What I Will Miss

I cried when I left my home state of Connecticut. I sniffled as we packed the ABF moving truck with what few items my husband of four months and I had crammed into our studio apartment. We slipped and slid on an ice-coated driveway as we loaded an old oak dresser, a well-worn loveseat (where we shared our first kiss), and a Bed Bath & Beyond microwave table that doubled as a T.V. stand onto the rickety truck.

And then, without speaking, we got into our cars and drove south. I felt a dull ache as the rolling snow-covered hills gave way to warm sweet air and green flat lands. I barely noticed the beauty of the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and the long stretches of cotton fields in Georgia. I was thinking about the creak of my grandmother’s wooden basement stairs, the smell of roast beef and blueberry pie.

Through homesick eyes, the South was an ugly inhospitable place. And, I knew what I would miss about New England.

Clear sparkly layers of ice on thin tree branches; fields of unevenly shaped pumpkins; the smell of wet leaves; the crunch of ice beneath warm fuzzy boots; the first warm day of Spring when ice gives way to slush, mud and the promise of long warm summer days filled with convertible rides and camping trips. I was leaving behind cool summer evenings full of laughter; winter mornings blanketed in quieting snow; and the windy hilly roads of my childhood.

I was leaving friends whom I had met on the playground at primary school, who had talked me through high school break ups, with whom I had navigated an awkward adolescence and who stood by my side in tacky and tight-fitting blue matching dresses as I married the love of my life.

After ten years of living in Tallahassee, Florida, I never stopped missing these things and people. But now as I pack our home – the place where we brought our daughter home from the hospital after her birth; where we argued about money, time and space– the negotiations of two people becoming one family; where we spent days on the Gulf of Mexico playing in the most beautiful azure waters I have ever seen; where we bought our first house, and spent a year working side-by-side peeling wall paper, painting and replacing flooring, sinks and countertops ; and where we mapped out our life together rocking in wooden chairs on hot summer nights while cicadas buzzed around us – I know what I will miss.

Brightly colored spiders that instinctively meander around implements of relocation; baby frogs no bigger than the tip of my pinky finger; shady canopy roads that drip with Spanish Moss; wild dolphins that jump and chatter in the wakes of speed boats; men with friendly smiles wearing worn out jeans who communicate "Hello," “I like you,” "You are crazy," and "I am angry" with just one word, "Ma’am;" gas-station pecan logs and sweet tea on long road trips; church signs that read things like "download your problems to the Lord;” conversations with complete strangers that begin with, "oh, honey" and end with "bless your heart’" and most of all long lunches with girlfriends who have helped shape my career and mend my ego, who have became invaluable mentors and who can make me laugh so hard that I cry.

In just a few days, I will drive the same route that I drove ten years ago; this time from South to North. I will pass the cotton fields and the mountains and the long stretches of flat green land with a new appreciation of home, the one waiting for me in the North and the one I am saying goodbye to just 1,000 miles south.

Advice from our Elders –

As a mother, I have heard myself say things that I never imagined uttering to another human being: “Take that bug out of your mouth,” “Where is the rest of the poop?” “Stop touching your butt and go wash for dinner.”

I have stood in stoic solidarity beside my husband as he demanded, “Izzy, put your tongue in your mouth,” and threatened, “If you do not stop making that horrible, horrible noise, and dunking your spaghetti in your juice, there will be no cartoons tonight.”

I have heard that one of the roles of parents is to dispense meaningful advice at just the right moments in our children’s development. But, I confess that most of my motherly advice seems to come screaming out of my mouth in response to acute annoyance and/or immediate danger.

“Ask before you touch a strange dog!” “Where did you get that? Don’t eat it.”

Every once in a while I hear myself saying something almost sage-like; something that seems to reach beyond my immediate caché of wisdom.

“Choose the shoes that feel the best on your feet, not the ones the sparkle the brightest.”

This is a very rare occurrence, now and as far back as I can remember. The good, bad and ridiculous advice that now flows so freely in our household calls to mind some of the gems that have been passed on to me throughout the years. Some that came from a helpful place, but in the end weren’t all that helpful:

“Nice girls don’t wear jewelry below the waist.”

Some that applied to the moment, but had no real lasting value:

From my father and brother while attempting to teach me to water ski, “Keep your knees bent, and your arms straight, and you’ll pop right out.”

And some that just did not span-well the generation gap.

“You will never land a husband until you learn how to properly make a bed.” My grandmother offered this advice as my mother stood behind her smiling and shaking her head slowly in disagreement. And then, “It’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.”

Once I had a husband, I heard, “Follow your husband wherever his career takes him.” I think this one might have been more helpful had I had the patience to follow the latter advice above.

