What We Do as the Eclipse Approaches

Written for the participants of The Heads Network Leadership Seminar, Asheville School. April. 2024.

The eclipse approaches.

It will happen tomorrow.

The children—and the science teachers—are excited.

At an assembly on Thursday, Izzy whispers

“How does the barber cut the moon’s hair? She asks.

I shrug.

‘E clips it!”

In the chapel, I giggle, glad to be the person she has shared this joke with.

Then, I pack a bag and head to the last leadership seminar I will emcee.

How many weekends have there been?

I’ve lost count.

On the plane, I remember coming to this very workshop.

The luminaries of girls’ schools our faculty--

Divorced, widowed, childless.

Each a force.

Intimidating.

“Not for me,” I thought, “though fascinating.”

We were at Miss Porter’s that weekend,

Another boarding school full of flowering trees.

Spring reminds me that nature is stronger than all of us;

She will not be held back.

Which brings me back to the eclipse and how little I know.

It will happen, no matter how little I know.

We schoolteachers sometimes imagine lots of things are within our control

That aren’t.

We arrive, establish ourselves in this lovely room.

High ceilings, beveled windows, dark wood tables.

Begin the work of the weekend.

On our way to Asheville, we tell each other after supper, we were busy.

 One by one, we introduce ourselves.

I planned Head of School day, one of the first participants says,

(though, please note, she is not

Yet

A Head of School)

“It’s a surprise celebration

Because of the eclipse.”

Once in a lifetime.

Monday’s eclipse is happening.

Some of us are right in the path.

On our way to Asheville, we walked and kissed and petted and fed a lot of dogs.

Is it okay for a dog to look at the sun, a tenth grader asked Thursday.

A Science teacher—competent, matter-of-fact—answered briskly, “Yes, it’s fine,” but I am still wondering why it’s fine.

I am thinking a lot about vision. What it means to see.  Eclipses and other things.

Our older daughter got a scary diagnosis—spots on her retina—perhaps genetic.

She phones me, weeping, as we arrive on this bucolic campus—

pink cherry trees in bloom,

Almost shouting, “Look at me, look at me!”

Glorious crimson Japanese Maples,

Their leaves unfurling like stars beyond the big window in our room.

“You will be okay,” I reassure her. “You’ll get through. We all love you.”

What is essential, St. Exupery reminds us, is best seen with the heart.

Still, she is frightened, and I shudder at the idea of her not being able to see.

Ever.

Or my not being able to see.

Love will see us through, I think. I hope. I hold onto love.

We—my family, these women—are rich in love, in fortitude.

We do get through, wearing our resilience like shields.

Of course we manage,

serve as assistant heads,

do more,

get paid less,

worry and fret about next steps,

new beginnings,

moments that do not go as planned.

Because we are planners.

Listen. 

Before I left…we tell one another:

I taught my husband how to crank our 9-year old’s expander.

I took my mom to a doctor’s appointment.

I organized the Middle School clothing swap across two campuses, so everyone could play.

I worked through what to do when a student threw a pen at me.

I taught chemical geometry—they hated it.

I announced we were the vocabulary bowl state champs, and I didn’t even know we’d been competing.

Took kids bird banding

Scolded a child because she was late, and then I found out she’d gotten pulled over.

Personally, I was slow to focus on the eclipse—it seemed so far away up in the sky.

but I know our school is ready—

We’ve purchased solar glasses for the kids,

Organized programs,

Invited NASA to explain

Why this is such a big darn deal.

My favorite explanation on Instagram was of a meme with Oreos,

showing the moon moving over the sun.

I read it’s going to look like dusk everywhere around the horizon and that doesn’t happen very often.

But we are here, thinking about headship, not eclipses, aren’t we?

In our lives, we toggle busily between school and home—

another domain where we are often in command—

Hiding candy, eating Toast bites,

kissing the twins,

asking the spouse did you pay attention to the text chain?

She needs her white soccer jersey, not the maroon one.

We are ourselves orbs of light, criss-crossing the sky, daily,

What makes the sun bright, I wonder?

How does it manage to rise every day, no matter what, and get on with the business of illumination? 

No vacations or personal days. No pd to help it glow brighter.

No evaluations or feedback forms.

Even when we cannot see her, she is there.

The moon, too, I guess.

Except on Monday, when they will do a light and dark duet,

Choreographed without rehearsal—can you imagine? My nightmare.

No one asked the sun and the moon if they’re excited.

They will simply perform, crossing, one over other, as predicted.

Like all of us?

Each day—unremarkable, just doing what has to be done in our schools and families.

The sun doesn’t get to say, “I don’t think so—this is all too much for me.”

The moon doesn’t get to say, “Umm—I don’t feel up to it—could you get a sub for me?”

They will do what they do—maybe the tides have had some influence?

Can you tell I don’t know enough about space and planets?

I know a lot about women in schools, though.

How we, too, are sources of light, and love and warmth and competence.

And wonder.

How we put up and shut up and move up and often do not take up

Enough space.

How we, sometimes, very often, much of the time, put others first,

And say:

“It’s not the right time “or

“Do I want all that responsibility?”

or “I could never leave Ohio,”

or “My parents need me”

or “My kids have three more years in my school.”

We are full of reasons why we resist the unknown.

On the eve of this once-in-a-lifetime eclipse,

I am wishing for a catapult that would scatter all of us into the sky—

a bundle of stars—

already arrived at our next chapter without worry or dread or waiting or negotiation about salaries.

Against the navy night,

we would

Sparkle and twinkle and glimmer and shine,

keeping the moon and sun company,

cheering them on.

Points of light

spread in a vast dark sky, but connected—a web of stars.

When I watch the eclipse tomorrow,

From a field on campus,

With houseguests I forgot that I will need to feed,

I will think about the women gathered here in Asheville,

Mulling over new beginnings and possibilities.

I will think of us eating supper on the stage of the theatre—

I love that we ate dinner there--

Bathed in light.

So many lovely things said,

me without words for once,

but full of gratitude.

We say in drama that we must hug the whole experience--

Laughter and tears, dark and light.

And maybe that’s why a once in a lifetime eclipse

Is a worthy metaphor

as we contemplate next steps.

Totality by Laurel teacher Dale Versteegen

Easter Musings

I wake up coughing and sputtering. After six weeks of travel—weekends in San Diego and Ashville, NC, followed by four non-stop days in NYC with 15 Laurel students, and then four more days—at a slightly less frantic pace—in London with my sister, I succumb to a cold that Seth has most generously shared, and spend yesterday—and, today, too, I suspect—lying low.

It’s Easter, but here in Shaker Heights, with my Jewish husband and without young children excited about bunnies and egg hunts and baskets, I wonder what the day means to me and feel a little blue. 

Death and resurrection. At 63, I am more conscious of aging than I’ve ever been, more aware of how often I feel pulled by recollection, by memory.  I remember Easter luncheon at our grandparents. A huge baked ham and an egg cracking contest and an egg hunt in own pachysandra. I think about making baskets for Miranda and Cordelia and Atticus—a long time ago now. Seth used to tease me and say that the baskets were just another version of Christmas stockings, and he was right. But Easter lunch, like Thanksgiving and Passover and Christmas, was another opportunity to use the “good” china, to be together, to make  memories. Sitting with my laptop, I hear my mother’s voice in my head, singing all the Easter hymns. “Jesus Christ has risen today, Ahhhhh-lay—luu—ya.”

We go to London on a whim; during my last bout with Covid in early January, I wondered how to celebrate my sister’s birthday—a significant birthday—and, feverish, before I could second guess myself, I decide we will return to London—more than fifty years after our first trip there as a family. Lee’s daughters collude with me to be sure her calendar is free, and Miranda makes a surprise video to land in Lee’s email box on the morning of her birthday since I am in California that day. I hope she will be excited—and she is. Seth is our gracious chauffeur, drove us from Eagles Mere to JFK—the worst airport I could have chosen, he explains—Newark would have been a lot easier, but it is too late by then to change the tickets.

I booked us into the same hotel where our family stayed in 1972, the Duke’s Hotel, now rebranded as DUKE’S London, famous for its martinis! It is a lovely, elegant hotel, where the staff greets us by name each morning.  Long ago, Daddy didn’t want to pay for the roll out cot, so Rod slept in the bathtub and fell asleep on his Yorkshire pudding at Simpson’s on the Strand. Lee and I slept in twin beds shoved right next to each other! We strolled around London together, sliding between past and present the way sisters do.  Rain showers come and go; my sister reminding me that we are not wicked enough to melt. We found the Tube charming, much less dingy than the subways in NYC. Descending on the steep escalators, Lee recalled our brother’s antics—he loved to quote the ads in the frames along the wall as we sank further underground. I grasp at memories. We remember different bits in elegy. At the Burlington Arcade, we stopped with our mother long ago, and she bought two enamel rings—emerald green and royal blue—that she wore and wore. What happened to them? My sister doesn’t know and neither do I. For fun, Lee tried on an enormous dinner ring—a huge diamond edged in emeralds. It is a steal at 74,000 pounds. We thanked the saleswoman and left the shop, giggling on the street. It entertained us to make believe, even at 70 and 63.

Our trip is like one huge version of the high tea we enjoyed at Fortnum and Mason’s—a tribute to our dad, who was the original Anglophile. The days are delectable, out of the ordinary, a confection. At the musical SIX, we recalled Daddy’s love of British history. I wonder if Henry VIII might have been Dad’s role model. They both loved the ladies. Having the six wives reclaim their story pleased me. I stole glimpses at my sister from time to time; she seemed to like the show, too, and I realized how much I wanted her to feel celebrated and cherished on this trip. After our mother died, my sister called me every day for months; she knew my grief was too large for me to manage by myself. She is a caretaker—of me, of her own children, of the little village of Eagles Mere, where she lives.

We roamed and laughed and drank prosecco and enjoyed John Singer Sargent’s gorgeous portraits at the Tate. My visit to the Biltmore was still fresh in my mind as was my time with our students at the Morgan Library. Thoughts of the Gilded Age swirled: an era of extraordinary wealth, wretched excess, and the desire to show off one’s family—to stake a claim, to assure one would be remembered. I think of white men acquiring possessions, hoping for posterity, My head is tangled up with musings. As we moved through the exhibit listening dutifully to the audio guide, I noticed  how Sergant’s subjects were positioned, his choices of fabric and draping, the stories each painting told. Several of the sitters’ dresses and accessories are displayed near the portraits—Ellen Terry’s costume for Lady M, for example, is made of a crocheted fabric with beetle wings knit into it. Astonishing. The rich and famous seem to have been better about keeping their fancy clothes wrapped up in tissue and preserved for more than a century than I am. Or, perhaps, their help was better at preservation.

I, too, will soon have my portrait painted. Sargent is, sadly, unavailable. But the mother of a alum who was a student during my tenure will paint me.  I wonder about my image hanging in the school I love long after I am gone. Some years ago, I moved the portraits of the heads at Laurel around a few years ago; I thought Mrs. Lyman and Miss Lake might enjoy a different view. I wonder where the painting of me will hang. Legacy. Do we ever understand what it is we leave behind? Did Sargent’s subjects wonder how strangers in galleries would perceive them, what viewers would presume or wonder about the lives they lived from those careful compositions? Did Sargent shave off pounds or soften edges? Could those illustrious beings from long ago imagine that we would walk through the Tate and wonder about their lives and loves and sorrows? Can I imagine little girls looking up at my image and wondering about me? or the students from the NYC trip coming back to school for a reunion and pausing in front of my portrait to tell stories about our metropolitan adventures? The possibility pleases me.

Easter means death and rebirth, hugging the whole experience.  On this foggy Easter morning, I note that spring in Shaker Heights is not as advanced as it was in London. But the green is greener than it was when I left two weeks ago. The daffodils are chatting, bending their heads towards on another in our garden. The hyacinths aren’t yet in bloom, but their buds are swelling.  I am drinking my coffee from a new lavender mug my sister bought for me when we went for high tea. My sister and I. Two out of the five of us left.  Two out of five.  Death, rebirth. We chat on the phone this morning. I miss having her with me. But it’s not all melancholy.  Loss is balanced by addition. Family rituals shift and change.  We make our own families, and our children make their own families, too. The generations contract, expand, move forward. There is hope and comfort in the idea that the future spools out. Those who leave us stay with us through shared reminiscences. I tell stories about my brother to my own children; we claim and reclaim the past and add new stories to the family canon.

Nothing stays the same. Vacations end. Colds improve. The seasons pass.  We stand in the present and look back and wonder what lies ahead. Perhaps there will come a time that little children in my life once again require Easter baskets. I’ll be ready. 

Vacation Is a Tease

I don’t really like this whole empty nest concept. I prefer the house full to overflowing, no matter how many glasses I gather up each morning, no matter how many shoes I stumble over on my way in the back door. I like the sound of all our children in the house, gathered in the living room, which might as well be a seasonal room, since we use it mostly around the holidays—tree in one corner, card table ready for backgammon, gas fire lit.  I like knowing when I wake in the early morning that the kids are all still sleeping, breathing, in their beds.

But vacation ends. The girls and Cole and Sara go back to NYC. Atticus goes, too, for a bit, and Seth and I look at each other, glum. We settle into our chairs in the family room, sighing at the decorations that need to be taken down and put away, the inflatables on the lawn that are now deflated, covered in snow.

Atticus returns to have his wisdom teeth taken out, and on that very day, I sneeze a million times, rolling gauze and trying not to sneeze directly on him.

“Mom,” one of the girls says on Facetime, “Do a Covid test, so you don’t make him nervous.”

