Holy man! Can you believe it? As of today (May 22), school’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia.
Memorial Day’s yet to be observed (meaning we shouldn’t even officially be wearing white shoes, right, you all?). Yet the azaleas have faded, and the oak leaf hydrangeas are popping. The pool has opened for the season, its renovations fresh, its water still cool. Kids’ squeals echo stridently off the cement. Moms and dads share their kids’ excitement. Yay for summer! At the same time, a grimace (or an occasional outright declaration) gives away that nagging feeling shared by many in parental silence: “Heaven help us all!”
This morning I had the privilege of taking one last lovely walk to the park to see my grandson and some neighbor kids off to school for the end of the 2018-19 academic year. It was last call for the school bus...until next fall, of course. The kids were bouncing off the sidewalk. (Well, not above. That pic is the second-to-last day, when they were slightly more contained.)
On this last morning, freedom was mere hours away. Forecasts of their summer journeys varied. One family was preparing for a move to Savannah. (I was touched that Ms. Roxanne, the bus driver, brought them a parting gift.) Inevitably, somebody mentioned their summer plans involved a trip to the beach. I’m not sure which beach. The Florida Panhandle is a popular destination.
Now I, too, love the beach, particularly the Panhandle. I love it in the spring or fall, not in the God awful dog-breath heat of summer. But here’s an amazing truth: Almost everyone else I know loves to do Florida in summer. ‘Tis the season, they’ll say while forking over a hefty premium. My own daughter and son-in-law are among these blazing-sun-and-sand worshipers. Power to ‘em. Maybe it’s my Michigan blood, but I just can’t do it. Not even for a week ocean-front with the grands. I. Just. Can’t.
It’s not that summer wasn’t once my favorite season. It was, back when I lived in God’s country during my formative years. Sally Hanes, one of my dearest junior high friends, would invite me to her family’s cottage on Hardwood Lake for a week or two each summer. During the early years of my visits, the Hanes’ cottage was small and rustic, with no indoor plumbing. We used the outhouse without a fuss, and we gladly pumped water from the creaky well for use in the kitchen at meal time. Over time, the Hanes family added indoor plumbing and a sleeping porch, and they converted the uphill garage into a bunk area with beds and an old piano.
God, how I loved my times at Hardwood Lake. Sometimes Sal and I would rise early to row to the foggy marsh to fish. Later we’d shave our legs in the pure lake water till they “felt like silk” and then soak up the sun on the dock, reading teen magazines. We water skied (she in a graceful slalom, me chopping over the wake like a bobble-head toy). We’d cruise in the boat in search of the “Green boat” guys, eventually anchoring near them on the other side of the lake. Cranking the tape deck, we’d sing at the top of our lungs to Chicago’s Just You and Me, or maybe a Beach Boys’ oldie.
Later, back at Sal’s dock, we’d lounge in the idle boat, challenging each other to a game of Battleship, the version before computers when you had to plot and play out your strategy on a piece of graph paper. Rarely, if ever, did we venture into town. The lake in summer was all we needed. It provided a season of respite, a time to slow down and catch one’s breath.
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Now days, summer no longer brings rest. The busiest family gets the prize. What can I say? Times change. These days, therefore, I measure my seasons differently. They no longer fill mere months on a calendar. Rather, they weave a colorful landscape, a beautiful messy life. In the spring of this life, when I was a mom, I grew easily frustrated when my kids’ personalities clashed with mine, when their peccadilloes caused the dominoes of my day to crash down around me. Now in the fall of my life, my role is that of a grand mom, or JJ, as I’m called.
What’s the difference between a mom (spring) and a JJ (fall)?
JJs have more patience for the kid who dawdles over breakfast. JJs don’t have to nag the kid to get ready to walk to the bus. (They have an Alexa to do the prompting for them.) JJs find the kid’s quirks amusing, and they take him to the pool on opening day. (Once upon a spring, when this JJ was not yet a grand mom, she’d choose a root canal over a trip to the pool on opening day. Hands down.)
But I digress.
School’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia. The water will soon turn hot as Hades up at the pool. That’s where you’re apt to find me, probably with the grands. Yay for summer? Yeah, right. It may be the fall of this JJ’s beautiful messy life, but still you may hear me mutter: “Heaven help us all!”
Cheers! Jan
(Today's post is in honor of a very special anniversary. Only ten days late!!)
Dear Rice,
Do you ever wonder how we’ve managed to stay married for 39 years? I do! I mean, I’m glad about it. But is it luck? Stubbornness? Divine intervention? (Us above, Year 0.)
