A Charmed Life

Fall Anniversary

This fall marks two anniversaries for me. One: I've lived in Massachusetts now for 30 years, having moved here from the friendly, Welcome Wagon-toting Midwest. I remember early in my career I interviewed the mayor of a small city, trying to find out what issues my PR client might address with a community service project. I had lived here fewer than 4 years at the time.

Well, he said, there's a lot of tension between the longtime residents and the newcomers.

Newcomers? I asked. What constitutes a newcomer?

Anyone whose lived here fewer than 30 years, her replied, with a hint of a smile.

Welcome to New England, where, as they say, they don't need street signs, because if you don't know where you're going, you have no business being there.

It's taken me a long time to get used to the quirks of living here. The jaywalking. (Once, in Harvard Square, a woman walked out right in front of my car paying no heed to the fact that she wasn't in the cross walk, not to mention the oncoming cars. Because she seemed oblivious to the traffic, I gently beeped the horn to get her attention, assuming she would see her predicament and scurry to the curb. Instead, she walked over to my open window and shouted two words, and, as they say, they were not 'Happy Birthday.') The aggressive driving. (Another time, when I'd just moved here and still had Ohio plates on my car, I stopped at a yellow light that was just about to turn red. I looked in the rear view mirror to see if the car behind me was going to hit me--judging by his speed, the driver clearly thought I was going to follow the rule of 'green means go and yellow means go faster.' I saw him peer over the steering wheel at my plates and and mouth the words, "Oh. Ohio." Apparently obeying the law is a Midwest rube sort of thing.)

I learned early on that you don't say Commonwealth Avenue, you say Comm. Ave. That famed restaurant Jimmy's Harborside is always called "Jimmy's" and it's rival, Anthony's Pier 4 is never "Anthony's," but "Pier 4." Sadly, I've lived here long enough to see the demise of both resturants.

I learned there's a difference between Fenway and The Fenway. That the Big Green Monster is not on Sesame Street. I learned to turn indifference toward the Yankees into hatred.

When I first got here in '79 and everyone was buzzing about Bill Rodgers, I had to be told that he was a four-time winner of the Boston Marathon. Given the amount of disdain I received for not knowing this fact, I chose not to reveal that I had no idea what the Boston Marathon was, let alone that it was a major event that shut down the city. Of course, in 1979, no one outside of Boston or the elite running world did, either.

I learned to put up with comments along the lines of "You're from Ohio, did you grow up on a farm?" and the oft-repeated joke (or perhaps urban legend) about the Ivy League admissions counselor who corrected an Ohio-born applicant with the words, "My dear, out here we pronounce that 'Iowa.'"

But, it's been 30 years.

I no longer panic when I see the sign that tells me to go in the same direction to get to I-93 north and I-95 south. And, I still call the part of 95 that encircles the Boston suburbs '128'--even though it hasn't been that for several years.

When I recently attended a Red Sox game where they played the Tigers, the team I grew up with, I rooted for the Red Sox. (I felt a little guilty.)

I know what leaf peepers are and how to determine when peak season is. I am not surprised when it snows in October. Or May.

When we moved into our "new" home four years ago, it was the first time in 26 years I'd had a garage. But, like a true New Englander, I don't park in it.

I no longer feel like a newcomer. I no longer am.

I love it here: the leaves, the rolling hills, the quirky people, the anachronisms. I no longer stand out because I'm "from Ohio," because, let's face it, I've lived more than half my life here.

There were times I thought about moving back--where my family lives, where people are friendlier, where parking places are free and garages are not considered a luxury--but 20 years ago this month I did something to cement my future: I married a native New Englander. A person who can't imagine living less than an hour from the ocean, even though he goes there less than once a year. He positively gets the shakes when I mention the thought of moving to another part of the country.

But it's all for the best. I'm settled. Why move and become a newcomer somewhere else? I'd just have to start all over again.

Birthday Bash

Or should I say mash?

What a beautiful little cake (and girl).

 

Ooops.

