Musical Interlude

A while back, I attended a house concert that proved to be an unexpected delight. The evening was a perfect combination of youth, beauty, music, a glass of unexceptional red wine (as far as I can tell, large pot-luck events seem to yield an abundance of unexceptional wines, and the one I contributed was no better. Perhaps no one wants to bring a truly superior wine, only to offer it amidst all the lesser vintages) and my exceptional husband (willing to accompany me on yet another request to try something new, even though he’s not much of a folk music fan so he was clearly only there as a gift to me).

A young female singer/songwriter duo contributed the youth, beauty and music. Two milky-skinned women, with no make-up, casual clothes, forgotten hair, but with big doe eyes that shone with intelligence, and the burgeoning soul of the folk singers. They were so young and innocent and open that they seemed to be playing an evening-long game of charades, having picked the card saying, “Folk Musicians.” They chatted awkwardly in between their songs. The guitar player looked like an orphan/waif - dressed down in a drab brown plaid skirt that flared at her ankles, holding a guitar that almost dwarfed her body, making her appear even younger and smaller. For other songs, she played and picked an old Banjo. At some point in the set she informed us that her acoustic guitar was a '57 Vintage Gibson LG2 that she restored to playing condition. And when she switched to an electric guitar, she became full grown, throwing off the deceit of the plaid-skirt dowdy girl playing grown-up, and revealing an inner feminine power and playfulness. One of the last things the women told the audience was that they took their band name from a Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem. They may look fresh and milky and new, but they are clearly a literate, creative, talented duo.

The music was melodic and graceful, the lyrics were meaningful (as much as 20-something creamy-skinned young Rocky Mountain region women can breathe into their art while wrapped in the arms of youth, and, no matter what perils life has offered so far, haven’t lived through and been changed by the lifetime that lies ahead for each of them). Each song was lovely, and my husband enjoyed the music far more than he’d anticipated. My husband and I were so much older than the musicians, yet younger than most of the audience members, so it was an odd parallel – to me, the musicians were like the young fresh college kids I’ve taught over the years, and I was the old, wise crone smiling benevolently throughout their performance. But I felt like a young, inexperienced girl in conversation with the 60- and 70-year old attendees. I’m sure I reminded them of a more youthful time in their lives, and basked in their benevolent, indulgent smile as we conversed.

I was unjustifiably proud of these two young women – as if their success somehow was a reflection on me, and the way I’ve led my life. I felt more youthful optimism and buoyant hope in the next generation. These are not the typical cynical, disheartened, unmotivated, responsibility-avoidant Gen-Xers. They are living their lives, taking risks, creating music, competing on the national scene for recognition. These are powerful women using thrift-store attire to obscure the trail of their intelligence and thirst for success. I know some 20-something women who haven’t yet hit their stride, haven’t given themselves permission to live their full potential. Instead, they hold themselves back, eschewing challenges, hoarding safety and escapism, thus preventing success or growth, and reinforcing their desire to avoid the (scary/challenging) world.

And who knows, maybe there is something that these two women are riding on, that has come from the inroads of women who came before them. Not me in particular, of course, but my generation of women who are high achievers and have chosen family and career and creativity and spirituality and community and we still make home-made meals for our kids and read to them and truthfully, we’re quite tired by the end of the day, but look what we’ve produced: a generation that includes women like these two – pursuing dreams and talent and feeling strong enough about themselves to put whatever clothes they want over their smooth-skinned youth.

I tracked down the Longfellow poem that inspired this band. I’ve read it several times, cheated by looking up possible meanings, then returned and read it several more times. What I’ve come to appreciate is the poet’s use image of light and warmth - from a fire made of shipwrecked wood - to describe the feeling of friendships moving apart over time; the way warmth can remain even when the substance has gone.

Much depth for women so early in their paths. Perhaps they wonder what will become of their musical union as time continues to press on. I’ve had at least 20+ years more of life than these young musicians, and have come to realize that no one knows which friendships, alliances, or soul mates will last, and which will break apart. Which relationships, when over, still bring warmth and an inner glow, and which, instead, bring a chill and an unfillable emptiness.

The Fire of Drift-wood
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.