“I do not have Covid,” I retort. “I’m fine.”

“For Atticus, Mom,” the daughter insists—both of them? We frequently indulge in group Facetimes.

“Okay, okay.” I dig the Covid test out from the cat food shelf, find the directions, swab my nostrils—a ritual that feels like some sort of an ancient rite. I tuck the swab into the hole and fold the cover down and set a clock, certain that I am fine, and, the pink line is incontrovertible ten minutes later.

I gather my belongings, find a mask, take myself up to Cordelia’s lovely bed and settle down. I can hear Seth and Atticus on the other side of the door.

I am worried about my son, but Seth turns out to be an excellent nurse, feeding me pretty much what he offers Atticus: a milkshake, mashed potatoes, rice pudding. When I cannot stop shivering, he, masked, covers me in quilts, proffers the thermometer.  After the fever breaks, my confinement feels a bit like being in a cocoon.  I huddle into the covers, knowing that I will share big news when I emerge.  I nibble Wheat Thins, take Tylenol, sip Ginger ale mixed with Grape Juice, a childhood remedy. Eventually, I feel strong enough to take a bath.  Atticus sends me Instagram cat videos. I sleep, watch The Buccaneers, watch Astrid, tell Seth he may NOT finish Friday Night Lights without me. I creep downstairs to collect some water colors and play with paint on a tray on my lap in bed, feeling like a little girl.  It is not all bad.  But mostly, I am sad to miss my time with our son. Having him home again feels normal, the way it’s supposed to be.

Finally, he is able to eat again and I am fully recovered. The three of us go to see Boys in the Boat—no popcorn for Atticus and no straw. Afterwards, in the car, heading for ice cream at Mitchesll’s we compare the book and the movie; one of Atticus’ best friends rows crew, and my dad rowed at Penn.  This is how it’s supposed to be—the three of us. No, this is how it used to be for a long time. Even as I revel in the evening, I know it’s temporary; time is running out.

When I share my big news—I am retiring from my school in 18 months--Atticus and Seth stand in the back of the Chapel. Their presence buoys me.

“You’ll cry when you tell the girls,” Atticus warns after I rehearsed last weekend.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I probably will, but I’m glad you’ll be there with me.” My headship is as old as he is. He was an infant in my arms at my first faculty meeting.

After I tell our Upper School students, Seth and Atticus announce we are going out for dinner.

“To celebrate,” they say. I am touched, learning only later that it had been Erin’s idea—Erin is my amazing assistant; she knows this week has been a lot. At dinner, my phone blows up with texts from colleagues—will we cancel school because of the cold? More texts roll in. I need to make a decision.

“Boy, Mom, you are fun to spend time with,” my son smiles.

“Be nice,” Seth chides. “She has to do this—it’s her job.”

I call a cold day and two days later a snow day in anticipation of the storm that has been forecast.  Seth and Atticus brave the blizzard to shop for gear Seth needs for his upcoming trip to Antarctica. I love that Atticus is both the fashion and the gear consultant.  I work all day on Zoom, but it is fun to be at home, as if I am inside a snow globe. Seth models the gear; they have done a good job.

“Kids still text me,” Atticus says about the snow day call. “They think I have the inside track, like I still go to school here.” He grins.  When he was in high school, kids from lots of schools would ask him if I planned to cancel school. His influence was considered vast.

On his last night at home, we finished Friday Night Lights—despite himself, he got drawn in.  This last episode was all about endings. I remind myself that endings are a part of life. Shows end. Vacations end. Chapters end.  But I am still a little teary—though I blame it on the show, my son isn’t fooled.  We can’t always spend the time we want to spend with one another the way we want to spend it—wisdom teeth, Covid, school, distractions…and now we are out of time. We’ve packed his suitcase and his duffle, put his liquids into Ziplock bags. Reluctant to end the evening, we hung out, Atticus and I together on the couch, Seth in his chair. Finally, we headed upstairs.

And this morning, he hugged each dog, patted each cat, murmured his goodbyes to these creatures who will not understand where he has gone.

“Hurry,” I fussed, “I don’t want you to miss your plane.”

I squeezed him fiercely, managed not to cry. “It’s only college,” I said firmly to myself. “He’s happy there.”

I know all that. And yet.

The molecules shift and change. He’s gone for now. Each time he leaves means moving closer to the time when he no longer slots back into the way it used to be.

I am proud of him, a little embarrassed by how much I miss him.  And very, very lucky to have children that we love so much.

Banishing the Chocolate Turkeys

Half asleep, on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, I recall I forgot to procure the foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys that always adorned my grandparents’ table at Thanksgiving.  A formal affair, replete with linen tablecloths and napkins and discreet servants summoned by the bell underneath my grandmother’s foot on the carpet, the turkeys were the only bit of levity, arranged in procession from one end of the table to the other, pretty much eye level with little me, finally promoted from the children’s table. Was there still time?

For years, my mother presented our daughters with shiny turkeys, suspiciously the same one year to the next. Had she bought them in bulk and stored them in her present cabinet? And when we began to celebrate Thanksgiving at our own tables, I felt the chocolate turkeys were as essential as sweet potatoes topped with toasted marshmallows.  I’d scour the shelves at Michaels or the grocery stores, snatching up the remaining foil lumps—we had to have chocolate turkeys; they were a talisman, essential to the celebration.

My husband, a vegetarian, dislikes Thanksgiving. He sees the whole run up to the meal as a waste of time, the sides the only part of the meal worth consuming. Churlish, he would prefer Chinese Food, which we do offer him on Christmas, but, so far, we have mostly held out on Thanksgiving. The sulker can’t always win. In fact, he’s a great sous chef when he chooses to be, and no one in our family is better at washing dishes or managing the puzzle of storing leftovers when there is too little room in the fridge(s).  Our two daughters and our son-in-love (my second daughter’s affianced) manage the menu these days. I am allowed to shop and do menial taks, but the calculus of when to put the turkey in—this year, we are downsizing at Cole’s suggestion, and only preparing two turkey breasts—is up to them. I confess I’ll miss the dark meat. I noticed those yams aren’t on his menu, either, but some traditions must endure…

I love setting our table with heavy water goblets and a lace cloth spread over the green damask cloth I prefer. I enjoy laying out the good china, adding additional forks and spoons to the standard table setting. I did order fancy napkins that will, after the holiday, take their place under the sideboard with all the other fancy napkins we did not use up on other holidays. Perhaps, one day I’ll lay out only mismatched napkins—mistmatched teacups are considered chic these days—I read that somewhere. I like scouring the backyard for some sort of natural centerpiece. When the children were little, we painted their hands and pressed them onto sheets of card stocks, decorating their little handprints with feathers and glitter. We’d hang their creations on the dining room windows—I suspect those turkeys are somewhere in the attic in a dusty box. 

Seth, my husband, will use his penknife to get the candles to fit inside the candelabras which, if polished, would not look out of place at Downton Abbey and definitely are too large for our table for seven. Still, they were my mother’s and I love them.  The pies are coming from New York City, and I will miss the fun of clearing the counters to roll out crusts, but I know what is brought will be delicious. Our son will fly home Tuesday night; he won’t mind, I hope, that I’ve taken over part of his room for my watercolor studio—a folding table in front of his window, strewn with paints and brushes and half-done projects. Our oldest daughter is staying in NYC with her wife; it’s too long a haul for too short a stay; I will miss them being with us, but they’ll be here for Christmas, which is not so far off now.  Maybe Seth will mend a couple of the dining room chairs we’ve broken over the twenty years we’ve lived here—they are waiting for him in his woodshop at the school I lead across the parking lot; one is conveniently placed in the dining room, its back laid carefully across its seat, a gentle reminder to him of my hopes. If not, some of us will sit on folding chairs.

This morning, I took a first pass at cleaning out the fridge, dumping half a dried-out lemon and some Crème Fraiche well past its prime. I know our predilection for keeping items past their expiration dates exasperates our children, just as my own mother’s habit made me shake my head. We are, many of us, tough on our parents. Sometimes, I think our children believe we are one step from the home, though I think my husband—grouchy though he sometimes appears over the holidays—have a few more good years in us. He is happiest on the lawn, setting up inflatables that delight the little girls in my school.  Watching Michigan beat Ohio State also pleases him, so I offer a quiet hope for a Wolverine victory.

Families grow and shrink. Holidays mark time. 

“Don’t you want to have Thanksgiving in Eagles Mere?” I asked our son earlier this fall.

“Absolutely not. I want to come home.”

Home. We have celebrated holidays in lots of different homes: in the house where I grew up, with Seth’s family in Arizona and New Mexico, at several houses in Eagles Mere, in overheated apartments in Manhattan, at Lyman House, here in Ohio.  These days, home, in my mind, is less about the kitchen or the table and more about gathering, about gazing around the table at our family—thinking about the ones we miss and appreciating the ones that are with us. And I love the preparations, love the feeling of waking up on Thursday morning knowing that we are all focused on a shared endeavor.

When I wake up enough this morning to scooch up onto my pillows and slide my laptop from my bureau onto my knees, I google chocolate turkeys. There they are, the foil feathers apparently unchanged since 1963. I wonder if they make dark chocolate ones now? Would those taste better? They make them, but they look just like their milk chocolate pals. The party favors of my childhood were not particularly tasty; after you unwrapped the foil and bit off the legs, the hollowness you discovered within was disappointing, the chocolate grainy. So, I restrain myself. I do not purchase any turkeys. For me, they are nostalgia, memory, my grandparents, my mother, but unnecessary. Traditions evolve. The idea of the turkeys felt momentarily urgent, but no one actually eats them—not with pie and Susan Stamburgh’s cranberry sauce and a spicy mac n’ cheese our son-in-love prepares. I consign the little foil guys to memory, print my shopping list, head to the market.

Going on a Bear Hunt

Dear Beloved Head of School Friend,

 I see you, so accomplished, so accustomed to swiftly solving problems in your school, feeling you are going through something and frustrated that you are not your typical optimistic, ebullient self.

 So many women like us climbed a linear ladder to attain our roles: teacher, dean, department chair, division director, head of school—each path distinct, few breaks. We were on the move, ascending. Along the way, perhaps we dreamed of running a school. Perhaps someone else put the idea in our heads. We met consultants, entered searches, interviewed, and, if we were lucky and in the right place at the right moment with the right search committee, we were chosen.

 We believed we were in control all along. After all, we are endlessly competent, we women heads. We have reservoirs of talent and patience and humor. We know how women leaders are perceived, so we are mindful of not coming on too strong, of listening deeply, of building consensus. We take time to build coalitions in our schools. We are interested in everyone—parents, teachers, staff, children, alums, neighbors. We smile and soothe and fix, seamstresses of a sort, stretching fabric to cover a tear, mending a seam, making beautiful patterns. Or maybe we are more like feudal lords, meting out justice, smoothing ruffled feathers, refereeing disputes over turf and power—or circus ringmasters, taming lions and getting horses to march in formation or conductors of grand orchestras who know just how to keep the piccolo from being drowned out by the tympani. We know these things and do these things as they apply in schools--always with a smile. 

 And, one day, we discover, we have “made it.” We lead schools we love. We serve boards. We stand before children, modeling what leadership looks like. We resolve conflicts, think about what’s best for the institutions, consider budgets and deferred maintenance and the regulations governing athletics, and whether or not APs are good for anyone. We seek to understand the needs of our post-pandemic faculty and staff. We wonder about the changing needs of the workforce, the tuition models of our school, demographics, what to say when the world combusts or another school shooting occurs.  Some of us do more with less. At work, we stay calm—temper is a luxury forbidden an independent school leader.  Our email boxes overflow, cascading with messages and questions and meeting invitations. We go to lots of meetings. Our time is not our own, and the days we plan are rarely the days that happen. There’s always something unexpected; sometimes, the surprises please us—the 3-year-olds parading through our offices, a Senior confiding joyous college news—often, there are tougher interruptions: a colleague fighting ill health, someone behaving badly. Our days are long—some days, we get to school at 7, welcoming children at car circle and go home after 7.

We come home to dogs or children or spouses who love us or don’t, to friends and families. We manage the complexities of all those relationships, too, remembering birthdays and who is gluten-free, and which relatives need attention and who needs tough love. We water the plants and order holiday gifts. We cook and prep for classes or meetings. We read more email; perhaps we take care of ourselves—a massage, a walk, a session with a coach or therapist—but often, self-care is pushed aside because we are taking care of others.

 You confide that  you’re not sure why you feel the way you do right now—a little off, less positive than is typical for you.  I ask if you can be curious, if you can sit with not knowing why you feel as you do? I suggest there is knowing and there is feeling, and you smile. As heads, we like knowing. Knowing is certain, sorted, tidy. Feelings, on the other hand, can be messy, complicated, hard.

 You share you have a parent who is dying. And you do not know when that will happen.  What you don’t say is that you also don’t know how you will feel when that parent leaves you. We are grown women, but it is hard to be without a mother or a father, no matter how old we are. And if we did a study of all the women heads we know, I suspect a lot of us are the care takers in our families. When we keep moving, keep all the plates spinning in the air above us, we can keep feelings at bay—those familiar feelings of wondering if we are enough?  As the leader of a girls’ school, this is the one feeling I’d like to shield my students from.

 When, as a much younger woman, I first read about Imposter Syndrome, I felt a frisson on recognition. No matter how accomplished I am, I wonder if someone yet will come along and unmask me, crying, “Fraud.” I am a woman of a certain age; this reckoning is not likely to occur. And yet, that fear is a version of the self I was in 7th grade when I stood in the dark gym at the boys’ school and hoped someone would pick me. And no one did.

