Mom's Tribute

When I spoke about my dad nearly 15 years ago, I was struck by how impossible it was to distill a person’s life into a few bullet points because we are all so much more than the sum of our parts. My mother was more than a Shakerite, a Delta Gamma, an Ohio Wesleyan graduate, a nursery school teacher, a Brownie troop leader, a garden club MVP or a past president of the South Euclid Women’s club.

She was more than a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a wife, an in-law, a mother or a friend. She was a woman who radiated warmth. Literally and figuratively. Girlie was always hot-if you came to our house; you brought a sweater 12 months out of the year. She had many sides and one of her most sparkling facets was the abundance of her generous spirit. She was generous with praise, gifts, encouragement, and support.  And she could lavish you with love.

For me, this took many forms. From her tenderness in caring for me even before I was born-she’d sit on the steps leading to the second floor of our Dorshwood house during storms so she wouldn’t see the lightning that so frightened her because she didn’t want to frighten me. It worked. I’ve always loved storms. JRocking me to sleep and singing songs she wrote about me and our collie Mac. All the festive birthday parties, Easter egg coloring, cookie baking and listening with genuine attentiveness to every last detail of my little girl life. 

Her words continued to encourage me. From notes in my lunch bags during Junior High to letters received at college filled with praise for good grades (sometimes) and reminders to take my vitamins. She told me to remember that “this too shall pass” and when I felt intimidated or unsure to “act as if.” She heartily encouraged me to move to Chicago and the day before we left, told me to “ Let it happen and don’t hold back.”

But we know there’s much more to Mom that this, so let’s get serious for a moment. ...she insisted on ordering the patty melt at Mavis Winkle’s, delighted in drinking Perrier on ice in a crystal goblet, devoured my pumpkin bread and… who could forget her torrid love affair with chocolate?

She blossomed by the water whether in St. Michaels’ MD, Chautauqua Lake in NY or more recently as an enthusiastic crew member on board our sailboat. We were heeling (safely) in some pretty juicy winds and she looked over at me and exclaimed, “I really like it when we tip!” Her rather extensive lighthouse collection spoke to this passion.

But boy oh boy did my mother love sports. Baseball, golf, you name it, with the crown jewel being, of course, football. Not to be sexist, but Mom knew more about that game than any dude I’ve ever met. You may think of Jane as “sweet”, a term used to describe her that she thoroughly disliked, but if you ever watched a football game with her, I can guarantee sweet would not come to mind. Girlie let fly with some seriously salty language. 

But you could forgive her that, I’m sure. My beautiful mama made us all feel so good, didn’t she? She was the BEST listener and made us feel accepted for all of our humanness, flaws and all. 

She was and is, the essence of grace.

I will never find the words to adequately express what she means to me. She and I have a powerful connection and though I am grieving her fiercely, I know that she is still looking out for me, guiding me and loving me right back, heart to heart, as always. It continues to be an honor and a privilege to be her daughter. 

I’ll end my remarks with a quote from one of our favorite storybook characters, Winnie the Pooh.

“If ever there is tomorrow when we are not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.”

Roots to Reality

The rumbling groan of the ferry horn seemed to push the old girl out of her slip. Chugging out of the cloud dusted Oban harbor, she headed northwest towards her next port, bringing me closer to the roots and the re-routing of my family tree. My husband, David, and I were traveling to Skye, a craggy island in northern Scotland, for my mother’s wedding. But first, we were heading to the windswept Isle of Mull, a place that I’d heard about since childhood. My mother planted the seeds of ancestral pride long ago, the reedy melodies and mournful wails of the bagpipe underscoring stories of our ancestors, the resilient MacLean clan. Dad and I would listen as I’d stroke her silver broach, fingering the coat of arms engraved with the motto, Virtue Mine Honor. I loved sharing this bold, colorful heritage with her and told myself that someday I’d get to see those ancient castles and hear the rich brogue of their people. I never the dreamed the journey would be so bittersweet.

Lulled by the massive boat’s gentle rocking, I leaned back on the faded vinyl seat and closed my eyes. Thoughts of my father flooded my mind. Less than seven months had passed since his death and grief still packed a mean sucker punch.