We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port,
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,
The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room;
Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said,
Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain,
Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark;
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire
Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main,
Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach,
The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech;

Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain,
The long-lost ventures of the heart,
That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!
They were indeed too much akin,
The drift-wood fire without that burned,
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

Published in Longfellow’s (1849) The Seaside and the Fireside.
Online at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173898

Double Digits

My son is now 10, and inching closer to his “tweens” – a word that didn’t exist to describe my own years between childhood and adolescence. Does that mean I didn’t experience my own tweens or simply that no one recognized the unique development conflicts in the years of burgeoning independence and dependency?

If I believe the tween buzz, my son is at the beginning of the end of our closeness. Boys pull away from their mothers. Boys rebel against their mothers. Boys stop talking. Boys shut down from their mothers, hide their growing sense of self, sensuality, sexuality, and male power from their mothers, who are frightened of it and want to "tame" it, turning it into something they’re familiar with. The sphere of maternal influence is not only diminishing, but it hampers a boy's development in the world of men.

Well, we’re 10-days into 10, and this morning he woke up like he has done for the last 10 X 365 mornings of his life (minus sleepovers and such) where he preconsciously seeks me out and begins his pre-awakening with a big hug. We whispered about him still being sleepy (“schluffy,” as I call it), and that as soon as I was done with an email I’d come out and sit with him. He held on just a touch longer than usual, and I murmured into his neck, “Lucky, lucky Mom.” “Lucky, lucky Kid” was his response.

Day 10, and he can still be him - a growing boy - without shutting down or shutting me out. And I can still be me without needing him to be anything other than a boy straddling two worlds. I’ll be the one who stays in his inner home, and he’s free to come and go.

Lucky, lucky us.

Time Off

It’s amazing how difficult it is for me to do nothing. Lay on a chaise lounge for hours in the sun. Sit looking out over the water. Who are the people who are so relaxed that they fall asleep at the beach? For that matter, people who fall asleep any time after they’ve been up?

I had the day off from work yesterday. So of course I’d scheduled a doctor’s appointment that morning. After verifying my good health, I slipped in a few errands (the bank, the grocery store, the library to return a book) before heading to my son’s school for volunteer duty. It was my day to relieve the teacher from the loathsome task of grading math assessments.

Then, six hours stretched ahead. Six hours with nothing scheduled, so I could do anything I wanted. Six hours is an eternity for a person whose mind might slow down but then is only at warp speed. I think I’m wired like a short-haired small dog – mostly “on” and with more movement than is necessary. When I have to attend day-long seminars, I have to bring several books, crossword puzzles, paper and pencil for writing/doodling/drawing, and an assortment of non-crunchy, non-obtrusive snacks to keep myself entertained for the six hours of dense course content. I don’t have ADD, I’m not hyper or manic, or any of the things that these days we use pharmaceuticals to squash. I can focus intently for long periods of time. I just can’t focus on nothing for long – or short – periods of time. I am, as you might imagine, able to get a lot done.

So how would I spend those hours?
 I could “relax” – whatever that means.
 I could spend 3 hours watching The Mists of Avalon on DVD, relishing Anjelica Houston as the ultimate Girl Power channeler and seeing Julianna Margulies, who felt like an old college friend from her ER days as Nurse Carol Hathaway, transform into the next Lady of the Lake.
 I could continue making my way through the book-club book that wasn’t yet at the half way mark.
 I could write, as I rarely have stretches of time this large to give to myself.
 I could do laundry, straighten the house, do any manner of chore.
 I could buy shoes, as I’ve been wearing my favorite sandals for so long that they’ve been re-soled twice and the inside of their soles has been irreparably dilapidated for over two years, but I couldn’t bear to swap them out.
 I’d already been to the gym before breakfast, so no need to work out.
 I could get out in the sun – no, make that should get out in the sun - as this was the most glorious day we’d had since last August, and no telling when an opportunity like this would return.

So here’s how I spent the six hours:

I got down to my skivvies, put some carrots in a little dish (one of the snacks I almost never grab for myself), grabbed a towel, the book-club book, and my middle-aged prescription bifocal sunglasses, and out I popped out to our back patio. I read. The sun was warm, welcoming, the sensations reminding me of all the time I’ve spent in the sun. It was like going to a reunion, but the sun and my white skin were the only ones who came. It was so warm I was surprised to be sweating. I read some more, then got distracted by thoughts of having to hydrate myself.

