Donuts in Heaven

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Grief is not confined to a date, or an anniversary marked on the calendar pages, and yet I am safer handling the details & confronting the stories after September. Funny how that works out. The birdman confronted me with a story: Your father, he shook his head…Your father was clinically dead at the wharf. Did you know that? I knew that. I’d heard it before from somewhere. Still, hearing it said outloud n o w, standing before me, made the words sound so much more serious. They echoed in my head. Clinically clinically dead dead dead. Birdman continued. They revived him. He waited for your family to get there. He waited. Waited. I pondered that statement, that detail. Waited. Wait! I was the last to get there. Does that mean he waited for me? Does that imply he held onto life for me? No. I don’t think so. I don’t think he held onto life for anyone but himself. He kept death at bay for himself and his life.

Mom relived The Day from her point of view – even though I didn’t ask her to. “I was making donuts for Mary. Your father said SaveMeOne. He’d have it when he got back. He worried about not having a cage on the boat. It was still dark. He was concerned about not being able to see the buoys. He mentioned it more than once, no cage. I listened on the radio because I never went back to bed.” She never went back to bed. I handled details and let the words wash over me. I washed them down with wine. While the sentences the words formed were not new to me I wasn’t used to hearing them from someone else’s mouth. We never talk about this. Clinically dead. She never went back to bed.

Later we looked at pictures. My grandmother, done up in ribbons and smiles, before life got hard. Too hard. Before she died. Did she wait for someone? Did she hang onto life and kept death at bay for the sake of someone else? I don’t think so. Much like my father, I think her life meant something to her and her alone. Her smile tells me so. I hope they get donuts in heaven.

Minimal

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Kisa took this picture of serenity while I wrestled with chaos. I was thinking about something my sister said and was arguing with her (vehemently) in my head. She wasn’t there but I could hear her voice. She has tried to direct my direction before. In the past I’ve come close to giving in, letting her guide me where she thinks I should be going. This time it’s a directive as simple as “you should say something” but the fear in my heart gives it complexity and chaos. So, while a sailboat sails silently over the seas I wrestled this stupid struggle to the ground. I felt as though I was winning… but before I could pin it and really claim victory the triumph was lost in self doubt. More confusion. Maybe she is right. That thought alone keeps me questioning. You should say something. So I do. Later, I do.

Here’s the thing: Confessions are like closets. You never know what’s behind their doors or how deep they’ll go. To say something is to open that door and wait for whatever comes out. Or what wants to enter in. I made a start by admitting to something small, miniscule. I opened a tiny confessional window instead of that big ugly door. Untrusting, I was testing the temperature of acceptance, if you will. I had a right to be worried. The reception was chilly. Borderline bitter cold. I offered up an open window and it was slammed shut with “oh…that’s not what happened!” An exclamation of denial in a condescending tone to something in my life, lived by me, myself & moi. You’re telling me my confession is clueless. You’re telling me my memory is all wrong despite my living it. You can’t get much colder than that. If I could raise the dead and make them speak I would prop her up and make her tell you how it happened. Someone to back me up. Someone to say that’s how it happened. I need a witness.

In the end I wrestled chaos and confusion. I went to the depths of anger and came back resigned. As a result of the window I will never open the door. I will never share the secrets. It’s bad enough I know.

Recognition

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I walked through town wearing a bright red Camp Kawanhee t-shirt. “Camp Kawanhee?! Now there’s a shirt I wouldn’t expect to see here!” A woman’s shrill voice called out to me. Turning around, she was impossible to ignore. L.L. Bean hiking boots, jeans tucked into socks practically up to her knees, a down puffy vest over a sweatshirt emblazoned with a chickadee, a huge pair of binoculars slung around her bandana’ed neck. With a smirk on her face she nodded toward my shirt. “I live in Farmington.” As if that explained everything. I wanted to tell her her point of reference and recognition was off. Way off. If she visited Monhegan more often she would have known ‘Kawanhee’ is just as common as the word lobster or artist. She wouldn’t have been so surprised.

Later, it was my face that was a source of reference and recognition. We were watching the bonfire, staring at the burn and hypnotized by the flames when a woman asked me if I am my mother’s daughter. Yes, I am. It’s in my eyes, the shape of my face. I am a walking testimony to my heritage and proud of it. The compliments flowed and I answered with “a force to be reckoned with…” Nods of agreement. Yes, indeed. A force to be reckoned with.

