OnTraveling, Autumn Leaves,Trains and Ducks

October 5, 2011 By

Reid, Zed, Me with Mom in the background on our trip to Vermont.

When October comes, and colorful leaves begin to drop to the ground, I’m reminded of a trip I took one year with my family to Vermont.  It would be the first time I would find myself in the Green Mountain State, not knowing that one day I would move there and spend 20 precious years living amidst its spectacular beauty.

At the time of this trip I was living at Eaton’s Neck on Long Island and in eighth grade.  My parents rarely traveled, stuck in their roles as housewife and architect/building contractor, unable to afford going very far.  Our trips were mostly to New Jersey to see an aunt, uncle and cousins or to New York City for events like the circus.  They were always day trips, and by the end of each jaunt, us kids were tired, cranky, and just wanted to be home.

Mom and dad had always wanted to see New England in its autumn glory. So on the spur of the moment, on what promised to be a beautiful Columbus Day weekend we went on our first real overnight trip together.

We spent most of our first day in the car, reaching Bennington, in Southern Vermont, just as the sun was setting.  Dad tried to find us a hotel room for the night but there were none to be had. With three starving, unhappy children, he figured a meal was really the first order of the evening. After standing in line for an hour or more, we were finally seated while tourists from all over the country who had made prior reservations,were just finishing their meals.  My brother Reid, nodded off between bites while I just wanted to go home, where I could be less than the angel I was expected to be.

After dinner we headed out again in the car, looking for a room for the night.  On the advise my father had been given by a waiter at the restaurant, we drove out into the dark countryside, looking for what dad had been told was a blue-gray, barn-like structure where we would probably be able to talk the owners into renting us a room for the night.

After many twists and turns we finally found the place and settled into one room. There didn’t seem to be any heat, though there was warm, running water in the tiny bathroom.  Suffering from exhaustion I quickly fell asleep under several layers of blankets and a coat to keep me warm.

Sometime in the night, there was a thunderous, burst of sound. The building started to shake violently and even my parents were frightened by what turned out to be a freight train traveling on tracks right next to the building. Its long throaty call giving it away as it hurtled through the dark.  It happened again several hours later and then again just before the sun found it’s way over the edge of morning.  None of us had slept very well, though it was comforting to know that what we had feared was only a train, not some man-eating giant sweeping the land clean of all children and their parents.

Grumpy as we all were, we climbed into the car to try to find some breakfast.  It was a cold, sunny morning with silvery frost plating the grasses, goldenrod and other late-season wild flowers growing along the side of road.  Around a sharp turn we stopped to watch a cow in a small field, giving birth to her calf. Its small placenta encased body slipping into the chill of a new day.  The mother licked the calf clean as it wobbled to its legs, quickly finding the pink bag filled with warm, creamy milk.

We successfully found a place for breakfast, and spent the day wandering the narrow roads of what seemed like another country.  The leaves were brilliant in crayola colors: reds, orange, golds and yellow. A breathtaking painting of mountains, fields, and sky we drove right into.  We stopped at covered bridges, historical markers and began learning the history of this place, imagining what it might be like in the winter months buried deep in snow.  We found a small roadside mom and pop kind of restaurant, not bulging with rest of the world, and a slightly battered motel where we would spend the night before heading home the next day.  Here in the middle of some unknown land, I had my first taste of what real silence was.

The next evening, we arrived back home in time to feed the dog and three ducks that we had been given on the previous Easter by a friend.  They had grown from fuzzy yellow ducklings into sleek white adults over the summer months.  They layed eggs in odd corners of the yard and mom would gather them, giving them to the milkman in trade for milder chicken eggs.

My grandparents had agreed to visit while we were gone, to check on and feed the dog and the ducks.  The dog met us with a happy tail and little yelps welcoming us back, but the ducks were nowhere to be found.  Mom called my grandparents who told her that the ducks had disappeared the first day we were gone.  We searched, called neighbors and had no clue as to what might have happened to them. I grieved, missing their quack-chatter when they followed me around the yard.

It wasn’t until the following Sunday, when we went to my grandparent’s home for dinner that I understood what had happened.  After playing in the yard for a while, we were called in to a dinner of roast duck.  Needless to say, I refused to eat.  The pangs of hunger more welcome than the crisp taste of friendship.

P.S.  The ducks mentioned here are not the same ducks mentioned in my last post.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, stories, Travels

Commack: The Neighborhood

September 25, 2011 By

The neighborhood. My house is bottom left.

I’m nine, ten, eleven, going on twelve years old, living in Commack, a small farming community on Long Island. I live in a house my dad built and one we’ll spend several years living in.  It’s the early 1950s.