 

Oh, I see, you meant to do that.

Happy Birthday, Meredith!

Here, Let Me Do That

Next Monday, God willing, I will have two teenagers. It's not so bad. The first one has been very easy as teenagers go. The second one has been acting like a teenager since she was 11, so we're used to it. Olivia only recently began showing signs of impatience with her parents. But when the teen-to-be is in the room, Nick and I can often feel our IQ levels dropping precipitously with each eye roll. Somewhere, my mother is laughing.

Since neither one is driving yet (more on that later), I think the hardest thing about these years is the letting go part. Actually, no. Not the letting go--the letting them do things for themselves even though I could do it better and faster without the mess part. The keeping quiet and letting things develop so they can work it out on their own part. Because they need to learn. Frankly, I've always struggled with this.

My friend Jeanne is great at this. When Olivia was a baby, about 8 or 9 months old, she wanted to drink from a cup, badly. She didn't want the sippy cup--she wanted to drink right from the edge. I struggled with my strong-willed child. I was worried about spilling, getting water all over herself and everything else, about her getting upset if she couldn't manage to get enough beverage from the open cup. 

"Olivia's trying to drink from a cup!" I complained to Jeanne, who was already three children ahead of me. 

"Cate," she replied, "That's the goal."

Oh. Yeah.

To be sure Jeanne--and I know she's reading this--likes to have a measure of control. She'd freely admit it. But she also has patience and the ability to project into the future. Recently her youngest son, also learning to drive, asked to take the wheel during a rainstorm. He only has a permit, so Jeanne would be in the passenger seat, but still, I said: "Oh sure, like you were going to let him do that!"

"Actually, it was a good idea," she replied. "He has to learn to drive in the rain. Better he should do it with me in the car."

Oh. Yeah.

I'm trying. When Olivia came home from driver's ed last Saturday, wanting to quit, overwhelmed by the responsibility of keeping herself and others safe when she's on the road, I wanted to avoid the tears and the struggle. But I took a deep breath and said, "No, you should keep going. You can do it. We'll just take it at your own pace. Little by little, you'll get used to it."

When Meredith stood poolside yesterday struggling to adjust the strap of her goggles, I mustered all my meager powers of self-control to keep from taking them from her and blurting out, "Here, let me do it." Eventually, she did ask me to help her.

I was relieved...and yet a teeny tiny bit disappointed. Deep down, I know they need to struggle so they can master skills. And I'm so proud when I see them achieve that mastery.

It's nice to be needed. But my job is to prepare them for life so they don't need me.

I just have to keep reminding myself, "Cate, that's the goal."

Two-ness

 

A lot of my friends and coworkers became empty-nesters within the last few week--at least until Winter Break. We're headed in that direction, and believe me, tears have already been shed over the growth of our babies: the older one is filling out college applications now and the younger one will become a teenager at the end of the month.

But...but...something else is happening. Hub and I have noticed that we spend more and more time alone together lately. More dinners a deux. More uninterrupted conversations. More companionable silences.

Oh, sure, these moments of two-ness are punctuated, frequently, by requests for the Mom-and-Pop Taxi Service. But sometimes there are whole stretches of morning, afternoon, and evening that involve just us.

"We're entering a new phase," Nick said the other day. I nodded in acknowledgment, and then we both smiled. "I like it," he added.

Me, too. Yes, it's bittersweet, this leaving the nest business. But, it's good to know that if we can keep our health and the creek don't rise, there's our two-ness to look forward to after the girls are gone.

Moonlight in Vermont

 

I live in a fairly rural area, thanks to the state-owned reservoir and surrounding forest that cuts a swath through the region. Because it's a water supply for Boston, there is no recreation on the water save for fishing at the edge. Therefore, a drive or walk past the reservoir yields picture-postcard views of smoke rising off the water on chilly mornings in the fall and a Rorschach-like reflection of the trees when the water is still and smooth as a mirror. When there is no moon, the reservoir appears as a chillingly beautiful black expanse. But best of all is when the moon is full, and it illuminates the water and the tops of the trees.

