Those Who Served

Those Who Served

I took this photo a few years ago.  It could be any Vermont cemetery, with headstones dating back to the Civil War and even the Revolution.

A number of people in my family in recent generations have served.  We’re lucky, however, that they’ve all lived to tell their tales.

One of my hobbies is genealogy, and, in tracking one of the Big Guy’s great-grandmothers, I’ve discovered a number of family members who weren’t so lucky.  Some of them gave limbs.  Others did give lives, but all of them went to war, leaving families to make their own sacrifices.

I have lots of Vermont cemeteries and historical societies on my ‘to visit’ list as I try to trace the stories of how people met and lived.  We do have some stories, however.  They’re stories of husbands whoncame home from war forever scarred.  There are also stories of mothers raising families of seven on their own, keeping up the fight on the home front long after they had buried husbands and the wars had ended.  They are stories of families who continued making sacrifices for the rest of their lives.

Yesterday the Big Guy worked.  My boys and I missed the parades, knowing they never feel quite the same when the four of us can’t be there together.  The three of us had breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon and then spent part of the day in the garden.  In our brief travels, however, we passed a few of those picturesque cemeteries that we see everyday, and this time I found myself thinking, not only of the people who gave their lives on the battlefield but of the people who gave them up.  And then I thought of the people who are still giving their lives and the ones who love them and are giving them up still.

I’m not a cockeyed optimist, but there’s still a part of me that hopes that some day we (as a species) will serve them and ourselves by finding a better way.

 

Boys Will be Boys

Car show

My idea of a hot car is one that goes from zero to sixty – degrees – in under fifteen minutes.  Even when I plunk down my two dollars for a twenty million dollar fantasy, a dream car is usually last on the list.  My automotive apathy, however, met its match when I married a classic car junkie.  

Not content to merely thumb through car magazines, the Big Guy lives for car shows.  He’s successfully passed his love of all things automotive on to our two boys which means any car show or antique car museum in a 60 mile radius shows up on our weekend to do list.  That’s why it’s hardly surprising that we’ve found ourselves speeding down route 22 in New York in the driving rain on what would normally be a lazy Sunday afternoon.  

The rain should stop.  This antique car show is at the studio and mansion of the man who sculpted the Lincoln memorial.  Despite the rain and the fact that my fantasy to do list still doesn’t include finding another car show, I’m looking forward to the afternoon.  It’s not the gourmet lunch or the elegant display of painstakingly restored cars that will make the day for me, however.

As with past shows – elegant or rustic – I know I’ll be focused, not on the cars but on the boys.  My day will be spent snapping one photo after another as the Big Guy hoists six-year-old Thing2 up to examine the brass lights on a shiny Model T.  I’ll try to surreptitiously capture twelve-year-old Thing1’s lanky form bending over to study a curvy dashboard through the window of an antique Mercedes.  And, at some point in the day, when they’ve dropped their guards and their games and the three of them are smiling, comparing notes and fantasies, I’ll make another, permanently mental image of my three boys being boys on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

The Cure

The hairy edge

A week ago I got the prescription. Two days later I picked it up. I’m not functioning. These magic pills feel like my last straws, but I still can’t bring myself to open the bottle.

It’s been twenty-odd years since I last turned to Prozac.  The drug and the disease it’s meant to treat are both better understood, and I understand I’m at that place where I need help that can’t come from myself or another human.  I’ve tried other magic pills and management methods. Some of them get me out of the cave for a while, but, as the characters on my favorite guilty pleasure show ‘Once Upon a Time’ are fond of saying, All magic comes with a price.

Managing the big “D” with tricks means getting through it, but it also means experiencing every throb of worry and pain in every nerve. It means that tears are always waiting in the wings for the weak moments as over-analysis of very interaction keeps the psyche in a constant state of almost-adolescent angst. The magic pills dull that pain, but they do have a price.

