This past Saturday, September 22, 2018, the autumnal equinox occurred at 9:54 p.m.  As I understand it, at that moment the sun’s position in relationship to earth resulted in equal hours of day and night. The orbit of the earth around the sun predicts this reliable occurrence twice a year.  After the fall equinox, days gradually shorten, as nights lengthen until we reach the winter solstice, when the pattern reverses.  Days gradually lengthen again heading toward the vernal equinox. And so on, year after year after year until who knows? On the equinoxes I sense the balance and feel comforted.  I love nature’s dependable pattern.  I wondered whether the equinox might hold secrets to comprehending life.

Yin and Yang

I suspect the security I get from the balance of night and day reflects the Chinese philosophy of Yin and Yang.  In the symbol, Yin is represented by black, Yang by white. Yin lies in the shade, Yang in the sun.  Because the St. Lawrence River is so integral to our family’s lives, I especially connect with the idea that Yin represents the south bank of a river, Yang the north bank.  Within each is a small circle, a seed, of the opposite. According to myth, as the sun gradually moves across the sky, Yin is revealed in light, Yang is shadowed. In this way the sun reveals what was concealed and obscures what was formerly exposed. Like the equinox, change and reorder repeat.  It’s comforting to think that I will eventually understand the meaning of events from the dark parts of life. Plus, Yin and Yang represent opposite or contrary forces that may actually be interconnected.  I suppose that explains why I am always searching for the positive in adversity. Maybe we see evidence of those opposing forces when a child’s birth occurs near a loved one’s death; or

for example, my mom’s death on my dad’s birthday.

Halves

On the equinox a day becomes equally divided into halves of dark and light. I considered at length the concept of halves. I found plenty of negativity in the language: half-baked, half-breed, half-cooked, half-empty, half-hearted, half-pint, half-starved, half-truth, and half-wit. With uncharacteristic pessimism I had to admit that I passed life’s half-way point a while ago. If today were half-way, I would live to be 130 years old. None of us has any idea when life’s half-way point occurs. If we did I doubt we would see life as half-begun rather than half-over. Even so, in the cliché I see the glass as half-full. With fewer years ahead than behind, I feel the need to find a seed of positive.

When financial planners attempt to explain retirement, they use perfectly rounded hypothetical numbers, easy to calculate. For the sake of examining my life by halves, I am choosing 100 years as my hypothetical life span. (Yes, that is exactly why I am accused of having rose-colored glasses.) Using 100 as my life’s target, it’s simple to identify the half-way point.  On my 50^th birthday I sat in one of my Saturday doctoral classes at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, on track to achieve one of my life’s goals. I could not have choreographed a more fulfilling life equinox.

Using a mathematical approach, I can re-calibrate my remaining 35 years into halves of positivism. I took another look back, and identified the year I would say I became an autonomous, independent adult: 1985, age 32. I used that age, subtracted it from 100, divided by two. Added the quotient of 34 to 32.  According to my calculations, as a self-directed adult, I will just be hitting my half-way point at age 66. Next, I took my retirement age, 62, subtracted that from 100, divided by two, and figured I still have 16 years left before I reach the half-way point in my writing career.  So now I have learned the physics of half-lives  and I intend to apply those ad infinitum.

A Turning Point

The Equinox marks the change in seasons, at least by our calendar. In northern New York we know a turning point in the weather will soon follow:  the first frost or the first snow.  This week’s essay becomes number 27 of 52, the  first past the mid-point, one that feels like a turning point.  To me reaching a half-way mark offers assurance that a destination will be reached, a goal accomplished, a project completed. Of course in life, I am in no rush to make it to the final conclusion.  Yet I have defined 65 as a turning point.  Because what follows must surpass what I have already done. Reed referred to this recently in his own striving toward goals, “Raising the bar.”  As the weeks diminish toward the conclusion of my year’s commitment, I expect new possibilities to arise; an advance and retreat, forces that complement, Yin and Yang.  I will discover a new set of projects, a fresh time-line, a recalculated half-life, my familiar cycle.

Today is the equinox of PowerAgers, the half-way spot.  I can relax a little, relish the balance.  Many years ago, my friend, Edana, and I each wrote a list of life goals. A few years later, surprised that I had mastered the list, I composed a new one.  Having a fresh list of unfinished pursuits gives me the illusion that I am perpetually in the first half of life. I already feel the exhilaration of new challenges.

Fair Givens

When you show up four hours early, go home and come back.

If you are not tall enough for the ride, or too tall for the ride, cry either way.

Eat rainbow-colored food: Slush Puppies, cotton candy, red candy apples.

Besides the Fair,

Where else would you…

Permit questionable operators to fasten your safety belt and lock the bar?

Allow impermanent apparatus fling you into perilous positions at incredible speed?

Dispense five and ten dollar bills to play rigged games to win prizes you already have by the dozens?

Other than the Fair,

Where else can you…

Find the contentment that comes from circling the hive repeatedly?

Mount a colorful painted horse that leaps and bounds in time to the calliope?

Ride into the dark, knowing all too well, demons wait?

If not at the Fair,

Where else do…

Cars accelerate and reverse in haphazard fashion; the sole purpose to ram one another?

Strangers bond in the shared terror of a Fireball?

People of all colors and classes unite to face the Alien Abduction?

Fair Tips…

Don’t miss the chance to ride with your loved ones happily in the same direction.

If possible, run back into the fun house again and again.

The fair is temporary, so don’t miss it, even on the hottest day of the summer.

