November 6, 2008
Some Things Never Change
Imagine waking up on a travel day and deciding as an afterthought to verify the status of the flight before going out the door. Now imagine the airline's website lists every flight between the two airports except the one printed on the boarding pass. Imagine that a generic flight status search reveals the same results. At what point is it the right time to get nervous?For me there wasn't one. Sure I entertained the notion that I might arrive at MCO to find myself flightless and learning another lesson in human relations, but I was surprisingly at peace with the situation. Truth would come at the airport and nothing could be done until then. The low level of gas in my tank at the middle-of-nowhere halfway point seemed a more pressing concern.
At the airport the departure board revealed itself to be better informed than the airline's online flight tracker. Everything was on time and I had no worries - at least not related to departure. Whether Milo has enough fuel to crawl from the airport to a gas station remains to be seen. But that's a Tuesday problem.
There were 33 people on my flight. I guess nobody in their right mind leaves Florida in November for a destination like New York. I spent more time reading about Mary Kay in the airline magazine than I would like to admit, and then attempted to drift off to my usual in-flight nap.
Life on the ground proved more interesting. I got my roads crossed and ended up in Albany. I knew something was wrong when the skyscrapers started getting bigger. I also knew The Egg wasn't supposed to be an "On the Way to Grandmother's House" roadside attraction.
It's grey up here and a bit drizzly, but warm. When my uncle quipped that I had picked a great time to come visit I replied that it felt like home. There is still a sense of recognition when my eyes take in the drowsy New York landscape at this time of year. I drive the roads with the uncertainty of a foreigner, yet something deeper inside understands exactly where I am. It's nice. Some part of me wants to cry every time I see it.
I was asked to "scare" my cousins after they got off the bus. The plan was for me to hide behind the door so they wouldn't know I was there and jump out at the right time. They walked past and the youngest began saying, "But I want to go see Bec-" as she turned around. The look on her face when she discovered me quietly standing there was priceless.
The kids look older every time I see them. My aunt pulled out a few picture books going all the way back to when my brother was around the age they are now. It continues to amaze me how everyone else changes and I don't. For the most part, every picture that had me in it could have been taken yesterday. It's wild.
Later in the evening we gathered for dinner and cake in honor of my grandmother's birthday. I played with the kids and chatted. I met every contortion challenge they offered (thank God for yoga!). I ate far more food than necessary. It was almost everything I love about being home.
I also spent a few hours talking with my grandmother, mostly about the space program and life at NASA. My family has been interested in that world since before I was even thought of. I have to admit that I am thankful for the opportunity to bring them a few steps closer by what I can share. I don't come up here to prattle on about me, but it's hard to stop me from talking about a personal passion once the conversation has begun.
Although I enjoy this visit every year, I almost didn't do it. Within a few hours I understood exactly why it is I keep coming back. I can be nothing but grateful when I pause to consider the group of people I was given to be my family. I have made that statement countless times and I suspect I will say it many more. There's just something about them I can't help but love.
So who cares about the weather? I picked a great time to come. I'm here with them, and that's all that matters.
Captured At:2255
November 7, 2008
Climbing
I had eyed him on my first walk between the houses. He stood there, same place as always, calling to me as I passed by. I fought the temptation to answer. On my second walk he became a bit more aggressive. "Later," I promised. He assured that he would hold me to it.That red maple next to my grandparents' house has hosted many children over the last forty-some-odd years. For a time clawing my way up its branches was one of my favorite things to do on our regular visits. The world changed as I got older. There were younger cousins to play with at other houses - places that promised video games and go-kart rides and an escape from adult conversation. I continued to have a special place for the tree, but spending time tucked between its limbs stopped being a consideration.
The number of years between today and when I last solved the puzzle of its branches evades me. Maybe it got too easy after a while. I don't know.
On the third walk between the houses he won. I handed off what I was carrying and walked over to grab hold and pull myself up. The first unsuccessful attempts were the result of misapplication of strength. They were worth it. I was treated to a lovely view through the branches as the sun in decline illuminated the yellow leaves in front of me. I wished I had my camera.
I retrieved it, but the golden glow was gone when I got back. My attempt to mount the trunk in a different location resulted in an awkward slip that strained my left shoulder. I pulled myself up anyway. I'm sure to pay for it tomorrow.
My cousins, aged 9 and 10, had both shown great excitement at the prospect of trying out my camera. I gave them each a turn photographing me in my moment of childish self-indulgence. My grandmother also attempted a few shots of her little and no-so-little monkeys. We then all dashed back inside for french fries.