About 20 minutes later, I needed to cool down a bit, and I decided to go inside. I flipped through a couple of cable channels, found Giada preparing an orange and pineapple beef tenderloin, and in honor of my friends who can’t bear to put pineapple in food, switched it off. I started The Mists of Avalon. After 26 minutes, I decided I needed to get out a bit – it was still sunny, after all, and it felt somewhat like a betrayal (of whom, I don’t know) to be indoors watching the a marathon King Arthur movie. But I didn’t want to read. So I drove to Staples to make some copies and get some office supplies. I was able to go slowly through the aisles to ogle cool pencils, envelopes, journals, gadgets, and calendars while my copies were being made. I stopped at a great kitchen store on my way home, to check out 12” fry pans, since my husband threw out our old, slightly warped, non-stick that had clearly seen it’s day at least a year or two ago. No pans (too expensive), but an outrageously affordable Côtes du Rhône from the “declassified” section of a father-son vineyard that otherwise creates Châteauneuf-du-Pape. I returned home, stripped back down to my skivvies, and read some more in the sun.

When I could no longer contain the niggling worry of being mostly unclad under the midday sun, not a single digit of SPF anywhere but my nose, back in I came. I had some lunch, and returned to Avalon, just when Arthur and Morgaine are separated from their parents and each other. I watched some more, spoke with some friends on the phone, then received a call from the local bookstore that my son’s book had come in. I stopped the movie again, got dressed, and headed out to get the book. I popped across the street and browsed in an over-priced boutique with some lovely clothes that I don’t think I could ever wear (when did seams come back on the outside of clothes?). I came home, and started to prepare dinner. I sat down and returned to the movie. And blissfully got to the scene where Arthur asks Lancelot to impregnate the childless Gwenwyfar (neither of these three pawns realize that Morgause has cursed Gwenwyfar to barrenness) and to be with them as they consummate this grand deed of sacrifice for Britain. But the reader/viewer knows that this coupling has no chance of leading to pregnancy, thus it’s just a gratuitous carnal threesome, with two handsome, powerful men joining together to pleasure one woman. As Ina Garten would say, “What’s not to like about that?” (And yes, I just used a Food Network reference about a sexual fantasy.)

Low and behold, the six hours passed. I didn’t do a single household chore, which I consider a victory for preserving the meaning and intent of “time off.” I was my kind of relaxed. The combination of reading, watching a movie, sitting in the sun, and having the time to browse slowly through an office supply store, a kitchen store and a boutique, was just about the right amount of slow-down, even if it might have looked a bit disjointed to someone else to see me pop up from one quiet activity to drive off to another. It preceded a perfectly slowed-down evening - a glass of the lovely wine with a surprisingly tasty dinner (lamb-sausage burgers, sautéed with onions and peppers), and then a quiet night at home.

Not exactly like lying on a chaise lounge for 6 hours immobile, only to turn over every 20 minutes like a rotisserie chicken. But I’m not a good rotisserie chicken, apparently – and I saved all my writing for today, when I’ve got far less uninterrupted time. Go figure.

Little Lancelot

How, oh how, to grow a boy?

My son turns 10 today. In our current culture of feminized and infantilized men (both men and women are guilty in this new form of masculinity that has been gutted of strength, vitality, achievement, success and actual manliness), I want to grow a “Good Man.” A man who will care about the world, his community, his family, and himself, and consistently work to make all of these better. A man who lives in his mind AND his body, has access to feelings AND ideas, a man who builds and inhabits a life that is exciting and challenging but also feels to him sufficient. A man who does acts of charity and kindness without being reminded or feeling obligated, but because they occur to him. A “Good Man” who is brave and loyal and willing to protect and defend and provide for others, who is not afraid to accept the guidance and love of a “Good Woman.” Tall order, but for those who know me, there’s no lack of high expectations I bring to bear on any situation.

So, how are we doing, you might want to know? I think we’re on track, with a couple of caveats.