I lugged my bags into the sealed vault, as if crossing a portal to a timeless space.  Since my mother’s death five years ago, September 12, 2013, my dad has maintained their apartment exactly as it was.  No knick-knack, picture, or throw pillow moved. Collectibles, accrued over decades of flea-market searches, fill every corner, shelf, and table. Children’s china cups, illustrated with nursery characters sit in a prim line on the dry sink.  Old wooden blocks, vintage wicker doll furniture and various sets of porcelain toy tea sets assemble on miniature chests. Pristine walnut or cherry cupboards house tin toys, rare pottery, and old-fashioned household utensils.

 An Intimate Museum

On the walls a Red Cross nurse beseeches volunteers; a young lady in a 1912 sapphire gown and wide brimmed hat attests to Mecca cigarettes. Pictures of plump children with golden ringlets hang in every room. Two-dozen gilt-trimmed commemorative calendar plates form a constellation behind the royal blue damask sofa. The flavor of the past even touches the utilitarian rooms. In the bathroom delicately-beaded, fringed purses hang like mosaics from pegs. Above the kitchen cabinets blue-embellished gray crocks stand equidistant apart, still proud of their long forgotten purpose.

My dad has lived on here as a widower since my mom’s death, his presence nearly undetectable. A meticulous man, he leaves no personal item in sight; not a book, a magazine, or even a dirty cup. He has a cream-colored chair and navy ottoman across from the only new addition to the apartment, a flat-screen television. Dad permitted that change only because the outmoded console set had gone on the blink. If any piece of furniture is shifted for vacuuming, it is carefully returned to its concave impressions.

A Treasured Nest

Despite the abundance of curios, the space does not overwhelm. Tastefully arranged against a clean eggshell backdrop, with plenty of windows simply dressed, natural light fills the space. The thick champagne-hued carpet muffles noise and creates a plush floor for stocking feet. Now-faded Readers’ Digests, the final two my mom read, rest on a wooden stool by her wing-back chair.

Evidently, living among my mom’s things does not pain my dad.  And when I visit, I don’t find it morbid at all, mostly comforting, as if my mom’s arms embrace us here. My sister, Tami, and I have discussed clearing out the collectibles that require painstaking dusting. But over the years I believe my dad took his identity from those talismans of time with my mom. He no longer has her, but he has all of the evidence of their life. So we found him a cleaner to come twice a month to maintain the spotless perfection.

Time Lapse

Tami invited us to her house that evening where my nieces would be crafting decorations for Stevie’s bridal shower, the reason for my visit. We girls drank wine and Dad had vodka. Holly laid out a design to be painted on reclaimed window glass. Stevie embellished bouquets for her October wedding with pine cones she had collected from Cook Forest.  I suspect the pine cones served as the first trigger to my mom’s absence.  My mom loved Cook Forest, and she and my dad had taken all the grandchildren camping there. Stevie, especially, carried on the tradition. The hot, humid pattern of late summer persisted, exactly as it had the night my mom died. Stevie voiced our thoughts, “This feels like the night we put things together for grandma’s memorial.”  I swallowed hard, suppressing tears.

The next day Tami and Holly would accompany Stevie to have her wedding gown fitted, meet with a florist, and finalize a wine order for the reception. Dad and I shopped for shoes and final components of the bridal shower centerpieces. We met at Tami’s house that night, confirming last-minute details for the luncheon. “What would you like to do on your birthday?” Tami asked my dad, striving to keep our thoughts positive. Dad’s birthday in four days coincides with the anniversary of Mom’s death. I’m convinced my mom intentionally coordinated those dates so we would always have a distraction from our grief. No plans for the birthday confirmed, it felt as if we were all caught in a L’Engle tesseract.

By the day of the shower a cold front had arrived bringing steady rain. I’ve always noticed how a drastic change in weather affects temperament, elevating or discouraging, depending on what mood came before, rather than what conditions. Our luncheon with Stevie’s friends and family unfurled with merriment. Bottomless mimosa’s lubricated optimism. We anticipated Stevie’s married life, and temporarily forgot the looming anniversary. Tami and I reunited with our pseudo-sister, Judy, the proprietor and chef of Amazing Foods. Judy has fed us on other happy occasions. But, the last event Judy catered for us was Mom’s memorial.

Memories and Messages

Later that evening, we five, Tami, Stevie, Holly, Dad and I, gathered in a booth at the Ale House. Holly put our melancholy emotions into words. She confessed her appreciation for her grandparents, and the part they had played in her life as a child and young woman. She told us how she asks grandma for advice even now. Stevie who lives in the apartment above grandpa, spoke of curious sounds, sightings, and communications so like those of grandma. We all teared, and my dad looked so despondent, I thought he might collapse. Tami and her girls dream of my mom, but she contacts me in practical ways. Earlier that day, while looking for an envelope in her desk, I came across twenty-three scraps of paper. Book lists. Titles she’s read, and perhaps authors she wanted to read. Mom and I will commune through books.

Roads Converge

As I headed out of town on Monday morning, I waited at the red light at Caulfield’s Corners. An intersection of five streets on the north side of town, every direction holds vital memories. Sharply to my right, the steep incline of First Avenue, a street I traveled often to and from my elementary school when teaching third grade. Just past that, Rocky Grove Avenue, where my dad graduated high school in 1949, and my son in 1999. Straight through the traffic light rises N. Thirteenth Street, the road leading to the little league field as well as the St. Patrick’s Cemetery, where many Findlans rest. I will turn left, heading west past the house where my son was born and near our charmed house of thirty-one years, then north.

Later I had a revelation. On the day of the shower, Paul and Reed caught three trophy fish, despite unfavorable fishing conditions. Curious as to why,  I learned that the earth, the moon, and the sun had aligned that day, a new moon.  That planetary event had coincided with Stevie’s shower, dad’s birthday, and mom’s death as well.  No wonder our emotions had intensified.  Our five lives had been collected into a cosmic intersection of the past, present, and future.