To a gal brought up in the suburbs, hard by the industrial-strength malls of the Midwest, the whole concept of moonlight is fascinating. I never realized that moonlight wasn't just the lit-up moon in the sky, that the moon could actually light up the night, until I went to camp as a teenager. A few of us skipped out for midnight walk--with the full knowledge that one or more of the counselors were hiding in the trees ready to jump out and scare the pants off us--and we got to a clearing that was lit up. Where's that light coming from? I asked. One of the other kids said, from the moon, and I thought she was joking until I looked in vain for an electrical source and realized she was telling the truth. I stood there, riveted, looking up at the moon beam as if I were under the spell of an alien ship until I was, reluctantly, led away.

We spent the weekend in Vermont with our good friends in the Woodstock area who generously share their home and time with us. There's a reason why Moonlight in Vermont has a song dedicated to it, and we were lucky enough to have a full moon while there. At night, when I took the dog out, I didn't even have to turn the porch light on: the big, low moon--with Jupiter and the stars for company--shone magically over the mountains, and once again I was transfixed.

Alright, already

Oh my gosh, it has been so long since I posted that friends and family members have been forced to actually email and ask me how I am. Or, rather, ask me to blog so they can find out how I am.

So, what have I been up to?

Taking pictures of the rain(s).

 

Hanging out with a couple of cool chicks.

 

Seeing the sites.

 (George Washington Bridge)

(Gettysburg)

Visiting colleges.

(Middlebury)

Plus working, taking care of the hubster (though he's now back on his feet), working, baking, hounding certain people to do their summer reading, teaching other certain people how to drive (and chauffering her to the boyfriend's until she does), and working.

School starts next Tuesday, and I think we will all enjoy getting back to a "normal" schedule. And that means blogging more regularly.

Life's Been Busy

No, I have not abandoned the blog. However, life's been very busy. Thank you all who have been commenting on the older entries and also those of you who checked in on me via email.

Nick is well, but recovering from surgery a little more slowly than we expected (the docs are not surprised, just us), and so that means I have been doing more around the house. Not a lot, mind you, just more! Also, anyone with children, particularly middle- and high-schoolers knows this is a crazy time of year.

Olivia and Nate went to the prom:

 

The girls have been doing more cooking and also revealing a flair for domestic aesthetics. Here is my Mother's Day breakfast:

 

And Meredith painted the door to the chicken coop (san poultry) which she is turning into an office for her pet-sitting/art business.

 

Olivia played Amelia Earhart in the high school musical and also received the Student of the Month award for thinking outside the box. Her canny drama teacher/director had her wear her Amelia costume to the televised school committee meeting to publicize the show to all three people who were watching. Here she receives the award from the principal.

 

Plus, SATs, AP tests, middle school concert, end of year Girl Scout activities, graduation parties, and my laptop died. I'll be having a little online yard sale in a few days, so check back!

Pride and Joy

 

My, how fast they grow. If my scanner were working (&^%**@#!), I could show you  pictures of when they were little, dressed up to go trick or treating as Jasmine and Dorothy, playing together on their Little Tikes castle, or torturing their Barbies (we have a twisted sense of Barbie play in our house--sort of the innate drive to play with fashion dolls meets feminist imagination).

For so long, Meredith has been in Olivia's shadow, but this weekend she came into her own, taking the stage to start off the middle school musical with a solo--a performance even Simon Cowell could...like (she hit all the right notes and sang with personality but was a little quiet) and proved she could do comedy, melodrama (something she practices daily) and hip-hop dancing. Then it was off to the cast party in a new outfit she chose herself and paid for with her babysitting money.

Nick and I found ourselves Saturday night with no one at home but us and the animals. Meredith was at the party and Olivia was at her boyfriend's. Both kids now have a social life independent of ours (except that we still drive them everywhere).