It was a little thing, but it made my day. I had forgotten how perfect the tree was for climbing, limbs placed almost like steps in all the right places. The kids laughed and hung and bounced and retold stories they'd heard of my brother getting stuck. I informed them he hadn't been the only one - we'd all done it at some point.
"But how do you get stuck in a tree?"
"You get up to the top and can't remember how to get down."
"I just go back the way I came."
"I didn't always pay attention. I was focused on solving the puzzle of climbing, so I didn't know the way I came when it was time to get back down."
This time around I hadn't climbed anywhere near as high. Trees aren't as easy to navigate as they were when my body was 20 years smaller. The branches aren't as far away, but the space is much tighter. I still loved every minute. The triumph of knowing I could still do it left a huge grin on my face. It remains clear that my growing up has as long way to go before it catches up with my growing older. Today I think that was alright.
Captured At:2304
November 9, 2008
You Might Wave Hello Again
Every year I come up I marvel at how early it gets dark even though I know the sun has always worked this way. The only reason I'm thrown by it is because I now have Florida for comparison. Navigating full darkness shortly after 4:30p has yet to feel right, and it only added to the sensation of running late.The plan was to meet my aunt for church at 5p and then head to her house for my next few days. Part of me hoped they wouldn't get started exactly on time. The catholic mass starts with one song, not the half dozen I've become used to. Slipping in unnoticed would be much more difficult.
I made the right turn into a full parking lot. The outline of the church against the black sky threw me back to Christmas past and years of midnight masses. Suddenly I felt underdressed. My parents had never considered jeans appropriate church attire. I passed our usual parking area and took an open spot behind the building. I couldn't believe I was back.
The smell of fresh paint eked out the closed doors. I stepped through the first set into the entry way, remembered to use the Holy Water, and proceeded through the next set into the church. The walls inside were now a peachish cream color instead of the grey brick I remembered. Judgment of the new look would have to wait; I needed to find my aunt.
The entire congregation was standing for the opening prayers. I picked out a few blobs of black hair that could have been her, but I had no way to tell from behind which one was correct. Was she an up front person like my dad had been, or was she more comfortable tucked away in the back? I gravitated to my left hoping I could skirt along the wall for a better look at the faces. Within seconds a woman in the last row turned around and motioned me over. "Are you Mark's daughter?"
My dad seemed to know everybody in that place when we were regulars. I'm told people still ask about him even though we left the town over eight years ago. To me, that's amazing. I took after my dad in many ways, but that sort of sociability is not one of them. When I disappear nobody notices.
I used this stranger's directions to find my aunt and began absorbing the mechanics of the mass. I had been so well indoctrinated as a child that I recognized every word in the script - both of the congregation and the priest - that had changed. My eyes wandered often to see what else was new. The lights were different. The new color on the wall hadn't won me over, but the place seemed more open. Every time I gazed up through the skylights above the altar I was surprised to discover the blackness of a Saturday night instead of the light blue or white of a Sunday morning. I surmised the faded wood ceiling would probably be next for a facelift.
The lectern had been updated to match the furniture on the altar, all of which I had seen before, and its position had not changed. I remembered how many times I stood there addressing the crowd, sometimes proud to serve and sometimes uncomfortable with my perceived transparence. That building is where I learned the right pace at which to carry a message; to speak clearly; to pause and emphasize; to take that first moment to adjust and breathe...
From my position in the pew I could look across the building to where my family used to sit. I could picture our faces lined up among the other parishioners. I could see my brother busying himself on the altar in a white robe, my sister in the back with the youth choir, and my father walking up with the other Eucharistic ministers to serve communion.
And there, standing on the altar as if he'd never left, was Father Jerry.
But he wasn't like the other ghosts. He was real, pacing as he gave his homily to make sure he made eye contact with every section of his audience. He had always been attentive that way and this talk about what makes a church special was no different. Given that I was unexpectedly sitting in my childhood church that night, it really struck a chord. He looked older, but so did I.
My aunt leaned over to me. "Were you here when he was the first time?" Ah, how could I forget? The memories played back in quick succession, though I only give her one or two as part of my "yes". I had grumbled when he changed the lector protocol wondering what the new guy thought he was doing. I had processed in with him for more masses than I could count hoping I didn't drop the large gilded book I carried. I clustered around the tabernacle with my religion class hesitant to answer a question I knew the answer to, raising my hand by pure chance simultaneously with his offer of a $5 bill he wouldn't let me give back despite my insistence I couldn't keep it. (It ended up in the collection basket the following Sunday).
