Anniversaries


I spent yesterday celebrating our 32nd wedding anniversary with my amazing husband, almost 33 years since we first met. If you’d told me all those years ago that I would be married this long, I wouldn’t have believed you. My track record up to that point had been nothing short of disastrous. Nevertheless, we usually recognize the date simply, a day free of work and the usual chores, a quiet dinner out.

We always manage to note our nuptials in the nick of time, right before the looming national holiday, a boisterous and bombastic event that steamrolls over our quaint little memories of a small country wedding with only 25 guests. (And that count included my husband and me.) For Throwback Thursday on Facebook yesterday, I joked that the above photo could easily have been taken in 1925 instead of 1985 if it weren’t for the Instamatic camera with 110 film that my husband holds in his left hand.

This year another anniversary follows fast on the heels of firecracker festivals and sizzling backyard feasts. It’s a new one that I dread, and one that I will always remember because of its proximity to the Fourth. Funny, how I don’t often recall the death dates of dear, departed pets, but this one seems to be different. He was the last, at least for a while until we become settled again; and in my travels of late, he returns to me in the form of farm cats at the retreat center where I work, who snooze on the porch steps all afternoon, or find a warm lap in the cool dawn dew when one becomes available from a lawn chair.

Once a country cat, my old buddy would have loved this place, where his kind roam freely all day to catch mice and tease the birds, though still called in to safety every night away from coyotes and other creatures of the night who would do them harm.  When I first came, they ran from me and stared back at a respectful distance, but now we are on a first-name basis. They tell me all about their nine lives, and I tell them about my old friend, how he could hunt even without his front claws, how he loved to stay out all night and sack out all day in a corner on the floor, no soft bed needed.

But I keep to myself how he ended his days up in a third-floor apartment, with a cupful of grass instead of a whole backyard lush with the stuff, while birds taunted him through the glass door of a balcony the size of his litter box. We did what we could to make the transition easier for him, since another home in the country or even a new suburban yard were out of the question for us in this stage of our journey. A cowardly trip to the shelter was unimaginable. In the end, he was stuck in his geriatric ways enough to be dependent on the people who took him in all those years ago, for better or for worse.

At least on this Fourth of July, I take solace in knowing that he doesn’t have to endure the battle sounds of our country’s anniversary, unless he wants to.

Fave Photo

Day 9: Fave Photo of 2015
Day 9: Fave Photo of 2015

I’ve been very fortunate to capture many spectacular sunsets and scenic nature shots this year but these two trying out the camera on my new phone the other day still capture my heart.

I’ve decided to participate in Susannah Conway’s December Reflections  photo prompts again this year. During this hectic and stressful season, won’t you join me in mindful reflection from life’s photographic window seats and contemplative comments that provide refuge from the madness.

Mists of Time

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While visiting a state park the other week, my husband and I were caught in an unexpected thunderstorm that almost cancelled our tour of the original grist mill and surrounding buildings reconstructed on old foundations of an industrial pioneer village. We decided to wait out the weather and try again. And I’m so glad we did.

As we rounded a bend on the path, mists from warmer water in the creek lifted into rain-cooled air and surrounded the old mill with a patina of history. In nostalgic twilight I caught the scene on my modern phone, creating a tintype tribute to how I’ve felt this month.

The past has haunted, comforted and compelled me in October, as I traveled from the dirt driveway of forgotten feelings to a slippery sluiceway of future fears. I drove my aging parents forward through historic battlefields the same week that I flew back into my present, trying to regain who I was before the past caught up with me.

Throughout this month I heard old stories retold with names changed, facts filtered and time warped into a different ending. The cracks and faults of long ago deeds have been obscured by misty memories and foggy searches for an easy way out of impossibly hard problems. What has been said before will not help us now, and yet I’m drawn back to a simpler time, that probably wasn’t so simple.

Legacy

 
It’s been quiet here at Suburban Satsangs this month, but I’ve still participated in a daily photo prompt on Instagram. The final prompt is “legacy,” somehow appropriate as I finish out September in my parents’ house helping with my ailing father.

I didn’t grow up in this house and always feel like a guest despite the 25 years my parents have lived here. While primitively beautiful, I’ve never felt like this or any other place I’ve lived was truly home for me. I’m a bit of a wanderer, I guess. 

In the bedroom I sleep in I’m surrounded by artwork I made over 30 years ago. Sometimes I lie in bed and ponder what was created in another time, by another person.

And I often wonder where she went, while searching for what she left me.

The Scent of Love

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Day 14: Favorite Smell

As a child I wanted to smell everything — and that got pretty interesting living on a farm. My memories are defined by the Opium perfume my mother wore and the Jean Nate talcum powder in my grandmother’s bathroom. But now most commercial products make me ill, so I have turned to subtle oils for my scent. And it comes as no surprise that my favorite smell is Love.

Yes, folks, it’s that time of year again. I’m looking forward to my third go at participating in Susannah Conway’s August Break by posting prompts here on the blog and on my Instagram account. There are no rules, really. Simply take a photo every day for the month of August, based on the prompts or not. I take a photo a day all year long, but you can’t lose no matter how many days you keep this up. And the more, the merrier!

Peaks and Valleys

There comes a time when you have to go home, when the cries of birth, death and everything in between become too loud and insistent. An empty chair at the family table is waiting for you. They have set a plate in the usual spot, silver lies engraved with your initials, and a polished glass anticipates their bitter wine.

It doesn’t matter how you get there. By plane or bus, rail if you are lucky. No matter how you cross, there are always mountains blocking the way, and security demanding proof of your existence. Countless miles of fractured farmland and failing towns only slow down the connections to blood and genetics.

