Living Room Haiku

Air plant—bouffant coif. 
Five paperwhites—tourist group.
The table? Town green. 

One Haiku

It’s just a short drive 

to my childhood home. Surprise,

there, like memory.

Three Haiku

The orchid wilting.

Found bright on the cold sidewalk, 

weeks ago. Don’t die.

*

My evening world, home: 

dog’s eyes, tea, laundry spinning.

What happens outside?

*

Mom was always first 

on my list of prayers. Now 

someone gets her slot.

Un-Ordinary

A couple of weeks ago, I got an e-mail out of the blue from N., the daughter of longtime friends of my parents'. She had come across an essay I'd written about my family, prompting her to track me down. N. is about a dozen years older than me, and I never knew her well, largely because of the age difference, which made her an adult while I was still a kid, but I did know her parents. 

Her father and mine had met in college in the 1940s, then my father helped get her dad a job in Washington and they remained colleagues and friends for decades, even after their retirement from the government, when they both worked for a private firm for another 20 years or so. Our mothers were also close. I remember luncheons Mom would host for small groups of women friends, mostly wives of my father's colleagues, including N.'s mother. The menu might include vichyssoise or chicken in aspic or something prettily sliced like stuffed flank steak. Dessert could be plum kuchen or individual caramel custards.

I learned from Mom how to be hospitable, the value and satisfaction of welcoming people into your home and making delicious things for them to enjoy. (So why don't I do it more often?)

As N.'s parents, then mine, succumbed to the trials and diminishments of age, they fell out of touch. Her dad died in 1999, her mother in 2012, the same year my father passed away. All were in assisted living.

My mother, as I've written before, is still alive and in "memory care." I've also written here of a long-ago teaching colleague of hers who connected with me through the same essay of mine that N. read and who continues to visit Mom after more than two years. But N. is the first person to share with me in such detail the impression my mother made. Here's an excerpt from her note:

I was always fond of your parents, but I adored your mother. She was beautiful, stylish, talented, cultured, creative, articulate, and a wonderful cook. I still own and cherish some things she made for me—a knitted tea cozy, accompanied by a poem that she wrote, a patchwork hot pad, badly faded 40 years later, but still treasured, and a little collection of handwritten menus with recipes I still use.  Once she gave me a pretty glass jar filled with potpourri she had harvested from her garden.  Your mother was so un-ordinary, and I wish I had kept in closer touch with her. . . .  

Sometime in the mid-'60s, your parents gave a 12th Night party one winter afternoon after Christmas, and children were invited. Do you remember that? I can see exactly what your mother wore in my mind's eye—a gorgeous, long emerald-green hostess dress, which she told me your father had given her for Christmas. (I'm pretty sure I'm remembering that correctly.)  It was a wonderful party—lots of delicious homemade things, including candied grapefruit, which I'd never had before. 

Your mother never took the easy way out. If something was worth doing, it was worth doing to perfection. Once on my mother's birthday, your mom invited her over for lunch. My mother came home with lovely birthday gifts your mother had made—including homemade croissants in a basket with a beautiful embroidered cloth. By the way, I recall that your kitchen was all pink. Was it still pink when you sold the house?

I was sitting at my desk at work practically in tears at these lovely, unasked-for reminiscences—all, I might add, accurate. I do remember the 12th Night party. It was an open house—come anytime between, say, 3 and 6—and it became sort of legendary in the family. Mom would often say, "We should have another 12th Night party." But for all the other entertaining she did over the years—and she was essentially a shy person, a tough thing to reconcile with an inclination toward graciousness—we never had another bash like that.

I remember the green hostess dress, too—if you'd asked me what she wore to that party nearly 50 years ago, I couldn't have said, but N. helped me recall.

What I've realized reading and rereading N.'s e-mail (and we've continued the correspondence over the last two weeks) is that she has idealized Mom—and I love that she has. I think it's great.

I knew all of the same traits of my mother's that she describes, along with the more human side that everyone knows of a parent: the misunderstandings, the bathrobes, the TV dinners, the workaday. But N. saw her from a remove; maybe she even admired things that were different from her own mother (I didn't know her mom well enough to say). But what she has captured in those sentences is true—all of it. There are so few people in the world whom I have access to anymore, outside family, who cherished the beautiful things Mom brought to the world. The fact that N. went to the trouble to tell me was a real gift.

And no, the kitchen was no longer pink.

Before I was born.