The next day, Olivia and I set off on our first college road trip--making a loop up to Vermont and then down to Amherst, and back home again. Eight hours together, and I was so impressed with her thought process as she evaluated each place we visited. (And impressed by how I was able to keep my mouth shut during most of that time.) It's hard to believe that in a year from now we'll be preparing for her graduation.

I loved--but was exhausted by--their baby and toddler years. Their grade school years were a blur of activity that was fun and chaotic. But I think I'm enjoying this time the most, watching them emerge as the people they truly are. Like any mother, I worry about them constantly, and there are days.... But I spend most of the time thinking--and telling them--I am so proud of them, and they bring us such joy.

A Marriage of the Minds

My husband and I were married nearly 20 years ago in an eclectic Unitarian ceremony. We had readings from The Bible and the Velveteen Rabbit. Vows taken from Shakespeare and music from Andrew Lloyd Webber. An invocation from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets and a benediction from a Native American blessing. In fact, the minister said it was perhaps the most eclectic ceremony she had ever performed. I was proud of that, and still am. Every word of that ceremony had meaning to us.

But of all the readings and lyrics and pronouncements and wise words, the one that has stuck with me the most is these words by Transendentalist Theodore Parker:

It takes years to marry completely two hearts, even of the most loving and well assorted... Men and women are married fractionally, now a small fraction, then a large fraction. Very few are married totally, and they only after some forty or fifty years of gradual approach and experiment.

That's not the whole reading, but it's the part that resonates with me almost daily when little things happen to remind me that as different as we are in many respects, as often as we are so busy with work and children and the machinery of keeping our lives going that we sometimes exchange only a handful of sentences in a day, somewhere, on a subconsious plane, or minds are have married.

Take, for example, our painted stairs. The back steps go up three, then turn and go up to the second floor, with the lowest steps "in" the kitchen, not the stairwell. We agreed that the rises on those steps should remain white, to match the lower part of the kitchen walls. Nick painted the rest of the stairway and we were both thrilled with the results. But for a couple of weeks, every time I walked into the kitchen, I regretted that we had not painted the "kitchen" stairs. Yet I didn't want to make Nick drag out all the painting supplies again, and, after all, he liked the bottom stairs white, and the kitchen is mostly his domain. But still, it bugged me.

And then he came home and said, "You know, I think we should paint the rest of the stairway. It just doesn't look right. Do you mind?" Mind? "No! I was thinking the same thing!"

Now, is this a profound moment in a marriage? Painted stairs? No. But these moments happen to us a lot. And more often than the "If he leaves the toothpaste cap off one more time I'm going to knock his block off" moments.

He doesn't bring me roses for no reason (or even for my birthday), but he knows by the edge in my voice when he needs to come to my rescue without commenting or questioning. I'm not at the gym 24-7 to keep my figure in check--but I can sense when he needs me to back off and let him come to a decision in his own time.

We're not that special. Most successful couples learn this. Most successful couples can read each other's minds on the important things. I'm just glad we're among them.

Art Attempt

 

Here is a picture of Meredith taken about a year ago. First, I have to say, it's amazing to look at this picture, because she still looks like a little girl whereas now she is definitely almost a woman.

Olivia took this picture for a music video they made. The girls like to take a lot of stills and set them to music to make a story--this was before Santa brought them a Flip--and generally Liv is the director and Meredith is the star. I've always loved this picture because Meri is just so beautiful and so herself in it. On camera, yet lost in the music.

So, when I pre-viewed Maria Elkins "Making Faces" DVD at work the other day and saw how easy it could be to make a fabric portrait from a photo, I knew I would try it on this photo. This is as far as I've gotten:

 

As you can see, you crop the photo, adjust the contrast and then use the filter tool to "posterize" the image, giving you four distinct shadings. The next step is to outline each of the shaded or highlighted areas, marking them 1-4 (lightest to darkest). Then you cut out the pieces from different fabrics and put it back together.

When I get to the next step, I'll show you. If nothing else, I'm learning to delve into areas of Photoshop I hadn't dared to try before.