Fifty years ago fourteen tenth-grade girls carved their names into a wooden booth of McGuire’s Drugstore. Mac’s had been our hangout since junior high. Like a scene from Happy Days, the small pharmacy featured a soda fountain, half a dozen booths, a counter with stools; sold nickel cokes, fifteen-cent sundaes, and apparently filled prescriptions. Aside from Mr. McGuire, the pharmacist, I don’t recall seeing an adult in the place. However, teen-aged boys and mostly girls congregated there regularly after school and on Saturdays. Mr. McGuire, always grumpy, directed loiterers to sit down, move out of the narrow aisle, and give up a seat so someone else could order. That routine went on for years. The news that Mac’s would soon close compelled us to engrave our names as part of its nostalgic history. Who knows whether the booths survived? But the friendships endured.

A Full Circle

Last weekend I met many of those friends at a cottage on Chautauqua Lake, NY. Edana flew into Cleveland from Nashville, and then rented a car. Carol flew from St. Petersburg, Florida. Cherie would drive to Pennsylvania from Columbus to carpool with two others. I drove southwest from northern New York. The others would drive north from western Pennsylvania. Any travel is worth the chance to reminisce and reunite with life-long friends. Dee, whom we hadn’t traveled with in years, joined. Candy, our host, had obtained tickets for us to see Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. A capacity crowd swayed and sang along, as did we, to all the songs of our youth. Naturally, he sang to our Cherie, “Sherry, baby!” Most of us had seen the Four Seasons in the 60s at a nearby high school. Five years ago in Las Vegas, we enjoyed the musical Jersey Boys, the story of the Four Seasons. We had come full circle.

Longevity

Our girlfriend weekends are a standard. When we all worked, vacation-time was preserved to accommodate our trips. As we transition into retirement, our options expand. Our fun, and highly therapeutic, visits will be even more valuable as we navigate big changes. I’ve observed that our time together unfolds as a balance of past, present, and future. Maybe that is the key to the longevity of our group. I’ve often wondered how many of us would choose to be friends if we met for the first time in the present. Our collective history, some going back to elementary school, links us like sisters. We’ve shared life’s passages with these women. When dealing with personal crises, we don’t see a professional. We wait and talk it over with the sister-friends. Loss and grief of all sorts have been counseled over the years. Likewise achievements and joys celebrated.

I recall a teary get-together in 1971, our senior year, when most of the original fourteen met to write heart-felt messages in one-another’s yearbooks. By then we had a common experience of teachers, dances, Broadcast performances, young loves, breakups, and adolescent adventures. We vowed to maintain our bond despite each separate plan for work, family, or higher education. Many of us remained connected with letters, visits, and during holidays. The socio-gram of our relationships shifted every so often. A few friends left the area, but a core group of eight remained steadfast.

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Brown, Blue

As we entered adulthood, we declared ourselves a “card club.” Monthly gatherings rotated from house to house, and in those early days we really did play cards, not bridge as our mothers, but hearts or five-hundred. Vats of M & Ms, Bridge Mix, and snacks evoked slumber parties. Weddings occurred, babies arrived, but we persisted in our pledge of friendship. Our tenth high-school reunion approached. We chose to celebrate the decade with a girls’ get-away. Most of us had children by this time, but our spouses would have to assume full responsibility. Eight of us headed to Sandusky, Ohio on Lake Erie, the destination of our senior class trip. Candy, unknowingly expecting for the first time, would ride the Gemini, a double roller coaster. She would give birth to twins in eight months. Just the first of hundreds of hilarious and preposterous stories we have to tell.

Incredible Journey

The girlfriends helped me navigate the complicated role of wife and mother.  Because of our history, we had no pretenses with one another. Advice given frankly. Laughter dominated our get-togethers, and our similar challenges consoled. As we all know, just having sympathetic listeners eases all sorts of minor problems. Major loss was inevitable. Sadly, Carol became a widow with a two-year-old daughter. I hope our love eased her grief in some way. Before long Kathy’s young son was diagnosed with cancer. I recall that Steph helped her in a myriad of ways. We all offered what support we could. I benefited the most from those who first experienced childbirth. Leaving a big wet stain, I went into labor on Kathy’s sofa. Candy had to drive me home in my stick-shift Chevette as contractions came one after another. My son was born within two hours. Talk about a support group.

Through the eighties we continued our monthly “card club” meetings, plus took an annual trip not far away. On several occasions, someone’s obligations interfered. Once, it was Carol who had to miss. We simply could not have fun without her, so we fashioned a look alike. Carol’s clothes covered a pillow, we stuffed pant legs, and a rubber hand held her cigarette. We took her everywhere that trip, to the restaurants, on the paddle boats, and introduced her to the bartender, who played along, and served her a beer.  We laughed till we cried. Steph videoed and Carol eventually appreciated what a great time she’d had. In that decade marriages fell apart and babies died, but if you look at our picture all you see is joy. That’s how we survived it.

As we established our adult identities in the nineties, our roles in the group emerged. Clearly, Kathy’s role was queen. Steph always had us laughing with her wit and hyperbole. Cathy became our life coach. We had the practical ones, the nurturers, and the opinionated. The group became a rock solid support system. I felt confident in myself, and a great part of that sureness came from the pool of strength I had to draw from. By now, we had given up card games. We had way too much to discuss, so we shared stories, worries, advice, caramel corn, brownies, chips and dip.  Life’s losses kept coming: Kathy’s son, Edana’s sister, Steph’s husband, Carol’s father. Our children grew up and needed us less. We turned to one another.