There was the straight no-nonsense advice that hurt like the dickens when delivered, but proved to be helpful later on. From my ever-sensitive father as I stood crying before him because I had yet again failed college algebra, “When you’re dumb, you’ve got to be tough.”

And from the wisdom of my great grandmother, who came to this country through Ellis Island in 1919, offered in a stern Middle-European accent, “After laugh, comes cry.”

There was the advice that came in veiled statements and sheepish questions. On my first day of college, from my mother who looked just as terrified as I felt, “You are not afraid of anything.” And from my grandmother, regarding my high school boyfriend, “Did he get fresh with you, (and then in a whisper with her eyes turned down),” Did he try to touch you up top?”

I smiled, “try, um, no, no.”

“Oh, Nicky, leave a little something to the imagination,” she snapped.

Some of the best advice I have ever received came from friends and family closer to my age. From my brother, when I broke things off with my second fiancé, “We work hard at our education, our careers, to maintain our bodies, our homes and friendships. But we expect to ‘fall into’ the thing we need the most."

From my girlfriends, “Boys are like shoes, the cuter they are, the more likely they are to hurt you later,” and, “If you want something you’ve never had, you have to do something you have never done.”

And my favorite, “In every act of bravery, there is just a little bit of stupidity.” I test that one often.

I don’t know if I will ever be able to offer my daughter the type of wisdom that was so readily available to me, but I do think I am getting better. Just the other day, I advised Izzy that it would be wise to put a little something on, as she ran out of the front door to play completely naked.

And, I also mentioned to her that it would work better for her and the dog if she opened the door to share her cheese with him rather than mashing it through the screen.

I hope Izzy is blessed with a lifetime of wise friends.

Questions in the Commuter Lane

Izzy and I talk about many things on the way to school in the morning–which friends will be at school that day, who is having a birthday party next, what do I think snack will be? But on one bright Tuesday morning, after several demands to retrieve her sippy cup from the floorboard of the car and a serious conversation about what Dexter, our 10-year-old Australian Sheppard, would say about her if he could talk, I heard a sweet clear voice from the back seat ask, “Mom, do you believe in God?”

I raised my eyes to the rearview mirror. I looked at her inquisitive little face and my stomach became a tangled mess. My husband and I had been mentally preparing for the day when we would have to balance the cornucopia of religious beliefs in our families and offer some wisdom about life, science, God and fantasy without pushing her in one direction or another and without stymieing her spiritual growth.

I am an agnostic, who in true form, completed nine-tenths of a degree in comparative religion and then gave up on a conclusion and a degree. As a product of a liberal religious studies program, I believe that all paths are valid. After all, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism and all of their many offsets provide comfort and guidance to so many and at their core their teachings are about forgiveness, right-thinking and ending suffering.

My husband is as atheist as they come.

Our parents both define themselves as Christian, but could not be more different. Mine are protestant Christians with nebulous ideas about the bible. They believe in God and Jesus and they prove it by showing up for church every other Christmas or so. They have a comfortable relationship with God. God is there for them when they need him. They, for the most part, follow the rules. And, He looks the other way when they don’t. God does not pass judgment on swearing, alcohol consumption, or stimulating rock and roll music.

My husband’s parents are devoted Southern Baptists. They are careful about the music they listen to and the movies they watch. My father-in-law did not dance with me at our wedding because the music was not “making a joyful sound unto the Lord.” MC Skatt Kat and Paula Abdul were guilty of bestiality in the 1990 music video for “Opposites Attract.” And, if you have heard about Jesus and you are not baptized, you’re going to have a Hell of a time in the afterlife.

They see the world through the eyes of Jesus and they worry about those who don’t.

Joel’s parents (Izzy’s Emma and Pop Pop) often take Izzy to church where she learns things like God made rocks, which drives my atheist-scientifically minded husband crazy and causes him to spend hours online researching the scientific explanations of things so he can explain what “really” makes a rock.

Although we have agreed to stay objective on the topic, I have overheard my husband casually mention to Izzy that God is like monsters and dragons, fun to believe in, but not real in the sense that Jesus is going to show up and rescue you if the house is on fire.

But Santa and the Easter Bunny, well, he has their personal email addresses. I tell Izzy that religion is very personal. Different people believe different things and that what she believes about God is entirely up to her. Some people live their whole lives and never know what they believe about life, death and God.

I hope that providing an open-minded, free-thinking environment will help her, as my religious-studies teachers used to say, “find her path.” And that was the tactic I chose on that bright Tuesday as Izzy looked at me with her hopeful four-year old eyes and her thoughtful inquisitive mind working behind them.