 So, here is what I offer you. Be how you are, even though it’s uncomfortable. If you can, ease up. Wonder about how you feel without criticizing or judging it. Live in what my friend, Paul, calls “the land of I don’t know.”  Do you remember the children’s book, Going on a Bear Hunt?  “You can’t go under it, you can’t go over it; you just have to go through it.”

 There is something on the other side of how you feel. Remember that some fields have to lie fallow before new crops can surge forth. So, it may be for us. We, too, have seasons. And while you are waiting for what comes next—something that may be wholly unexpected--practice tenderness with yourself, practice grace and gratitude—a tiny bullet journal works for me. I write three things most night that I am glad for in my life. Reach out to the people who fill you up, who love you not because you are a head of school but despite the fact you are one.  And set yourself free from urgency, from controlling what might come. Sometimes, we are so accustomed to putting out fires, we think a pause is cheating, but it’s not.

 Know you are enough—just as you tell the girls at school that they are.  You are, too, my beautiful scarf-loving friend.  You are absolutely enough. 

A New Chapter: Volleyball Without My Boy

I am in the gym, waiting for the Varsity Volleyball game to begin. It’s late September. The two teams are warming up, our gym alive with energy and expectation. One player bounces the ball  against the wall, warming up her fingers for setting. Others pass and serve and run. It’s well-organized chaos. They know what to do. I sit in the stands, chatting with parents. I am known as a headmistress-fan and I’ve logged many hours in this gym. The excruciating temperatures the kids endured before we added air conditioning last summer are now a faint memory. The new space gleams.  Though I know he isn’t here, I scan the players, looking for my son.

My son was born on the twelfth day of my headship; when he was an infant, he napped in a bassinette my office. He went to our Early Childhood, but when it was time Kindergarten, he had to leave us since Laurel, the school I lead, is an all girls’ school. Still, in a sense, Atticus grew up in the Laurel. As a little boy, he’d get off the bus from his school, check in with me if I happened to be free. My assistant, Erin, would give him a snack, and then, most days, he’d wander over to the gym to watch the Upper School girls play volleyball and basketball. He’d hang his legs through the bars of the railing and watch. Eventually, Erica, who coached volleyball, and Tim, who coached basketball, invited him down. By ten, he was on the court, fully a head shorter than most of the girls, learning the basics of both sports. Those coaches offered him a community, and the girls welcomed him, part-mascot, part-little brother. He belonged. As the college process unfolded last fall, he and I bantered that he should write his college essay about growing up in a girls’ school. 

At games, when he was little, Atticus would run in front of the fans, toting a huge stuffed gator on his back. He loved going to games and practices, keeping the stats, being part of it all. Volleyball won out over basketball as the sport he would play.  As he grew, his skills increased. Last year, as his father recovered from back surgery, I went with Atticus for a weekend tournament in Columbus. I watched him serve and set and bump and kill. On the court, he was not as tall as many players, but he was a skilled communicator. He knew the game; he was encouraging of his teammates, confident, respected.  Now, he’s off at college, playing club volleyball with the boys and managing the girls’ team.  I remembered his first club practice when he was about twelve.  The team, mostly Catholic, prayed.

“I didn’t know what to do, Mom,” Atticus said.

“So what did you do?” I asked my Jewish-Protestant son, who has spent little time in either a temple or a church.

“I just bowed my head like the other guys and looked at the floor.”

Smart boy.  Last night, watching our Laurel team line up for the National Anthem, I missed being able to spot him on the bench, conferring quietly with the coaches.  By the time he left for college, he was an honorary member of the coaching staff, trusted to run drills and work with players.  His love of the Laurel teams who welcomed him meant I grew to love these sports, too. It’s easy for me to stop in the gym on the way home—I have to pass it to leave the building. Habits form. 

in the stands, I’m a regular, raising my voice to cheer on the girls I love. “Go, Gators!” I yell.  I want them to hear me.

Without Atticus to spy on, I consider this team.  Vanessa, our libero, was a shy ninth grader in my English class, but now jumps straight up when she serves and is fearless as she lunges low to bump. Ninth grade Jordyn, at Laurel since she was a baby, has a serve that skims the net, effortless and lethal; Reese, new to the school this year, plays as if she is a lot taller than she is; Kayla, my advisee and outside hitter; Ana and Linden, who have both height and power; McKeely, the setter, who is everywhere at once, encouraging, supporting, the heart center of the team. Liv, Jordyn L., Sophie, Azariah. I love them all plus the JV squad and the legions of players—both basketball and volleyball—who have inhabited our gym over the past twenty years—G and Claire and the Thierry twins and Shea and Margaret and Natalie—if only briefly. In the gym—unlike the sports played on fields, I can see the players’ faces--their grins and grimaces. The immediacy appeals to me. When we miss a point, I deflate; when we ace a serve or put a shot away, so that the other team has no shot of returning it, I delight—the same is true for basketball when we miss a basket or score—such waves of feeling sweep through me. I know the other team wants to win, but I want our girls to win more!

I love our girls, love the way they “woof” in triumph after points scored, love the way the JV girls encourage them from the sidelines, “It’s okay, V!  Good try,” the 9th graders yell when Vanessa misses a shot and lands on the floor. I love the team culture. We have sisters playing this year—Cia and Ana—their older sister, Delia—already graduated—they are a volleyball dynasty! 

After Varsity handily dispatched their opponent in the first set, I mad my way across the parking lot, opened our back gate, and got on with making dinner.

Pictures of Atticus adorn our fridge—the day he got his license sophomore year, a picture of him at Miranda’s wedding, his final hug with Cordelia as we left him at Bowdoin. When I got back from Maine, I discovered he had left bright pink post-it notes all over the house for me: “I miss your food.” “Call me—I’m still up.” “Don’t put chili powder in the coffee.” (In my defense, I only did that once, but it has mythic status in the family).  The notes made me weep and laugh. I’m proud of him for all he has accomplished, proud of him for his independence, and grateful to him for his love and care. I’m surprised he didn’t leave a post-it for me on the bleachers in the Laurel gym saying, “Go, Gators!”  In a letter he wrote to me, he reminded me to remember how much I love the Laurel girls when I missed him.  Obedient, I am loving them.

 He is playing volleyball on a new team now, finding his way in a new gym in another state. I’m at home, missing him, but feeling lucky that he grew up with me at the school I lead and amazed that I am now—thanks to him--a sports fan.

Goat's Adventures Abroad

This piece originally appeared in the lovely but now shuttered publication, Mothers Always Write, in 2014. Dropping Atticus at college earlier this week—at Bowdoin, where this story is set—brought it to mind. When I returned home from drop-off, I discovered Goat on my bed, left for me by my son.

It was nighttime by the time we arrived in Brunswick, and I wasn’t feeling well.  Achy, dizzy, not myself.  By sheer force of will, I had managed the flight from Paris to Newark, Newark to Portland, the drive from Portland to Brunswick, where we would see our daughter, Cordelia, as Antigone in Anouilh’s Antigone the next night.  We ate dinner with her director, a lovely man, whose affection for our daughter and respect for our ten-year old son, Atticus, impressed me.  Atticus liked him, too, though jet lag got him, and he fell asleep on an ottoman.  Finally, back in the Inn, my husband, son and I tumbled into bed. In the night I woke with an “Uh oh feeling.”

Where is Goat?

Goat, whose formal name is Elijah Vanilla Crème Goat, traveled to London and Paris with us over Spring Break, seeing the sights and offering a friendly ear to a boy who was not so sure about unfamiliar places.  I remembered stuffing him into Atticus’ backpack when we left London, but suddenly, I have no memory of packing him  early this morning, when, groggy, we left our miniature hotel room in Paris.  I clambered out of bed and use my Itty Bitty Book light to locate the backpack, which I unzip quietly.  I felt around.  No white fur.  No Goat.  As I feared.  Goat had stayed in Paris.

I felt like crying.  “Bad mother,” I punished myself, despite the fact that my son was ten and perfectly capable of looking after his things.  Except that we left Paris at 4 a.m.  None of us was firing on all pistons. 

What to do? What to do? I knew Atticus will be crushed.  He was too old to accept a new Goat, a trick I tried once when he was three and his beloved Tubby had been mislaid.  When the original, a pale green hippo with pink paws, was discovered, we had Tubby One and Tubby Two. 

Goat is the last.  Atticus and I have talked about this—he has always loved stuffed animals—animals ring his bed—penguins, dogs, rabbits.  He sleeps with Goat and a small bear called Capitan—one of the characters from Commedia del’Arte. His sisters—ever so much older—have matching bears with Commedia names, too—Smeraldina and Columbine---the hazards of a theatre family—even our animals get names from Shakespeare or mythology. Goat, named entirely by Atticus was the last new acquisition to my son’s menagerie. 

“Enough,” I said, irritated, last fall.  “There are too many stuffed animals in this room, on this bed. No more animals.”

My exasperation, I know, is tied up in Atticus’ pleasure in remaining a little boy—by his own admission, he worries about getting older, is reluctant to grow up, to take on school work, to show how competent he is.  And a piece of me empathizes with his fear.  It’s nice to be cared for, to have few obligations, to have a Mom and Dad who swoop in to fix things.  I explain that his reading by himself doesn’t mean I won’t read to him, that his managing his homework independently doesn’t mean we’ll throw him to the wolves—the year has been a struggle.  He sees his sisters working hard in college; me, working hard as the Head of the School on whose property we live but which he, being a boy, had to leave before Kindergarten.   He sees his Dad working hard as a math teacher at my school. He feels exiled.  He hates that he is so much younger than his sisters, hates having to do much that does not involve the Disney Channel.  Too much of his life is spent in front of a screen, escaping and untended by older parents, who are too busy coping to remember to entertain him or to hold him accountable. I know some of Atticus’ resistance is because he feels less than…he doesn’t believe he is capable, and though I can say it all day long, he needs to feel inside himself that he can manage, be successful.  Effort and persistence, key aspects of growth mindset, have not yet taken root, so I fuss at him, a nagging mom, who loves him so much, but wants him to step up.  His father, calmer, worries privately, to me or to his sisters, noting on the soccer field that Atticus gets tired and stands, hoping the ball will come his way.  We want to allow him to be who he is.  We want him to be more.  It’s a wicked cycle. 

Last fall, we went shopping for a baby gift, and Atticus spied Goat in a lovely boutique.

“Look, Mom.  He’s so great.  He looks distinguished. Look at his beard.”

“No,” I said firmly.  “We agreed.  No more animals.” 

Sadly, Atticus muttered, “I don’t have any goats,” but reluctantly returned Goat to the shelf.

But secretly, in a mixed messages mothering move, I snuck back and purchased Goat, hiding him from Atticus. I tucked him into the top of my boy’s stocking, so he was joyfully discovered on Christmas morning.  We named him that night as Atticus solemnly contemplated the animal he knew would be the last stuffed companion to come into the house. 

“He looks like the little blue cups of half and half I drink at First Watch, Vanilla Crème.”

“Okay, anything else?  Want to call him Vanilla Crème Brulee?” I ask. Names matter. And I love Crème Brulee.

“Nope.  Elijah.  Elijah Vanilla Crème.”

“With Goat as his last name?” 

“Yes, but I might call him Goat for short.”

“Sounds sensible.” 

Often, after I read to him at night, Atticus, my philosopher, offers me his musings. This night, he says:

“Sometimes Christmas is hard, Mom.  I look forward to it for so long, but then the girls don’t even want to do anything.”

“Well, we went to the Annie movie.”

“Yea, I guess it was okay.”

“I agree.  It was medium.”

“But you gave me Goat, Mom.  That was pretty great.” 

“I’m glad.  It's fun to have surprises sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says, drowsy.

Theirs was not a long relationship, but one that mattered.

At 2 a.m. from my bed in chilly Brunswick, I did not have the heart to wake my husband, who was finally in deep slumber.  Fretting, I email Lili, a former student, who lives in Paris.  We had been with her the night before.  She lives in the Marais across from the Pompidou, and Atticus, suspicious of Paris because it felt darker and drearier than London—possibly because it rained most of the time we were there—loved her.  He even ate the savory crepes her fiancé prepared—it had been a magical final evening.

“Don't laugh.  Could you call the Odeon St. Germain and see if they found Goat, Atticus’ lovey?  I think he slipped down between the beds.  He’s white, so I think I just missed him.”

In moments, she wrote back.  “They have him!”

I thanked her extravagantly. 

Relieved, I give into illness and jet lag and went back to sleep.  In the morning, Atticus poked me gently, at the side of my bed, eyes brimming.

“Mom, I can’t find Goat.”

“Honey, he decided to take an extra day in Paris.  He wanted to visit the Pompidou.  Lili is sending him home tomorrow.”

“He stayed in Paris?”  Atticus is incredulous, disbelieving.

“Yep.  He liked the crepes.”

“You’re teasing. Did we forget him?”

“What’s going on?” my husband asked groggily.

“We lost Goat,” Atticus quavered.

“We didn’t lose him,” I explained to Seth. “We know where he is. Lili has him and she is sending him tomorrow.” 

Seth asks, “You talked to Lili?  It’s 7:00 a.m.?”

“I know.  Email.”  Seth rolled over.  Atticus, soothed, went back to his I-pad.

Crisis averted.  Atticus was okay.  I was ill but much better than I had been at 2:00 in the morning. I was grateful that Lili saved the day. My mother- guilt was assuaged. 