Same front porch eight years later (me on the right).

Running On

By Bill O'Leary, Washington Post

I went for a longish run in Rock Creek Park this evening—trying not to let the heat keep me from it, as I too often let the cold keep me inside this past winter. 

In fact, Washington summer weather is not much of an obstacle to me anymore; I like it more the older I get—though something in my physiognomy seems to have turned a corner between ages 49 and 51, and I can no longer justify my brief fling with shirtless running. Or maybe the turn was in my psychology. Was I delusional as recently as a year ago? Very possibly. (Interesting that my previous post on this subject was titled "Illusions," delusion's more kindly fraternal twin.)

Tonight's route was the same one I ran when I first moved into the city from the suburbs. Midsummer into fall of 1995, I ran almost every night, through 90- and 95-degree temperatures, stopping at the exercise stations along the trail to do sit-ups and push-ups, even an attempt at a pull-up or two. It was one of the fittest periods of my life. I was so happy and proud of having made this move, finally at age 33—felt so lucky to have found an apartment in a grand old-fashioned 1920s building with hardwood floors, built-in china cabinets, stucco walls, an arched entryway, even a Rear Window alley view.

In mid-October of that year, I met (or rather remet; he was a former student of mine) the guy who would become my partner for the next eight years. While I continued running—as I had before and have since—I think of those three months when I was on my own in the city for the first time as a precious period in which I was fully myself—myself becoming, for sure, but myself. 

I lived in that building for two years, then moved in with the guy. If I hadn't been so excited about what was to come, it would have been wrenching to leave what in some ways I still think of as my perfect apartment. Anyone who reads this blog knows that I love where I live now—the home I own—and the  man I'm with now. So much changes over the years without our having to do anything to make it happen. We just adapt. And sometimes embrace. An old home can still be allowed to be perfect in memory.

As I was running tonight, I realized that not only was I on a familiar path on a familiar kind of summer night, but it was exactly 18 years ago to the day that I moved into DC, and into that apartment. July 15, 1995. 

Perhaps tonight is the beginning of another run—shirtless or not—that I can't even see the shape of yet. I have no way of knowing.

Colors of the Day

Friday evening, I completed a two-month refinancing process, something I'd been dragging my feet on, simply because of the pain-in-the-neck of it, but D. helped me get on it through his gentle prodding. I'll save a lot of money and now have only one monthly payment instead of two.

It's just a few days past six years since I moved into my condo—the time has gone fast. I still can scarcely believe I own my own home. 

Truthfully, it's not only mine but also a living gift from my father in his final, fading years, guided to write a check by my sister, who with her husband made two contributions as well, unbidden. And D.—whom I didn't know when I bought the place but met within months—has also has helped me make it what it is, generously facilitating a kitchen renovation two years ago and celebrating with me every day the things of beauty or usefulness—new, from my family, antiques from strangers' pasts—that have come to fill its spaces.

There's so much I have yet to live into here. I can't make time slow down, but on a quiet Sunday like this, I can look around and appreciate what I have.

We have seen a million stones lying by the water,
You have climbed the hills with me
To the mountain shelter.
Taken off the days, one by one, 
Setting them to breathe in the sun.

—Judy Collins, "Since You've Asked"  

— 

(Wow, my walls are really not yellow like that!)

"I'd Love To!"

I liked this post from the Kitchn (sibling of the equally fun and inspirational Apartment Therapy), "Go With the Flow: Simple Ways to Relax and Enjoy Hosting." (The comments are good, too.) This sentence alone is a worthwhile reminder: "Your friends aren't judging you for perfection; they already enjoy you for who and how you are, and they're just interested in hanging out."

For every reason I can think of to have guests over, I can usually think of five not to. 

1. My place is so small. In Manhattan it would be considered enviable in both size and amenities, but in Washington it's just . . . small. Nevertheless I love it and find it utterly charming and cozy, and most everyone who sees it says the same thing. So where's the problem?

2. I'm vegan. Even though becoming vegan three years ago was one of the best—and most fun—things I've ever done for myself, I imagine that people I invite wouldn't be satisfied with what I serve or would consider it weird, no matter how delicious it is to me or how good a cook I am (which is pretty good).

3. I have a dog (half of the time). If it's one of my alternate weeks with her (or if I'm not planning to have her but a change in the custody schedule means that I do), what if a guest doesn't like dogs or is allergic, or what if she's underfoot the whole time? That hasn't happened yet.