It’s a strange state of affairs. I go home to be ignored. I like walking by someone I’ve known all my life and barely acknowledge each other with a passing hello, or the smallest of greetings – a nod. We acknowledge one another with an understanding that goes deeper than small talk and chit chat. We don’t want time for either. That’s just the way we are. So, when perfect strangers recognized something in me and wanted to talk about it, it threw me off guard. Yes, I could tell you of my connection to Camp Kawanhee. I could go on and on about the tents, the boys, the dinners at the Yew. I tell you of my connection to my mother that goes beyond my face. I could tell you stories of how proud I am of her, how amazed I am by her, how she frustrates me to the point of fury, how much I love her. I could. I really could. Instead, I would like to stand before the fire and see you through the flames; I would see you and recognize you. If you saw me I would acknowledge you through the smoke with just a nod. That’s just the way I am.

Obsession

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If my stomach was writing this, this would be the mother of all blogs, singing the praises of the perfect burrito while bowing down to the perfect partner.

If the items in this picture look at all familiar to you, you might be asking yourself, “Self, is it possible she’s in Colorado or New York and not Maine or even Massachusetts?” I would have to answer you with a voice full of glee and giggle, “It is true! I am not in Colorado, nor New York. Chipotle has come north of all that! North of Close Enough to ME! Chipotle has invaded Massachusetts and it’s about time!” There is only one restaurant right now with two more “coming soon.”
Kisa had the trip planned from Day 0. Keeping the plan a secret from me for four whole days must have been difficult because it meant getting me off the island on the earliest boat…on the last day. Getting me off the island can be a chore in itself if I’m not ready to leave. Luckily for him (and ultimately, my stomach) I boarded the 9am without complaint. It had been a long weekend.
TomTom told us the way to go. I have to admit I forgot all about The Secret Plan. Still having post-parting pangs I sulked as route 1 flew by my window. Moody’s was enough to distract me, work me out of my depression. Whoopies were just been whipped together. I bought the first of the batch. L.L. Bean only distracted me further with disappointment. I couldn’t find anything I liked (believe it or not). By the time we missed the exit for 495 South I remembered “the plan” and how secret it was.
616 Fellsway should be the name of my next pet. 616 Fellsway, Medford is the address to heaven. Heaven in a burrito. When we pulled into the parking lot I could barely believe my eyes. True to design, true to color scheme and true to chrome, there before my eyes lay the greatest place to eat my stomach has ever known. Chipotle. In all its glory. I heard a choir singing. Chipotle in all its aroma.
We ate our standards. For those of you in the know:
Rice: yes
Meat: chicken
Beans: black
Salsa: medium (corn, of course) & hot
Cheese: yes
Sour cream: yes
Lettuce: no

Drink: lemonade with a splash of sprite
Chips & salsa: yes

When we were finished gorging we went up again. To go.

Imposters

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I will be glad to leave this world for a little while. Just for a short time, just enough to catch my breath. I am no better than these drummers disguised as chefs. Cooking up all the wrong things. Stirring up mayhem and madness. This weekend I’ll be glad to sit back and be only wife and daughter for a few days. A long weekend. Shed the illusion of Head Mucky-Muck for the time being. I don’t want to wear nice clothes. I don’t want someone to knock on my door and ask “can I interrupt?” No. I want to be eat-from-the-earth girl. Apples, leftover blackberries. Eye-behind-the-lens girl capturing everything that catches my heart. The must-have-lobsters-and whoopie-pies girl. Chocolate crumbs on my chin, white frosting on my fingertips. Face-in-a-book-and-wine-glass-on-knee girl. Oohh…books. Wine. I’m starting to drool. Maybe my book, it will be a girly-girl book. A dirty book. A fantastic book. Something that goes with Merlot. Something too delicious for Miss Mucky Muck.

HomeHomeHomeHome

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What was I thinking? Not go home? Am I crazy? I always go home. Always in Autumn. I fall in love with the island’s air and light this time of year. Every single time. So, why would I think I wouldn’t go this year? Who cares that life is crazy right now? That’s all the more reason to run away.

It’s the same as it ever was. We’ll pack the truck, grocery list clenched between my teeth. Dog food, non-dairy creamer, the usual. I’ll be stressed and knotted until we’re actually on the boat and ready to roll on the waves. I won’t sleep well until we’re on the Southern End under a night of pitch black pine trees.