Later, Lili sent a photo of Goat to reassure Atticus.  She wrote “Totally my pleasure to be walking around Paris with an adorable stuffed goat. The French word for a child's sacred stuffed animal is "doudou" and they take these things very seriously - the hotel staff was sincerely concerned / protective / relieved.”  Lucky Atticus, to have misplaced a lovey in a land that values a child’s relationship with a stuffed toy.

We saw Antigone.  Cordelia was exceptional—fiery, vulnerable, authentic. Five minutes in, Atticus’s head drooped onto my shoulder.  He snored softly.  I tried to rouse him, but he was too tired.  We are a pair—one over-tired boy, one sick mother. Only my husband, Seth, seemed in tact, alert, unscathed by jet lag.  His experience working abroad served him well; he travels light and adapts fast. 

The next morning, Cordelia bustled into our room at the inn, administering Source Water, chosen for electrolytes, scolding me about dehydration, patiently watching her brother’s magic tricks from the kit he acquired at Hamley’s in London, the highlight of his trip.  A few days later, we left for Cleveland.  Lili assured us that Goat is en route, and about a week later, he arrived.  Atticus worried that he may have been harmed, squashed as he was into the padded envelope, but a quick shake and he was uncrumpled. 

That night, once again, Atticus clutched Goat next to him in bed. 

“I liked London, Mom.  I didn’t like Paris.  I like home best.”

His eyelids fluttered, lashes resting finally.  I look at his silky dark hair, the round curve of his cheek.  He needs to leave his little boy self at his own pace, not at mine. Goat may need to keep him company on the way. He is my own Peter Pan, my own Dorothy, refusing to grow up at any one’s time table, but his own, realizing, after his travels, that there no place like home.

Still, sitting by the bed, I think that he is also Jackie Paper to my Puff. “Painted wings and giant strings make way for other toys.  Little boys grow up in a blink, when we are not watching. Seth and I, after the daily care of children for so decades, will wonder at the house’s quiet, at our lack of tasks to accomplish.  I breathe in his lingering little-boy-ness, the need he has for his mother.

Watching him sleep, finally, I know the day will come when he no longer will cuddle goat.  Even now, he is changing, struggling.  And I, like Atticus, am struggling, too, with the knowledge that there will a come a time—in fact, there must come a time—when I can’t fix whatever is awry; even now, I feel a little guilty.  I’m a school-teacher who reminds parents often that we hobble our children when we try to assuage every bump.  But tonight, I forgive myself, knowing that soon he will not need or want me to unravel all the snags.  

It is easy to get Goat back; other losses along the way are harder to bear.  We manage.  We move forward.

Sweet dreams, Atticus.  Sweet dreams, Goat.  Welcome home.

A Headmistress Reflects on Barbie World

When our first daughter was born, I vowed there would be no Barbies in our home. Growing up for thirteen years in a girls’ school and choosing a concentration in Women’s Studies within my English Major in college; I viewed Barbie as a synonym for all that was awry in sexist American culture. She was objectified for an unattainable physique. Acquiring all the accessories that were marketed with her seemed materialistic. And, perhaps, worst of all, she seemed vapid. I wanted better for my daughter.    

As a little girl, I inherited my older sister’s Barbies and enjoyed pulling their heads off to switch which head went on which body. I do not remember why this was entertaining since all the bodies were the same. Skipper interested me more than Barbie because she was like me, a little sister. I ignored Ken. My brother had drawn on him in indelible marker.   Dressing the dolls felt frustrating; their limbs didn’t bend and it seemed undignified to turn the dolls upside down to shimmy their narrow pants up their legs. Also, we never seemed to have panties to go under those very tight pants.  By the time another friend of my sister’s passed down her Barbie dreamhouse, I was too old to play much with dolls. Though I loved make-believe, I couldn’t quite imagine what Barbie might yearn to do.   In those days–the late 60’s, Barbie hadn’t yet become a career woman. She seemed, frankly, boring.  

Like so many of the grand schemes young parents imagine, mine fell to dust. At her second birthday, Miranda, our oldest, was given a Barbie by a nursery school classmate, whose mother, I recall, upon reflection, looked a lot like Barbie. Our feisty, independent toddler loved the bright pink packaging and Barbie’s fancy blonde curls. Should I have grabbed the doll from her reach? My husband and I exchanged a glance. Tears on a birthday because of this mother’s social conscience did not feel right. I don’t think I ever purchased a Barbie for our daughters, but I did let them play with my vintage Barbies, discovered in a plastic bag in a closet in my mother’s house.  They much preferred American Girl dolls, who came with books and even more expensive accessories.  

As the hype surrounding the film increased, I was not excited about seeing the Barbie movie.  But a colleague head said, “Ann, you’re the head of a girls’ school. You have to see it.” When reviews of the Barbie movie began to show up on my social media feed earlier this summer, I mostly ignored them. But then I read an interesting editorial that suggested this movie was more than maribou feathers and glitter.  Greta Gerwig, critics suggested, had upended our Barbie stereotype. Susan Faludi, whom I admire greatly, liked the film. Another head friend wrote her back-to-school letter about the movie. I had to go.

Dressed in the requisite pink, my son, Atticus, 19, and I went to the Barbie Movie. I was curious, skeptical at the beginning, totally hooked as Barbie encountered surly Sasha and her mom, the complicated and wonderful,Gloria, who was, in fact, glorious. Atticus reported to his older sisters that I cried the whole time, which is not accurate, but I did cry. So much of what Gloria said as she deprogrammed Barbies hypnotized by Ken’s adoption of a patriarchy in Barbieland resonated. Gloria’s monolgue mirrored conversations I have had for decades with girls and women as a teacher, mother and friend. It is complicated to be female. There are paradoxes that feel impossible to navigate, contradictions, judgements, societal norms, pressure. I felt as if I knew the words Ferrera would speak before she uttered them.  

I have spent most of my life as a teacher in girls’ schools, encouraging girls and young women to use their voices. I’ve reminded legions of girls that they have a right to be at every table and reminded them, too, that they have access to an exceptional eduction.  “Of those to whom much is given, much is expected,” my mother used to say.  Sometimes I say, “Carry as you climb; women need to lift up other women, not tear them down.”  Sometimes, the girls in my classes roll their eyes as I talk about the fact that we are not yet on a level playing field in terms of men and women being paid equally for having the same qualifications and doing the same work. Then, they return from college and say, “Ms. Klotz, you were right–people ARE sexist.” There is no joy in being right..

For many of the girls in the school I lead, the Barbie movie may seem like an innocuous parody of times long past—for me and for women my age and older, not so much. But part of why the movie may feel more entertaining than revolutionary is because of the work we do at Laurel every day.  Our students come of age in a school that encourages them to be their authentic selves, that encourages them to dream, dare, do, to explore possibilities, to reject anyone who tries to diminish them or judge them…what would have happened to Barbie if she had been a Laurel girl?

Driving home from the movie, my son and I discussed Ken’s story, too. Patriarchy is no good for anyone; Ken was about as undifferentiated a character as any character could be; his plaintive declaration, “I am Ken,” moved me, but not as much as the real woman’s speech about womanhood. Gloria says:

“It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don't think you're good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we're always doing it wrong.

You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin…You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people… 

But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged…You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line…”

I need to see the movie again. Soon. Maybe tonight.  It is a fable for our time, a call to action, a subversive and not so subtle but marvelous take on what it is to be female (and male) in our nation. Yes. I love when a billion dollar movie has a social conscience with Greta Gerwig as the director; I love the sheer number of people who are seeing this film. 

In a Facebook post I wrote the day after seeing the movie, I closed by wondering if this movie, this colossal hit, could change us, and a former student wrote to me, “Ms. Klotz, maybe it already has.”  I smiled. Maybe it has.

Nesting--Originally Published in Mothers Always Write, 2017

Nesting

If I were born a boy, my father always told me, they would have called me Robin.

When I was little, my mother would say, “Take your hairbrush out to the garden and clean it there.  The birds can use your hair to line their nests.”  Enchanted, I’d flit down the back steps to the boxwood bushes and tulips. Running the comb through the dreaded brush to loosen the strands, I’d chat with a robin, who tilted her head with interest: “Here you go, birdie.  Take my hair for your nest.  It’s very soft.”  For a minute, I was the bird lady in Mary Poppins, not feeding the birds, but offering them something of use for their shelter.

Nest building is the job of the mother bird, of course.  No one teaches mama birds the way I learned to pass the potholder loops over, under, over, my fingers clumsily learning rudimentary weaving.  Female robins are deft, intuitive, tucking strands, adapting materials, with beaks far more clever than my chubby fingers.  They make homes for their babies out of grass and thread and bits.

Our daughter, Cordelia, stands on the back porch of our summerhouse.  She is in conversation with the birds.

“Do you hear, Mom?  That’s the chickadee answering me.” Cordelia has taken an American Songbird music class in college. Her melodious calls are hard for me to distinguish from those of real birds.  She sings: the birds answer.  It is a chorus, a symphony of bird song in our backyard.  She grins.  My mom would have loved this duet.  I am awed—it is as if, like Cinderella, she can call the birds to her to do to her bidding. Our children have so many selves, so many bits that inspire us, even as they reveal that they are separate from us.

 “And there’s a dove.  You love doves,” she grins. 

I do love mourning doves like my mother before me.  Their throbbing coo brings my mom back to me—doves, who reuse robins’ nests to lay their own eggs, sort of like a rental property, so practical.  It was my own practical mother who taught me how to identify songbirds, first by helping me collect feathers one summer and looking up in her bird book the bird to whom each feather belonged:  Baltimore Oriole, Scarlet Tanager, Junco, Woodpecker. Then, together we made a scrapbook, pasting bird silhouettes onto construction paper and piercing the top corner with a shiny brad.   Towards the end of her life, I sat with Mom, her chair tilted to see out the sliding glass doors to watch her feeder, gleeful with the arrival of goldfinches, furious when aggressive jays dive-bombed the sparrows or chickadees.

“Get away from there,” she’d holler, rapping her cane against the glass.  Her bird book still rests on the shelf above where her chair used to be.  Though she has flown away, each summer, we fill the feeder off her porch.  I mix hummingbird nectar, suspending crimson feeders across the front of the house to entice the tiny, jeweled creatures to sip and hover, honoring my bird-loving mom.  Where do they go, I wonder, when they finish drinking?  I have never seen a hummingbird nest in the mountains of Pennsylvania. I have read that those nests are infinitesimal, exquisitely constructed. Perhaps I do not know where to look.

One bright September afternoon, I see the Kindergarten having recess in the courtyard and join them.

“Look at our fairy garden, Ms. Klotz,” Ariya trills. “It’s magic.  A new chair and a gazebo and statue!!!  They came last night—magic!”

 “Magic, indeed,” I confirm, hoping I had remembered to take the price tags off the bottoms of the tiny items.

“And over here, Ms. Klotz, look over here,” Caroline peeps, tugging my hand, urging me toward a pile of grass and leaves on a flagstone.

“We made a soft landing—see?” She points above us, and I see a nest snuggled in a crabapple tree.  The nest is empty, but Caroline is prepared:

“In case a baby drops out.  It would have this soft place to fall.”

A soft place to fall.  No matter that it is September, and the little birds are long flown away—we all need a soft place to fall.

“That is splendid, girls,” I murmur, “just splendid.  Those baby birds are lucky to have such clever, thoughtful engineers. “ 

“Their mommies would be happy, Ms. Klotz,” chirps Caroline, “that they have a soft  landing place.

“Yes, I think their mommies would be very glad.”

“And then the mommy bird would fly back down and pick up her baby and tuck her back into the nest,” clucks Grace with confidence, her golden hair downy in the light.

I nod and we move onto hopscotch.  Just for a moment, magic and fairies are stronger than any preachy drivel about what really happens when birds fall from the nest.  Isn’t that it, really?  The fear all of us have as mothers—that one of our own will crash, won’t have her landing cushioned, won’t be lifted back into the nest? In fact, if a baby bird survives a fall, we should not intervene.  Her mother is still watching—sometimes from as far as a block away--and she will do her best to feed and care for the baby as long as humans don’t interfere.  Lots of babies fall from nests.

Birds, nests, families, stages. 

As a child, I watched robins raise their broods each July in the snowball bushes that flanked our porch.  From the kitchen window, I could see the babies stretching their necks up for worms, the parents attentive to their demanding toddlers.  We would watch the flying lessons, standing quietly not so close that we made the mother nervous, but from a few steps away on the porch. I hated the occasional tiny bird, barely looking like a bird, which we discovered beneath the snowball bushes—a yolky, translucent, bloody, mass. 

Our nest’s contours don’t quite suit us as our children leave, return, leave more finally.  We are in the in-between time now. One is really gone; one about to finish college; one in sixth grade.  We will not have an empty nest for many more years.  What we have is an emptying one.  With two of our children grown—more or less—I wonder what the shape of my own mothering will become once they no longer live under my roof; once I am no longer charged with dropping impossibly long worms down tiny gullets or required to sit on top of all of them to keep them safe and warm.  I waited a long time for them to arrive, and with the gap between the girls and our son, I will wait a long time, too, for them to be fully gone, but I am already thinking, mourning, what it will be like to be without them.

What’s the moment when we understand our children are distinct from us? Our two daughters went to school with me from the time they were in sixth and fourth grades. I liked having them near, seeing their heads bent over their lunches, always noticing them in their places during assembly.  I miss the quick visit at day’s end, Cordelia bursting in: “Mom, do you have any money?  We’re going to get smoothies.” Or Miranda appearing, once she was old enough to drive, with a smile: “Hi, Mom, brought you a latte.”  I loved the immediacy of their lives unfolding around me.