First caveat: My kid hates team sports. My husband doesn’t like me to say this out loud, because he thinks I’m influencing my son’s lack of affinity for these sports, whereas I strongly defend my position as the one who is simply observing and interpreting my son’s behavior, giving it a name and allowing it to be understood. Who’s right? Probably both of us. I assume I can grow a “Good Man” who never participates in team sports. My husband, resident already-grown “Good Man” in our home, assures me that allowing a young boy to opt out of the team part of sports will weaken a boy – boys (here I’ll interject that what he’s referring to is boys-who-will-become-Good-Men) must learn to lead and follow, to sacrifice for the good of the team, to celebrate joint victories and survive the emotional hits of loss, so they can learn to keep going after failure. He wants him to learn duty and obligation to a team, to learn to experience physical exhaustion and pain and to continue to participate, if that’s what the team needs. Not to do these things for the wrong reasons – to gain parental approval, to create false senses of power, or to defy/deny the limits of one’s strengths and weaknesses – but to create the sense of masculine pride that requires effortful endeavors that lead to greater and greater strengthening of mind, body, relationships and sense of purpose. I’m hoping there’s a team sport in my son’s future he’ll take to – he’s just received his Red Belt in Karate, so he’s not completely un-embodied – maybe in middle school (although in our area, some middle schools consider Ultimate Frisbee a sport, and with absolutely no knowledge of what Ultimate Frisbee is, I’ve dismissed it and all it’s possibilities because it’s an activity done with a Frisbee. I’m likely to be proved completely wrong on this one once I actually learn what the darned sport is).

Second caveat: My son is an internalizer. He doesn’t act out, so he’s a pleasure to be around and no adult has ever disliked being in his company. But when he is frustrated or upset or sad, he is likely to turn it inward, implode a bit, shut down and lose access to words. Not for long, and not something very alarming. But when giant tears spring to his eyes and his face flushes red from anger/shame/sadness/frustration, it’s hard not to feel the hit of his emotional suffering. He rebounds quickly and is able to understand that feelings shift and change and that even hard moments will always pass. He processes the feelings, comes to understand them, and then re-enters the situation. But his temporary absence feels like weakness to me and I respond like any mammal to the smell of weakness and find myself getting angry. Nice response on my part, so I spend all my energy during his difficult moments refraining from trying to push him to immediate action.

OK, caveats out of the way, my gloating might be forgiven. Truthfully, he’s already well on his way to becoming a Good Man. He’s diligent about school and home, participates in household chores, does his homework, brushes his teeth twice a day (with reminders, of course, but still), doesn’t throw or slam anything when he’s angry, works hard, plays hard, is gracious to his friends (mostly, except when he can be slightly preachy or bossy, which happens easily with only children, but he’s training himself out of it), happy and light and quick-to-forgive. He cares what others think. He’s funny, sweet, and generous. He honors relationships even when they’re over. He made sure to give a birthday Rice Krispie treat to not just his current teacher yesterday, but to each of his former teachers all the way back to his kindergarten teacher, as well as the PE and music teacher, traipsing through the school’s hallways with a sense of purpose. He left a note on the desk next to the homemade morsel so they’d know who it was from. This is not a tradition in his school or in his class – it was all his idea.

And he’s becoming the kind of boy who is considerate and kind to girls, and is basking in the reward of having girls bestow their friendship and favor on him. Case in point: today’s birthday party. For the past few years, he’s had sleepover parties with a slew of boys – complex, multi-themed, feed-‘em-every-20-minutes endeavors that required my husband and I to be in sleep-away camp counselor mode. Did he want a sleepover party this year? Absolutely. Who did he want to invite? M_____. The newest, closest friend he made in class this year. M_____ is a girl. He then went on to list off 4 or 5 boys. Then, for M_____’s sake, so she wouldn't feel outnumbered, he invited 2 additional girls.

I told him that for a co-ed party, it couldn't be a sleepover, and it needed to be a daytime party. He asked if he could have boys and girls and then just have the girls go home and the boys stay for a sleepover. I explained that the girls might have their feelings hurt to be invited to only one part of a party, then be asked to leave. That was the end of this year’s sleepover idea. I’d suggested going to a place that offered go-karting, bumper boats, mini-golf and all kinds of indoor/outdoor activities, which sounded totally cool, and my son liked the idea. I previewed the place and learned that kids had to be taller than the cut-out wooden animal’s raised hand to drive their own go cart – and M_____ was shorter, meaning she’d have to ride with an adult; she’d be perfectly fine on all other games and activities. That was the end of the Activity Fun House.

So, my son chose a bowling party. Without his fully knowing it, he's having a birthday party to impress/include M_____ and make sure she's comfortable throughout. He’s behaved quite honorably toward her – a 10-year-old version of the masculine role to provide/protect that isn’t at all aimed at diminishing the girl, but of elevating and respecting her.

