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A Renewal

/ roughwighting / 4 Comments

Back when I was still living in New England and my boy was a senior in college, we decided on a road trip. I had high hopes of mother/son time, but the drive began in silence.

As I maneuvered in the harsh steady rain, my 21-year-old breathed slowly and steadily, sound asleep as the car whipped through the Connecticut highway puddles. We were on our way to Delaware, a 7-hour drive in good weather, to visit my father, Sean’s grandfather. I had been amazed when Sean offered to lose a weekend at college, one of the last few remaining ones before he graduated in a month. When I picked him up from his Boston campus at 10 a.m., the rain began to plop plop plop. Sean had always been a sucker for the rhythmic motion of a rainstorm. It put him to sleep when he was a child, and here he was, no longer a boy, sandpaper fuzz on his face because he’d been up all night finishing a paper, head tilted sideways in a posture of child-like vulnerability, mouth open, eyes closed to dreams I’d never know.

Every week I’d call Sean when he was in school, conversation difficult because the background noise was always deafening.  I could just see those randy young men skidding down the fraternity house hallways like half grown pups, drinking, laughing, shouting at the top of their throats just because they could. Sean must do that to, but at home, he was always just quiet. When he offered to drive with me to Pop Pop’s, my first thought was “ah ha! I’ll have him all to myself. Now he’ll talk!” But instead, he was snoring, and I was holding myself as stiff as a board, hovered over the steering wheel like an old woman protecting a treasure, trying to see at least four feet in front of me as we raced 60 miles per hour in the messy storm.

An hour later, the rain lightened up, and as if on signal, Sean yawned and stretched and looked out the window. “Oh, this isn’t too bad,” he said, and I would have strangled him except my two hands were clenched on either side of the wheel.

“Hmmmm,” I muttered.

“What have we got here?” Sean asked as he turned to the back seat and inspected the cooler I had wisely brought along. Not only had I stocked it with casseroles and a cake for my dad, but also sandwiches and drinks for our lunch on the drive down. “Wow Mom, you’re awesome,” he said as he brought out a ham and Swiss cheese sub and two diet cokes.

“Hmmmmm,” I replied a little more lightheartedly. I surfed through the radio stations, trying to find some music that we both would like.

“Wait, I have a better idea,” he said, and he reached in his backpack and pulled out his portable CD collection. Oh no, I moaned to myself. With my luck, it would be rap or some avant-garde music that I’d absolutely hate. I never could determine Sean’s music taste. One minute he listened to Beethoven, the next minute to Eminem. The music began. Classic Beatles – the HELP CD. I looked at him sharply.

“You don’t have to…”

“I love this CD, Mom,” he said. We both began singing the words out loud and out of tune: “I’ve just seen a face I can’t forget the name or place ..”

“You listen to this at college?” I asked as we laughed with the last note.

“All the time,” he said. “You got me to appreciate good music. Growing up, thanks to you, I never heard anything but the Beatles and classic 60’s rock and roll. It’s the best.”

I nodded my head in agreement.

“You okay Mom? Want me to drive a little?”

“No, I’m fine. Just a little worried about Pop Pop.”

“Yeah, that’s why I wanted to come. I don’t get to see him that much. We’ll just hang out with him, play Checkers, take him to the grocery store, play more Checkers, watch him smoke…”

“You okay with that?”

“Yeah, and it will help you out. I didn’t want you driving down here by yourself. And it gives us time to talk. We never have time to just talk, you know? I’m too busy with school, you’re busy with your work and writing and stuff. I’m worried. What if I don’t find a job? What if I have to come home? I’ll die….

We both laugh here.

“And after four years at an expensive college, I end up being a waiter? I’m worried. And I’m not dating anyone because I don’t know where I’ll be and that’s stupid to get interested in someone when who knows what the next year will bring. You know? Why didn’t I listen to you guys and go for an engineering degree? I don’t know, I wish you’d made me….”

He went on and on. And on. I listened to the Beatles, listened to my son talk like he was 8 again, and felt renewed as a mom, renewed as a friend to my growing up son. The sun suddenly burst through the clouds, and my eyes got a little wet.

“Mom? You okay?”

“Just need my sunglasses,” I lied. And then I listened some more.

 

Silly Love Songs

/ roughwighting / 5 Comments

You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs.
But I look around me and I see it isn’t so.
Some people wanna fill the world with silly love songs.
And what’s wrong with that?
Id like to know, cause here I go AGAIN! ( McCartney)

Way back when, Paul McCartney sang the question that I wonder about now. “What’s wrong with silly love songs?”

As I write my blog and listen to readers’ reactions, I find myself worrying. “Do they think this is all so trite? Are my vignettes too ‘behind rose-tinted glasses’ for this edgy time we live in?”

A good (male) friend stated to me, “I subscribe to your blog. Now I have to read about ‘female’ things.’ Really? Writing about moms and walks on the beach and sunset evenings with a loved one are ‘female things’?

Another responded with a statement about my “perfect life.” Oh no, that couldn’t be further from the truth. But I do like to pay attention to the rainbows in life, as well as the sun peeking behind the clouds, the laugh emerging from the tears, the rip roaring guffaw after a friend’s comment, the comforting hug of a friend, the deliciousness of a child’s embrace, the succulent sensuousness of a kiss from a long-time lover,  the overwhelming surprise over the beauty of a baby.

But what’s wrong with silly love songs? (Or silly stories about the joys in life?)

I’d like to know, cause I plan on writing about them, AGAIN.

And, as Paul McCartney sang at the end of his verse:

It isn’t silly, no, it isn’t silly, love isn’t silly at all.