Eventually, careers, grandchildren, and elderly parents required more of our time. We scheduled bi-monthly dinners at one of our homes or a restaurant. Kathy’s bout with cancer underscored how  incredible that we have one another after fifty-plus years. So we relish our time together and bemoan aging. We thrive on the mutual rewards of grandparent-hood. Two new trusted friends joined us, Mara and Barb. We do our best to bring them up to speed on the stories.

What Lies Ahead

Those who can, gather in December to exchange gifts. Talk of next year’s trip, always on the agenda. I’ve hosted the sister-friends in the 1000 Islands. We created a wish list of places we’d like to visit. We’ve already done Nashville several times, Las Vegas, and last December, New York City. The anticipation of what lies ahead for us as a group is exhilarating; we might visit Chicago, D. C., or Prince Edward Island. No matter the setting, we’ll value our communion most.

As we relaxed around the fire ring at Candy’s cottage each one relayed her retirement location plan. Of course, we all did a mental map-quest imagining the most efficient way to travel within reach.

We have a group jingle (related to M & Ms) that we coined in Nashville. Now, thanks to Frankie Valli, we have a theme song!

Let’s Hang On

There ain’t no good in our goodbyin’
True love takes a lot of tryin’ oh I’m cryin’
Let’s hang on to what we’ve got
Don’t let go, girl, we’ve got a lot
Got a lot of love between us
Hang on, hang on, hang on to what we’ve got

In the Oxford Complete Wordfinder, a queen is defined as:  1. A female sovereign, the hereditary ruler of an independent nation; 2. A king’s wife;  3. A woman, country, or thing preeminent or supreme in a specified area or of its kind.

Since You’ve Been Gone

Aretha Louise Franklin (March 25, 1942 – August 16, 2018), known worldwide as the Queen of Soul, ascended to her throne in the 1960s. She did not inherit that title, nor did she marry a king. Aretha Franklin, vocalist, navigated her parents’ divorce, endured her mother’s death, learned piano by ear, and relied on talented mentors. As in any life, personal heartache befell. Singing from the time she was twelve, Aretha survived the jarring highs and lows of a 61-year recording career with at least five record labels. Becoming a Queen is no fairy tale. Aretha earned her crown.

Chain of Fools

If being a queen carries such distinguished and superlative standing, I wonder that little girls don’t aspire to queen rather than princess. The answer: Disney, of course. Beginning in 1937, with the release of the animated film, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, young viewers had access to fantasy.  Next, Disney created Cinderella in 1950, followed by Sleeping Beauty in 1959.  It’s very likely I viewed those features, but I grew up before the Disney influence mushroomed. Role-playing sleuth Nancy Drew, who drove a roadster and searched for clues in crumbling walls, had more allure to me than a ball gown.  I admit that in 1981 I got caught up in the royal wedding of Diana and Charles. It wasn’t long before I learned, along with the rest of the world, that being a princess isn’t all that perfect.

The era of VHS tapes allowed children to view animated movies in their homes. Disney capitalized. Starting in 1989 and into the present a Disney princess movie has been released every year or two.  Likely, the mythology of princesses (eleven now) infiltrated the conscious and subconscious minds of those young viewers.  What a shock for them to discover real life requires sacrifice and humility, often life without a prince, and no guarantee of a happy ending.

Think

Early in the 2000s a commercial franchise released Disney princess dolls, sing-along videos, apparel, home decor, and toys. My granddaughters have many of those products. To Britt’s consternation, I sometimes confuse Belle with Jasmine, or Anna with Elsa.  Britt recently informed me that Sleeping Beauty has a name, Aurora. Granted, some of the more recent animated princesses have admirable goals. And perhaps the latest films come with fewer stereotypes. Yet, I’m not a fan. Don’t we become what we imitate? I’m encouraged when the grand girls dress themselves as superheroes.

Disney princesses possess tiny waists, flowing hair, and lovely gowns.  I’m not sure how they earn a living, obtain healthcare, or manage the stresses of daily life without a signature song. Real-life princesses require ability and integrity. When the first difficult challenge comes along, a real royal will need to adapt. What if the frog does not turn into a prince? Those trials might just separate the princesses from the queens.

Amazing Grace

In 1980 Aretha Franklin gave a command performance at the Prince Albert Hall in London for Queen Elizabeth. Now there’s a regal duo who could offer wisdom and advice on perseverance. Queen Elizabeth’s metamorphosis into the figurehead and heart of Great Britain came with plenty of trial and tribulation. She did not marry a King, either, but inherited her role from her father in 1953. A reigning queen 65 years.

A Natural Woman

When I heard Aretha Franklin would soon pass, I located the CD I have, Aretha’s Best, and inserted it into my car’s player. I absorbed her soulful voice and Motown rhythm for the next three days, the time that my granddaughters would be staying with me. I wanted them to experience her familiar hits, the songs that comprised the medley soundtrack of my life. Rayna picked up on the lyrics right away. We three joined in the chorus of Natural Woman as we waited in line at customs.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I don’t need to recount Aretha Franklin’s impact on me, because you know it as well. In our small town we were quite insulated against the 60s revolution. Yet, I felt the biases against minorities and the limitations to women’s choices. Aretha’s first hit single, Respect, gave a powerful voice to inequality. In her autobiography, Aretha wrote, “It was the need of a nation, the need of the average man and woman in the street, the business man, the mother, the fireman, the teacher-everyone wanted respect.”

Aretha emerged preeminent and supreme, a queen commanding respect with her incredible voice.  That tops princess any day.