He asked me the other day to tell him again why it couldn't be a sleepover party with girls, and I told him that friendships with girls start to feel a little different at this age than they used to - and I asked him if he'd noticed that - and he said, "Oh, yes" with deep recognition and deeper appreciation and a quick flush to his cheeks. So I told him that he's at the point where bodies and feelings change a lot between boys and girls, and until he's a bit older and it makes more sense to him, it's the parent's job to keep the boys and girls' friendships to the daytime hours.

This one gal, M_____, is totally in to him. She gave him a pre-birthday card calling him her BFF. When I am in the classroom each week, M_____ makes a point of singling me out and bringing me into her relationship with him. She told me the other day, in earnest, holding each of my arms in hers and looking directly into my eyes, "I'm coming to your party on Saturday!" But of course it's not my party, it's my son’s. But this smart and vivacious little gal already can figure out that for this kind of boy, you better like his Mother, and you better not ask him to choose! Not because he’s on the path to becoming a Mama’s Boy, but because he’s a Good Man in the Making – what I’ll now call a GMITM.

Today’s birthday bowling party will celebrate that my son has turned 10. Three girls will be there, vying for this GMITM. So will 5 other boys. My son will be surrounded by people he likes, and will feel great that he crafted an experience where all his friends will feel welcome and comfortable. He’s an amazing kid, and we’ve helped grow him.

Happy Birthday, Little Lancelot.

Short Story

Setting: Any given town, on any given night. Parents’ bedroom, 1:00 am. Dad is sound asleep. Mom has had a headache from a lingering cold, so she’s sleeping fitfully. There’s a knock on the bedroom door. Their 8-year-old daughter is upset, having awoken to an outlandish racket outside her window. She wants to come into their room, and to crawl into bed with them.

8 year-old, in a quiet voice, knocks tentatively on the door.

She knocks again, a bit harder. “Mom?” She pauses. “Dad?” Another pause. “The noise woke me up and I can’t get back to sleep. Can I come sleep with you?”

Mother, waking slightly: “What is it, honey? Come on in.”

Daughter opens the door and comes to stand by her Mother’s side of the bed.

Mother: “It’s OK honey, it’s the raccoons. Why don’t you just go back to sleep. Everyone is safe.”

Daughter: “I just want to come in with you and Daddy. I’m scared.
Can I sleep in your bed?”

Mother: “We won’t get any sleep if you stay here all night.”

Father, finally wakening and realizing what’s happening: “You can hear the raccoons from our room too. We’re just going to hear them tonight. Go back to bed, honey. We all need a good night’s sleep. Your Mom hasn’t been feeling well.”

Daughter: “I don’t want to go back to my room. I want to stay with you and Mommy.”

Mother, acquiescing a bit:
“Stay for a bit, then I’ll walk you back to your room. But I have to get some sleep tonight or I’ll never get over this cold.”

Daughter: “Just let me get in with you and Daddy.”

Father, becoming slightly irritated: “You just want attention.”

Daughter: “Of COURSE I want attention. We ALL want attention! You wanted attention when you said that to me! And Mom’s been wanting attention for having a headache and needing to sleep.”

Father, Mother: Stunned silence. In unison, voices rising, “You’re right!”

All three: Laughter, laughter and more laughter.

Mother nudges Father to scoot over a bit, rolls to the middle, and makes room for their daughter. They sleep poorly but happily until morning. All the next day, both parents are aglow with middle-of-the-night wisdom imparted from their tiny sage. Father can’t wait to tell his coworkers of the brilliant thing his daughter came up with. Mother says a silent “thank you” to the raccoons, followed quickly by an entreaty to the Heavens that the raccoons will simply move on.

They tell the story to their friends, family members, and coworkers. By the time the story gets to me, I take it the way I take most things – wondering what lesson I’m supposed to learn from it. I’m not that struck by the obvious theme – kids say the darnedest things – but just below that, how kids are able to hone in on the absolute truth of what humans of all ages need, even if grown-ups no longer acknowledge or live by these truths. Regardless of age, all anyone wants is attention. The good kind of attention, of course - where we are seen, taken in for the totality of our being (our quirks and weaknesses are held gently and tolerated, rather than ignored or frozen into icy denial), and the contents of our thoughts and hearts are welcomed. Attention that conveys recognition, appreciation and acceptance. Who wouldn’t want this, at just about any hour of the day?

