Road Trip Down Memory Lane

I just spent a weekend in upstate New York with my writers group. Unseasonably warm fall weather, great eats at great restaurants, and the fact that one of us grew up in Woodstock and could serve as tour director, contributed to yet another wildly successful road trip. Another reason for our visit: as a young mother some 23 years ago, I lived about 8 miles from Woodstock. I haven't thought about that phase of my life in a long, long time. Now, I'm thinking.

We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.

Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.

Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.

Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?

I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.

So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.

Mall Walking

On my daily run this morning (OK, more of a walk than a run but I do run a bit) I spent a lot of time with my eyes riveted on the ground, dodging road hazards. Loose gravel, tiny potholes, kamikaze chipmunks, a pre-autumn slippery leaf or two. This cautionary approach to my morning routine prevented me from true appreciation of the brilliant sky and the puffy clouds. I didn't realize this until I was back in my own driveway and it totally bummed me out. I like being outside rather than inside on the treadmill because of the fresh air and the diversity of the scenery; now, I felt like I was missing out.

A month ago, while walking on a city sidewalk with eyes focused straight ahead, I tripped on uneven pavement and went flying through the air. I hit the ground squarely on my knees and the palms of my hands, all 4 areas badly skinned as if I were 5 years old again. It hurt; I bled and cried. That's why I run with my eyes on the ground now. I am actually afraid of falling. What am I, 80 years old?

Then something unbidden flashed through my mind. You must have seen them in the mall: Usually white-haired, always in pairs or trios, they walk. Bright white orthopedic sneakers and track suits. They circle the interior of the mall relentless until they reach their desired distance. I used to chuckle to myself at the silliness of it. Now they have me thinking. You don't need to worry about tripping on anything but your own two feet. The weather is always perfect. The people watching would be fun. Running would probably be frowned upon but you could get a good walking speed going. At the end of your 5 miles or whatever you can go to Starbucks or Nordstrom's or both.

I'm worried about myself. But god forbid should I break a hip.

Things I Have Noticed Now That Jenny Has Moved Out

1. She really is the only person in this household who understands me.

2. The liquor cabinet is mine, all mine, again.

3, It's not as much fun watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians without her.

4. No one gets my Gilmore Girls' references. “Oy, with the poodles already.”

5. No one gets my Sex and the City references. “You get a day, not a week.”

6. The coffee supply lasts a lot longer.

7. There's no one to give me an honest opinion about my shoe choice.

8. The smoke haze in her car (now Connor's) is slowly dissipating.

9. There's no one to make fun of the songs on my ipod. Oh, wait. . .

10. Who's gonna side with me on the AC/No AC and heat/no heat arguments with Pops, as she calls him?

Mary Kate

I met Mary Kate when she was part of the welcoming committee at Voyagers' orientation for our first Fall semester. While not completely new to homeschooling, I was new at this homeschooling coop and a bit tentative. Mary Kate didn't waste any time. She plunked herself down in the chair next to me, the omnipresent reporter's notebook in hand: you know, those long, thin, lined ones. After the usual introductions, the recruitment began. “How old is your child? You have a boy? Excellent. Is he interested in Shakespeare?” she asked. I had no idea if he was interested in Shakespeare but her enthusiasm almost made me hope he was before I really knew what she was talking about.

It turns out that he did perform in Voyagers Shakespeare Company; Mary Kate was a producer. Those notebooks of hers contained every last detail of each production from rehearsal schedules to costuming to publicity to ticket sales. Once, when the notebook went missing, we all dropped what we were doing and scoured the premises searching for it. I found it on a windowsill just behind a flap of curtain. She shrieked in delight; she was saved!

We attended Voyagers on different days so our only real connection was through Shakespeare. Until The Diagnoses. When I learned Mary Kate had melanoma, I joined our mutual friends with feelings of shock and sadness. I had a few private conversations with her, mostly of a practical nature, concerning how her treatment would impact her involvement at the coop. We didn't touch on how her diagnosis was affecting her family, or her personally, at all. Until my diagnosis.

We were in the Voyagers office when I told her, and the bond was instantaneous. I was new to this cancer thing and didn't realize at that time how this disease unites those afflicted. Mary Kate grabbed my hands in hers and we let the tears flow, something neither of us allowed often. Although our cancers were different, both diagnoses were late stage, and dire. From that point on, outside of her close circle of friends, mine was one of the few calls she would take. We let each other prattle on, didn't ask too many questions, appreciated the importance of just listening. My youngest kid had recently celebrated a birthday; I told her how I worried I would not see another. Her only daughter, 6 or so at the time, had been dreaming aloud about her future wedding; Mary Kate had to leave the room so her sadness wasn't revealed.

I was lucky. My treatment plan was straight forward and went smoothly. Mary Kate was not so lucky. Regular treatments didn't work; she must have been enrolled in every clinical trial available. When they found a tumor in her brain, I accompanied her to the brain oncologist; her husband was unavoidably out of town and she wanted someone non-emotional who would ask tough questions and take good notes. I was honored. When she returned from yet another trial, this time at the National Cancer Institute, I picked her up at the airport and watched her doze off in the passenger seat on the way home. “I just have to hang in there until the technology catches up,” she said. “I know it's stupid, but I'm pissed that I'm losing my hair.” She had great hair, long and thick and red. She had every right to be pissed.

Today, a day after Mary Kate passed away, I can't get her out of my mind. I hope I never completely do.