As much as anything, girlfriends enrich my life. Nowadays, geography hardly interferes with friendship. I had no fear I would lose connections with my Pennsylvania pals when Paul and I relocated. However, I set an intention to find a new friend in the 1000 Islands.

Northern Try-Out

We conducted our first serious North Country try-out in a comfortable rental house on Carnegie Bay Road in Alexandria Bay.  We had the place for October and November of 2015. I’m the one who actually stayed those eight weeks. Paul would come when possible. The granddaughters could visit on weekends.

I set out to become acquainted with the community. First, I stopped at Macsherry Library to obtain a card only to be denied because I was not a resident. I did not have any bills or mail with the Carnegie Bay address. The chief librarian was so adamant, I felt like a trespasser. A more sympathetic staff-member (who turned out to be Denise, my first friend) suggested I check out the used book sale. I exited with two paperbacks and no inclination to ever return.

Potential Friends

On the sunny days I strolled around the neighborhood, hoping to encounter an approachable individual, but mostly found seasonal camps, vacated for the winter.  One woman across the street would wait outside to meet her two elementary-aged sons as they vaulted off the bus. Although she smiled at me once, she had her hands full herding those boys home and then along with hockey equipment, back into her vehicle.  When I explored Alexandria Bay proper many houses appeared deserted: bare porches, curtain-less windows, and empty driveways.  Broken furniture, small appliances, and odd-shaped trash bags waited by the curb for collection. I felt as if the majority of village residents had evacuated.

My hopes lifted when I encountered a flyer advertising the Cape Vincent writers’ group. An upcoming meeting would be held during my stay. I marked my calendar. Although I had just one opportunity to meet the members, a year later I would find them to be reliable friends and like-minders.

If I could find a fellow painter I would be ecstatic. I checked out a website for the Thousand Island Arts Center. Except for an after-school art program for children the other classes had concluded at the end of tourist season.  One day, as I browsed the internet reading about local artists, I stumbled upon a web site picturing a most appealing woman in her art studio. Her paintings captured the vibrancy of the 1000 Islands.

Imaginary Friend

I read the biography of Mary Randazzo. A self-taught artist, she painted the illustrations for the local Coyote Moon Wine labels.  The vivid, river scenes and unique designs enthralled me. I allowed myself to fantasize.  She would invite me to her studio to paint and share life stories.  We might take excursions for plein-air painting. In the words of Anne Shirley, we would find ourselves to be “kindred spirits.”  In my ideal future, the woman in the photograph just might become my new painting mentor.

Eight months later we bought a house. When my sister came to visit I showed her the wine labels and told her I intended to meet the artist. Tami couldn’t wait for that to happen. I took my visiting friends to the Coyote Moon Winery and they enjoyed the wine and admired the labels.  Cathy checked out the winery website and read that each label had a story. I hadn’t yet met Mary Randazzo, so I resisted announcing that by their next visit we just might be drinking wine in her studio.

Missed Opportunity

In fall 2017, as I paged through the T. I. Sun, our weekly newspaper, I was stunned to see a full page dedicated to Celebrating the Life of Mary Randazzo. My heart soared, and then plummeted. Mary had passed away October 10. The article praised her, “She had the ability to make those around her feel loved, supported, and important; because of that people were drawn to her.”  And to confirm my own intuition, “Mary made every person who met her feel like her new closest friend.” She had a favorite tree that she intended to paint, but it was cut down before she had a chance to paint it. Years ago I had the very same experience with a gnarly old tree by Twin Bridges. Like Mary, it fell before I had the chance to befriend it.

Befriended

Nonetheless, I’ve been fortunate to meet an inspiring painting mentor, Donna Hammond, and many fellow painters in her oil classes. I found new friends in writers’group and book club (at the Macsherry Library). Yet I still contend that Mary Randazzo was the first friend to welcome me to the 1000 Islands. I intend to take Mary with me (in spirit) for a girlfriend weekend two weeks from now. She’ll fit in perfectly. Maybe Sally will show up, as well.

Last December my friend, Edana, and I found ourselves separated from the other seven gals who had traveled with us to New York City. We two had visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art and planned to meet the others for dinner. When we found ourselves too many blocks away to coordinate, Edana guided us to an intimate restaurant: Rotisserie Georgette. Once situated in our booth amid the succulent aroma of roasted chicken, Edana momentarily left to use the restroom. I perused the menu. The hostess guided a couple into a nearby booth. Flabbergasted, I found Sally Field in my direct line of vision.

Star Struck

I excitedly, but discreetly, relayed the sighting to Edana. In recent years Sally Field had co-hosted, along with Robert Osborn, the Turner Classic Movie feature, The Essentials, honoring classic movies basic to film history.  From regular viewings, I recognized Field’s current appearance, as timeless and pert as ever. Her male companion did not sit directly across, but to her side against the wall. So during our entire dinner I had a clear view of the celebrated actress. On my way to the restroom I came within a gnat’s eyelash to asking for an autograph. Nonetheless, I resisted, knowing how celebrities appreciate rare occasions of privacy. Perhaps my restraint led to the next opportunity.

It’s a Go

Last week Edana sent me a message lamenting the fact that I would not be in Nashville to hear Sally Field give a book talk on her recently published memoir, In Pieces.  Edana’s message went something like this, “Darn, I wish you could go with me to this.” I made one quick query to Paul regarding the muskie-fishing schedule and replied, “Why can’t I?”  Tickets purchased, plane flight reserved. I know how fortunate I am to have the time, the resources and the opportunity to orchestrate this visit.