So, in the meantime I need to figure out what meals I’m going to cook. I need to pick and chose the books to read. Maybe I’ll bring knitting. Maybe I’ll bring running shoes. I need to find my favorite sweatshirt. You can bet I’m bringing the camera. End of story. I’m going home.

Leaving It All Behind

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I got the email today. All who attended were on the list which translated into all those who were there. As we were. There. I went because someone asked me to. That someone was me. I went because I asked myself. Please be social. Please do something outside the zone of all things comfortable. Be nice. Be forgetful of what was then. See yourself and others for this is now. Have a laugh. Have a beer. Raise a glass to better days ahead. Make promises you intend to keep…with joy.In a handshake I promised I would be back. In a word I gave my word. Promise came out of my mouth and happiness was in my vow. Be there with hope wide open and you shall receive a new beginning. I hope 25 years is just as easy as 20. I hope Frank’s Run is just as Fun (and that I actually do it). I hope to see everyone there again.

Who cares if we are not ourselves as we used to be? Who cares if we are newly improved forms of what we used to think was perfect? Time does more than heal. It advices us to smarten up, fly straight, too. I will not look back with regret, but forward with I Hope.

School Spirit

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1957
Look at the smile on this woman’s face. I absolutely love this picture. That’s the way I want to be thirty years from now, wearing red tights and sporting a fantastic attitude. She looks like she’s having a blast. Her smile is all about school spirit…either that or she’s very hungry. The parade ended at the dining hall and we were so close!

Finger sandwiches of turkey and roast beef. Tangy cold apple cider. Crunchy cookies on the table. Standing in the doorway of the dining room, looking out over a sea of faces staring back at me  I had one of those panic moments – where can I sit? Who isn’t going to get up as soon as I sit down? Didn’t I say I’d sit with 72 & 82? Kisa and my confidence momentarily floated away. Different dining room, same dilemma. Luckily, we had assigned seating and all I had to do was make it to our table without dropping my tray.

After lunch was another first. A class picture. Five of us made it there. Hopefully, it will make it into the newsletter. Won’t mom be proud?

To be continued…

1987

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My discomfort started with a clenched jaw, a stomach in knots, and a real sense of dread. We drove through campus a little after 10pm and all I wanted to do was turn around and go home. All I could think was “There I go again, doing something stupid.” I kept asking myself why did I come back? What did I have to gain from seeing people who didn’t like me almost as much as I didn’t know them? Almost every memory of this place is tainted by something embarrassing, awkward and not worth remembering at all. It was all I could do to stop from myself from blurting out “Yup! The campus looks awesome. We can turn around now. Let’s go home now.” Kisa would have killed me. With a cold he had just driven four and a half hours to get me here…for whatever reason.
The next morning I was feeling worse. Our B&B bed was made of bones and bricks. Everything creaked. The floor, the door, the bed, the dresser drawers. My tossing and turning, sighing and twitching kept Kisa and every neighbor within earshot up all night. Neither of us could imagine getting through a day of socializing and smiling. Kisa had nothing to reminisce about and I surely didn’t paint a pretty picture.
Breakfast changed all that. Sitting down to a gourmet meal of omelets (wild mushroom) and “possibly the best french toast on the planet” we were drawn into conversations with neighboring tables. Soon we were asking each other the usual question – What year are you? 1972. 1982. 1987. We passed stories from table to table. Holden Hall became hilarious. Gehring was more than girly. We couldn’t decide if Madame was the same Madame that everyone knew. Dress codes and dish duty. Outward Bound Hell and smoking in the boys’ room. Hanscom tag and an infamous pickle jar. 1972 remembered the exact same things as us 80’s grads.
By the time the parade rolled around we were all ready to roll. For the first time ever I participated. For the first time ever I found pride.

To be continued…

Haunt

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I don’t know what I was so worried about…other than my wicked mean imagination. I think I was my own worst enemy on this trip. Kisa and I just got back from a trip to Gould. Since getting back he has been trying to watch 3-4 football games and I’ve been trying to upload pictures. Both of us are experiencing the head nod – falling asleep only to be jerked awake by the sensation of falling. Soon, we will admit defeat and take afternoon naps. Travel always makes me tired.

But write about this last weekend, I will. I learned something about time. You know that saying about healing all wounds? Well, not only that, but time wraps it’s confidence around you and whispers, “get in the game” and you do. You don’t fail. You don’t hate yourself afterwards. Suddenly, you’re having a good time. There’s a real smile on your face and you find yourself saying “let’s come back for our 25th.” Even shaking hands on the deal. Was I drunk? Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is this, I went to fight the ghosts that haunted me for 20 years. When I got there I couldn’t find them.