When my father died the building blocks of our family shifted precariously. Mom and I took solace in our shared memories, but she was alone for the first time in 45 years and was terrified of never regaining her balance. Her future husband, a former high school boyfriend, phoned her the day after we buried my dad. A recent widower, Scott was impatient to marry again. He knew she was losing her footing and offered to steady her with the promise of security, but there was a big catch. A quick wedding or nothing at all. Mom, heartsick and lonely, consented. She painfully packed away my father’s belongings, trying in vain to bury her grief along with them. 

A resounding horn brought me back to the present and my gaze settled on a simple stone castle rising proudly from the top of a bluff. “Look! David…it’s Duart castle!” From that distance, it was hard to be certain, but I had a feeling we were passing the ancestral and current home of the MacLean clan. 

Bumping along a scrawny unpaved road a scant hour later, we got our first taste of country driving. One lane (for two directions) on a twisty muddy road is challenging enough. It gets hairier when you’re unaccustomed to driving on the left side and you encounter the meanderings of sweet, but slow, black faced sheep. It reaches white-knuckle time when your husband is stingy with the window wipers. 

David nudged me with his left elbow. “Hey, honey, I wonder if there are any MacLeans buried up there.” He pointed to a tiny cemetery perched atop a bluff overlooking the Sound of Mull. He pulled off to the side of the road and we climbed the slippery hill. The rusty latch on the iron gate stuck for a moment before it clinked open. Fringed with tall weedy grass, the slender stones leaned wearily, their inscriptions softened by time. Wind rushed down the narrow aisles, bending shoots of Queen Ann’s lace in its race to the top of the peak. Shivering, I leaned over the first stone I came to, and read the name Margaret MacLean. She died a century before my great-grandmother, also a Margaret, was born. Dozens of MacLeans from ages past were resting in the tiny graveyard, their tombstones bathed by the tender rain, while I wandered quietly from one distant ancestor to the next, wondering who they were, what kinds of lives they led. Growing up an only child, I wasn’t used to feeling part of a big family. That had never mattered before. But with my father gone and my mother moving on, I was grasping for familial connection. It didn’t matter if I had to look to the past to find it.

Our first and last morning on Mull greeted us with a cheerful dose of sunshine, a welcome accompaniment to the start of a hectic day. By nightfall we would be up north in the highlands reminiscing with Mom. But I wasn’t ready yet. I needed to spend some time in the heart of the family archives.

Duart castle embodied the rich history of the Macleans, standing resolute as the clan stronghold since the 14^thcentury. “Good morning, folks. Welcome!” A broad faced woman with ruddy cheeks extended her hand. She was dressed in the vibrant red and green  MacLean of Duarttartan, the same pattern I would wear the next day in a floor length kilt.  David told the woman I was of MacLean descent. “Oh, well you must sign the clan guest book then, dear!” She pulled out a leather book and placed it in front of me, smoothing down the pages.  At her suggestion, David snapped my picture as I added my name to the list of other distant family members. 

The first drafty room we entered featured a long, lustrous rectangular table, set with ornate silver candelabras and gleaming sterling tea sets. Ancient battered swords hung behind protective glass, displayed next to scarred bagpipes. One room was dedicated to displaying grand portraits of the chiefs. I was immediately drawn to the image of a rakish 21 year old who looked like he had just gotten away with something. Lachlan MacLean, the current chief as a younger man, smiled down at me. We wound our way up the cramped stone steps, occasionally passing family group portraits. I paused to look for Lachlan each time. 

When we reached the top, even my persistent fear of heights couldn’t keep me from taking in the panoramic view from the battlements. The now foggy sky muted the shadows on the clear, cold water of the Sound and cast a soft focus on the soaring mountains to the north. Did generations of powerful chiefs pace this walkway, appraising the shipping lanes they controlled? I wanted to spend more time there, but we were on a tight schedule. 

As we were winding our way down the drive, we passed a disheveled man, mid 50s, who was tending to the roadside shrubs. 

“David, stop! We have to turn around. That’s Lachlan!”

“What? That’s a gardener. The chief wouldn’t be out here working in the field.”

“Why not? He might enjoy it. Besides, I recognize him. Come on, turn around.” So David made a hasty U turn, the tires sinking into the muddy road. I leapt out of the car.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I asked tentatively, “Are you the chief?”