Some cause weight gain (pretty depressing). Others lead to all nighters for nights on end.  But all of them, while evening the keel and pulling my attention from the depths back to the horizon, wrap themselves around the soul like a neoprene wetsuit.  It’s not a straight jacket, but the thick, impenetrable insulation does inhibit sensation.  It’s a price, and the question I ask of every bottle of magic pills is how much?

The last year has been the most creatively-productive one I’ve ever known.  Stimulated by new friendships forged at a writer’s workshop at Hubbard Hall in Cambridge, NY, I’ve written and drawn more and more regularly than ever before.  Before the workshop, I was a dabbler, trying to choose between two crafts and vacillating between them as the mood struck me.  A year of unprecedented encouragement offered a more rewarding search for authenticity in our work.  The workshop which started with a focus on rural and small town life ultimately became the search for the stories and meanings in all of our lives.  

That search meant opening my eyes and my soul.  It meant discovering beauty and meaning in my very ordinary life.  It meant living life and recognizing the ways I had kept it out.  

Depression doesn’t keep life out.  It keeps me withdrawn from life, watching it from my cave, but I’m never quite sure if the pills are a way out of the cave or just a way to be less aware of it.  It’s that uncertain but sometimes strong anesthetic effect that makes me fear the cure as much as the disease.

But there’s another uncomfortable reality.  The deeper I go, the less I write.  Not ironically, and the less I write, the deeper I go.

There’s a romantic picture of the tortured artist.  It isn’t entirely unfounded.  There is an frighteningly long list of authors and artists whose lives were upended and prematurely ended by mental illness.  

However, as I struggle to work at the one occupation that truly gives me satisfaction, I’ve begun to wonder how much of their ability to express their creativity was actually hamstrung by their cranial chemical imbalances.   Mania may produce periods of intense productivity, but, as I study the lives of the luminaries, it seems that the despair at other end of the spectrum often coincided with a withdrawal from life and work.  

By contrast, the few people I’ve met in ‘real life’ who are working as artists or writers, are the ones who have managed their moods to allows themselves to ‘show up for work’ everyday.  There is no drama in the work.  There is only the work, as there is with any other job.

Right now, I feel constantly in jeopardy of failing the day job and the parenting job  – forget achieving the dream job of writing.  I know only fear of the unknown keeps the pills in their bottle, but int this moment the pursuit of the authentic is yielding one other invaluable lesson.  It is that fear can be as crippling and counterproductive as any mental illness, and, while the debate over the link between creativity and mental illness thrives, my small hope is that conquering my fear of what might happen will be the stimulating cure to any analgesic effects of the curative I’m about to swallow.

Communion

Communion

I planted the other morning. It was stiflingly humid out, but I knew storms were coming to water my garden in the afternoon, and there was still one big bed to dig sow.

An hour later I sat down at my computer, soaked in sweat and spring steam. The earth that shelters two-thirds of our house was serving its purpose by keeping the room cool, but I wanted something more. There wasn’t time to shower, and I had more garden time planned after work, but little dots of dirt sliding down a sweaty arm can feel more like the creepy crawlies. When the rain arrived, I was strongly tempted to hit BRB (be right back) in the work chat room and head out for an au natural shower.

The Big Guy set the precedent for this last summer when he attempted to save water with a risqué hose down during a down pour. For a while, the only way to get my two boys clean (at the same time) was to wait for a swimming party, a rainy day or, preferably, both at the same time. Pond jumping is especially purifying in the rain, and only the din of thunder and misdirected parents ordering everyone inside can muddy the sensation.

Outside, the wind intensified, whipping the spindly white birches until their highest branches seemed as if they would sweep the forest floor. I abandoned any ideas about dancing the dirt away in the rain. I knew I’d need to venture out later to mulch anyway, spurring the need for another, if more conventional, conventional shower.

But getting the dust off wasn’t really the point. I knew what I really wanted. It was a cleansing I craved; it was a communion with the elements. But summer is young and I’ve just begun to tend my garden.