I locked eyes with her through the rear-view mirror. “Do I believe in God? I don’t know,” I said. “I’m still thinking about it.” “Daddy doesn’t believe in God,” she rebutted. “I know,” I said. “Everyone is different.”

“Well, I do,” she said, with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for choosing a good-behavior reward or a cartoon to watch before bed. “Emma told me to.” I smiled. One for Baptists.

An old “take” on renewable resources

"My mother can spot 'quality items' set out for sanitation workers from a block away."

All of this talk about protecting our planet and changing our destinies with conservation and renewable energies has made me think about an under appreciated, almost never discussed, form of conservation, the time-honored tradition of trash picking. In its tamest form, it is the multitudes of Saturday morning warriors who head out to yard sales at 5:30 in the morning with their inked-up classifieds and their pockets full of one-dollar bills to pour over the estranged items of their neighbors.

The hardcore among them are not so socially acceptable. They evince the more literal sense of the word. They are the trash rooters and tend to operate in the shadows often in wee hours of the morning. Nonchalantly, they gaze at the treasures their neighbors have tossed out to the curb, coming to salvage them when no one is looking. My mother is their queen. When I was a child she would go through the little white wastebasket in my room, take items out and put them back where they were–a mostly dried-up ink pen, a stained t-shirt, unwanted knickknacks. She would say incredulously, “You’re throwing this out!”

My mother can spot “quality items” set out for sanitation workers from a block away. She has collected silver platters, dog houses and crates, and even a shower seat for my 85 year-old grandmother, a woman who has thousands of dollars in the bank, but washes and re-uses her paper towels and aluminum foil, and will eat lasagna with sour cream for dinner if she thinks either are likely to go to bad because “waste not want not.” Yes, my family has always been good stewards of our resources.

The morning my mother scored the shower seat was a usual one except that I was about eight months pregnant. On one of our regular yard-sale Saturday mornings, we pulled into her neighborhood and I immediately noticed a larger than average bounty by the road side.

“Oooh,” she said. “Is that a shower seat?” stopping the car. I gave a quick scan of the neighborhood, no one walking their dogs or babies; no one fetching their newspaper. I slid out of the car and waddled over to inspect the item. It was clean and undamaged. I gave my mother the thumbs up and began to dislodge it from the heap.

As I pulled it out, I noticed something move by the house. I looked up to see what appeared to the entire family standing on the front porch, staring at me, their mouths agape. I had a moment of panic and a choice to make. I could recoil, fain confusion, pretend to be taking a walk or calling my dog.

But, as I stood there in my Saturday morning sweat pants and t-shirt, with my mother behind me and my daughter still in the womb, I decided to embrace my heritage and my destiny. We trash pickers had been hiding in the shadows long enough.

I raised my head high, shower seat in hand, grinned and announced in my loudest, friendliest voice, “Good morning neighbor. I hope you don’t mind, this is a ’quality item.’”

The Fear

It was my brother who taught me The Fear.

We learn lots of things from our families–guilt, humility, empathy, forgiveness. If we are lucky, these lessons stay with us into adulthood, weaved into our consciousness as positive personality traits that make us strong, sensitive, kind and productive people.

My childhood was full of valuable lessons. My mother taught me that all things pass, the good and the bad. “All good things must come to an end,” she would say as I argued for one more swim in the lake as the summer sky turned gray. “This too must pass,” she would whisper as I cried over the pain of the chicken pox, unrequited adolescent love.

My father taught me to believe in myself and to trust my instincts. “Don’t listen to people who tell you what you can’t do,” he would say, “only you can truly know what you are capable of.”

I was blessed with phenomenal parents, and at the age of 34, I still call on their wisdom. But it was my brother who taught me one of the most valuable life lessons. It was my brother who taught me The Fear.

When I was in middle school, he made up a game he called “Pressure Point Man.” It pretty much involved him waking me on weekend mornings by standing in the doorway of my room with his index finger poised in the air, raising his arm up and down while making a buzzing robot noise.

“I—T--’S P—R—E—SS--URE P-OIN--T M—AN,” he’d say in a deep drawn-out voice, lifting his arm up, “zzzzzzzzzz,” and down, “zzzzzzz.” Then he’d pounce on me and jam his index finger in-between the joints of my arms and legs until I sprang from the bed and ran for cover.

It didn’t take long before all he had to do was look at me and make the “zzzzzzzzz” noise or raise an index finger and bend it up, “chick chick,” and down, “chick chick,” and I’d start moving fast, an awkward pre-adolescent Pavlov’s dog.

As big brothers go, he wasn’t so bad. He had some redeeming qualities. He always gave it to me straight. “Nik,” he’d say, “Teenage boys are disgusting. Don’t trust them.” “Don’t eat the icicles off of the back porch.” “If you wear those shoes, people will think you’re a slut.”