On Jericho Turnpike, just across from the entrance to my street, Old Commack Road, is a Carvel store, where the best soft-serve ice cream in the world is sold.  My favorite flavor is pineapple-orange. Last week, I saw Wally Cox, in person, getting his own ice cream cone.  He stars in the television show, Mr. Peepers, that I’m allowed to watch most of the time, unless I’ve done something to make my parents take away television privileges.

Next to and behind the Carvel is the drive-in movie. On sizzling summer nights, when all the windows in the house are wide open, as I fall asleep hearing the movie sound-track being shown.  But I can’t see it because there are too many trees in the way. When mom and dad take us to see a movie, we’re in our pajamas tucked in the back seat with pillows and blankets. Usually my brothers fall asleep before the movie even starts. I loved the movie, Shane, starring Alan Ladd and cried all the way home at the end, when Shane rides off, Joey calling for him to come back.

There are woods all around my house, except for the quarter-acre that my parents have cleared out back, where they’ve planted a vegetable garden, fenced in to keep the critters out.  When I walk down the old, overgrown woods road on the border of  our property, through a thick stand of oaks and maples, I find myself on the edge of endless, rolling potato fields.

Sandra lives next door.  She is my age and we spend lots of time together talking about boys and the physical changes we’re beginning to go through. My mom has already given me The Talk about the birds and the bees, but I can’t imagine anyone doing what she told me about.  Ick!!  I fall in love for the first time with a dark, curly-headed boy by the name of Danny, and later with a blond, blue-eyed guy, whose mother is a good friend of my mom’s.  At a party my parents throw for me one Halloween, we play Spin the Bottle, bob for apples in a large washtub, and dance the hokey-pokey.  I love to listen to the likes of Patty Page’s, How Much Is That Doggie In The Window and Rosemary Clooney’s, This Old House, on a portable, pink Victrola.  But my favorite of all time is, Mr. Sandman, by the MacQuire Sisters.

Down the street, another friend, Susan, lives with her family.  She is  a little younger than I am. We spend hours down in the barn, where Red, her older brother’s horse is stabled. He’s a chestnut with a white blaze running down the middle of his face. He lazily swats flies with his tail, as I sit on his back in the paddock, dreaming that we’re galloping across a meadow filled with daisies and buttercups. I cling to his mane, his tail, outstretched, flowing behind us.

Also in the barn is the big, yellow school bus, that Susan’s dad drives when school is in session.  Piled high in one corner are cases and cases of Coke, Pepsi and Nehi that he supplies to a variety of organizations for parties and get-togethers.  Until we’re found out, Susan and I go through bottles of it, stuffing the empties behind bales of hay, stored in the dark recesses of the building.

Across from Susan’s house is Lorraine’s.  Her grandmother lives with her. She and her family raise dairy goats and a few chickens out back. It’s kind of smelly back there.  Lorraine is older than I am, and has beat me up a couple of times. I don’t know why.  Maybe just because.  She’s bigger than I am and has lived on the street longer than I have. My dad tells me he can’t stop Lorraine from hitting me, that I have to stand up for myself.

The house as it stood a few years ago.

Filed Under: Childhood, stories

What’s Next?

August 29, 2011 By

Last week after hearing of our earthquake and the coming hurricane, a friend from California emailed me asking, “What’s Next?”  Sometimes I wish I had a crystal ball, but then I rethink saying, “No, that isn’t what I want.”

On days like today, what I truly desire is for everyone, (those I know and don’t know) to be free from suffering. That includes all creatures, great and small.  I sit and do a loving kindness meditation and then ruminate on what I can do.   More often that not, I find myself drowning in overwhelming guilt, unable to do more than donate some money if it is needed and stay out-of-the-way of those who have the skills to truly be of help.

Today is no exception.  As I listen to news from Vermont, hard hit by Tropical Storm Irene, where I spent 20 years of my life and where many of my friends and relatives live, my heart is breaking.  There is a story from my sister-in-law, who lives in Burlington, whose friend’s husband went out yesterday evening to bring in his dogs during the height of the raging weather. He has not been seen or heard from since. His wife and kids were rescued later, from their home, where mud slides were rushing towards them. I wait with hope and prayers that there will be a happy reunion.

I’ve spoken with my brother, Zed, and my nephew, Jesse. They are fine, but I don’t know the fate of many friends who live along creeks and rivers that have turned to thunderous torrents, overrunning their banks, taking trees and buildings with them.  For a state like Vermont, small and populated by many elderly and poor people, this is a tragic situation.

Sitting here in Central Virginia, where the sun is shining and Irene never knocked, it is difficult for me to fathom.  How could I possibly know the pain if I haven’t been there to experience it.  I can and do, however, carry the pain of a bystander, wanting to jump into the mire to pull them all out, knowing I’d most likely drown before I could be of assistance, only causing more sorrow.