Almost Breathing

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Three days to go. Three more days and I can breathe again. Back to school will be my back to good test. This time tomorrow I will be gearing up for Gehring. Like Ray says, three more days.
Sometimes I think it was a mistake to get married in September. The thought is fleeting but, it is my hated month after all. My nemesis in more ways than one. I shut people out and refuse to shout it out, work it out. My angry month. Sad, but true. I like it that way. I dream of Gin. I think of Integrity.
Three more days and I can unleash the pumpkins, bats, cats, witches and all things scary. I love October and all it brings. Pumpkin everything. This year I’ll search the faces of orange orbs and find my True Jack for the 31st. High Hopes boasts a syrup season too good to miss. Caleb’s Scary House waits for wusses like me.

**I don’t know what I did to deserve your gifts. You hardly know the tragedy of the ninth month. But, I thank you for sending smiles when I needed them most.**

Elaborate Mind Break

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dscn0378.JPGI admitted I was losing my desire to cook. That utterance alone was enough to scare me into therapy. Since when did cracking open a cookbook not motivate me, move me, make me happy? Recently. When I started The Affair and felt awful. That’s when.

I’m happy to say the spell has been broken. I’ve ended my rendezvous with Mr. V. There’s even a rumor that Mr. V. will be going away permanently and I couldn’t be more pleased. In the meantime, I’ve become reacquainted with my cookwear again.
Last week it was Greek turkey burgers complete with feta, oregano, red onion, spinach, roasted red peppers, garlic, Kalamatas, pepperoncini, cucumbers, lemon and yogurt. Last night it was inspiration from Tyler and Emeril: pork chops in autumn, noodles and cauliflower. “Pork chops in Autumn” just means the chops were served over a saute of Granny Smiths, Vidalias, Savoy, Calvados, butter, bay, thyme and marjoram. For some reason I didn’t want to serve just egg noodles so I dressed them with butter, s&p, and lemon zest. The cauliflower was roasted with evoo, garlic, s&p, and lemon juice. Aside from turning off a burner and not noticing for 20 minutes…and then roasting a plate at 500 degrees (!), the meal went really well. One for the books, as they say, mistakes and all.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tonight. Kisa is under the weather and I am beyond frazzled. I am heart weary and dead tired. I owe phone calls and thanks to people so fantastic I am left speechless. I will get to you, I promise! In my heart, you are my lovely.
The only thing left to say is it’s amazing what a 500 degree oven will do to a plate. Go figure.

Another Book Break

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So, I had just finished Map of the World and I was trying to decide between All the King’s Men, Moo, Things They Carried and Road From Coorain. I admit, I started each of them at one time or another this week. None of them grabbed me right away. I absolutely hate that – when a book doesn’t hook me within the first five pages. I don’t know what it is about the number five but I’d like to be drawn into the plot at least by page five.  I know, I know! That doesn’t give the author much time to bedazzle me but that’s that I’m looking for.

Yesterday the reading dilemma (if you can call it that) was resolved. As some of you know, I’m a LibraryThing Early Reviewer. From time to time I review not-yet-published books and tell ’em what I think. I’m not your standard reviewer. I don’t pour over the books looking for errors, I don’t critique style or continuity within an inch of its literary life, I don’t look for the proverbial gun to go off by the second act. In short, I have no clue why LT asked me to be an early reviewer in the first place. At any rate, there have been three chances to review and I have been selected all three times. Instead of trying to find the next BookLust book I’ll be reading Red Zone Blues: A Snapshot of Baghdad During the Surge by Pepe Escobar. I’m nervous. I won’t lie. I’m really nervous. I guess it’s the subject matter that has me so apprehensive. War vs Anti-war. I’ve never been able to take a stand. I could say it’s a “necessary evil” but I don’t believe in killing like that. But, then again…let’s just say I am sitting on the fence and I am, for lack of a better phrase, firmly stuck on the fence.
Take for example, So You Think You Can Dance. I was stuck watching it because some chick was dancing to “Waiting on the World to Change.” What I didn’t tell you is that all the contestants were required to dance to the same song, wearing the same white, peace signed outfit. I watched eight different people dance to the same song only because I wanted to hear that song different eight times. What can I say, I love my BubbleGum. By then I was hooked on the contest itself and all hope was lost in regards to changing the channel. But, back to the song. The dancers were instructed to dance as choreographed but they could add their own spin to spins. They were all supposed to end with their hands in the air, showing the peace sign. Some dancers ended with anger in their eyes, some had smiles of hope, others tears of sadness. Different opinions about the song translated into different opinions about war. The War. The executive producer was forced to issue a public apology at the beginning of the next episode. Since when does a song about peace immediately become synonymous with anti-war? Since when does dance become a political demonstration and art become a threat? See what I mean? Reading about the Middle East is going to be a tough gig for me.

