet music I can't live without, plus a few herb plants that can make the transition.

But this time, I'm cleaning closets before we go. Memories make it slow work. I am not a pack rat, except when it comes to books, magazines and journals, but neither am I one who follows the dictates of "closet planners" who decree that "if you haven't worn a garment in more than a year, be ruthless: get rid of it."

I could tell you that I haven't written much in the last day or so because I have been on an archaeological dig. True, in a way. In the same way that physical or emotional scars are sometimes a badge of courage and survival, proudly worn, so I have respect for some of my old clothes. From one of the boxes, I pulled out a pair of pants with the left knee ripped. It happened on that scary July 4, 2001 when I climbed to the top of the Shining Rocks (near Cold Mountain) and then fell on my face on the way down, bashing my chin on the rocks, severely contusing ribs, tearing a rotator cuff, gouging holes in my left leg, jamming a wrist and generally scaring hell out of my hiking buddies.  The six of us finally walked out of the woods about 8 that night. No, those pants are part of my history. They stay. I need to look at them from time to time to remind myself not to sing, dance, talk and run while hiking on a steep trail with loose rocks in the rain.

There's a stupid blue sweatshirt, the proceeds of some corporate staff meeting Buck went to years ago. It says: "The situation is hopeless, but not serious." It just bugs me somehow. What does it mean? Why can't I get it? Maybe someday I will. It stays.

Those "dress for success" silk blouses and tailored skirts, souvenirs of a past life, will go to the local shelter for abused women. I like to think of someone wearing one of those outfits to a job interview, perhaps a new day in a new life. Pollyanna-ish, maybe, but I can dream.

The jungle green string bikini. Probably ought to put it in a glass display case for posterity. Takes me right back to sunsets on Pensacola Bay, watching pelicans feeding from the fly bridge of our old boat, the Almond Joy. That boat had a small cuddy cabin and a strong anchor.

The battered t-shirts and shorts are just what I need for gardening. They all stay, ready to go to work.

And that old button jar. Don't we all have one? Most of the garments to which those buttons belong have long since been recycled in some form or fashion. But I can't let go of them. They have stories to tell, and a peculiar charm.

Cleaning closets. It's a process, not a project: a sorting and sifting to identify the useful or meaningful, and let the rest go.