 Obstacles and Impediments

Why-can’t-I motivated me for three decades through advanced education and career changes. Before beginning my doctoral studies, I interviewed with Dr. George Beiger, coordinator of the program. I bemoaned the fact that I would turn 50 in the first year of classes. “You’ll be 50 anyway!” He dispelled the age obstacle I had placed upon my answer to the question “Why can’t I get a doctorate?” Invoking the why-can’t-I mantra inspires a way around impediments, real or imagined.  Our adventure living in the 1000 Islands resulted from the question, “Why can’t we relocate to northern New York, closer to our son and granddaughters?” Followed by, “Why can’t we have a boat?”

Limits and Parameters

I did not always push limits. I wonder how life would look if I posed such questions as a young woman: “Why can’t I be a journalist? Why can’t I be a surgeon? Why can’t I be a federal judge? Why can’t I be president?” I knew the parameters of the 60s and 70s.  Now women have achieved all but one of those possibilities thanks to those who asked, “Why can’t we own property?” “Why can’t we vote?” “Why can’t we run for office?”  I credit my mom and my mother-in-law for modeling the why-can’t-I attitude. Both of those women pushed the boundaries of their generation becoming financial and decision-making partners in their marriages.

When I married Paul I had completed one semester of a master’s degree program at a college 28 miles from our hometown, where we planned to make our life. I never asked, “Why can’t I commute and continue with my degree?” Instead, I suspended the pursuit and looked for a teaching position. If I had asked, I know Paul would have supported finishing. He’s been the reliable enabler to every one of my why-can’t-I goals since then.

Something Will Happen

Since I’ve become a senior my why-can’t-I attitude has only intensified. Curiously, that outlook parallels that of my grandchildren. Of course, children have not yet developed a sense of convention or propriety. They are just being schooled in society’s codes of behavior. I resist inhibiting my granddaughters’ why-can’t-I notions. Only if they might get hurt, become sick, or their parents would disapprove, do I put a halt.  I never accepted the retort “Because I said so,” and why would children? With life perspective, I recognize the ambiguity and irrelevance of many arbitrary limitations.

Why-can’t-I?  Should the inner voice answer, “Something might happen,” remember, that’s the whole point. Why can’t I learn to oil paint? Why can’t I write a blog? Why can’t I publish a book? Why can’t I become friends with Sally Field?

River-Day One

We sped out to the Canadian Narrows of the St. Lawrence River where Reed inflated the yellow vinyl raft intended for two riders. We had the ideal postcard day for Reed to take us in his Lund boat for tubing and swimming. This would be a chance for my dad, visiting from Pennsylvania, to enjoy time on the river with his grandson and great-granddaughters.  Into boat corners we wedged coolers, towels, masks, and snorkels. Rayna immediately informed us that she did not intend to ride the raft. She had tried it once, and the bumpy rough ride exceeded her comfort zone. Ditto, I thought. However, no way could Paul balance a raft with Britt who weighed just 40 pounds. My dad, nearly age 88, probably would have volunteered if we let him, but that seemed irresponsible. Reed needed to drive the boat. By this time Britt, almost six, had nimbly hopped into one side of the raft and patiently waited for a partner. All eyes turned to me.

Thrill Ride

What a sight I must have been, crouching on the boat stern in my old red life jacket, awkwardly climbing, then tumbling, into the seat of the two-person raft. “Go fast! Go fast!” Britt shouted as Reed let out the tow rope attached from the boat to the banana-colored craft. I never intended to sit on a tube behind a speed boat. I hate thrill rides of any kind. We started off easy, our bottom dragging in the water. With acceleration the raft leveled off and skimmed the top of the wake, crystal water droplets spraying in all directions. Britt shrieked and laughed, enjoying every bump and air pocket. I tucked my hat under my legs and held on for dear life. My lips formed a fake smile, but I screamed authentically. The three guys and Rayna just grinned and waved, dry in the boat.

Hair-Dos and Don’ts

Once we reached an area of the river near Huckleberry Island, Reed stopped the boat and reeled in the raft. I struggled out, both Reed and my dad pulling an arm. Paul stared in amusement at my hair and asked, “Who are you?”  I had shirts that my hair stylist had made, perfectly suited for this moment: BOAT HAIR, DON’T CARE.  

Reed kept the motor off; the boat floated slowly down the river. Paul would keep an eye on the depth as Reed and the girls swam. My dad simply enjoyed watching the girls bob and float around in the water. Reed fitted the girls with their masks and snorkels to view the river bottom. If I jumped into the river each girl would have a partner. I tried to slip off the stern ladder as slowly as possible, but when I let go I submerged completely before popping up again. By this time I had not a single qualm about the hair.

The boat kept drifting down-river so we had to swim to stay within reach. Reed suggested we board the boat and motor to another spot. I skipped the hat, letting the sun and wind dry my hair. We ate turkey wraps and fruit, and drank root beer as we traveled to a small rocky island.

Castaways

Reed and GP (my dad’s grandpa-name) would stay in the boat while Paul swam to the island with a rope. The wind would keep the boat off the rocks. Rayna, Britt, and I paddled from the boat to the island where we pretended to be shipwrecked. Rayna built a fire ring while Britt collected kindling for our imaginary blaze. I was Tom Hanks from Cast Away.  Every now and then a passing boat sent waves crashing onto our island. Rayna discovered mussel shells under rocks and collected about three dozen. We had to use Paul’s hat to carry them to the boat.  In a few hours we flew back to the marina, my hair pouffing in the wind. We returned home just in time for bed. Tomorrow’s plan: repeat today, except after swimming we would troll for muskies.

River-Day Two

I had just a few hours the next morning to shop and prepare food for the second day’s outing. Ignoring my pride, I marched right into Price Chopper, our local grocery store, with boat hair. Plenty of vacationers wearing Sperry dock-siders flooded the aisles, their carts piled with water, beer, and snacks. Plenty of boat hair, too (on their heads!) Hmmmm. No one even looked at me twice.