“If we had the power to bring our neighbors home from war they would have never missed a Christmas. No more ribbons on the door. ~ John Mayer, Waiting on the World to Change.”  Has any soldier missed a holiday? Can someone tell me they haven’t? If we had the power to bring them home maybe they would miss Christmas for some other reason.

…climbing down from the soapbox.

Another World

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I’ve always thought I would like living under the sea, or in an aquarium…at the very least. The watery depths have always appealed to me. Maybe it’s because there is silence, pure silence. Inhabitants glide by, float by, dance by effortlessly, carelessly, and silently. Maybe because there is speckled sunlight near the surface but, for the most part, mostly there is only darkness. Murky and mysterious. It’s misleading but the ocean’s depths seem calm, quiet, even patient. What a contrast to the world above.
Me, I had contrasting worlds on Sunday. Sometime during the day I lost my energy. I put it down somewhere and promptly misplaced it. I spent most of the late afternoon in a self-induced stupor. Sleeping in fits, staring at the tv in a wide-eyed trance, eating things straight from containers. I watched nearly an entire season of “So You Think You Can Dance?” I got drawn in by the contestants while shoveling large spoonfuls of cottage cheese into my mouth; I put myself on the panel of judges and instantly became judgemental and sour. Surely she can’t win. He looks too goofy. Who am I to judge? One girl looked like she could bench press me with one arm and I was calling her a losing contestant?
Everyday has to have one redeeming quality, just one. Here it is: Earlier in the afternoon I ran over five miles after working out. Yes. What a contrast to the couch I just confessed to. I actually put hand to weight and lifted. And then, and then got on the treadmill for an hour! Imagine that! I know a certain someone will scoff at my paltry five miles. I can hear him now, “Five miles? An hour? Is that it? I’m just getting warmed up!” But, I’m proud of my five. Wait. Over five. I think it was more like 5.36 or something. Anyway. I’m proud of this run because it’s the first one that felt like me in a long time. The music between my ears matched the desire in my heart and fueled my feet to run. Then. I hit the couch. Go figure!
The contrast between treadmill and tv time is tremendous. One world colliding with another. Yet, both worlds are mine.

I Don’t Deserve

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I had felt like crying all day. Heartache would lurch forward, stuttering, sudden and unexpected. A surprise for my composure. Choking back unwanted emotion, it was all I could do to swallow down sorrow. Mantras: Turn away from the hurt. Keep my eyes averted from the loss of composure. Keep my hands on the wheel of self control. Flare ups of faltering just sent me failing.
It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different. A peanut shell is just a shell until this time September. My mother says she remembers every second. 15 years later.
I’m jumpy, jittery. Suspicious as all hell. When a well known, troubled patron came into my office I eyed his shaking hands, his twitchy eyes and untucked shirt with paranoia. Harmless, he swayed from foot to foot as he explained he wanted to read something to me. I nodded, unable to voice my reluctant consent. I should be used to this by now. When he finished he folded his paper and started for the door. Harmless. To my surprise he didn’t walk out the door, instead he abruptly closed it. Shocked, panic nearly broke through paranoia and I started to protest. Harmless or not I was alarmed. He had locked the rest of the world out. No one could get in. Caged out. Before I could utter a single sound this nervous, twitching, skittish, peculiar patron produced a pitch pipe and started to sing. His voice waivered and trembled but never missed a note. His face took on a look of complete calm as he kept his voice quiet. His song was haunting and sad, beautiful and sweet. Short, too. Just as abruptly he finished, gave me a quick bow and was gone. Leaving the door to my once thought of cage open.
I do not deserve the kindness of you when all I do is dread and doubt. Jumping to conclusions, jumping out of my skin. I’m angry because I can’t sit still and accept your gifts graciously. I’m sad because I’ve let the words and advice of others taint my judgement of you (restraining order?). There is no reason to be jumpy or judgemental, yet I am.