Now, as our daughters skim into adulthood, I startle.  They are the age now that I remember being just a blink ago.

I watched them live their college experiences, happy to welcome us for a show or a dance concert, but during those weekends, I felt extraneous, a visitor trailing behind me scraps of their childhoods, out of place, unwelcome in a dorm apartment.  It is curious to observe one’s child at college, in her own nest, to resist the urge to tidy up unless asked, to greet friends whose names mean little to you because you never had a face to put with the name.  I scrutinize their desks, searching for confirmation via post-its and Polaroids and dried bouquets that they are well and happy.  These are their nests, not mine. They take us out for dinner, enjoy showing us their worlds as if we are tourists.  We disrupt their flight path when we’re there.  I recall my own mom visiting to see my plays in college.  I loved having her and couldn’t wait for her to leave. 

Our visits are important, though, to prepare myself for the fact that they are not coming home—for good. Going into their college space or into our oldest daughter’s first NYC apartment reminds me this is what it will be moving forward—me going to visit them; them coming home to visit, only to perch, not to land or nest.  Nest.  Twigs, sticks, floss, thread.  Insubstantial yet enduring.  Glued together with mud.  How do nests withstand weather anyway?  In Ohio, it’s not uncommon in the freeze of February to look up at a leafless tree and see a nest, exquisitely formed, still wedged in a tree’s limbs.  Waiting?  I find the work of raising the same family over many seasons hard; imagine if I had to start over several times every year, raising several batches of eggs and having them with me for only two weeks at a time?

Our house feels different when the girls are back and when they’re gone again, the molecules reorganizing.  Their much younger brother anticipates their return with huge excitement, so huge he is bound to feel disappointed.  They return, regress. They strew their possessions.  The house heaves, expanding to accommodate them.  We sit at the dining room table in our old places, eating meals, but the temporary feeling is excruciating; we are playacting what once was the rhythm of real life.  And then, they fly away again, those older two.  Their dad, brother and I stumble back into what it’s like to be without them each day, picking up a left-behind scarf, marveling, missing them.  We feel bereft and relieved.  Like visiting them at college in reverse.

It is late summer when we find the corpse of a baby bird in our back yard.  We know our two young cats are the culprits.  A few feet away, a second corpse, and then we see the third.  The mother robin shrieks, circling devastated.  The nest of birds we had so enjoyed watching has been decimated. It is too much, these helpless little birds murdered by our own feline boys.  My husband, Seth, brushes away tears with the back of his hand.  “It’s not their fault; they’re just doing what cats do,” he, always reasonable, explains.  We go inside, unable to withstand the mother’s desperate grief.  The nest, empty, reproaches us all fall, all winter.  “Do not build your nest there again,” I implore the robin when I see her again in the spring.  But she does.  Threads and grasses and straw are refurbished; mud is spread inside for a smooth finish, her chest a paintbrush.  And this time, the babies survive. 

Our own home is temporary.  We live on the grounds of the school I lead.  When I leave the school, we will need to go somewhere.  Two years ago, almost on a whim, we bought a little house that we will, one day, remodel for our inevitable retirement.  It’s down the driveway from our summerhouse, but unlike that one, this one is winterized and has a furnace.  Last August, I took a few friends over to show it off.  Though it is empty, it is full of possibility.  I imagine our grown children bringing their children to see us there at Christmas.  In the miniscule front yard, I crouch. An almost perfect robin’s egg winks up at me.  I lift it gently, look around for the nest.  Seeing none, I carry it inside with me and lay it on the windowsill, a reminder that feathering the nest is always the mother’s job, again and again.  Nest and re-nest.

Fitting the Pieces Together

Since 1979, when Kerro first came to Eagles Mere and the Coo entered him in the Lake Swim fifteen minutes after he got out of the car, we’ve been doing jigsaw puzzles each summer—I’m sure we did them when I was a little girl, but my memory of working on them only stretches back to Kerro’s first summer when we played Perquacky and cooked elaborate meals and debriefed our summer theatre experience—setting the stage for what would become our annual practice.

The puzzle in the dining room cupboard are made of wood and cut with a jigsaw, no guiding image on the warped cardboard carton’s lid to tell us what picture we were trying to put together. The puzzles seem as much a part of Self Help Lodge as the rockers; were they were here when my grandparents acquired the house in 1927? Or did Pop Pop have a predilection for puzzles? I don’t know.  Most are certainly as old as I. They are landscapes and country villages—complicated scenes. The best ones have particular pieces cut into recognizable shapes: an axe, a vase, a heart, a sword—these were named Whimsies in the Victorian era and are always tricky to fit into place. 

Kerro is the impetus behind puzzle-doing, sometimes completing two or three if he is here long enough. What would the family record show of Kerro? He is like my shadow brother, though he has three sisters of his own. Without any conversation, he filled in as a quasi-older brother after my first year in college—it was as if he perceived the gap and filled the role. He came to Eagles Mere after we spent a hot summer dong children’s theatre, touring Connecticut in a van without seats. We still quote lines from those play. When we founded ETC, Kerro was there—faculty member and then relief pitcher during tech week. He is part of the landscape of our lives, the person who often leavens family tension, is loved by Seth and me and our children equally. When he works on a puzzle, his concentration is absolute; he’s in the zone. Puzzles and games delight him—crossword puzzles, Dominion, Ticket to Ride, backgammon. He is good at all of them and is often the instigator, inspiring all of us to join him.

We unfold a card table and put it on the hammock side of the porch, drawing up straight chairs. We spill the pieces out and sort them. Edge. Sky. Foliage. Foliage with sky. Sky-edge, which we name “skedge.” Each piece, disconnected those that had incorrectly fallen together in the tangle of the box, gets turned over, painted side up. Kerro swiftly pieces together the sky edge, which will be the top. I go for color, sorting emerald to one corner and sludge-brown pieces to another. Diva, our blind dog, jumps up, in pursuit of some strawberry-rhubarb bread that I had stupidly placed on the table. Pieces cascade. We rescue the plate—minus a few bites of bread--and restored the fallen pieces, glad Diva had not wolfed them down, too. This week’s effort, Red Coat Inn, does not have a date on its box, which means it’s possible we may have never done it.

After color, I look for shape, how a nubbin of one color might link to the next. This puzzle is well made, but that means it’s not easy, and I need breaks—otherwise, all the pieces start to look the same. I go to change the laundry, come back and see how two more pieces fit together.  Kerro finishes the edge, fills in the sky, but leaves my little corner of pieces for me to play with.

Porch puzzles are communal affairs.  Sometimes a neighbor, stopping by for a chat, slides a piece into place.  We oooh over the whimsies: a vase, a hatchet, a fish, a sword. I like the process of doing a puzzle.  I don’t want to rush it, the sense of leisure and purpose—combined. The edge serves as the frame; we fill in the picture as we go, aware that one artist painted the picture, and another cut it up, giving us the pleasure of putting it back together

Puzzles are leisure pursuits—they require time and patience, stillness, focus, a certain willingness to wait for your eyes to tell you exactly where a piece goes. They also ask us to keep trying, to try to put pieces together because the effort sometimes brings unexpected triumph. The puzzle waits while we scurry around accomplishing other tasks. It is not unlike writing—during the process of putting together the draft of my memoir that I submitted for my MFA, I thought about doing puzzles in Eagles Mere, the patience required to assemble the inside after the frame was complete. In tackling the memoir, both frame and innards were elusive. What story did I really want to tell? Were there bits I was avoiding? Why was it so hard? When I submitted 235 pages about my life, I understood it was not finished. There is another draft—maybe multiple drafts—to come, but the work of choosing what to write about and the effort of rearranging the words, the paragraphs, was no more wasted that the moment when I try to fit a green nubbin into an opening where it doesn’t fit: trial and error and luck sometimes lead to serendipity!  My boss, Sandy, once said we learn the same lessons over and over again.  Puzzles and memoirs both ask me to risk and fail, to be unafraid, to persist. Puzzles are pretty low stakes endeavors; they remind me not to take my memoir quite so seriously. Look away. Look back. The piece may fit. The right structure and the right theme for the memoir will emerge, but I may have to look at it from an angle rather than straight on.

The puzzles wait. On the card table, in their boxes, in the cupboard. They are without agenda, without a to-do list. My memoir is waiting, too.  When Kerro puts the last piece in place the last piece, we sigh in satisfaction. After a few hours or a day, we will break the pieces apart again, tuck them into its dull gold box—now dusted. We’ll inscribe 2023 on the outside of the box, keeping track of which puzzles we’ve completed.

Summer puzzles are a family ritual—soothing, joyful, something to punctuate the season. And a good reminder for this writer, too, about patience and waiting.

Glimmers

A former student of mine, now the mother of twins, posted about glimmers a few weeks ago on her Facebook page. Glimmers are the opposite of triggers, bringing us instant joy, a shiver of delight, rather than a reminder of trauma.

I’ve been thinking about glimmers and watching for them in the way that, as a young mother, I’d lie on my back on the tennis court late in the summer, the children sandwiched between me and Seth, while Kerro, more family than friend, pointed out the constellations and we waited for the shooting stars that always streaked across the navy night. 

“Look,” Seth would point, and the children would chorus, “Where?”

“Above that pine tree,” he’d gesture, helping them locate the star that seemed to tumble from the sky.

Glimmers.  Now that I am watching for them, now that I am paying attention, I find them  everywhere.

Sclepi, one of our rescue dogs, snoring softly at the foot of the bed.

The smell of lemon and garlic on my fingers.

The lake in the early morning when I walk the dogs: still, a dull pewter, like an ancient plate, or deep and dark with the pine trees silhouetted on its surface, a glassy mirror. Each morning, it’s different, and I love noticing its morning mood.

The spider web, magnificent, stretching from one side of the Laurel Path to the other—an incredible feat of architecture, bedecked with dew, which makes it easier to see how carefully it has been spun.

Pots of rosemary and basil thriving on the front steps—along with a cyclamen I had given up for dead in Ohio that appears reborn, foliage dappled!

Seeing James on stage in his one-man show in NYC and bursting with pride that we have watched his journey as a performer since he was thirteen. Knowing that other ETC kids made it their priority to see him perform, too. Remembering ETC—that chapter of our lives—with a sense of joy that it happened for so many years, rather than with the regret that sometimes gnaws because it ended.

Mixing a shade with my watercolors on my plastic $1 palette acquired at Michaels; going back to a watercolor later and adding more details; admiring flowers as I walk and wondering if I understand enough about their shapes to paint them….painting wildflowers every day—for the pleasure of moving color around on paper. 

Teaching my daughter how to needlepoint and sorting through my collection of wools to find a color she needs for her canvas.

Reading on the settee in the afternoon, two dogs curled next to me, Seth across the porch reading in a rocker.

World Cup in Eagles Mere: an annual all-town tradition sponsored by the Eagles Mere Athletic Association—many teams representing many countries with players from age 7-65.  My favorite moment is when the tough, “real” soccer players—often teens or players in their early 20’s—back away from the ball, so a tiny player of either team can touch it.  This year, even a soggy field cannot dim our spirits.

The taste of chocolate chip scones, fresh from the oven, made with love this morning, for my World Cup players.

The unexpected triumph of having our three family team members—Cole, Atticus and Anya--win this morning’s tied game by scoring two penalty kicks!  Anya, Atticus’ Mountain School buddy,  comes up from Charlottesville to play; her mother has a Laurel connection. When people admire her play, I beam. Atticus is the heart of the team; Cole is a magnificent captain.  I, fiercely loyal fan, cheer and cheer, and worry I might scream, “Go, Gators!” even though they are Team Saudi Arabia—it’s the dark green t-shirts that throw me off.

Lots of little Laurel girls who want to be in a play I wrote and am directing in the fall with Ida—so many that I need to keep writing!

The breeze moving the birch and maple branches, so that the leaves look like they are dancing.

One firefly whose twinkle twirls and spirals up the driveway, illuminating the dark, as I walk from one house to the other.

The scent of our neighbor’s logs in their fire pit, wafting me to sleep.

This porch—essentially another room that serves as office, dining room, gathering space, art studio, place for conversation, favored nap location--full of rockers that have sat right here since 1927.

Good Enough

This is the end of my second week in Eagles Mere, the little village on top of a mountain, where I have spent part of every summer of my life like my mother before me.

I often tell children in my school that we carry ourselves with us.  What I have observed in myself over the last two weeks is, despite the change in venue, habits persist from place to place.  My daily practices, started in joy—water coloring, chair yoga, even writing—begin to feel, swiftly, like obligations—as if I am failing if I am not faithful, not improving. If I don’t practice every day, I fall short of my own expectations. If my flowers are cockeyed, I feel exasperated with my incompetence. How quickly that wondrous beginner’s mind devolves into self-criticism. I am not auditioning for a spot with Cirque de Soleil based on my flexibility, nor I am aiming to become a world-famous water colorist. The only person judging me is me—with my absurd and historical feelings of inadequacy.  What makes me so tough on myself? The sense I have something prove--even to myself—is relentless.  