An hour and a-half wait delayed us at Customs, so we altered our plans. We would forego swimming in order to have the necessary time to troll the muskie spots. The girls and I sat on the boat deck and pretended to be on a lifeboat. When we bounced over another boat’s wake Rayna and Britt stood and surfed, arms out for balance. Muskie fishing takes patience, so we girls occupied ourselves playing Uno and poker with pennies.  Britt built with Legos, as well. We treated my dad to his favorite cocktail in a Steeler tumbler. Reed navigated the boat, and Paul checked rods or switched lures if necessary.

History Repeats

Screeeeech. The clicker on the reel screamed the alarm: Fish on! “Rayna!” Reed called. She leapt off the deck and sprinted the few feet to where Reed was pulling the rod out of the holder. “Crank it!” Paul scrambled to reel in the other rod, locate the net, set up the bump board for measuring, and ready the release tools. I’ve been in the boat for a few muskies. Adrenaline spills everywhere. No matter the amount of preparation to land a huge muskie, a few seconds of controlled chaos occurs. I heard Rayna squeal when the fish jumped. “Keep cranking!” Reed directed. Next thing I knew Reed and Rayna gently placed the fish on the bump board: 39 inches.  Rayna’s first muskie. None of us missed the significance of having been witness to her initiation to muskie fishing. We watched the careful release of the fish. Reed looked at wide-eyed Britt, “You get the next one.”  To Britt’s relief, I think, another fish did not strike that evening.

Boat Hair Everywhere

The next morning Paul, GP, and I awoke to a power outage at our house. We headed out for coffee. Paul knew of a great breakfast place, Tricia’s Rondette.  I resigned myself to another public appearance sporting wild bouffant hair.  And I realized I did not care. Paul and I had just enjoyed two spectacular days on the St. Lawrence with our son and grand-daughters. Plus, my dad had been with us for the river outings and Rayna’s first muskie. All of that, I cared about.  A bad hair day, or week, a price I’ll gladly pay.

Since we said good-bye to Musky, our 13-year-old Labrador retriever, last July, I have become dog lazy. I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping until the sun rises, having half of the bed instead of one-third, and walking on the treadmill rather than the roads and trails. My socks don’t get soaked stepping near a water dish.  We have no towels hanging by the door to wipe muddy paws or rain-soaked fur.  The only reason to cover the couch is to prevent coffee spills or popcorn crumbs. I clean the floors less since dust bunnies are more transparent without dog hairs.

Free Time

Likewise, fewer errands are required without Musky. No more trips to Tractor Supply for multi-packs of Pork Chomps or 40-pound bags of IAMs senior. The Cheerios (Musky’s before-bed snack) last so long they get stale before we finish them and gallons of milk exceed expiration dates. All half-sandwiches that I habitually bring home in “doggie-bags” are mine for next-day lunch. We go days before picking up groceries, when we used to buy rotisserie chickens for Musky every two or three. Plus, there’s no need to visit the animal clinic for heartworm chews or anti-tick collars. Curiously, we’ve enthusiastically offered to pick up a special brand of food when needed for Reed’s black Lab, Wiley. And if Wiley needs a ride home from the vet, Paul gladly volunteers.

Carefree

Furthermore, short trips away from our house have no curfew as they used to.  Still, we have momentary pangs that we need to hurry home to let Musky out.  Neither of us confesses our discontent to one another. When we ride in our vehicle the AC cools us, and we don’t lower the back windows to fan hot black ears. We drive past rest areas on I-90, never stopping until a break for lunch. And then we park close to the service plaza rather than the outlying dog-walk area.  We are free to plan an overnight stay or weekend get-away. But we don’t. We haven’t yet adjusted to freedom of travel.

Anticipation

Wiley, who is actually the son of our dog, Musky, visits me this weekend. The girls took a trip to their other grandparents and the guys went muskie-fishing down river. So Wiley and I have quality time together. He wags his tail furiously when I tell him how much fun we will have. I line the back of the Subaru with his quilted Orvis bed, toss in his favorite fluffy toy, and place his laminated immunization card on the dash with my passport. We clear customs with no problem.

Although Wiley has visited our house before, I know he will need a day to settle in. We’ve arrived in the evening and he’s at my heel everywhere I go. As I’m taking a quick shower, I hear low pitched growling, followed by staccato vicious barks. Still wet, I dash out in a robe expecting a visitor, human or animal. Neither. I peer out the sliding doors into the dark, Wiley’s saliva spraying the glass.  Thousands of neon lightning bugs signal one another. I guess Wiley doesn’t speak firefly.  I coax him into the bedroom, where I place his bed on the floor next to mine. I climb in and Wiley lifts his front paws onto the mattress. He wants to sleep under the fan as well.  I get up and boost his thick back-end onto the high mattress. I feel the endorphins release, like old times.

Defender

I wake suddenly to wild barking. The clock reads 12:00. A motor vrooms past the window, heading down Sunset Drive. Wiley hears no traffic at his own house, so he’s in defense mode. I soothe him and we fall back asleep. At 1:30 a.m. the same rumbling motor passes again, heading the opposite direction. Wiley erupts, but never leaves bed.  At 5:00 a.m. he stands, jumps off the bed and runs woofing to the sliding door. Barely visible through the trees, a greens-mower does circles on number one. I pull on clothes for our morning walk. Thanks to Wiley, I’ll see the morning unfold.