I had hoped to go to Vermont this summer to visit, but life has run away with me, leaving me little time to take on the kind of trip I’d wanted. One in which I could spend long afternoons with friends and family members; talking, remembering and taking in their stories.  A four or five-day trip wouldn’t cut it, but it would have been better than nothing, I suppose.

I didn’t make the trip and rather than be filled with regrets, I’ll move forward, holding those that I haven’t seen in such a long time, in my heart … my nephew, Ben, who is now a first year student at UVM, my nieces, Julia, whom I haven’t yet met, and Anya, bright and beautiful.  There are many others. I will get there. The storm, by the name of Irene, has reminded me once again, that here on earth, time flies by faster than a rocket to Mars.

P.S.  The man who disappeared last evening, has been found and is OKAY!

Filed Under: Life, stories, Vermont

The Teacher Around The Corner

August 23, 2011 By

Molly and Sam, ready to walk.

It’s seven AM.  It’s warm and the humidity is high.  I’m already sweaty. I go out the back gate with Sam and Molly in tow, for our early morning walk.  We like to go this way, up the street behind our house, but often we don’t, because if Lily, the cat is out, she’ll follow us.

Before we moved here, our home in the country was located on a cul-de-sac. There was little to no traffic. Lily and Pepper would often walk along with us. I’d trod down the lane, two dogs on leashes ahead of me, two cats taking up the rear or hiding in the tall grasses ready to pounce as we passed by. If neighbors were to drive by and see us, they’d automatically slow down, knowing that even if they didn’t see the cats, they were probably lurking about somewhere.

Here in the city it’s another matter.  Even though we live in a quiet neighborhood there is more traffic. A few people don’t obey the leash law, letting their dogs run about, chasing anything that moves.  So, I try to walk the dogs when all of the cats are in, which doesn’t always happen. In that case, if one of them discovers us heading up the street, I’ll turn back toward home, try to get the offending cat indoors and start out all over again.  But this morning, all three cats are safely inside eating their breakfast.

I’m not fully awake yet, feeling kind of cranky and longing for the chill of autumn. I went to bed on the late side last night and didn’t want to get up this morning. I have a busy day ahead of me with a number of appointments I can’t miss and don’t particularly want to go to.  I’ll be gone a good portion of the day, with no time to write, read or stare into space, which is one of my favorite things to do.  It’s a time when wild, creative ideas pop up or answers to tough questions take shape.  When I’m without a chance to breathe and take stock, I can easily turn into a curmudgeonly hag. Why do I schedule things so thickly that there is no time in-between?

Sam is tugging on the leash wanting to stop at every shrub to read the doggie newspaper and to leave his own drop or two of pee making it known that he was here.  Molly sniffs as well, but she’s more interested in finding morsels of smelly, possibly rotten things to eat or roll in that the trash people have spattered about, as they emptied garbage cans up and down the street, a day ago.

These trips can be slow going. That is why my morning routine is to take the dogs for a ten or fifteen minute walk, drop them back at home, then continue on a more lengthy power walk that leaves me feeling vibrant and ready to start the day with enthusiasm.  But that is not on today’s agenda.  Too many other things to do to get ready for what is yet ahead of me.

As we round the corner back onto our street, we meet a neighbor, slowly walking with her tiny, month old baby tucked in a sash tied across the mother’s back. The infant secure and pressed against her mom’s breast, must surely be comforted by the beat of her mother’s heart as they walk as one,  down the street toward home.

I stop to chat, admiring tiny fingers curled into fists and the soft, wispy auburn hair of the sleeping child. Mom smiles, tells me they’ve been pacing all night, the little one crying, unable to sleep.  But in this early morning light, the flow of tears has come to an end, her eyes are tightly shut and she’s fallen into a world of dreams.  I remember those nights, many years ago when my own babes kept me up.  I’d rock or walk them, trying to soothe the hurt of a gas-filled tummy or the new tooth slowly poking through swollen gums.

As they turn into their driveway, I wish them well, saying, “I hope today is better than your night was.”  The mother turns, smiling, gently hugging her precious bundle, saying, “We’re fine.  You know … it is what it is.”

The grousing tale I’ve been reciting in my head about how difficult my day will be, suddenly evaporates. I’m left with the warmth and soft glow of this new day.

Filed Under: Animals I Love, Navigating Through Life, stories

Writing Memories

August 16, 2011 By

Finding The Light, Copyright 2002, Joan Z. Rough

My favorite reads have always been creative non-fiction … stories about people, how they live and why they do what they do.  While biography and autobiography are interesting, it’s memoir that I savor. For me, reading a memoir is like reading a manual on living.  It can inspire, horrify, bring tears or laughter. Memoirs are so much more than just the mere facts of one’s life, and so unlike those essays most of us were asked to write when we were kids, about what we did this past summer.