My younger daughter would attribute my sense of not being enough to intergenerational trauma—events that I could not control left me fearful, helpless, feeling I must strive towards unreachable goals. Or is it gendered?  Is it years of subliminal patriarchal messaging to an ambitious woman? Or some combination of the two? In college, I remember worrying my acceptance had been an admissions error—full-blown imposter syndrome. Perhaps I wasn’t really Ivy League material. During our infertility years, again I felt crushingly inadequate. I could not get pregnant or stay pregnant. Self-doubt still nibbles. Despite the fact that I know I am accomplished, I worry still that I that I want too much—more than my share. To freight my chair yoga practice and fledgling watercolor experiments with all this feels excessive.

I can choose not to listen to that little voice inside my head. I can ignore her when she suggests that I am falling short if I am not doing chair yoga daily or improving my brush technique. I reject the adage “practice makes perfect.” The word practice—both noun and verb—comes from the Old French verb, practiser—to perform, to carry out. There is nothing in the word’s origins that suggests perfection or rigidity or good enough. I am determined to practice my practices with no end goal, without judging my progress. What these two practices offer me is ritual—it is fun to give them time each day, time that is hard to find during the school year. Each is an opportunity for self-care and for pleasure—I do not need to turn them into sticks to beat myself with.

In one of my watercolor books, the author advises painters not to be afraid, to play with color, to embrace serendipity, to make mistakes.  In these next two weeks of practice, I commit to banishing that carping self-critic. Do you remember one of the Mrs. Piggle Wiggle stories when the child said to a parent, “I’ll do it because I want to, not because you tell me to!” No doubt Mrs. Piggle Wiggle had a brilliant intervention for said miscreant, but though I recall no other details of the chapter, I do remember that mantra, and I’ve chosen to adopt it. I commit to doing chair yoga and water coloring when I please, not out of an overdeveloped sense of duty or obligation, but because I want to practice, to play, to indulge. I commit to watching the glorious lake and feeling enough.

When we were young, Seth was the Assistant Lighting Designer on A.R. Gurney’s play, Painting Churches. The play follows Mags, an artist, and her distant, even aloof, WASPY parents. There was much in the play I recognized—after all, I am writing this blog in Eagles Mere, high WASP territory…Her parents are dismissive of Mags’ talents in a way my parents were not; my mother and father were my champions.  At the end of the play, Mags says, “Well, what did you know about my abilities? … You see, I had … I mean, I have abilities … (struggling to say it) I have abilities. I have … strong abilities. I have … very strong abilities. They are very strong … very very strong …”  Over the years, I have coached many students who have used this monologue—it has resounded in my memory for more than 40 years. I have abilities, too—we all do, and I have nothing to prove. 

Self-Care Summer

 My younger daughter teases me that the Anne Lamott quotation on the bottom of my personal email, “Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you" is a tad hypocritical since it is hard for me to unplug and, harder still, to do nothing. I remind those on my leadership team how important it is to take real breaks from work. Last year, following the blurred boundaries of Covid, I made a school rule that we do not send email on weekends or after 8 p.m. on weekedaysunless it is a true emergency—and even then, it’s better to text. 

I know the value of self-care, but I have a hard time living it.  My older daughter and my son say I can’t sit still. They insist that I am forever hopping up because I remember that I left my needlepoint in the other room or I need a charger or I forgot to bring my water out to the porch. While their reminders sometimes feel like criticism, they are not wrong. Therefore, I have pronounced July my self-care summer.  I am in Eagles Mere, the place that feels most like home. And here is the self-care regime to date—note, it took the first week of the month to make this list:

Watercoloring.  I cannot draw for my life, but I love color, love watching colors merge and spill, so while I wait for my memoir to steep, in order to avoid the temptation of opening the memoir file on my laptop, I set up a watercolor station on the porch, complete with lots of watercolor mini-lessons on Instagram and two “How To” books. I find myself more awrd of the shape of leaves and flowers. I am looking more closely at the world when I walk our dogs.  When my efforts look like a four-year old could do better, I remind myself that I am not trying to be an artist; rather, I’m playing with a new medium, one that is far away from words. Colors, shades, shapes, mistakes, serendipity, low stakes.  This form of play feels very different from the way my mind typically works—sans language, verbs, sentence structure.  And, one of my favorite writing mentors, Allison Williams, just posted a blog about her newfound love of watercolor, too, so I feel very on trend!   

Chair Yoga.  My sore hand and cranky knee mean I can’t do all I wish I could do, but I have discovered the huge variety of free chair yoga classes that exist on line.  Stretching in the morning feels like a good way to breathe, center and release my neck. Like watercolor, it’s about the practice, not about perfection and when I dislike a particular class or the sound of a teacher’s voice, I simply make another selection the next day.

Walking the dogs early.  The birds wake before dawn here on the mountain. Maisie and Diva wake by 5:30. Up we get, leaving Sclepi and Seth to snooze.  I herd them to the  backyard to wet, make the coffee, feed them, and then, fasten their leashes and take them down the hill to the lake and up through the village green. The other day, a doe eyed us and then darted into the woods.  In the lake, a swimmer is accompanied by a canoe, the paddlers calling out muffled commands.  Some mornings, we greet Opal, a shaggy black dog who loves to swim. It is a quiet lovely time.

Napping on the Porch.  Twice over the holiday weekend, I found myself dozing on our little porch settee, the family around me, chattering.

Hummingbirds . Their little buzz draws my eye as they hover at the feeder I refilled for them yesterday—sugar and water only. 

Novels.  Reading first thing in the morning and throughout the day is the surest sign I am taking care of myself…and losing myself in stories.

Writing.  I know my memoir needs time to percolate, steep, rise, rest, but, for fun, I am playing with turning a script I wrote a dozen years ago at ETC into a novel.  Note: I know nothing about writing a novel. See commitment to watercolors above. I am also working on posting a new blog once a week—just for fun.

Lists. Sometimes, I add a task to my to-do list that I’ve already completed, just so I can check it off. It gives me a sense of accomplishment.

Housekeeping tasks like doing laundry feel less onerous on this month away from school. Perhaps that’s because the laundry room is right off the kitchen—no basement descent required. Cleaning up meals, too, feels less burdensome, especially when there are houseguests and grown children to help.

A change of rhythm is good medicine. Even on holiday, when I look out the window and see the school, it is hard not to think about deferred maintenance on our gorgeous old lady of a building; it is hard to turn off my whirring brain. Here, a few hours to the East, I am working hard to work less hard, to practice ever-elusive self-care.

Search History: Down the Rabbit Hole with Google

I google how to separate Iris rhizomes? Not right now, I learn. My spectacular amber-petaled bearded iris is not yet three years old.

Heliotrope care?  Pinch back the blooms.

When to deadhead peonies? Now.

What to do with puffy feet? Mine. I have already tried legs up the wall, drinking lots of water, elevating my legs. One home remedy is soaking my feet in Epsom Salts. In Eagles Mere, I know we have what looks like a milk carton full of Epsom Salts at the bottom of the back stairs—why is it there? But I am in Ohio. Apparently, we have a foot bath here, but its whereabouts is unknown, so I will eat less salt—not that I like salt, anyway—and wait. Is it the weather? Age? The end of the school year? A mystery.

Sometimes I see a recipe on Instagram, but whenever it says the recipe is in the link in the bio. I can’t find it, so I Google Chickpea Italian Stew, which looks delicious. When our girls were little, I used to make a meal called Chickpea Surprise—it was onions, garlic, chickpeas, zucchini, peppers, and anything else I thought to throw in, with leftover pasta sauce.  The fancy recipe from TikTok is not far off. I feel quiet triumph.

I google air quality—how to assess it, what it is, and how worried I, an asthmatic, ought to be in June as wildfires rage in Canada. Our daughters send photographs from NYC, with apocalyptic hues. 

I google how to return things on Amazon.  It’s easier than I thought. My son and I take the tablecloths we did not use for his graduation party back to Whole Foods, and a nice man scans a QR code on my phone and sends them away. I feel lighter, proud that I returned the unused items—candles, tablecloths, some small pails Atticus rejected to hold the rejected candles—right away.

How to watercolor.  I find countless watercolor mini-lessons, begin to follow them on Instagram, along with photographs of otters. Soon, I will search for free water color classes.

Chair yoga. At my 45th high school reunion, I confessed to my friend, Marijean, that yoga is hard. My right wrist and my right knee aren’t having it. 

“Chair yoga,” Marijean suggested quickly.

“That’s for old people,” I grumbled.

She smiled, said nothing.

I google Chair Yoga. Chair Yoga for Seniors pops up. Seniors? Really?  I persist, find a host of offerings on YouTube and discover I like Kassandra best. I take class with her several times a week.

At school, during a meeting, we discuss our evaluation system, and, quick as a wink, my Assistant Head Googled “Best Practices in Independent School Evaluations.” She says colleagues in her former school used to tease her about how fast she looked up information. “So, it’s not just me,” I think–others are tempted, too, by the possibilities, by answers a few keystrokes away. Down one rabbit hole after the next, in my chair, I gather bits and scraps–what will I do with this assemblage of information. Make a quilt, a nest, a collage? 

Google is like memory steroids. It is confident, quicker than I am as I struggle to recall Emily’s whole monologue in Act III of Our Town, “Oh, earth, you are too beautiful…” How do the lines go?  Google is a kind of magic lamp, with me as the genie, rubbling my keyboard.

I google the text to “Hickory Dickory Dock” for a script I am writing and get distracted by a host of other nursery rhymes on the same screen.  

As a Middle Schooler, I often went to Ludington Library to check out books to read for pleasure and for annual research projects. I’ve forgotten the topics, but I remember the thrill of anticipation as I stood at the pale maple card catalogue with its narrow, unwieldy drawers wondering if I would find enough sources. There was a treasure hunt feeling of seeking a title, copying the Dewey Decimal number onto an index card, and then heading to the shelves. I’d run my finger along spines, checking that the number emblazoned in white ink on the book was the right one. I’d pull the book off the shelf, turn to the index in the back and look for my topic, gleeful when I discovered multiple references: page 34, 107 and 213. I’d flip to the first mention, scanning to see if there was enough to make checking out the volume worthwhile.  Then, back to the card catalogue for the next title. I’d emerge with a stack of books in my arms, including ones that did not strictly align but seemed interesting and, maybe, relevant.  The browsing, itself, was deeply satisfying and took a long time. In college and grad school, pre-Google, I repeated that process again and again, the stacks darker and dustier, the research questions more complex. There was no instant gratification, yet knowing I could find what I wanted to learn made me feel confident and competent. I could know things. Is it possible that Google feels too easy? There’s so much less effort. I have my coffee next to me, a good light shining, my feet up on the ottoman. Sometimes, it feels as if I am cheating. Googling is faster than those trips to the library and less dusty, but also, sometimes, too fast.  Sometimes, as Rilke reminds us, we must love the questions, live with not knowing for a bit.  Sometimes, the answers arrive on the screen before I am quite ready.

As a little girl, I was convinced a phalanx of tiny men, resembling my brother’s plastic army figures, lived inside the radiators, pumping out heat, the clanking evidence of their labors. When I Google, it’s hard not to imagine hordes of librarians–rows of smart women in muted cardigans–working in miniature inside my sleek laptop, efficiently locating the citations I seek. I feel grateful for their expertise and generosity. I know information is actually produced by computer science and code I cannot begin to comprehend, but I like the idea of my own generous gaggle.  Mysteries abound.

What was it that  Justice Jackson said in this week’s Supreme Court dissent?  I query and her words appear. Her indignation and eloquence move me. Thank you, Google.  There is always more to learn. 

Don’t Be Disappointed When…

You tap on your son’s door and navigate piles of clothes, hoping you are not stepping on something breakable or sharp to reach him, still drowsy in his bed.  Next fall, the room will be neat as a pin, and he will be sleeping in a dorm room in Maine.

Your son asks if you have been invited to attend the special end of year prize assembly.  You tell him no and he is downcast, but the next day, you receive an email invitation! You keep the news to yourself until the night before when he grabs your phone and you realize you should have deleted the email—still, his joyful anticipation makes you happy even though he will not be completely surprised.

Despite how hard he has worked over the last two years, he does not receive an academic award.  He does receive an award for promoting inclusion in the school, especially for LGBTQ+ kids.  You are so proud you think you might burst.

Your curried chicken wrap drips on the lavender dress that you are wearing to your son’s graduation a few days later.  No one is looking at you.

The day after his graduation you are not your best self at work. You were terse with a colleague, speaking shortly. You regret being a jerk and apologize.  It may be your son’s graduation has you more jangled than you’d like to let on.

The tuberous weeds masquerading as groundcover, ripped out last week, return in full force this week before the backyard graduation party you are planning. At least the nasty groundcover is green, even if it’s choking the real plants.

Your son snaps at you as you prepare for the graduation party. He loves you. He knows you are the one he can snap at.  Like you, he is worried that poor air quality because of the fires in Canada, will keep people from attending the party.

That same son rejects the fancy candles you found for the party because they are not on brand. It’s his vision, not yours.

The lights your husband strings in the back yard that make it look like fairyland are prettiest only after all the guests have left—it takes that long to get dark in Ohio in June.

The taco truck and the ice cream truck drive away after the party—there will be no leftovers to try to stuff into the fridge.

A few days after the party, the alarm system goes off at 3:30 a.m. but there is no fire and no burglars to be found—be glad your husband answers the phone in another state when you call and that your son is braver facing potential burglars than you are.

You drive to Columbus with your son and husband to watch students from your school play summer basketball. You have the wrong address, so only see one half of the game. Your son hushes you when you want to cheer. He does not want you to embarrass yourself—or him.