Quick-Footed

Wiley, who has a two-acre fenced yard out his back door, has to walk on a leash at my house. He doesn’t mind it one bit and charges ahead on the trail, his Schwarzenegger-neck towing me like a water skier. Fortunately, I wore tennis shoes rather than flip-flops. I do a power walk to keep pace. We have half-a-dozen dog neighbors who do regular strolls on the roads and paths, so odors are abundant. He dashes ahead, suddenly switches back and charges into the brush after a squirrel. My arm jerks 180 degrees front to back. How did I forget the nimble footwork of Labs?

Settling In

After more than two months of waiting, our new patio doors were installed last Thursday. Troy, our contractor, is in the process of sealing the freshly-stained trim with coats of polyurethane. Today’s layer must dry before tomorrow’s is applied. I build a barricade in front of the new doors because Wiley thinks reaching up with his paw will open the doors in order to charge the golfers. Wiley sees birds, turkeys, an occasional deer or coyote in his back yard. So for the first 36 hours of his stay, he barks like a fiend at every golf cart that passes our house.

I might as well fulfill his wish, so I put him on a long rope attached to a tree in the back yard. I take my book, a Coke Zero and bowl of water and settle into a chair. Wiley relaxes and dozes until the breeze dies and biting flies buzz us. At that point we head indoors. I could have painted the fresh trim around the new doors or I could have filled nail holes, but I had promised Wiley he would come first.  I switch on the AC and we settle in for three episodes of Anne with an E on Netflix. Wiley has the exact viewing taste of whomever he’s with, so he curls next to me, no complaints.

Just as I expected, after the first night he slept soundly under the fan on my bed. Early mornings we walked, relaxed in the heat of the day, and walked again in the evening. By the time we parted on Sunday I had finished my book, sketched in a painting on canvas, watched I, Tonya and Chappaquiddick. Wiley encourages me to do exactly as I please. What a deal. In return he only asks for food, water, walks, and love.

Good versus evil. My soon-to-be-six-year-old granddaughter, Britt, understands the dichotomy at the heart of all mythology and philosophy. Naturally, she oversees the world of good. And the center of her influence is Reed’s old G.I. Joe Mobile Command Center. Britt, who is hoping for a Barbie and the Dream House for her birthday, adapts quite easily to strategies of war against evil with the hodge-podge of Reed’s vintage toys.

Evil Hierarchy

As the evil-team coordinator, I must build my own base. With remnants of the colored blocks from my own childhood, two different sizes of alphabet cubes, and newer wooden Melissa & Doug blocks, I construct a headquarters, a weapons depot, and a spacious jail. Britt designated which characters would be my evil cadre. The chain of command works as follows. Penguin is the boss-bully. Just under him are a couple of narcissistic shrewd superheroes. Next in rank, those with brute physical power: two wrestlers and Chuck Norris. Three finger-puppets serve as the lookouts. Don’t miss the irony. Britt’s innate sense of gang power-structure is spot on. I catch myself drawing frightening parallels to reality.

A Collaboration of Good

Britt’s force of good is led by Wonder Woman, the only female character in the entire toy collection. (Female representation in super-power toys was dismal in the 80s.) However, Britt explains that Wonder Woman shares the lead with Flash. They operate as a team. Having just graduated from Kindergarten, I wonder how soon her belief in collaboration will be tested.

Knowing

Representatives from many different factions comprise the good-team forces. G.I. Joes, the “Real American Heroes,” dominate Britt’s good-team. After all, in the cartoon version they followed the principles of fighting for freedom, never giving up, and always being there to defend our country.  W.W. II propaganda had nothing over the 80s. Unlike reality, no characters seemed to be hurt in the animated series. At the conclusion of each episode the viewers were provided some kind of life lesson and the adage, “Now you know and knowing is half the battle.”

Illusion

A sophisticated group of underground fighters with advanced transport vehicles known as M.A.S.K (Mobile Armored Strike Kommand) supports the good-team, as well. M.A.S.K., another animated series from the 80s, portrayed ordinary men and vehicles transforming into an extraordinary team to battle V.E.N.O.M.  Illusion was the ultimate weapon. In reality, every generation has its own nemesis, a Vicious Evil Network of Mayhem, I just hope ours is no closer to home than North Korea.

All In

In addition to the trained forces, Britt also has Dan Aykroyd with his Ghost-Buster proton pack. She has Lion-O, a cartoon character who led the ThunderCats with his unbreakable Sword of Omens, upholding justice, truth, honor, and loyalty.  She has an armored He-Man character and a handful of Muscle-Men.

Civility

Unlike my evil team, civilians live in Britt’s complex. She has Play-School people, Charlie Brown, and at least three pet Garfields. I noted that everyone makes a contribution, regardless of their differences. All individuals matter. She organizes a completely integrated Command Center and diversity rules.

Power Grab

Once we have our forces in place, my team makes a plan to raid Britt’s base to acquire weapons and prisoners. I have to make-do with Paul’s wagon from the 50s, a handmade wooden cart, and one jet. I manage to get a couple torpedoes for my arsenal, but Britt tells me I’ve acquired fakes. And the only prisoners I am able to take are the smallest Muscle-Men. Even then, as soon as my people close the jail door, Wonder Woman swoops in and frees them.  In every battle and scenario the good-team wins with more troops, more weapons, advanced technology and power.

A Peace Plan

Besides the label, Britt and I have not defined what makes one team good and the other evil. We simply focus on who has the most weapons, who captures the most prisoners, and who controls the most talented troops. After a few skirmishes our aggression subsides. I think Britt senses that a struggle for power and not much else is at the root of our conflict. She suggests, “Let’s just all be on the same team.”  The fighting ends, we reorganize all the players around the Command Center, and we have a snack. If only peace were that simple.