Smiling, he wiped his hands on his dirty slacks and asked, “Are you a MacLean?”

I wavered. “My grandmother was.”

“Then, yes, I’m Lachlan. Welcome home.” He extended his hand. “I’m surprised you recognized me. Folks expect me to be up at the castle in a kilt, sipping whiskey,” he laughed. After inviting us to visit again, he returned to the relative anonymity of his gardening and I reluctantly pulled myself out of the refuge of the past. 

Grief had yanked me off balance, but this tiny island, so rich with family, had begun to steady me with its deep roots. The next section of my family’s history had yet to be written and although the uncertainty of the blank page was unsettling, I knew Mom and I would always remember how our chapter of the story started.

Her Dark Night

“Jane…Jane!” Her eyelids snap open. Sleep is never deep anymore, she kind of floats along erratically, just below the surface, in a state of semi-vigilance. Her heart pounding, she fumbles for the light, rolling on Libby who squeezes out an irritated yowl. The clock reads 4:28, A.M. “Jane!” Oh God. What’s wrong now?

           “Coming.” Her creaky voice barely carries across the guest room. She heaves the covers off and doesn’t stop to put on a robe. Her feet thud against the faded carpet as she hurries to the front of the house, mind racing to the latest weather report. Did they predict snow? Did it snow? She doesn’t stop to check, but plows forward, shivering, praying that it hasn’t because then the ambulance couldn’t reach them.

She rounds the corner into his bedroom, their bedroom before the arrival of the hospital bed. She tries to brace herself for what she might find. “I’m here, I’m here,” she pants, her eyes searching his face for signs of pain. But she sees none. His breathing isn’t even labored. He’s sitting up, clear eyed.

“I want some orange juice.” Her knees stop shaking, but her heart hasn’t caught on yet. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

“No! I’m tired of water and I want some orange juice. I wish you’d stop carrying on.” She looks at the clock, which is clearly visible from his bed.

Her anger has been building slowly over the years, in fits and starts, kind of like that construction project that never seems finished. First you notice a solid gray frame, wind ghosting through its beams, rising from that the perpetually barren lot that used to be dotted with errant pieces of trash and the occasional stray dog.  Then one day you’re stuck at the light and you see that the big red trucks with the giant tires are gone and a completed building stands, punctuated with manicured green shrubs and a well stocked parking lot.

Fatigue, laced with a creeping depression serves as her daily sedative, but it hasn’t kicked in yet. She’s confronted him before for such blatant acts of selfishness, but it never does any good. She turns quickly and hurries to the kitchen to get the juice. Orange pulp splashes the counter, but she ignores it. She nearly races back around the corner to hand him the glass. She can’t get out of there fast enough. He looks into her once lively brown eyes.

“Oh, God, what’s the matter now?”

She flees the room. Tears smack her cheeks rythmically like fat raindrops before a cloudburst. She crawls back into bed and hugs herself under her old quilt in the small room with the low ceiling. The sobs knot her chest and try to fight their way out, but there’s so much in the way. She can’t believe she’s going through this again. She squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to contain herself, but the image of Bob’s gaunt face and unseeing murky eyes swims before her. She battles to forget that last day. Why can’t she remember his twinkling eyes and easy smile? The sobs break free and she rocks gently in the little bed.

This doesn’t last long.

No, no, she won’t go there. She can’t give in to these memories. Not today. She can’t afford to be wiped out by them. She shakes her head vigorously, searching for distraction like a junkie needing a fix. She focuses on the present, and latches onto her current husband.

His refusal to hire a nurse has not only baffled his family and friends, who know he can well afford one, but it has rendered her physically depleted. She strains her back nearly every time she tries to lift him to clean his vomit or change his sheets. God, how this has aged her. She hears that a lot lately, and the evidence is clear in those new lines that have carved their way around her mouth.

Resentment floods her system, diluting her grief. Its familiarity settles her down. For now, this is a safer place to be.