On the way home, you listen to the two men you love talk basketball, critique each girl’s abilities, discuss strategies the team will need—better defense--recall players who have now graduated—Alex, G., Taylor, Haley, Margaret, Mari, Jenaya.  Lock this memory in a tiny box to savor later—their shared love of basketball—in general—but, in particular, of your own Laurel Gators moves you.  You love the Gators, too, but you will never know as much about the game as they do.

Your son, a little blue post-graduation, asks you to go to Guardians of the Galaxy instead of The Little Mermaid.  Notice that you are both more cheerful when you emerge and recognize that it was a treat to be invited!  Fight tears when you realize these kinds of spontaneous outings will be coming to an end.  Remind yourself, firmly, that he is ready for his next chapter.

He can tell you everything about the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but doesn’t love to read as you do. Movies are to him what novels are to you. His knowledge is deep and nuanced and he not only watches films but thinks deeply about them.

You make a plan to leave for the weekend at a particular time.  But your husband still slumbers, and you realize there is no need to rush. Try to enjoy the many minutes you spend with him at the storage units. Realize it will be just the two of you in a few months and practice getting used to the idea.

Your son asks for a stitch ripper and though you know you have several, you cannot locate them.  Be proud that your needlepoint scissors were up to the job of opening the seams of the red lip-covered overalls he is wearing to the concert in Pittsburgh.

Your son, on his way out the door to Pittsburgh, grabs your raincoat—just in case it rains at the concert. You had planned to take it with you for the weekend, but you are glad he will have a mint-green Ireland-traveled raincoat if he needs one at Taylor Swift—you can always use an umbrella.

You mull over the highs and lows of the last few weeks and recognize that the limbo in between the end of high school and the beginning of college is not just hard for your son, but hard for you, too.  As the head of a school, you always remind parents not to gloss over transitions, thresholds, but to take the time to live them with their kids. Practice what you preach.  You cannot skip the hard parts.

When You’re 65 or Things Seth Can Do

Today, my husband, Seth, turns 65.  When I look at him, his white hair startles me. Behind my eyes, his hair is brown and thick and he is 26 as he was the day we married. But the rest? A predilection for t-shirts and jeans? That never changes. His deep love for all of us—me, our children, his family, our pets our friends?  Unwavering.

These days, he sports one new knee, two new shoulders and, basically, a new back. He is teaching older adults to read and do math each weekday morning. When I think of us together, I see us with our children or our parents or driving to Eagles Mere or sitting next to each other in a darkened theatre. He is with his mom today—not everyone gets to celebrate a 65th birthday with his mother. I am thinking about how funny time is—that, in my mind’s eye, Seth is as he was when I met him lighting The Miracle Worker in college, and, simultaneously, he is next to me, his hair dyed green, as it was in March, cheering on the Laurel basketball team—he is their biggest fan! He is cuddling an infant; he is toasting Miranda at her wedding; he is doing whatever Cordelia says; he is smiling with pride as Atticus crosses the stage at graduation last week. He is in the beams in the DeWire Center, teaching ETC kids to focus lights. He is greeting the dogs when he comes back from doing errands. I married a Renaissance man—someone whose skills and talents are often hidden because he is so modest—when he is not insisting he is right. Here is a partial list of all the things my all my beloved can do that I cannot.

Here is an incomplete list:

Remember our credit card number by heart.

And our bank account numbers.

And phone numbers.

And how many feet in a mile or math formulas. 

Light the backyard in summer so it looks like fairyland and the front yard in winter, so that it looks like Santa’s elves live here.

Pack the car so that impossibly complex loads all fit (I could be responsible for the complexity of the loads) and never stress or curse while doing so.

Say I look nice without opening his eyes.

Be the pets’ favorite even though I feed them more often.

Not worry about things—well, he may worry quietly, but he rarely worries to me and he is good at reminding me that worrying about something will not change the outcome.

Fix any number of things—electronic or not.

Understand how things work—I guess this is related to fixing thing, but also economics, scientific phenomena, math puzzles…

Climb up to high places. Even though he acknowledges that he is afraid of heights.

Deal with cars—what they’re called, how they run, what to do when they break or make weird noises.

Be unintimidated by long road trips when the car is packed to the brim and rear window visibility is nil.

Drive on highways without worrying about trucks.

Let go of grudges.

Find what he is looking for in Home Depot or Lowes without needing anyone to help.

Not be afraid of Diva biting him even when she growls and snaps.

Not ask for help even when he needs it—this may not be such a good thing.

Not ask for directions—see above.

Go on Facebook and see nothing about anyone he knows.

Fix my computer or my passwords or manage other tech dilemmas I encounter without losing his patience.  His dad used to call in the middle of the night, desperate about a computer glitch. Seth would calmly get out of bed, open his own laptop, and gently talk Hal through whatever difficulty he was having. 

Teach math to little people. And big people.

Build a gaga pit out back in the Laurel field.

Watch scary movies without covering his eyes.

Repeatedly sleep through his alarm.

Read his phone while walking the three dogs around the circle.

Stop watching shows or reading books in the middle if he is not interested.

Eat peanut butter.

Eat pineapple pizza.

Know the lyrics to many Beatles songs and Warren Zevon songs and Bob Dylan songs.

Manage mangled dead and partially dead rodents, birds, bunnies left by the cats as gifts without screaming.

Instantly know which batteries are required for any item and how to put them in so they work right away.

Figure out how to keep my Micky Mouse watch running because it is my favorite.

Create the weirdest, longest passwords ever, including an odd preference for the right parentheses.

Design the most beautiful jewelry that he gave me each time one of our babies was born.

Rival Sclepi as the family favorite.

Know more about current events than the average person even though he was once wrong about which candidate would win a fairly recent Presidential election.

Design a home for the two of us considering every detail and, especially, light.

Believe in me when I doubt myself.

Love me even at my most unlovable.  For four decades.

Happy Birthday, Seth.  And yes, I will still love you now that you are 65!

A Poem About How to End the School Year

June sneaks up on me every year.  Suddenly, we are awash in commencement preparation and moving up ceremonies and awards and prizes and final reports. Cai, finishing first grade, comes to the door of my office for one more hug on the last day of classes. Nora and Indira and their mom present me with a gorgeous orchid.  I find notes on my desk and flowers and a dark green notebook more elegant than I am, embossed with my initials, from a beloved advisee.  We celebrate Green and White Day, our spirit day, on a gorgeous morning, the sky impossibly blue, the heat formidable. Little girls leap and play while this headmistress wilts, revived only by air conditioning. 

Last year, when I thought we still had days and days of school left, my ninth grade English class gleefully chortled that we were down to only three more classes. How did that happen? We were going full tilt and then suddenly we were processing across the finish line–decorous, students walking in and out of the Chapel or Severance Hall or the Conway Pavilion more sedately than they ever walked during the school year.  

My Facebook feed this week is full of the photographs of children on the first day of the year and the last, the first day of Kindergarten and the high school graduation. I forgot to take a first day or last day photo of my son. who is, himself, a recent high school graduate. It is easy for me to forget how much growth happens in a single year for a single child, for each of us. That old adage that it goes so fast feels resonant for me, an almost empty-nester after more than 30 years of every day mothering.

Thursday, after morning meetings, the faculty and staff gathered for our final luncheon.  I love this last luncheon, love seeing the adults assembled, some sitting in friend groups, others bravely sprinkling themselves around the room, across disciplines or grade levels, mingled. It’s a ritual that concludes our year. A period at the end of a sentence. An exhale.

Yesterday marked my 19th lunch as a head of school. We reviewed the year and reflected a bit. I used this list inspired by a NYT article as a prompt and people wrote or doodled at their tables for a few minutes with sharpies on index cards—two items I am never without. We honored those who have served the school for different lengths of time, heard updates from Admissions (good news!) and from Development (more good news!). We bid adieu to colleagues moving on and we gave several prizes for teaching excellence and spirit and going above and beyond. Along the way, we raffled gift cards and begonias and the huge flower arrangement that had adorned the stage at Commencement.  

Then I closed us out, but this year, I did so in collaboration. Earlier in the week, feeling like to the Little Engine that Could, I emailed with my pal, Nancy, who also leads a school.  We were both seeking end of year inspiration—a poem, a quotation—something to offer our faculty and staff as a gift at the year’s close.  I jotted some ideas and shared them with her. She took what I had written and made it better.  I edited my own version for my school; she shared her version with her school.  Collaborating with a friend about how to end the year made me feel as if we were holding hands–all the way from Maryland to Ohio.  I loved that we were leading meetings on the same day in our respective schools, acknowledging our faculty and staff’s commitment to the children in our care.  Her community loved it–I hope mine did, too.  

Here is my version of our effort: 

A Poem About How to End the Year

I google how to end the school year with inspiration—

Conscious that teachers end the year twice–

June and December. 

At the end of the school year, we 

Celebrate, mourn a little.

Clichés abound.

We say goodbye to children who have grown in our care—

Wildflowers, hothouse flowers, weeds.

They all get taller—mostly—some spindly, some robust.

Some break old patterns and finally learn

How to put a comma after an introductory dependent clause,

Or have a breakthrough in algebra,

Or get braver speaking Spanish.

And some still don’t remember to hold onto work we’ve turned back.

Or read the comments we offered--

On their essays and problem sets and projects.

Feedback is love, right?

But fertilizer, I remember, 

Thinking about flowers,

Is a kind of nourishment plants need, 

But often smells foul. 

Not everything that is good for us is pleasing.

Feedback or fertilizer.

The thing about our garden

Is that it is always thirsty.

If I don’t remember to water, morning and night,

Plants wilt--

Like all of us at the end of a long week and now.

Love is care and rain, which we haven’t had enough of—

And sunshine—which has been, perhaps, too plentiful.

I love the bright days, but the grass does not.

Love is 46 seniors crossing the stage,

A note from a grateful parent,

Acknowledgment from a colleague.

While I’m not looking, it seems, a nasty groundcover springs up overnight,

In my garden–

Voracious, tentacled,

And threatens to choke my little seedlings.

I started them in February in tiny peat pots on the windowsill.

I thought they were ready to go outside before Mother’s Day,

But I lost my nasturtiums because it was still too cold.

I miscalculated.

We do that–teachers, parents, friends.

We do not always get it right or know what’s best.

But we rarely give up.

We keep trying, keep investing in hope

And color

And scent

And mulch.

We dwell in what Emily Dickinson called possibility.

I imagine the garden I hope to have someday—beds full of

larkspur and stock and snapdragons

In lavenders and pinks and blues–

Vivid, fragrant, plentiful,

Calling me to make bouquets

I have the peonies, but the heat has knocked

Their heads down,

Petals drooping, kissing the dry earth.

The flowers at the farmer’s market

stand in for my would-be garden.

Gardens, my best friend and I say to one another,

are life-long projects.

Cultivation takes work and care.

We always imagine we will do more than we can.

There is never enough time.

The weather is unpredictable.

We don’t always know which plants will thrive or wither.

Gardens.  School.

We are, all of us, always growing,   Grateful.

Happy summer!

White Knuckles in Winter

This piece originally appeared some years ago in the lovely publication, Mothers Always Write, sadly no longer in print or able to be seen on the web.

The voice from my phone instructs me to turn right. Atticus, hooked up to headphones, misses the first hill.  Whoever described the mid-West as flat has never driven from Cleveland to Millersburg, Ohio. Implacable, the tiny woman inside the GPS directs me to drive ten miles. Ten miles of hills on a snowy Saturday afternoon. Up, up, up. Then, at the crest, hoping, hoping no other vehicle would appear, we begin to descend. Slllooooowwwly. Brakes pumping. Steer into a skid? Steer out of a skid? My brain goes numb.

“Oh, my sainted aunt!”

“What, Mom? What did you just say?” My son tugs an earphone from his left ear.

“I said, ‘Oh, my sainted aunt’ because this hill is so steep. I do not like steep hills and I, especially, do not like steep hills covered in snow and ice.”

“You’re doing great, Mom. You’ve got this,” Atticus, thirteen, encourages. “Only 8.6 miles before we turn.”

8.6 miles? Not possible. I consider my options. There is no place to pull over. If there is a driving equivalent of trudging, we are doing it now. My pace is glacial to complement the weather. I am not a brave driver in the best of times, and these are definitely not those.

The accident on I-91 in 1983 when I lost control of my car as it slid on black ice is always with me.  My little hatchback had been crunched by not one but two eighteen-wheelers. I’d had students in the car with me on my way back from New York City to the boarding school in Massachusetts where I taught. I remembered screaming—out loud or to myself?—‘God, you cannot do this again to my mother and father.’ My brother had been killed in a car accident when I was fourteen. From the wintry wreck on the highway, the ambulance took us all to the ER—me and Isabel and Melissa.  I demanded a plastic surgeon to stitch the cut on Isabel’s forehead, my voice shrill with shock. Isabel was a model; her face needed to remain lovely. My mother had taught me long ago, “When it’s the face, Ann, always a plastic surgeon.” My own parents arrived, hurtling to Connecticut from Philadephia. I was twenty-two, inexperienced with insurance and having cars towed and figuring out how to get us all back to school, but, trembling, we made it back, picked up our lives. 

The policeman first on the scene had shaken his head, muttering, “There’s no way you all should have walked away from this accident.”  His words echo thirty-five years later, throbbing in my memory as I grip the steering wheel, trying not to let my son know my fear.

“Feel the fear and do it anyway,” is a mantra I often tell my own children and the girls in the school I lead. I often repeat these words to myself on highways when I am trying to pass an eighteen-wheeler and remember my accident. I had not expected to need them today.