You were the pioneer. Why is it so hard to understand? Just a generation back they arrived on ships after traveling the world and surviving two World Wars. A whole continent unfurls west of the narrow strip of land where most of your people set claims.

You wanted to see it all for yourself. You headed west.

But you stayed away, and that was the problem.

When they demand your reasons, words drop uselessly to the floor. How can you describe to them what lies beyond the high ridges when they won’t believe in other lives. Perhaps there is safety in numbers, but you refuse to stand in line for an inheritance that never comes.

A life spent waiting for someone else to decide is not for you. You can only promise to return for a visit.

And then you head west again over the generational divide and down into valleys where the flat land spreads like a reaching hand, unfettered by kin or conqueror.

Lack of Water

The world is on fire and there is no quenching the thirst. I see my fellow suburbanites acting out all the rituals of weather-weary farmers: incessant checking of the radar on their smart phones, casual excuses to wander outside and watch the sky, excitement over a possibly laden cloud formation, a mad rush to the windows when the long-forgotten sound of precipitation hits their ears.

I smile to myself as I remain at my work desk. There is no breaking this historic drought except by a sea of soaking. And there is nothing for it but to continue on, tending a tiny flicker of hope that I protect from the all-powerful orb in the sky. The lushness of summer has already passed into the premature decay of autumn.

You see, I’ve been through it all before. In the 1970s, I and the rest of my farm family sat in dwindling shade and watched all my dad’s income for the year wither in the fields and crumble to dust in the federal offices of disaster relief, his compliance to government red tape callously rewarded with humiliation and docking of paychecks at the grain elevators.

For months, we had prostrated ourselves in the unraveling string hammock of our desiccated summer lawn, lamenting storm after storm that skirted the 200 heavily mortgaged acres of our grain farm. The rains only came to freshen the sky-high stands of emerald corn flaunted by wealthier estates to the west. A kind of drought dome formed above our domain that drove away any lingering gain for a self-made man establishing a foothold as a farmer without the birthright.

It was as good as gambling. And it didn’t pay off. Within a couple of years, even after installing irrigation as insurance against another disastrous season, my father moved on to other kinds of agricultural livelihood. The farm was sold, along with the crummy weather pattern that plagued its land.

But I never forgot that sense of doom nagging around our daily chores like horseflies, or my father’s barely controlled anger at the weather gods under a merciless azure sky day after day. At night, without the luxury of air conditioning, I would dream of the cool ocean only an hour away, its salty moisture useless for our needs. In the stifling afternoons, I turned the brittle pages of variety magazines from the Great Depression that I’d found in the attic rafters of our old farmhouse, ingesting serial installments of dust bowl tales that mirrored our own meteorological soap opera.

One winter there was a mini dust bowl in my own county. Insistent silt found every crevice and gathered like fine brown sugar on all the window sills, but the grit tasted bitter between my teeth. Windstorms full of loosened dirt funneled over miles of open field to form disconsolate curtains across our paths, allowing no sight of the roads ahead.

Today as I wipe off my dusty windshield a month into a mandatory water ban, I wonder whether I can see far enough to move on, or even recognize the potholes still to come, while the dust bowls of change swirl around me.

*The heading for this post courtesy of The Why Store’s song by the same title. (I’ve been playing it a lot lately.)

Winds of Reunion

It is windy but warm. We are gathered at an ocean-aqua picnic table by the river, eating Maryland blue crab in all its forms:  steamed and baked and cradled in sauce, the nip of Old Bay still bringing me home. I gaze down the line at the faces of my life — college friends who haven’t collected in this way for twenty years, my husband harboring the new life I’ve built far away, and the daughter who was born near this slow water but whisked away before she could fall under its murky spell.

The conversation blows in all directions, no one directs it, no one shuts the door. We overlook the marina under a cloudless sky, pushing back the looming front of responsibility, loosely moored to our timeless love for one another, knowing that after this banquet of the past and present, we must untie the memories and sail off into choppy waters.

To all of you, have a memorable holiday weekend.

Westbound

We’ve traveled this road many times, he and I. It is on automatic, an urge, a duty, a need, a love. We do it for family, friends and the call from home. We take it first as a couple, and then I look back and there is a puppy strapped into the seatbelt, a toddler grasping her juice bottle, a girl with stuffed animals and smudgy art bag, closely followed by a teenager off in the remote lands of iPod.

Now the backseat is empty, waiting to be piled high with souvenirs of an honorable age. We will find his school pictures and vacation slides, beloved toys and sick-bed trinkets, ancestral war medals and a grandmother’s silver, the letter sweaters and sorority pins worn by parents gone to rest, collections of yellowed pages inscribed with a familiar hand, other ordinary pieces of past that still hold the scent of childhood.

And when we have let the sunset burn into our skin like memory, we will turn back east. Head toward the dawn.

How to Live or Die by the Outcome of the Game

  1. Position yourself as far away from the TV as possible.
  2. As an alternative, you can dominate the viewing selection by turning up the volume on repulsive shows like Hoarders, thus forcing fans to flee into another part of the house.
  3. Stock up on perishables to sustain you, since no one else will be eating until the final score, and maybe for several hours after depending on the injustice of the sports gods.
  4. Keep earplugs nearby in case of excessive screaming over a bad call by a vision-impaired referee.
  5. Become engrossed in a good book set in a land devoid of all competitive activities but that still offers a compelling plot line. (No Hunger Games, in other words)
  6. Sneak in a nap during halftime while fans are mumbling about strategy behind closed doors.
  7. Above all (and this is most important) always remove yourself from the premises during the last “five” minutes of the game, which could take anywhere from 45 minutes to an hour.
  8. Return for happy hour or unhappy hour, depending on the fates.
  9. Next Saturday: Do it all over again.