A bit about Dad

My father carried gratefulness around like a lucky coin. Maybe the seed was planted when he was adopted as a baby, but he was profoundly thankful for his family. He would have been lost without my mother and told her so in vibrant love letters that she continues to treasure. But he appreciated the smaller, sillier things, too, like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches, having someone else (anyone else) mow his lawn, chocolate cake with caramel icing, and every episode of the Muppets.

He delighted in Judy Garland’s voice, a good vodka martini, heavy on the olives, The Far Side comics, and hurrying out with me to the open garage whenever a rollicking thunderstorm paraded down the block. (To this day I can still be found sky gazing at even a hint of a rumble.) I grew up watching my father flex his senses. As he soaked up everyday pleasures, they accumulated over the years, burnishing him with the warm patina of a contented man.

But although he may have been satisfied with his life in general, he was by no means apathetic when it came to those around him. Dad held opinions on everything from when I should be allowed to shave my legs (yup) to the state of world affairs. One of his favorite places to share these opinions was at the kitchen table, most notably at breakfast on the weekends. After finishing off a plate heaped with (never enough) scrambled eggs, he would lean his hefty, 6’4” frame back into the squeaking roller chair, take a deep breath, prop his fingers into a pyramid, look out the window and say “Well, girls. ” This was our cue that a history lesson, current events summation, or just plain advice was coming.

Occasionally, Dad would pull the morning’s topic from one of the books he was reading. We’d hear about the wisdom of Churchill or the foresight of Lincoln. Civil War history was his literary passion, though, so you can imagine his delight when I came home in fifth grade and announced that I had to give a speech about the War Between the States. Thrilled, he outfitted me with an authentic Union cap, a real Confederate canteen, a tape of period songs, and an abundance of facts. I was not quite as thrilled.

A WWII Veteran, Dad was a member of the 82nd Airborne. Although he rarely spoke of his own experience, I think he gained a sense of honor from being a soldier, along with pride. Unwaveringly thankful to be an American, he often reminded me how lucky we were to live in a country where freedom was our birthright.

Words got as much care and feeding in our house as our collie, Mac. Books climbed the walls in our family room, tumbled off nightstands, and stretched out on tables. I vividly remember him telling me that I could go anywhere in the world or embark on any adventure when I became absorbed in the pages of a book. But perhaps the most valuable lesson my dad taught me was that words can comfort and connect. That written down, they carry great significance, most importantly, to those you love.

Shortly after his death, I found this dog-eared note folded in half in the pocket of his daily planner. Apparently he tucked it into each fresh notebook.

“Dear Daddy,
Thank you for taking me out in the rain.
Yours truly,
Carol Ann”

A Quick Decision

“They’ve been feeding him intravenously for the past few days.”

My honeymoon glow turned to ice. “Where is he?”

Our cat, Hobbes, had spent the last several days at the vet, brought there by my parents who were taking care of him while my new husband and I unwound on the beaches of Saint Maarten. Two weeks before our wedding, our other cat, Tigger, had to be put to sleep to spare him from the pain of an incurable bladder disease. As wretched as that experience was, we were not the only ones who mourned him. 

Tigger had been Hobbes’ littermate, buddy and partner-in-crime. Adopted together as kittens, Hobbes had never known life without him. Without another kindred soul. You can imagine how lonely he was. So lonely, in fact, that he stopped eating a few days after we left on our trip. My parents, who checked on him daily, did their best to keep him company, but he grew weak and listless. My father implored the vet, “These kids can’t lose another cat. Do whatever you can.” The doctor administered medication with an eyedropper and fed and watered him through tubes. He kept him going. By the time we got home a few days later, Hobbes had grown jaundiced and had lost nearly half his body weight.

We waited in the sterile examining room with the pea green walls and goofy dog calendar, the same room we were in when we said to goodbye to Tigger before we were ushered back to the front desk, tears still streaming, to sign gruesome paperwork. The knot grew tighter in my stomach. We didn’t wait long. The door opened and in walked the vet, empty-handed.

 “Your cat is dying of loneliness,” he stated matter-of-factly. I fumbled in my purse for a Kleenex. “There is no physical cause for his condition. You’d better find a friend for him right away.