And fear, he told me, only serves a purpose if there is something to be afraid of. “What are you scared of?, ” he’d ask, as I stood perched at the loading point of a terrifying roller coaster I was just tall enough on my tippy-toes to ride, or squirming in my seat before having to go onstage in front of hundreds of people in my puffy-sleeved, hideously pink “achievement” pageant dress. I would mutter something about breaking my legs, falling on my face, freezing and looking like an idiot. “That’s not going to happen,” he’d say. “Stop being a baby and do it.”

He was always pushing me into something outside of my comfort zone.

“Hey, Nik, get in the cabinet. I’ll spin you around on the Lazy Susan.”

“Okay,” I’d squeak out.

“Hey, Nik, let’s ride the snow sleds down the basement stairs.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Nik, let’s try a black diamond sky trail next. I hear the moguls are the size of Volkswagens.”

“Okay.”

“Hey Nik, let’s go to Candlewood Lake and jump off of ‘Chicken Rock’.”

“Um, okay.”

I remember very clearly the pang of fear as I stood perched at the edge of the gnarled rock. I hesitated and felt his hands on my back pushing me out. “JUMP,” he yelled in my ear and my body reacted, catapulting itself over the long jagged edge, falling, flailing toward the dark rolling water, the splash and the rush of adrenalin as I sprang to the surface and filled my lungs with panicked gasps of air. This was what it felt like on the other side of The Fear–alive, confident and strong.

My brother hasn’t pushed me down the basement stairs on a sled in a long time. But what he taught me about fear has stayed with me. The pang of anxiety before a job interview, the last edits of a book manuscript before it goes to the printer–my naked thoughts and feelings, probable errors and all–imprinted in permanent ink for all to peruse.

Like most people, I am afraid of many things.

Often that familiar pang of fear inspires us to lock our doors at night; slow down and choose our words carefully with our bosses and our spouse; drive carefully on slippery windy roads–all helpful. Sometimes, what we really need is a ride around the Lazy Susan (watch your fingers!) The trick is to know the difference.

Just this fall, I was visiting my family in Connecticut. The cousins were all piled into one of their bedrooms watching Disney’s Toy Story. My sweet, pretty 22-year-old cousin turned to me with a crooked smile, raised her index finger and said, “Hey, Nik, remember when your brother use to do P—R—E—SS—URE P-OIN--T M—AN,” raising her index finger up, “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz,” and down “zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

I studied her face, gauged the seriousness in her eyes, and took off running.

The Perfect “Ugliest” Pumpkin

As a little girl growing up in the country, Fall was my favorite time of year. The crispness in the air, the panorama of color emerging in the trees, it meant that it soon would be the season of spicy apple cider, cool damp piles of leaves to jump into and my favorite mother-daughter tradition, picking out the perfect pumpkin.

Each year, my mother and I would ride up the windy country road to the big white farmhouse on the hill where Farmer Whitehead and his wife laid out a disordered display of pumpkins in their front yard. Neighbors from all around would park their cars on the side of the road and pile into the yard to survey the display.

And each year, I vowed to myself that I would find the perfect pumpkin. I walked among the horde of pumpkin procurers as we carefully examined our choices, lifting each possibility carefully up by its bottom–never its stem–assessing its aesthetic attributes and carvability.

The pumpkin pickers scrutinized health, color, shape and stem stability, each choosing their version of perfection – tall and thin pumpkins with perfect one-inch apart grooves on blemish-free orange complexions; short, fat, round pumpkins with sturdy thick green stems. One by one they claimed their Fall bounties, left their payments in the cash box on the table and sauntered proudly to their cars.

Maybe it was because I was just a little bit overweight. Maybe it was because I hadn’t yet figured out how to tame my wild curly hair into a human-inspired shape. But, I always had slightly different criteria for the perfect pumpkin.

I appreciated the faultless oval-shaped gourds with symmetrical lines and curled stems reaching decorously upward, but it was the more than slightly imperfect pumpkins that always caught my eye, the unevenly shaped, bumpy textured gourds; the oddly colored brown, green and orange pumpkins with short stumpy stems that I picked over affectionately, carefully inspecting each of their imperfections to find the most unusual, most imperfect, ugliest pumpkin.

My mother and I would make our choices–a couple of pumpkins for carving, one or two to don the front porch. As I rode home, clutching my pumpkin in my lap, the colorful leaves blowing wildly around the country roads, each of them uniquely colored and shaped, I surveyed the beauty of my pumpkin in all its imperfections. Another perfect Fall. Another perfect pumpkin.