Grounders

Grounded

It’s Saturday morning, and we’re off to T-ball.  Almost all our Saturdays involve some morning sport with one or both of the boys.  In winter it’s the perfect antidote to cabin fever, but this morning it’s helping get me grounded again.

A weekend away at the Cape led to a week of catching up at work and at home.  I forgot most of what I wanted to write about, and substituting marathon digital days for family face time was hardly inspiring.  As we drive down the hills from our house to the main road, it’s impossible not to notice the intense green that’s overtaken the mountains with the longer days.  I know that’s not where I’ll find my inspiration today, but I will find it.

We’re a little late getting to T-ball, and the boys have to run to get from the parking lot to the field in time for the first at bat.  By the time we get to the dugout, twelve-year-old Thing1 is helping the coaches and six-year-old Thing2 is zipping around the bases and racing bunted balls to first base.  It’s one of the few times I don’t have my camera with me, and all I can do is watch and let the rhythm of the day get me grounded in our lovely rut again.  And that’s where the inspiration will be.

A Separate Piece

Separate piece

My sister and I never slept together happily.  We shared a bed and then a just a room for a very short time.  Soon after my parents bought their first house, they decided to give themselves a little peace and quiet by separating us into different rooms.

Twelve-year-old Thing1 and six-year-old Thing2 still share a room.  Their bunk bed gives one an aerie and the other a cave, so they each have some private space.  We know, however, that Thing1 needs his own space.  Thing2 idolizes his older brother and was at first reluctant, but, lately, seemed to have embraced the idea.  This last weekend, his subconscious told me a different story.

We had gone to Cape Cod for a reunion with 22 of my mom’s closest relatives.  My cousin and his wife had taken charge of feeding and entertaining the swarm, but the visiting nuclear family units were sleeping at a nearby B&B.

The Big Guy and I, for once finding ourselves in a motel room with a bed large enough to hold both of us – he’s 6’6′ and I’m no model – decided to do something radical and sleep together.  This put Thing1 and Thing2 in the other bed together, carrying on a loud, argument-filled tradition in our family.

Our boys have never slept in the same bed.  At first, I worried that this weekend my parents would be enjoying a little revenge for all the vacations memories my sister and I had scarred with our squabbles over who had a bigger slice of the bed and who really needed all the blankets.  By the time we returned from dinner at my cousin’s house, however, they barely had enough energy to get out of their clothes – let alone fight – before passing out.

The Big Guy and I were almost as tired as they were, but, unused to the light from the suburbs (night in the country is pitch dark), I woke often during the night.  When I woke, I walked, and each time I was treated to a new snapshot of a unique ballet.  In every image, Thing1 had migrated farther towards the edge of the bed.  And, each time, his little brother had followed, wrapping an arm around Thing1 or wedging his head into his brother’s back.

Thing1 didn’t get quality sleep, but I think he’s learning – however painfully – what my sister and I only truly appreciated after we moved out of my parents’ house.  Watching Thing2 sleepily stalk his older brother, I realized that, with the determination of a deer tick on a toddler, he was impressing on Thing2 the unconscious understanding that no matter where he goes in his life, he’ll never truly be alone.  At least that’s what I hoped was happening.

The Helpers

the helpers

I was on the way to the gas station driving down our hill when I saw the smoke rising over the trees.  There was too much smoke to be coming from a barbecue, and I felt my stomach sink.  We’d just been talking about this subject at Saturday morning T-ball practice.  There was too little snow over the winter, even less rain this spring, and the trees were still mostly naked.  It’s the perfect recipe for wild fires.

As I drove along the Battenkill River toward the gas station in the center of Arlington, I discovered the source of the smoke, and my fear was confirmed.  Across the road from the river and up a very dry hill a brush fire had already consumed over an acre of fuel. A makeshift fire crew composed of the family and employees of a nearby farm stand owner was trying to control the blaze while waiting for the bulk of the town’s fire department to arrive.  A members of the department were already scaling the rocky hill and establishing traffic control.