And I could see the long line that snaked around the hall as members of the parish waited their turn to say farewell on his last Sunday with us. I remembered the sadness at hugging him goodbye and feeling like we had lost something.
Part of me wanted to make the effort to find him so I could tell him those things I remembered and how wonderful he had been even though I knew there was no chance he would have any recollection of me. There was no doubt he'd had countless kids in his new churches or that we all blend together after a while. I, on the other hand, had had very few priests.
After the service my aunt took me over for an introduction to some of my grandparents' friends I had often heard of but never met.
"Are you the one who's married," the woman asked.
"No, that's my sister."
"And you work for NASA."
I laughed. "Yes, I'm the one that works for NASA." I walked out the door with them, my aunt going one way to her car and me going the same direction as this couple to my own. Out of the three options he had, Father Jerry had chosen that night to process out up our aisle and stand outside at our exit to chat with people as they left. They "introduced" me to him making sure to add that I work for NASA before continuing on their way. I stayed behind - the last person left.
The early part of the talk confirmed that he had no idea who I was, but I made sure to get across that I remembered him. I told him I had begun lecturing there at the age of 12 and had been one of the people announcing his first arrival, and that I remembered the day he left. He laughed a little as he asked why I'd grown up. The small talk included my usual two minute spiel about NASA, how he felt when they told him they were sending him back to a community I expressed my appreciation for, his disbelief that I was 27, and a heartfelt remark that the place hadn't been the same after he left. We probably could have stood there talking a lot longer.
I won't claim to be an expert at reading people, but the smile as he thanked me for visiting was genuine. He sent me off with a hug and a "God Bless" and stood alone outside a few moments as I walked away. He may not have remembered the early teenage me who often stood in the rectory before mass asking the proper pronunciation for some ancient Middle Eastern city, but the young lady that girl grew into left a momentary mark. Sometimes it's nice to know you reached somebody in a meaningful way and have been remembered. I think he got the message loud and clear.
That exchange, bumpy and incomplete as it was, warmed my soul that night. Anytime I thought about it I smiled. I almost wished it wouldn't be the last for a year or more; that I could fall back into the life I had seen played out by ghosts of my childhood as I fought the urge for tears in a hymn-filled church. The memories I had and the ability to finally feel the power of the words I recited will be with me for a long time.
God really can break down all the walls. He can meet us in places where he could never fully reach us before, whatever the reason. And sometimes he will even let us visit those places we need to go to remember just how far we've come and how good he has been. For a few moments those people we've lost get to come back, and when we walk away we treasure them even more.
Captured At:2110
November 11, 2008
The Point of It All
The first time I took one of these trips I made no attempt to deceive myself of the truth that I was running away. I knew it wouldn't solve anything, but for a little while maybe I'd be able to pretend it could. Today I remain thankful for the challenges that pushed me out back then and, through some strange twist of the universe, gave me something to run toward instead.Perhaps one of the best things about growing up is being able to see people in new ways. I think one of the reasons we're broken into families is because that cluster of people serves as a constant wall we can bounce our evolving perspectives against. Each adjustment of our eyes helps us learn about them and, in doing so, we learn about ourselves and where we came from.
I won't deny that I can gab with the best of them, but I also always make it a point to listen beyond the words that come back. I see how they are different from what I remember. I discover the things that held them back, the accomplishments they never thought they'd have, and the moments that make them look around and realize this life is going by all too fast.
I choose to return home for a few days every year to delight in a family anyone would be blessed to have. I choose to come back to a climate most wish to leave, and I do so because it will always be part of who I am. Every time I do I am somehow changed for the better. It becomes immediately evident in the new glow of my face. They may not be able to tell, but I can see it.
This time around I made memories stirring caramel corn, frosting cakes, rolling failed truffles and assembling lasagna. I paused every now and again to absorb what life feels like when there are others at the dinner table or lounging on the couches nearby. I gave attention to kids as they wanted it remembering that a willing playmate is the best thing in the world. I watched the cruelty of years and the glow of love as only the eyes can convey it. I shivered under the crisp skies that stole my imagination. I took in the tastes and the smells and the sounds of home.
I was also reminded that the power of just being there can be more than enough; that being willing to make a simple effort can make all the difference in the world. When my grandmother said goodbye last night she reminded me to book my ticket for next year. I know I won't do it for another 11 months, but I'm glad I can give her something to look forward to. She needs that. Truth is we all do.
Captured At:1451