Get out and enjoy!

Last evening, at 7, the temperature was still around 90 but I hadn't walked my daily circuit of the lake and gathered up my courage to do so. Imagine my surprise when I reached the Lake Anne plaza and there were lots and lots of people out, eating at the restaurants, playing in the fountain, setting up for a concert, boats coming in to dock, kids on paddle boards, students reading near the spray of the big fountain - mothers, fathers, kids, dogs, America! I suddenly felt as though I had been cheating myself on all these hot, hot days, not to venture out and just get acclimated to the temps, rather than hiding in air-conditioned climes!

I vow not to let the rest of summer get away simply waiting for ideal temps. In all likelihood summer is a state of mind rather than temperature!

Not what it used to be

Our back porch had a hammock suspended on two hooks - one against the back wall and one on the middle post. On many a hot summer day the only cooling air against hot bodies was the gentle sway of the hammock, as we lazily pushed back and forth, sometimes lying side by side, sometimes head to toe-always quibbling about who was taking up more space. In more raucous times we swung higher and higher trying to touch the ceiling or snatch things from the little drying line where Mother hung her tea towels. The porch was shaded by trellises at either end and if we wanted cool solace, it was the place of dreams. It was also a place for reading, or playing with kittens, or sharing deepest secrets with my bosom childhood friend.

Toto, I know we're not in Kansas anymore because today I would probably be nauseous from the motion in about 3 minutes.

Going for the gold

The Olympics.

I always sit back in awe, not about the performances themselves - though they are astonishing - but about the athletes. Who would do this??

I saw one little preview about a table-tennis player who is really young - 16, I believe - and will be competing in Rio. I think I heard that he practices 6 hours a day. Six hours a day playing table tennis.

When I was 16, I felt two hours of evening homework was an imposition and that was varied subjects and not every day. I can't even comprehend such rigor!

And  here's the thing - for what? Yes, I get the medal. Yes I get the endorsements. Yes I get the money and fame. But that's only for the one at the top. And how long does any of it last?

I knew one family whose daughter at one point started taking ice skating seriously. They were a normal family with limited time and money. The sacrifices the entire family had to make to get her to practices were wrenching.. And that was just the tip of the iceberg! They had to drop out.

While its all amazing to watch, the story behind the starting whistle and the end tape may be indeed unglamorous. Or worse.

I want to cheer the depth of discipline and determination. But truly I wonder, at what cost?

foundation

I came across a card that my best childhood friend had written to me upon the death of my mother, years ago. She wrote about coming over to our house and how my mother was always busy doing something, but that her presence was a sense of security. She could always be counted on to share whatever goodies - often chocolate chip cookies from a tin container in the wash-house  or a gigantic tin can of Good's potato chips which resided for some strange reason in a staircase off the dining room, but that she left us to our dreams and schemes without interference.

And that's what I remember about her all my life. She was always there - whether physically or not - and she didn't monitor my dreams and schemes....well I take that back. When we had decided (at 8) to "build" a clubhouse from scraps lumber Dad had scattered all over the second floor of the barn, that dream cane to a crashing halt before it could even reach the gates of Dad! But by and large, she would just smile at our wild ideas, knowing of course which we did not, that they'd never happen.

She was there.

Dad was there.

Presence.

Safety.

Priceless.

balancing the seesaw

I had library patrons of two extremes of parenting in one day's time.

The first mother said "Could you point me to the books (picture books) that have a good message for my daughter?"

Well, now, seriously, what picture book doesn't intend to contain a good message??

And I swallowed a whole lot of inappropriate responses and started showing her books she clearly knew nothing about - McCloskey's Make Way for Ducklings, Madeline, Babar, Angelina, Tacky, Lily, Mo Willems, Cynthia Rylant, Curious George, on and on - nada.

Sigh.

Then came the mother who asked, "My daughter has read the Iliad and the Odyssey - what would you suggest next?"

"How old is your daughter?"

"Eleven".

Again, seriously, how many 11-year-olds are ready for those classic works?

And after about 20 minutes of attempting to guide the daughter (aka, the mother!) into something a mite more attainable, I came back and discovered she had chosen Les Miserables and Three Musketeers -  each with more than 1,000 pages, never mind the span of content!

One parent not even peripherally engaged and the other up to her neck in pressuring.

I recognize that the best my mother could do, with her allotment of education, time and responsibilities was largely encouraging me to explore books, and quoting poetry and stories to me from memory. But in this advanced current state of avalanching information, I think it is a tricky road to balanced enlightened parenting and sadly too few travelers.

the crossing

When my grandmother died, a cloud of sadness rested on our house in Hinkletown. She had been ill for a long time with different types of cancer, so it wasn't a surprise. But the finality brought the lightness of our family to a halt temporarily. I was just a young girl, but I remember looking over at our neighbors across two garden plots and seeing them playing and laughing and having a grand old time. And I longed for the heaviness to pass. I wasn't personally grieving that much because my grandmother had been ill most of my life and never very approachable. But I just wanted the world to right itself. I wanted Mother singing and laughter threading through the day. I wanted normal.

Yesterday morning I got an email from a longtime library patron-friend with whom I play on-line Scrabble. I hadn't heard from her in a few days and thought she was on vacation. Instead, the email told me very simply and completely clothed in non-detail, that her daughter had passed away. She thanked me for setting her daughter on a path of a life-time love of books and thanked my husband for being one of her favorite professors. I was completely devastated. I don't know how she died, but I'm guessing it was self-directed in one way or the other. I may never know, but maybe she will want to talk at some point.

But every since those words, "my daughter passed away" her burden has become mine. I have lots of distractions, but every time there is a quiet moment and my mind sweeps the day to the side, her world of hurt comes sliding into my heart. I will keep writing and sending my words of love but I am on the fringes of this abyss. She is in the vortex and will never be able to escape the pull. She will get back to the music of the day at some point. But there is no more normal for her.