4. I can't decide who to invite or how many or whether to mix friends. Some of the best, most relaxed times I've had as a host have been when I've had just one person over. So maybe that's my sweet spot and I should stick with it. Why the self-imposed pressure that I should be having larger groups over?

5. It takes so much time to plan and prepare. Yes. And meanwhile the calendar pages continue to turn. Isn't that time, too?

Getting to 50 . . . and Beyond

This is cheating, but I can't think of a better way of summing up what my folding bike means to me than what I said in my Christmas letter in December:

"On my 50th birthday [in September], I bought a bicycle. I haven’t owned one since my Schwinn banana seat. A bike has been on my mind for a long time (D. and I ride every summer on Cape Cod, where I’ve rented mine), but it’s taken me a while to admit it’s okay for me to have one. (Don’t ask—it’s like the contortions I went through before I gave myself permission to move from the Maryland suburbs to DC 16 years ago.) This bike has changed my life. It’s a folding model, perfect for my tiny “urban cottage” (D.’s second home, mine being his lovely house in, guess where, the Maryland suburbs). I had no intention of using it to commute, but within a month I was riding to work, mostly on bike lanes, weather and other factors permitting. You’d recognize me—I’m the one who obeys traffic signals. The obvious feeling is freedom, but it’s not the main part. For years I’ve had dreams I’m on a bike, but the sensation is the accomplishment of getting somewhere on my own power. I wake up feeling, Wasn’t it cool how I got there?"

Home . . . and Other Cities

Tonight I sit alone in my home—a quartet of pants somersaulting in the dryer, the kitchen and bathroom floors newly clean (believe me, not a common state), a feeling of post-Christmas order in the living room (I took down the tree, perhaps my prettiest ever, last night). A cup of tea is empty, a crushing work deadline is over, and bed awaits with a book before sleep. There's little I like better than where I am right now.

And here, from writer Susan Cain in the New York Times, comes confirmation that neither the delicious solitude that I relish on a night like this nor shutting my door at work (as I'm wont to do) is a sign of antisocial behavior but a necessity for creativity and productivity:

"Our offices should encourage casual, cafe-style interactions, but allow people to disappear into personalized, private spaces when they want to be alone. Our schools should teach children to work with others, but also to work on their own for sustained periods of time. And we must recognize that introverts . . . need extra quiet and privacy to do their best work."

All I need now is an article about other introverts who close their curtains as soon as they come home and delight in the feeling that they're hidden from the world where no one can find them. An illusion, but a deeply satisfying one. Oh, and with photos of the cozy and creatively decorated houses and apartments these people come home to—how about it, New York Times?

Speaking of New York (and I hope as proof that a sometime hermit is not all I am), what I'm most looking forward to this week is an up-and-back-in-one-day bus trip D. and I are taking on Saturday to see the Broadway play Other Desert Cities, starring the fabulous Rachel Griffiths).

D. expressed concern that the trip would be exhausting. I said, "An entire day of uninterrupted time, just you and me on a bus making each other laugh and doing the Friday and Saturday Times crosswords together?"

Exhausting? Delicious.

Two fun gals: Sarah Jessica Parker and Rachel Griffiths

Steve Granitz/WireImage.com

Dear Friends

I had to edit my holiday letter down at the last minute when I realized that the type, reduced to fit on one page, was too hard to read and there really was just too much of it for anyone to put on a mantelpiece with the other cards. But maybe not too long for this mantelpiece. Here is the unedited version (and yet also slightly expurgated for the purpose of my semi-anonymous blog), which gives a fuller picture of my experience of 2010 than the version my friends and family received in the mail. Happy New Year to anyone reading this.

***

This is the first holiday letter I’ve ever written, but all the kids seem to be doing it now and since I continue to resist Facebook, it’s the least I can do to update you in a more substantive way than my brief notes of years past. 
 

Sometimes it seems it seems my whole life is dictated by the cyclical nature of my job. For about a week and a half every month, work is very intense. My job is almost completely portable, and I often work in the evening or on weekends during those periods. When people express concern about getting a late-night e-mail from me, I say that editing with a fire in the fireplace, a cup of tea, and my dog at my side beats working in a spooky, abandoned office at 11 p.m. I think of my job as solving problems, small and not so small, which is very satisfying.

I continue to teach, though I’ve been on a break since June and will return in March. I’ve come to believe my true calling is more as a teacher than as a writer. I did, however, complete an essay in November and have already had it rejected. So—two accomplishments checked off my list (ha ha).