I waited for the person controlling traffic to waive me through, trying not to dwell on my worst fears or on any anger with the faceless firestarter.  I was anxious, but it was not from impatience.  It was worry for the people living near by the fire, but it was also concern for the people – all acquaintances and some friends – who were now arriving en masse to put out the fire that was still growing.

Our local fire department, like many in rural areas, is made up entirely of volunteers who execute their responsibilities with as much gravity and professionalism as any paid firefighters.  As I inched along the two-lane road, using as much caution as I could, the bottom of the hill next to the road was smoldering, and larger flames could be seen higher up.  Firefighters had already reached the worst of the blaze, dragging fire hoses and shovels with them and working with rapid calm to contain it.  They were still there working when I returned home later using the road on the other side of the river.  Long after the flames appeared to be extinguished, members of the crew remained, keeping vigil for any sparks that might have escaped their notice in the camouflaging day light.

Later in the day I had learned that some careless individuals had caused the fire while setting off fireworks from a boat on the river.  That kind of selfishness always annoys me, but lately, when confronted with news of disasters or near-disasters in our own neighborhood, I’ve been following the advice of the late Fred Rogers.  I’ve been looking for the helpers, and it’s helped me see yet another layer of our town.

Neighbors and friends from every walk of life had flocked to the fire this afternoon, and because of their love for their community, I went to bed that night, I secure in the knowledge that if an errant spark rekindled that fire, those same people would be there again.  It’s not the first time I’ve felt lucky to live where we do, and it won’t be the last.  But Saturday night was a solid reminder that something bigger than a few spectacular mountain vistas inspires that feeling.

One Step to the Side

Forest lake 1

Our family is headed off on a mini vacation to Massachusetts this weekend. It’s primarily a family reunion, but it’s also an excuse for a brief but much-needed change of scene.

I don’t bring my laptop on vacation anymore.  The temptation to check on work is too strong, and I’m getting too lazy to bring anything that won’t fit in a suitcase and my purse.  I do need to write, however, and when my boss gave us all iPads a couple of years ago, I decided it was the perfect vacation writing tool.  It’s turned out to be a lot more.

Sometimes I’ll take a drawing pad and pencils, but because scanning sketches for posts is a bit of a pain, last summer I experimented with drawing right on the iPad.  The sketches from the iPad were simple scrawls at best.  It was a lot like finger painting, and I wasn’t always happy with the results.  I was happy, however, with the experience.   Forced not to work but to create and to do so outside of my comfort zone, I started trying new things that never would have occurred to me if there had been a convenient way to scan sketches into posts.  

Tomorrow I’m leaving work and my current favorite tool (colored pencils) at home.  We have three days.  I can spend that time carrying and organizing my working and writing tools, or I can spend those days living – even if it means traveling a less familiar path.  The sketches will be scrawls for a few days, but I think they’ll have their own rewards.

Learning to Look

Mountain

Just about a year ago, I began drawing again.

Once upon a time I drew all the time.  I thought I would draw for my life at one point.  But, like so many adolescent fantasies, it surrendered to reality. 

Last year I joined a writing group at Hubbard Hall, a local community theatre and art center in Cambridge, NY and woke up to a different reality.  Initially intending to focus on writers in rural areas, the group has evolved into a search for authenticity in our work and our lives.  For me that meant making the choice to follow more earnestly my lifelong dream of being a writer and, simultaneously, to revive a dream that made art a part of my life again.  It’s been life changing in many ways, some of which I’m still discovering.

Thanks to my primary inspiration – my family – I’ve found my own drawing groove over the last year.  Perspective and landscapes were never my strong suits, but when the small towns are covered with snow or the hills are drenched in green, Vermont kickstarts my creativity, and I get more adventurous.  Learning to draw them has taught me the need to truly see them, but it’s also taught me to look.  