In memoir, the reader is invited in to share the writer’s feelings; to honestly know what that person has experienced and what makes them who they are.  It is a visitation of sorts, like being a fly on the wall.  For me, reading memoir is like being with a friend I’ve never met or talked to, and who through their own challenges in life, can help me over some of the hurdles in my own.  It’s about seeing another take on why I’m here and how I’m doing. It’s about sharing a vision, and nodding as I read, thinking, “Wow, I know what she/he means. I’ve been there myself and know the pain.”  Regardless of how unlike we are from one another, it’s also about how we are alike. No matter how different the writer’s life is from my own, I know I have a companion on this long, crooked highway I’m traveling.

For years I’ve been asking myself why I can’t remember much from my younger years.  How is it that so many other people have such rich rememberings to share, while I have none.  Why is it I can’t recall my first best friend, or my first date? Am I keeping them hidden from myself?  Have I been hiding them, because I feel that any story I have to share, isn’t important?  Embarrassing? An admission of guilt?  Is it that I believe that I’ve not gained any wisdom or learned any lessons?  What are all those boxes of hand written journals about, stashed away in that storeroom across town?

Perhaps, at age 68, soon to be 69, I can’t hold it in any longer.  My story bladder is full and needs to be emptied.  Is it the extremely intense therapy I’ve recently gone through that has brought out what I’ve been secreting away.  It could be I’m beginning to trust that what I have to say is important and needs to be shared.  Maybe my own stories will make other people see their own challenges differently.  Maybe they will nod their head’s in agreement or universal knowing.

Last summer, after a spell of difficult years, I attended a writer’s retreat, led by Jennifer Louden, in Taos, New Mexico.  I hadn’t been anywhere by myself in over a decade. I wasn’t sure why I was going. But I knew that if I didn’t go, I might go crazy, kill myself, or waste away, having made no contribution to the world. I didn’t know what I would write … probably poetry, because that is what I had written in the past.  But for several months prior the retreat, the word memoir, bounced through my mind, teasing me, prompting me to wonder if I would write about my life.

I almost didn’t go. I was feeling excruciatingly anxious, afraid, and somewhat depressed. I was exhausted and overwhelmed by what life had put on my plate.  On the day of my departure, I told Bill that I couldn’t go.  I had too much to do here at home.  His response was, “I’m not going there,” loaded my bags in the car, and drove me to the airport.

As I walked down the narrow hallway through security, and to the plane that would fly me more than halfway across the country, I felt a bit lighter.  Once in the air, I felt an exciting freedom, that I hadn’t experienced in years.  My fear and angst dissolved into thin air.  I had made my first step into the next chapter of my life, in which I would meet some remarkable women, who would inspire and help me feel that I am not alone in this big, challenging world.

It wasn’t a full recovery that I made in that week.  I was still suffering from insomnia, which had been plaguing me for months, allowing me only about 3 hours of sleep a night.  I took short naps and began writing a piece that I called, Returning To Earth.  It was about coming back to life from a lengthy, dark night of the soul.  As I continued writing over the week, memories began to spring up, of times I hadn’t thought about in years.  I got my first 8 hours of sleep in a very long time.  I cried, laughed, shared poems that I’d written in the past, ate delicious, nourishing food and made friends with beautiful women from all over the country.  Best of all I began loving myself.

Later at home, the writing came to a halt, as I became aware of what could have been a serious health issue, uterine cancer.  But I was one of those fortunate ones, who dodged the  bullet.  The cancer was in its early stages and was completely removed by having a hysterectomy.  I remain cancer free today, and am living the promises I made to myself at the time: That regardless of what the prognosis, and no matter how long or short my life, I would make a practice of being grateful for all that I had been given and return the good fortune and kindness that had been gifted to me.

I also promised that I would begin writing down the family stories that began to come as I spent several months recovering from surgery.  My goal was to record as much as I could about my clan, so that my children and their children would know more about their roots.  My parents had left little or nothing of themselves, except for their possessions and behaviors. This blog became the vehicle of that sharing, not only of my family’s history, but of myself and the winding paths I have wandered down.  Little did I know, that it would become a healing mechanism for me, and that I would feel richer and happier for all of my experiences, good and bad.

Now, the more that I write what I remember, the more I remember and write.  What started out as a little writing project about my family, has turned into something much bigger.  I’ll often choose to write, rather than paint, though I must confess, both of these loves of mine, inform and feed each other.  I’m still not sure what this project will ultimately turn into, but it doesn’t really matter. I can say that it is a memoir.  It may take me years to finish.  Only one thing is certain: Writing down my stories and memories has become life changing for me.

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, Retreats and Workshops, stories
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