In the spring, I had grand jury duty, which took me out of the office three days a week for two months. Even I’m a little amazed I managed to get my job done. It was an educational experience despite the fact that 75 percent of it was repetitious and tedious. Also despite the fact that most of the other 22 jurors were cliquish and sophomoric. We heard nearly 200 cases, almost all drug-related, many presented in less than 15 minutes. I was most surprised to learn that prosecutors in DC Superior Court are, by and large, just as young and attractive as they are on Law & Order.

During this time, my mother—who has had dementia for 13 years and been in assisted living since 2008—fell and broke a bone while wandering at 6 in the morning. After rehab, she moved into “memory care,” which has turned out to be a mostly positive step for her and she’s doing well relative to the unrelenting nature of her condition. Dad lives in the building’s general population and can see her whenever he wants, as can I and my siblings. My partner D. and I take him to the Silver Diner every weekend. I’ve slowly become better at not measuring the success of such an outing by Dad’s talkativeness or silence or by any particular words of appreciation but by the pleasure with which he devours his All American Burger Basket and the curiosity in his eyes as he surveys the people, lights, and activity around him. 
 

Both of my parents have passed age 90, and my father’s own dementia, which began more recently, has started to progress more noticeably. It occurs to me that my brother and two sisters and I are now the caretakers of our parents’ memories. With most of Mom and Dad’s pasts lost to them or jumbled, we likely know all we will ever know of them—their childhoods, their travels, our own births. These stories we’ve memorized or simply absorbed over the years are entrusted to us for safekeeping as surely as the snapshots of fuzzy-headed toddlers on beaches, the letters and diaries, the pictures of a newly married couple slicing a cake nearly 60 years ago. 
 

The four of us have been getting the family house ready to sell sometime in the near future—sorting through possessions, holding a yard sale, making repairs. One thing I know for sure: I’m lucky to have siblings I get along with, and I can’t imagine how such tasks would be bearable otherwise. 
 

My partner D.’s older sister passed away in November, and if I didn’t already appreciate the gift of having siblings I love and respect, D.’s relationship with her would be a lesson. He was her caregiver for the last 11 years since he moved her up to Washington from Florida, just as he had been for a period in the 1980s when he moved her to be near him in New York. One of the first things he ever told me when we met three years ago was that she protected him when they were kids, and he owed her the same when she became sick. That’s when I knew he was a generous and worthwhile man.

We’ve had a lot of fun this year, from seeing the extraordinarily moving and imaginative play War Horse in London (coming to Broadway in the spring) to trips to three of our other favorite places—Provincetown (three times, with another coming up at New Year's), Vermont, and New York City—to trolling flea markets and antiques shops whenever and wherever we can. His job as a dance professor and director of the arts scholarship program keep him very busy, and he’s a much-loved mentor to many young people present and past.

D. and I each have homes we love—his house in the suburbs (less than five minutes from where I grew up) with its lovingly tended gardens, my House at Pooh Corner condo in the city. I recently sent Doug a passage from a New York Times article about this year’s National Book Award winner in fiction, Jaimy Gordon: “Ms. Gordon, 66, has taught writing for almost 30 years at Western Michigan University and lives by herself in a two-story house next to a lake here. Her husband, Peter Blickle, 17 years her junior, teaches German at the university and lives by another lake, about a 20-minute walk away. His wife goes over there most evenings with her dog and they have a glass of schnapps.”

The subject line of my e-mail was “See, we’re not so strange.” D. replied: “I wish we had the lake and the 20 minute walk instead of a 20 minute drive! Let’s do the schnapps.” The truth is we’re not schnapps drinkers, but we share a pot of tea every time we get together.

This month marks the end of my first year of being vegan—the most fun and profound development of the year, full of discoveries, creativity, and good food. Like many, I never thought I’d be able to be vegan, even as it became harder to argue against it. Then I read the nonfiction book Eating Animals by the novelist Jonathan Safran Foer. The fact that Foer may not even be vegan himself (he never says so, though he is vegetarian) speaks to the power of his writing in that it had the effect of changing my life. I sensed before reading it that it was what I needed to make the leap. I wanted the push. 
 

In some ways, my life feels more expansive than ever, in others more stripped down. Without denying the stresses and uncertainties of life, both impressions feel welcome. I wish you happy endings and beginnings of your own.