I can’t keep up! Backlogged weeks in iPhoto, the garden has been torn apart by gophers, laundry is still brimming from suitcases; blogging is trumped by life this month and I’m not going to fuss over it much (so neither should you, mom!). Longing for more time to read all of your posts, much less write my own. Cheers! I promise to be back within a few days (my first weekend at home in over a month!)
tales of a duffel bag, part 1
I’m sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of our bedroom, and the soft yellow lamplight bathes the tousled bed and the the daisies on the bedside table, both closets stand ajar, with light spilling out the doors. Ford’s drawings, tacked upon the wall here and there, rise gracefully off the wall under the occasioanl breeze. It’s quiet, nothing but the drone of the window unit, but I can still hear my ears ring. And that, my friends, is the peace my ears deserve at the end of an afternoon with my own children.
I finished unpacking our bags from the past month’s travelling, all piled upon the floor and covered, by now, in a smattering of white dog hair. The clothes from one bag drained coarse sand in its wake as I walked to the laundry room; those were from our paddling trip up Mendocino. They smell of campfire and redwoods and ocean. I already want to drive back.
Mendocino is like Provincetown, Mass, minus the saltwater taffy stands; everything about the town digs up vacuous memories of freshman orientation in Cape Cod: the ageing middle class, tie dyed tee shirts, burgeoning blocksful of B&Bs, cottage gardens, picket fences, and storesful of kitch.
But we only spent an hour or so downtown; we camped at Russian Gulch state park.
We practiced knot-tying and sm’ores-eating and echo-making
boat-ramming and sea-dogging
It’s the kind of place where, if you have a plank to paddle upon, you can skim your way mellow up Big River; listen to eagles and the drift of seawind weaving through swaying flats of saltmarsh; look down past your oar into cleargreen depths of bull kelp and eelgrass,and let your eyes guide you up beyond mammoth timber moorings (once used by Russian pelt hunters).
And when the tide returns, you can drift seaward, out of the gentle, giant embrace of coastal redwoods and into the wild expanse of the Pacific. It is a place to feel very small and, among all ages, full of wonder.
To Ford, After Your first Day of Big Boy School
Ford, little man, I’m so in your dust.
Monday morning I overslept with just enough time to pack your lunch and shovel a bowl of food down your gullet, mostly against your will. It took me ten minutes just to find clean socks and another ten to find your shoes, tripping all the while over the mountains of camping laundry from the weekend, but in the nick of time we were out the door, and not looking back once at the red canoe still atop the car. I had a hard time focusing without the coffee I forgot to brew, wading through the muck of my anxieties, and keeping up with you. Down the sidewalk you skipped with your dad, as if already saying “seeyabye!” It just didn’t last long enough; I really wanted to hold onto the weekend, but Monday just slammed her big fat ass down in the drivers seat and I barely had time to grab the ‘oh shit!’ handles. And there we went.
Down the street.
We were a little early. You waited in the courtyard and watched little girls walk down the sidewalk, trailering Disney luggage on wheels. My eyes followed you as you measured every child that passed by. You asessed everything carefully, occasionally drawing attention but mostly appraising the morning as you bit your lip, squinted your eyes and surveyed the kinderscape.
We waited in the cafeteria for our orientation. You took a picture of me freaking out behind a plastic smile and I wondered how thankful you were to finally be free of my hysterics for 7 hours each day:
And, judging by your expression, I’d say you are pretty grateful!
After a brief Q&A in your homeroom, you kinderfolk rendezvoused to your new desks, and you were the first to start grabbing crayons and drawing on a piece of busywork coloring paper. The other kids mostly watched you start working, but within five minutes every child was eagerly coloring in the lines. We listening to a sappy book on saying goodbies on the first day of school, gross overkill with the best intentions from your sweet teacher, and as she read we watched you embellish your work.
Nice detail, Michaelangelo:
And despite the “Parent To Do List” that was written on the chalkboard, I was overcome with an uncontrolled bewilderment, a vacancy before me that I couldn’t ignore, and I had to put on shades in order to disguise my feelings, though I’m sure it only attracted sympathy from Damon, who managed to capture my first steps alone without you by my side, placing all my hopes in a basket before the teacher: that your spirit remain unbroken; that you never consider coloring as anything but busywork and fine motor practice; that you never stop asking questions; that your confidence doesn’t diminish; that you never stop trying; that you keep having fun; that you know life is school and the classroom is just structure, a place to bouce off ideas, not simply adopt them.
That’s it, roll those big brown eyes. Just don’t forget I’m crazy about you. CrAZY!!!
Love,
Mama