A blizzard had dumped about a foot of snow on Cleveland the day before, but we woke to a chilly sun. The Varsity basketball team had been invited to the Classic in the Country, a big deal girls’ basketball invitational in our region.  My son, their would-be manager, was desolate not to be with the team.  I decided we’d make an afternoon of it and go.  If my husband were home, a little snow and ice would be no deterrent. Michigan born, he is an intrepid winter driver, scoffing at inclement weather.  I am much more timid, worried not only about other drivers, but also about my own aptitude. He was out of town, but, for once, I refused to be ruled by fear.

We packed water bottles and Terra Chips and set off. The first hour was easy on the highway. I had to use my wipers a fair amount, but we listened to game shows on NPR, and I tried to avoid thinking about the snippet of a weather forecast of snow in Akron that I heard, but ignored.  Maybe we weren’t headed towards Akron.  All was fine until the turn. 

The nice lady of the GPS instructed me to exit the highway and turn onto a narrow state route that climbed hills of alarming heights. At the crest of that first hill, I gasped. The descent was terrifying. Atticus took on the role of cheerleader for his nervous mother-driver, coaching me to go slowly. I thought about Eagles Mere in the winter and the toboggan slide that runs from the top of the hill down across the lake, people screaming as they whoosh past the windows of our house. I felt like screaming. We crawled down, sliding, grateful there were no other vehicles in sight. 

But a few minutes later there was another hill. The childhood game I used to play on a spread palm, “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, whoops, Johnny” floated inanely through my head. I tried to breathe, tried to fight the fear, my comforting self-talk drowned out by the tension in my neck and shoulders. Then: worse and worse.  Amish buggies shared the road with us. I am entranced by all things Amish in good weather, but today, under lowering gray clouds, I imagined crashing my car, my son, myself into Amish buggies, horses’ legs flying out from under them, splaying on the ice, tiny bonneted Amish girls flying through the air and landing, limp. I tried to chase the image away, asked Atticus to distract me from myself. He prattled—the Cavs, stuff at school, his excitement about seeing our girls play. I managed my panic, moved into more of a Zen state, imagined the drive was like being in a long, long MRI machine. Someday it would end. We would arrive.

“How much longer on this road, Atticus?” I bleated.

“Only three more miles, Mom. You’re doing great. You’ve got this.”

We passed hay tipis, tidy farmhouses, their square-ness startling in the bleak landscape. The occasional car coming in the opposite direction reminded me of roller coaster cars swooping in opposite directions. I hate roller coasters. I noted all the shades of white:  white snow--new and old--bleached sky, blanched fields, alabaster salt on white roads, whiter with ice. I noted, too, the absence of snowplows, the torrent of flakes loosed from the sky, falling like goose feathers, like salt, like ivory flakes.  White, gray, black. The landscape seemed a 19th century etching, a black and white photograph, frozen. Lifeless—except for those buggies, most sensible Amish people huddled inside cozy homes, rich in hues that I could not see.

Finally, another turn onto another tiny road. 

More reassurance from my son. “You can do it, Mom. Only another half mile.”

I was beyond reason, but my son’s words soothed me, kept me, somehow, moving us—and the car—forward, despite my fear.  I hate when grown ups ask children to care take them, yet I was so grateful for my son’s caretaking, for his certain calm that all would be well. I, his mom, no longer an angelic vision of his toddler imagination, but a mortal, flawed and human. Still I was his mother; therefore, he trusted I would prevail. Finally, we crested another hill and saw the community recreation center beyond an incongruous traffic light, its yellow barrel waving in the windy afternoon, lights glowing red, yellow, green. Comforted, I resumed breathing. My legs trembled as I got out of the car. I allowed my shoulders to drop away from my ears. Atticus, unscathed, was thrilled to arrive in time to watch most of our team’s game. We feasted on chicken and noodles--a dish rarely offered at high school concessions stands--and washed it down with treacly homemade blackberry pie. When the game ended, Atticus asked, “Do we have to go now?”

“No way,” I retorted. I was in no shape to get back into the car, to face those roads.

“Hey, Ann,” Sharon, our Transportation Director at school, approached me on the bleachers. “It was worth it to stay on the highway, wasn’t it?”

“You stayed on the highway, Sharon?”  I asked, incredulous. 

“Yeah, the GPS suggested all these narrow roads, but I knew that was a no starter with the bus and with the weather, so I stayed on the highway. It was a little longer, but it felt much safer.”

Disbelief made me mute.

“Ann, you okay?” she asked kindly.

“I will be,” I stammered. “Is it easy to find the highway from here?”

“Oh, sure. Go out the driveway, turn right and it’s a little way down on the left.  Easy as pie.  You can follow me if you want.”

I laughed, a slightly insane laugh. All along, there had been another path. I would not have had to worry about the occupants of Amish buggies had I known.

We watched the next game and the next, lounging in the stands with our girls, critiquing the other teams, one of which we would confront later in the season.  Atticus and the girls talked strategy, noted various players’ strengths and vulnerabilities. Marveling at my son’s knowledge, I half listened, floating above myself, allowing my terror to dissipate.  I was grateful to imagine the drive home on a less dramatic route.

“Are we ever leaving, Mom?” Atticus asked, tentatively. “I didn’t think you liked driving in the dark.  I mean—I’m really happy to stay, but you…” His voice trailed off.  You are usually a wimp? You hate driving?  I appreciated his decision not to finish. 

“We’re going, buddy. Just a few more minutes.  Sharon told me a better way to get home.”

By the time we left, darkness had fallen, but the highways were plowed. My son listened to his music with his headphones. I listened to the radio.  I followed the signs easily, relaxed behind the wheel.  The drive home was deliciously dull. 

Dublin: The Easter Uprising Tour and My Conversation with Kelan

I was early for the Easter, 1916 Uprising Tour in Dublin, finding the address and realizing it was a pub. Atfter using the loo, I took a seat at the bar, marveling that many were drinking Guinness at 11:00 a.m. I ordered a ginger ale that I didn’t particularly want. A boy and two young-ish grandparents approached. I asked if they’d like me to shift down a seat, so they could sit together, but the grandfather was leaving, they explained,  so it was just the boy and his grandmother.

“He loves history,” she explained, “So I thought he would enjoy the tour.”

“Me, too.”

“Are you from America?” the boy asked. He had short brown hair, big brown eyes, was wearing a football sweatshirt and brown track pants with trainers. I judged him to be about eleven, only a few inches shorter than I.

“I am,” I answered.

“What part?”

“Cleveland—it’s in Ohio.”

“The Cavaliers!” he announced, excited.

“Indeed,” I confirmed.

Did I know LeBron? Not personally.

“Were you mad when he left?” he asked. We were. We introduced ourselves.  Grandmother asked what I did, and when I answered that I was a headmistress, they seemed impressed. She had just retired, a special ed teacher.

“For primary kids,” Kelan added for my benefit.

After about ten minutes, we were herded into the pub's basement—mildew-smelling with a sticky floor—and our guide offered some back story, the cast of characters in Ireland's rebellions.  As people began to spill out onto the sidewalk for the actual tour, I found Kelan at the narrow door.

“He wanted to wait for you,” Grandmother explained.

“You’re the first real American I’ve ever spoken to,” Kelan told me as we walked toward Dublin Castle, admiring the bottle caps embedded like so many primary-colored polka dots in the cobblestones in Temple Bar—red, green, blue.

“And you’re the first Irish boy I’ve spoken to in Dublin,” I confirmed. We established that he had finished sixth grade, that he had gone to an amusement park the day before and recommended I add to my itinerary, that I had been to Disney World but did not care for the scary roller coaster rides he loved, that he would love to go there someday. He explained that he studied Irish at school, but when I asked if he could read a sign, he demurred: “I'm not so good yet. It doesn’t get really hard until secondary school.”

Huddled near a door where some revolutionaries had been tortured, we discussed our experiences on the London Eye. We agreed it wasn’t at all scary because it went so slowly.

Dublin is a low city, sans skyscrapers.  When the tour guide celebrated this fact, Kelan pointed out and then dismissed the Dublin spire as pretty dumb compared to other cities’ signature monuments.

“The Eiffel Tower, for example,” I suggested.

“Or The Tower of London or Big Ben, or the—you know—the tall one in New York,” he added. 

“The Empire State Building.”

“Right!”

When our guide gesticulated, full of anecdotes told out of chronological order, Kelan and I listened attentively. His grandmother made friends with an older New Yorker on the tour. I did not feel the need to reveal my own NYC roots, preferring to chat with Kelan. In the spaces between sites, we talked, peeling off layers of clothing as the sun grew warmer.  He tied his sweatshirt around his waist; I carried my jacket over my arm.

Kelan reported that he loved basketball, that he was one of four boys. We noted bullet holes in statues, jubilant when we pointed them out to one another. Our guide’s passion entertained us, and we admired him, even if we giggled a bit at his enthusiasm.  I said I thought England had been a mess about religion with Henry VIII and all those wives, but Ireland seemed much, much worse. Kelan agreed.

We learned that Frederick Douglass had spoken in Dublin. On the way home on a boat, a racist American had threatened to have Douglass removed from the ship until an Irishman interjected, saying to the ugly man: ”If there’s any swimming to be done on this trip, it’ll be you who will be doing it.” Kelan and I pumped our fists, celebrating Irish heroism. We saw the Statue of Justice, her back to the people, learned of starvation and poverty, heard about plans gone awry, messages undelivered, ships full of ammunition sunk, and a fighting spirit that could not be dimmed. We imagined ourselves part of a fierce and failed rebellion as we gazed at the statue of Big Jim Larkin.

At the post office, our final stop, the tour guide, exhorted us always to break all the windows if we found ourselves in a siege and told, us, too, that history doesn’t always remember the winners; in Ireland, it is the patriots who are remembered for their resilience and determination to achieve independence. 

Suddenly the tour was over. Kelan and his Gran were off to meet his grandfather. We didn’t think to exchange names or emails. We walked off in separate directions.

Perhaps we aren't supposed to hang on to some experiences--we have them and let them go, balloons up into the sky.

But the next morning, before I left Dublin, I found myself in Dubray’s, searching the Young Adult shelves for The Guns of Easter.

“It’s the best book I’ve ever read,” Kelan confided, “You’ve got to read it.”

There was one copy on the shelf. I bought it and read it on the drive to Dingle.

Thoughts on Turning 62

What I wanted for my birthday was snow.  I woke up this morning and there it was.

However, we forgot to get applesauce yesterday for my birthday dinner of brisket and latkes (Thank you, Cole).  I wish the dogs were bigger; we could harness them to a sled and drive down Green Road to Heinen’s.

All year, I thought I was already 62, but until this morning, I was really 61—or, as my dad would say, “Until 1:30, when you were born, Ba’nann—no birthday until you’re born.”  So, even these musings are a few hours premature.

My brother used to say I was the worst Christmas present he ever got because Mom had to stay in the hospital over the holiday.  I had a lot of hair; Mom held me up to the window, so Rod and Lili could see me from the parking lot.  I do not know if there were enough dark curls for a bow.

I wonder how my father managed Christmas that year. Mom had already wrapped the presents, I suspect.  How she loved Christmas.

As a little girl, I was jealous of those with summer birthdays, and, as a young woman, I found the round of family gatherings that surrounded Christmas slightly tiresome—cocktails with the Rothermels, Christmas Eve Dinner at Aunt Anne’s, which I barely remember; then at Aunt Marim’s and Aunt Dodo’s, Christmas Day lunch at Grannie’s followed by the trek to Montclair. Now, I would be thrilled to travel back in time to see and spend time with all those relatives.

Now, I like having my birthday jammed in next to Christmas—it feels like a multi-day celebration.

Seth likes giving me one sock for my birthday and another sock for Christmas. I have grown to accept this pattern.

The absence of lights (and blow ups) on the front lawn of Lyman House this year because of Seth’s surgery makes me appreciate even more deeply the magic he typically makes for all of us.

When my mother was 62, I thought she was really old.  I suspect my children think the same of me.

I thought when I turned 62, I would feel different—seasoned, maybe, like a cheese or a fine wine. So far, I feel pretty much the way I did yesterday.

Do I feel 62? What is 62 supposed to feel like.

“You’re as young as you feel,” goes the cliché.  How young is that?

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” my dad used to say.  That enraged me.  “Yes, you can, if the dog is willing,” I would shout inside my head. I want to keep learning new tricks.

Age, I am beginning to think, minus the aches and pains, is another social construct.

But age is also feeling like a gift—as in having another year to celebrate, as in having the opportunity for memories that stretch back decades.

I have been a schoolteacher since I was 21 in 1982.

2 years at NMH.

20 years at Chapin.

19 years at Laurel.

We started ETC when I was 23; we married when I was 24 and Seth was 26. We were babies—lucky babies to grow up together. We ran a version of ETC for 27 summers.

Miranda was born when I was 32.

Cordelia was born when I was 34.

Atticus was born when I was 43.

When Miranda turns 30 next month, I will have been a mother with at least one child at home for 30 years—that feels like a long time, but, as Emily in Our Town says, “It goes so fast…Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it — every, every minute?”  The Stage Manager tells her few people do.

Miranda hung a tiny wooden stocking on the tree last night that my mother had made for her for her first Christmas.

Our Christmas ornaments—and there are a lot of them—chronicles the history of our family. 

I used to think it was so strange that my mother would talk about events that had happened decades ago. Now, I do the same.

I started writing, for real, about a decade ago.

The author of Lessons in Chemistry, Bonnie Garmus, was 65 when her novel was published. There is hope for me, still, and for this memoir.

Feeling glad I am 62—for real.