Later that morning David and I squinted as we walked resolutely into the fluorescent bathed, antiseptic room where the local animal shelter kept their cats. We had told the volunteer that we were looking for a female, though I can’t remember why. We knew for sure we wanted a tabby though, like Hobbes. She directed us to one of the dull metal cages stacked on the left side of the narrow room. Inside three tiny kittens awaited homes. As we came closer, one kitten thrust his head between the bars and yowled an energetic greeting. 

“Oh, that’s the male. Don’t mind him. Here, hold one of the females.” She handed me a wiggling bundle of fur with sleepy gray eyes. As I began to pet her, the male piped up again, continuing to communicate with us. Preening and chirping, he bounced around the little cage, his tail curled into a question mark. Pleading to be picked up, he stretched tall on his scrawny legs. Sometimes, I guess, they just pick you.

Charlie chattered all the way home and ran straight to Hobbes the moment I opened the carrier door. Hobbes, yellow eyed and weary could barely muster a sniff. Our six- week old kitten still longed to nurse, though, so burrowed his way under Hobbes’ thick fur and suckled him. Whether he was too weak to protest or he welcomed the attention, we’ll never know, but as the afternoon wore on, Hobbes began to shuffle along after Charlie to see what he was getting into, and by nightfall he was eating. 

The boys were together for 14 years.

A Tuscan Torment (or more aptly,) The Smashing of my Rose Colored Glasses.

“Oh, you’re American.” He raised his eyebrows as he put my bags into his car.

“Yes.” I said slowly. “Don’t you have many Americans in the workshop?”

“We used to have over 70%,” he sighed, his words caramel thick with a creamy Itlaian accent. “But since 9/11, enrollment has dropped way down. Now, I’d say the reverse is true.”

I folded myself into Diego’s dirty blue Fiat outside the dusty little train station in Buonconvento, Italy. I was there to attend a photography workshop in the nearby town of San Quirico and had been looking forward to meeting people from different countries. So why was this information making me uneasy?

I started the day with a surplus of enthusiasm, but as I navigated my way though the bus and train system, lugging my carefully packed bags and equipment through the 93 degree haze, some of that positive energy began to melt. It wasn’t the foul breathed teenaged backpacker’s fault that he had to press himself up against my sweat soaked body on the bus. There was nowhere else for him to go. Nor could I blame the blank-eyed train station attendant for giving me the wrong information; how was she to know that the platform number for my train would be switched less than three minutes before departure? And it certainly was no one’s fault that the announcement was made in Italian. I was, after all, in Rome.

“Quale traino per Buonconvento?” A kind hearted woman heard my desperate entreaties to several bystanders. I imagine she took in my sagging shoulders, wet brow, and frantic tone and took pity on me.

“Do you need help, dear?” I could have kissed her.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been given conflicting information and I’m trying to find out which platform to go to for Buonconvento.”
She put a warm, matronly hand on my shoulder. “Well, that is where I am traveling, it’s this one over here.” Dressed comfortably chic, with a casual cotton skirt and short sleeved print blouse, she reminded me so much of my Aunt Betty. Pulled together, brisk, yet nurturing.

We boarded shortly thereafter and although she asked about my trip and told me a bit about her hometown of Florence, she left me to my thoughts. The old train ambled slowly through the countryside, the stuffiness in the car gradually easing as pockets of air pushed in through the grimy top windows. Postcard scenes unfolded, teasing my expectations. Tidy lines of rolled hay marched over the gently sloping hillsides. Sun bleached stucco farmhouses with ruddy tile roofs looked haphazardly plunked down every few miles, like game pieces scattered across a board. Swaying rows of deep gold crisscrossed with rigid rows of verdant green.

At the next bend, we rumbled right past a lonely looking cypress, causing it to swoosh in our wake. Taking a deep pull on the precious bottle of now lukewarm water, I settled back , closed my eyes and could almost hear the whir of my mental projector as scenes unspooled from the story I had woven. I pictured myself sipping fruity local Chianti with my fellow classmates after a day spent capturing the wildly romantic Tuscan images that so nonchalantly rolled past my window. The work would be so consuming, I’d lose track of time. My photographs would be vibrant and fresh, something I created with my own hands, my own vision. After writing down every detail and impression in my journal, I would fall into bed each night with that delicious weariness that’s rooted in a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

I’d heard from two friends, whose work I greatly admired, that attending a workshop would be “a life changing experience.” God that sounded thrilling. There was a time when I wouldn’t have considered doing something this bold. But that was before my father died. That day knocked my life out of balance and a big piece of my foundation was kicked away. Finding a passion and a purpose mattered more now. I was convinced that the immersion into the unfamiliar, the sensual setting, and the adventure of traveling alone would all combine to arouse my creative individuality and point me in the right direction. I didn’t want to waste any more time.