Trying to capture the snow-covered mountains meant studying them first thing in the morning when the powder dusted the evergreens, but it also forced me to consider the naked maple trees, thrown into relief against a dusky pink winter sky when the wind had swept their limbs clean.  I got comfortable scribbling craggy branches in my sketchbook and began seeking out the silhouettes during the often fiery sunsets.  I even learned to find beauty in the overcast grey that colors most of our winters.  Now, as spring coaxes tiny green buds from tree branches and the longer days turn thatch-colored fields into green and yellow meadows, I’m trying out a new set of skills with my pencils.  And I’m learning, yet again, not just to see the details in the everyday inspirations.  I’m also learning to find inspiration in everyday places and moments.

Heroes Begin at Home

A long fuse

When our twelve-year-old, Thing1, was about four, he began begging us for a baby brother.  He didn’t want more playdates with other boys, and he definitely didn’t want a baby sister.  Fortunately, we were able to deliver on his request two year later, and, even though we couldn’t take credit for Thing2’s gender, Thing1 was perfectly happy to go along with our contention that Thing2 was the big present that Christmas.

Thing1 took his big-brother responsibilities very seriously.  He read to Thing1and held his hand on the jungle gyms.  He made sure that I didn’t pick any outfits or Halloween costumes that violated the boy code of ‘not-too-cute’.  It didn’t take Thing2 long to decide that his older brother was a hero.  Six years later, Thing1 is learning that no good deed goes unpunished.

The two of them share the same wants these days, and the perfect harmony that characterized their early years together goes off key with increasing frequency.  They still share a bunk room, and, for a time, I thought the close proximity was the primary cause of their constantly overlapping material desires.  But the other night, as the Big Guy and I orchestrated the circus that is homework hour at our house, it became apparent that it does’t always take the opposing forces that lead to conflict don’t have to be equal in size or determination.

The increased expectations and volume of homework this year drove Thing1 to study at the desk we put in his room two years ago.  Thing2, however, still needs more supervision if we want his 20 minutes of homework done before eight o’clock at night, and we’ve designated the kitchen table as his study space.  Anything can draw our happily distractible six-year-old away from his studies, and, if we don’t keep a close eye on him, we know we’ll find him in the bunk room pestering his older brother.

Last week I had a chance to watch this ballet once more.  This time, however, a different angle made it seem like a completely new production.  Thing2 had just been restored to his chair after bouncing around the house, showing us his afternoon artwork.  Thing1 had the door to their room closed.  Hoping a little music would help Thing2 concentrate, I hit play on If I Fell, one of his favorite Beatles’ songs.

My plan backfired immediately.  Thing2 began singing, revealing that he wanted to sing Beatles at the school talent show.  The love song ended, but instead of bending his head to his work, Thing2 hopped off the chair and ran to the bunkroom, calling to his brother through the door to let him know about the talent show plans.

“Leave me alone,” Thing1 yelled through the door.  “I’m trying to work!”  I ordered Thing2 back to his seat and opened the door to let Thing1 know yelling at his brother should be reserved for actual crimes.  He came out to defend his reaction and, after we discussed the right tone to use with his parents, Thing1 trudged back to his desk.  Thing2, watched the exchange and hopped up again as soon as his brother began his retreat.  It was like watching a match chasing a long fuse.

I got up to pull my first-grader back to his homework before a fight broke out, but when I got to the door of the bunk room, Thing2 was hanging on the back of his brother’s chair, arms wrapped tightly around Thing1’s neck, consoling him while revealing his talent show plans.  Thing1, still miffed, was trying to write while ignoring the stranglehold, but then I saw him pat his baby brother’s hand.  At that moment I knew he also realized that this wasn’t pestering.  It was worship.  Sometimes it hurts, but even when he’s trying to find breathing space, Thing1 seems to understand that being someone’s hero is not just a responsibility; it’s a gift.