I crawl into bed every night seeking exactly this kind of attention, and delighted in the knowledge I’m likely to receive it. Ah, but perhaps here’s my lesson – how good am I at offering this kind of attention to others? Do I hear my husband the way he wants to be heard? Support him in the way that makes sense to him, not just in the way I like to be supported? Accept his thoughts and feelings, and hold the painful ones gently, especially at the moments when I don’t fully understand him? This lesson has come before, through a variety of stories and funny anecdotes and even a few self-help books that have graced my nightstand, so I can now say that the answer is, many times, yes. But there are definite times when I might deny that I’m seeking attention, or deny that someone else deserves it; I can still find moments, though I cringe to acknowledge them, when I turn away at the exact moment I should lean in and provide the loving acceptance.

So here’s my silent “thank you” to an 8-year-old girl I’ve never met, who had the courage to claim what she wanted. And thanks to her parents, who have already created an atmosphere where her acceptance is so likely, she’d risk banishment to her room in the middle of the night because she knew, fundamentally knew, she wouldn’t be banished for her wishes. And one last “thank you” to whatever forces operate in the universe that bring a lesson we (still) need to learn right smack dab in front of us.

If I put Prince William’s name in this title, will it count as part of the world-wide buzz?

If Prince William asks for a groom’s cake to be made from the McVitie’s company, perhaps the little Digestive biscuits I’ve been eating for 20+ years aren't something to sneer at.

At first, they were impossibly difficult to procure in the US – I bought some at British import stores, later found them online, and now, sheepishly, I can buy them at the largest supermarket in my area. Sure, Prince William’s cake had 1700 rich tea biscuits, and I’ve only ever eaten the Original Digestives. I would hope Royals would have a better/higher quality treat with their tea than I’ve had all these years, but still, it puts my luscious little bite right up there for the world to see.

As a person who received very little validation as a kid, and ended up with a strong self-doubt mechanism (if I think it, it must be wrong; if I want it, no one else will; if I don’t want it, others will think it’s great; I’m destined to dislike most popular media and books; I used to eat pizza from the top down, layer by layer, ending at the thickest, breadiest crust I could find; I like musicals, for heaven’s sake). So my liking of Digestives, and, subsequently offering them as a treat to others at weekend escapes and finding that no one enjoyed them quite as much as me, gave me just a few doubts.

I know of only one other person as fiercely loyal to the lowly biscuit as me, and that’s the best friend I made in 1982 on our junior-year semester abroad, where we attended a Midwestern university via transcript only, and spent the semester in London. We had classes at the University of London, but they were taught by Midwestern faculty hell-bent on getting out of the Midwest for a semester – we made up stories of love affairs and marital escapes to overcome what otherwise looked like the pathos of middle-aged professors who were bored with their lives. We didn’t have classes with British kids, just other Midwestern undergrads who wanted to get out of Dodge. We were ensconced in a 6-story row house, simultaneously part of and totally separate from the London around us. We had classes a mere three days a week, so as not to interfere with the shows, field trips, and travel that was planned for students every Friday through Monday. We saw so many shows, so many cathedrals, so many historic and amazing places that we developed the only possible response – glazed boredom and what I guess I’d call tourist fatigue. “Not another Titian,” we’d moan. “Do we have to go see Cats?” Stonehenge felt like the drudgery of an elementary school field trip foisted on unwitting kids for their own good. Such ingratitude, such lassitude in the face of overwhelming and matchless opportunity. I’d give anything to go back now, in my 40’s, and cherish every last painting, every church’s spire, every architectural tidbit, every inch of sculpture. I’d read up on things before I saw them. I’d try to sketch them even though I'm no good at drawing. I'd write poetry about them. I’d do anything to breathe the life of these masterpieces into my soul, hold them captive there until I could understand these things that were so much larger than me, so much older, so much evidence that my tiny little existence is, in fact, a tiny little existence.