After passing a half dozen nameless sleepy stations, the train finally slowed at my stop. My good-natured traveling companion was concerned that no one was on the platform to greet me, but I told her not to worry, I’d find them. Before rounding the corner I looked back to a warm smile and vigorous wave goodbye.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Diego’s question pulled me back to the moment at hand. I shook my head.

“No, thanks.”

We were winding our way over bumpy, dusty roads, passing fields of drooping sunflowers, weathered cottages blooming with overflowing window boxes and, to my delight, the occasional smattering of thirsty looking grape vines. The steady breeze filled the car with an earthy, silty smell.

Half an hour later, he nudged the Fiat up a steep hill, then down a bustling side street, parking alongside an ancient stone building that had once been part of the city walls.

“Okay, sorry to rush you, but you’ve got twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. I need to get back to the school. I’ll wait across the courtyard at the café.”

He helped me haul my bags up the narrow, slippery stone steps. I dumped my equipment and peeled off my sticky clothes. Even in my hurry I was able to appreciate the charm of the wide windows with heavy red peeling shutters that were begging to be flung open. Ah, the healing power of a much needed shower! Vastly refreshed, I hurried out the door to meet Diego.

Il Poggiolo, the meetinghouse, stood like an arrogant warrior with arms crossed and feet spread. Aptly named, (the balcony), it was built on a hilltop and overlooked the tiny drowsy town of San Quirico. We walked up the stone steps to the sweeping patio where many students had already arrived. There were five classes being held that week, each with 6-10 students, one instructor and one assistant. My first choice class had been canceled due to lack of enrollment and I was attending the one the school suggested in its place. Most people were talking and laughing in small groups as if reacquainting themselves. There were more men than women, but many could have been an artist’s muse. I struggled not to stare. Sculpted jaws supported pillow soft lips, espresso eyes shined, sable hair flowed.

Although travel weary, I was humming with that first day of school anticipation. But before I could plunge in, however, Carlo, the soft-spoken founder and director of the school, announced in English that we should gather for an orientation talk. He had an overgrown rumpled monk haircut, wide face and easily distracted eyes. Dressed in wrinkly kakis that had seen better days and a faded blue polo shirt, he looked like he had been dragged away from doing something else. Initially warm and welcoming, he quickly introduced the different instructors, those surely wise professionals who were standing at the ready to coax out our collective genius. They broke us into groups by class.

“You must be Carol.” A petite woman with smiling eyes reached out her hand. “I am Anna, Andrea’s assistant and I will be translating for you.” Before I could even register just what that was going to mean, my instructor Andrea looked up from the gaggle of students surrounding him and switched into English.

“Oh, Carol… yes. I am afraid you are the only American in my class – the only one who speaks English, actually.” He laughed. “This is very rare, as most students who come here can usually speak English as a second language. It’s odd, but no one does in this group. So, I’ve decided to teach it in Italian for the first time. Anna will translate for you where needed.”

Where needed? My language tapes had reviewed how to catch a bus, order a meal and chat with the locals. I wasn’t prepared to learn photography techniques in Italian. Oh, God. This workshop had sounded like such a good idea. My Mom so wanted to give me something special for my birthday. She was thrilled that she could do this for me. And the timing was perfect. My husband, David, was working with a client in Reno… it was the ideal week. But how was I going to learn anything this way?
Dismissing me with a quick nod, he turned back to the rest of the class.

“Excuse me, but won’t that be difficult?” He looked back at me with raised eyebrows. With a trace of annoyance, he responded, “Well, it is unfortunate, but Anna knows a decent amount of English, so she can explain things to you quietly as I teach.”
Yep, that was my only option. The other classes being held that week were either much more advanced or specialized. I didn’t want to just turn around and go home. I had come too far.