Weekend Zen

/ roughwighting / 13 Comments

Weekend S.F. Bay sunset

As the sky darkens on a Saturday night, walk me into the house, put a little music on the CD player– Rosemary Clooney, Enya, Vivaldi, the Beatles Rubber Soul– and let the fresh S.F. summer fog meander through the open window. Yes, I’m beginning to get there.

Make the telephone stop ringing, at least turn the volume of the voice mail way down, turn the oven on 350 degrees preheat, open up my closet door so I can change to my well-worn black leggings and soft cotton lavender top. Help me find my rumpled gray socks, and lead me toward the kitchen. Yes, I’m getting there.

Give me an excuse to make my homemade brownies – my son and his family are coming tomorrow for dinner, a friend’s birthday in a day, a neighbor’s dog is sick — and I’ll start to crack the eggs and melt the semisweet chocolate squares, stir in the sugar, drop in a teaspoon of vanilla. As the sweet smells of baking brownies waft through the house, I feel myself getting there.

Husband bangs into the house, racing against the fading light, washes his white-speckled hands under running water, and smiles. He’s had his Zen day out in the yard, pruning, painting, puttering. He kisses me like he means it, then asks in almost the same breath ‘what’s for dinner?’ I point to the eggplant he’s just brought in from our garden, and pick up four round, red, luscious just-plucked tomatoes. ‘Eggplant parmesan?’ I suggest. He hops once with excitement and runs upstairs for a shower. I’m so close I can feel the aura of contentment surround me like a warm coat on a freezing day.

I peel the purple fruit as I listen to Rosemary sing soulfully about love. I dance around the kitchen with a tomato, stopping short as I see the look of concern in my dog’s searching brown eyes. I slice the tomato, feed him the ends, and know he will now love me forever. Then I dip the eggplant slices in egg and breadcrumbs. The telephone rings, and with a sigh, I answer. I smile, though, as soon as I hear my daughter’s voice, just checking in, ending with ‘love you mom.’ Seconds later, my clean-faced husband checks out my dinner preparations, opens a bottle, and hands me a glass of garnet-red wine. ..we toast – “love you” – clink glasses, and I see the colors change around me – the clear lucid light of reality becomes fuzzy with soft rose and warm ivory tones. I’m there. I’ve reached my weekend Zen, and I take a deep breath and soak it in before answering the call of the oven timer.

A Walk on the Beach

/ roughwighting / 16 Comments

The sun is hot, hotter than it’s been all week. But I’ve lazed around; I’ve read fun sexy beach books; I’ve slathered on the lotion and sat like a beached whale; and I’ve swum with the jellyfish. Finally, I am ready. “Mom, let’s go for a long walk,” I suggest. My slim, petite mother looks at me hesitantly.

“What about lunch?” she asks.

I laugh. She’s 5’2” and 100 pounds soaking wet, yet she eats like an elephant. Can’t take a walk in the early morning unless she’s had a banana and two bowls of cereal. Can’t walk mid-morning unless she’s had a peanut butter sandwich. Can’t walk at 1 unless she’s had two sandwiches, three cookies, an apple, and a tall glass of milk.

“Mom, it’s 12:30. We’ll walk on the beach to 32nd Street and eat there.”

“That’s 9 blocks,” she whines. She’s more limber than a football player and has more energy than a ballerina, but she’s worried about how long it will take us to reach the snack bar.

“We’ll walk fast,” I answer, and we smile at each other as we feel the wet sand squoosh between our toes, hear the roar of the waves just feet away, and watch the children scream and race back and forth among the froth.

We are ocean people, my mom and I, and we love our time at the New Jersey beach. We talk little during our fast-paced walk. I think of the gritty sand; the gloriously long, non-rushed day ahead; the hot hot sun on our backs. She probably thinks about food and how soon we’ll be at the 32nd Street snack bar.

Finally, 30 minutes later, the lifeguard stand appears. All we have to do now is walk up the beach to the street and the hamburger stand. I glance at my mom, who’s staring at something with a frown on her face. The hot air is waving like a mirage in the desert.  The distance to the snack bar looks like a mile. I know in actuality that it’s less than a 3-minute walk, but I also notice the children and adults hopping up and down as they walk toward the street.

“Carry me?” Mom asks hopefully.

“In your dreams,” I laugh back. I begin to walk fast, then I run. The sand is hotter than Hades. It’s burning my feet. I feel like Lawrence of Arabia, only he wore white robes and thick sandals.

I turn to look for my mom. She’s disappeared. Oh My God. Did she get sucked into the burning sand? Where is she? I can’t stand and look. I am seriously getting second- degree burns. I run to the hamburger stand and stop on the small wooden board “walk” they have placed for people in dire straights, like me.

“Mom!” I shout over the roar of people and ocean waves. I see a tiny spot, a shadow, move. Then I see her more clearly. She is standing next to a lone trashcan in the middle of the hot sand.

“There’s shade here! I’m not moving,” she screams at me.

I sigh and run back over the sand to rescue my stranded mother. As I suspect, when she sees me coming toward her, she sucks in a deep breath and races toward me, tears of pain in her eyes. We run together toward the snack bar, and I worry
about her lungs and her heart. I’m almost 30 years younger, and I walk every day for sport. Her face is hot and sweaty and squints in discomfort.

Finally, we reach the boardwalk and hobble toward the snack bar.

“I think my feet are burned,” she says to me, breathing hard.

“I think mine are too,” I answer. We look at each other and start laughing. Two fools are we.  I walk gingerly toward the teenager behind the counter to ask for a bucket of cold water for our feet, but first, I have to stop our giggles.

Ah, how we love the beach.