Of course some of the art and culture penetrated my young self, but I seem to remember mostly my focus on social interests, my new-found best friend and classmates and the freedoms we experimented with at being 20 and living not only away from home, as we all had since coming to college, but across the ocean, as far away as you could be from the familiar and the family, except that, of course, there was so much overlap between Britain and America that the leave-taking was safe, the equivalent of ordering Thai green curry and requiring the kitchen keep it mild. At the time, though, it seemed to be as much spice as I could handle. Our bedroom was perched on the 6th floor of our 6-story rowhouse, and next to our room was the most gorgeous blond man you could ever hope to be perched at the tippy top of an old house with, but this guy was, disappointingly, verifiably gay – he asked my friend and I to shave his back before he went on a date. This had not yet occurred on our home campuses, so it felt exotic. It never occurred even after we came back, so it may have something much more to do with this particular gentleman than with anything else, but at the time it felt like it was because of where we were.

For me, Digestives are the taste memory of this trip, of my lasting friendship that seemed to fall from the stars and couldn’t possibly be made from worldly parts, as the distinctness in the lives of my friend and I are so clearly delineated, with so little overt overlap. She shouldn’t like me, and she shouldn’t make sense to me. Yet we do, to each other. We wear (or at least, wore) the same dress size, which is impossible, since she’s 5’8” tall and slim-waisted and I’m shy of 5’4” and, for a long time, was curvy without being slim. For my first wedding, I tried on a lovely black cocktail dress that fit me perfectly, making me look sophisticated and beautiful and just a touch sexy. I bought it for my friend to wear, and she looked outstanding in it, a taller, thinner, blonder version of beauty, more striking with her hair and features and the whiteness of her smooth shoulders shown off by the black dress. We shared our stories, our humor, our experiences with being too-darned-smart for our families and most of our friends and retreating to this intelligence to dull the pain of gawky adolescence in which we both suffered having none of the beauty and grace that would emerge decades after our classmates bloomed. And we shared Digestives. We ate them slowly, savoring them. We’d eat them when we got together (eventually we moved away from the Midwest, even living for a brief overlapping time in California, and now again we’re separated by most of the continent), and still do. I bring them with me when I’m going to a bed and breakfast or somewhere where I want a little taste of something decadent. The biscuits and the friendship have come to taste as one to me – cherished, delectable moments where all is right with the world and I’m not alone in my thoughts, yearnings or values.

I hope Prince William enjoyed his Groom’s cake. And that all the guests did, too. Perhaps there’s something to pairing an exquisite moment of connection with the guaranteed savory simplicity of a tea biscuit. There is for me.


For K,
Thanks for 2 full decades of our
McVitie's-style friendship.
Here's to the decades to come.
Love, B

Our First Tulip Has Died

Right on schedule, April came to a close and our first tulip has died.

My son was initially disappointed at the death, but I was delighted, as it meant two things – first, that we really did plant a successful tulip garden, and the darned things grew and grew and got taller and taller and more beautiful, opened daily and delicately closed again each night. The near-frost conditions that dogged the entire month of April were no match for our sprouts.


Second, the first tulip has, as I said, bent its head after a full life course, but there are still bulbs to bloom. My original idea to have tulips that would open early and late turned into actuality. I haven’t yet seen a single white flower, and I could swear I planted them. But we’ve had regal flowers throughout the month, and now, tulips in May, is just gravy. We may have new blooms over the next week or so, and we just might have a few of Custer’s last stand flowers in bloom all the way until Memorial Day.

Our daily flower checks have continued, and all three people in our house have way too much pride in this project. If pride cometh before the fall, we’re all gonna crash. My son can’t get over the fact that he can see flowers right out his bedroom window. I took him to see tulip farms, with acres and acres of perfectly groomed tulips, all in rows, and he still thinks our tulip garden is something special.


He’s begun to wonder what we could plant for my next birthday – more tulips? If so, where? Perhaps around the base of the trees on our front lawn. Maybe it’s only my pride that is dangerously high. I am proud of the garden, proud of our family efforts, proud – inordinately proud – that I’m raising the kind of child who has been touched by this project and who brings his open spirit and willingness to enjoy our life to the silly, adventuresome, kind-of boring things we choose to do. He can appreciate masses of tulips, rushing from one bed to the next to describe a color combination, or shape of tulip leaf, or excitedly taking a picture of a perfect open tulip revealing its inner sanctum of unexpected darkness and beauty – and still appreciate our little garden. It took me decades to find worth at all its levels – the grand and the simple. And he’s found it before his first decade has ended.


So go on, tulips, continue through your life cycle, eventually leaving us with nothing but drooping flowers. 70-something drooping and dying flowers will grace our front windows. And I know a few people who will find something amazing in all this. And one who will probably write about it.