Little did I know that the struggle had just begun.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I love the exploration of a new neighborhood, especially when it’s mine. I’ve always felt invested in the communities in which I’ve lived, but there is something about being a first time home owner that has made me feel even more connected.

Ego-centric, yes. But mapping out your corner of the world, delighting in what you find, and calling it your own is soul satisfying. As I headed out for a recent walk, I stopped to enjoy another great chat with my next-door neighbor Cos, who has lived here in East Rogers Park for 27 years and knows everyone in the vicinity. He’s got hard working broad shoulders and a quick smile that crinkles his eyes. He also has a riotous backyard garden bursting with 46 planters and a gurgling fountain.

Fortified with good neighborliness, I meandered down my street , past stately brick condos that mix elegance with quirky warmth, (think Queen Mum, not Queen), then ended up barely 10 minutes later at my new stretch of sandy beach, staring out at the several sailboats that were lufting along my favorite lake.

This walk wasn’t just about the lake, however, I was also doing a bit of writing spot recon. A fresh location always seems to fuel my sometimes sluggish writing motivation. I know I’m not alone here. The invigoration of new can breathe life into stale stories or tired essays. I’d heard a lot about Ennui, the coffee shop tucked into the corner of Sheridan and Lunt and, always on the lookout for a fun spot to sip something hot and be inspired, I wanted to check it out. As promised, it had just the right mix of inviting nooks, worn novels and broad tables for ample stretching out. The wide, covered outdoor patio wasn’t bad, either. Want to know more? : http://centerstagechicago.com/restaurants/cafeennui.html

Okay, I thought as I walked back toward the water, intent on seeing how far north I could wander until I got my fill, what was it exactly that made this last move feel so big? It wasn’t just that we now have a mortgage, though that’s no small point. It’s really about the joy of commitment. Indecision is laced with restlessness, that tiring but necessary state we all need to inhabit while we’re chewing on choices. Ah, but what a relief it is when we’ve reached a conclusion! That’s when the fun begins.

Recovered Treasure

I recently unpacked a box of my father’s books that has been tucked away for 5 years. Its contents made me want sip a cup of freshly brewed tea, settle by a roaring fire, or at the very least, curl up in a comfy chair. However, it was 96 degrees outside and I was so thrilled by my find that I just devoured them on the spot.

In the first batch, many titles were barely discernable, with spines worn away from bindings, their loopy, calligraphic inscriptions softened by time. My parents got me hooked on signing my name and a note in books given as gifts. I had forgotten that the family tradition started long ago.

Each opened book, each freshly read inscription, revealed a delicious nugget about its owner; protestations of puppy love called out from my great grandfather’s McGuffy’s Reader, whimsical sketches inside a school primer sparkled with a youthful ease that my own grandfather rarely showed in his later years, his wife’s shaky script, penned inside a green velvet volume of Christmas poems, revealed that this was the first gift her husband had given her when they were both freshman in college. As I dug deeper I found a book about WWII veterans with my own earnest note dutifully dated, thanking my dad for his service to our country.

My father used to say that reading let you go on any adventure you wished, and in this case, it was an intriguing trip back in time. The Ladies and Gentlemens’ Complete Etiquette, by Mrs. E.B. Duffey set me down smack in the middle of Philadelphia in 1877 where I read that “ Some people never “go to bed” they “retire.” They never “read” a book or paper, but “peruse” it. They “purchase” instead of “buy”. They never wish, but “desire.” They are never guilty of commonplace “talking,” they always “converse.” The best talkers and writers express their ideas in the plainest and simplest language.” Hmm. A good topic for discussion, don’t you think?

If you enjoy leafing through old books as much as I do, or even if you’re just in the mood for a particularly lush bookstore to while away some hours, check out Bookman’s Alley in Evanston. http://centerstagechicago.com/literature/bookstores/bookmans.html
I’m still trying to figure out where each treasured volume will go. I know there isn’t room for all of them on our shelves at the same time, so I’ll rotate the display. What I do know is that as I read those sentiments penned so long ago, they were given a new life, a fresh appreciation. They brought the past right into my hands and let me linger in familial comfort. I won’t need more bookshelf space to hold onto that