Thirty-nine years. That’s a lot of anniversary celebrations. There’ve been decadent dinners at John’s in Boulder…the Briarwood in Golden…the Blue Ridge Grill in Atlanta. Romantic getaways, too, such as to Canoe Bay in Wisconsin and the Annapolis Inn in Maryland. (Best B&B evah!)
Of course, not all 39 celebrations have been starry and passionate. Remember our 20th? You had a business trip to New Orleans, and I refused to go with you. (Me in the Big Easy in July? Our marriage wouldn’t have survived my humidity fit.) And let’s not forget this year’s trip to Michigan to witness my sister Lisa marrying her long-time love Mitch…on our anniversary. Nothing says “Happy 39th” quite like sharing a hotel room with a two-month-old granddaughter, her brother, and their mother. For better or worse, the uber road trip and room-sharing allowed us to enjoy Mitch and Lisa’s garden wedding…their reception on the river…and the photos snapped in between at the Y, where their love story started twelve years ago. (Lisa and Mitch below, Year 0.)
Speaking of anniversary memories, do you remember our 33rd? Or should I call it by its other name: The Lake Martin 9-1-1 Incident?
The dog days of summer were upon us. We should’ve been carefree empty nesters. Yet our adult children kept boomeranging back home. My mom needed a lot of care—getting to chemo and doctor’s appointments. Work deadlines were merciless. We were burned out. When a co-worker suggested to you that we use her lake house for a weekend getaway, we were on it. I can still see her place in my mind—beautiful, rustic, chic. And the lake—clear, aqua, expansive—against a lush green landscape. A couple icy adult beverages and some down time on the dock were just the ticket. No cell service? No problem. We were on the lake!
There on the water, I felt alive like I hadn’t felt forever. I eyed the jet skis tied at the dock. I called dibs on the red one. Named her Stella, then bragged to you about how the next day, Stella and I were gonna go out and spin double nickels on the lake together! (That’s code for 55, my pending age at the time, and the speed limit I was ready to push. And yes, let’s pretend that’s me and Stella in the pic below.)
“Why wait?” you asked. (You loooooove to egg me on.) And the next thing I knew, I was speeding across the lake, wind and water whipping my hair. Exhilarated, I found the marina “right beyond the point,” as they say in lake-speak. I visited with several of the locals, and then I gassed up and headed back onto the water. I loved this. I totally loved Lake Martin.
Here’s the thing, though. After leaving the marina, I realized that I didn’t know Lake Martin. (For instance, I didn’t then know that its surface covers over 68 square miles in three different counties.) Yup, I was out on a big ol’ lake…without a cell phone…and without recollection of the name of Linda’s subdivision or her street address. Shoot, I didn’t even know Linda’s last name.
Only after leaving the marina did I actually start to pay attention to my surroundings. I passed by colorful clusters of Adirondack chairs on the shore…cozy cottages…flapping flags. Then I passed them again. And again. Meanwhile, black clouds loomed. Lightning flirted, about to flicker. I couldn’t find Linda’s lake house. Nor could I retrace my way to the marina. Then yowza! I spotted a father and son still fishing on their dock. I edged Stella near them.
“If you don’t help me,” I screeched, “I’m going to beach myself right here and die in your cove in the rain and the lightning!” Okay, so maybe my memory of this is a tad dramatic. But the next thing I knew, the father and son started up their boat and had me follow them through the now dark waters back to the marina. I waved a “thank you” as some young people near the dock helped me secure Stella.
People seemed glad to see me…almost as if they knew me. Then I realized they practically did. They explained that an “elderly gentleman” had driven there “hours” earlier, worried about his wife on the water. I’m sorry that made me snicker because, truly, I felt bad about the worry I had caused you. I asked if someone could drive me to the local police station, figuring that was my best bet for connecting with you at that point.
Yet the next thing I knew, I was in the back seat of a jeep, riding around the wooded back roads of Lake Martin. The two young fellows in the front seat insisted they could find Linda’s lake house. They begged me to remember landmarks. “A little chapel, maybe?” I recalled. What about road names? they asked. “Any road names?”
“Peckerwood!” I shouted, ecstatic and then mortified to remember that particular name. Seconds later, I recognized the street sign. And then Linda’s subdivision sign. Hallelujah!
We pulled into Linda’s drive. The jeep engine was still running when the front door of the lake house flung open. You ran out, two law officers on your tail. You looked ashen from worry and about eighty years old. For a minute I thought you might chew me out. But you didn’t. Your smile lit the night, and you hugged me tight. Realizing I was safe, the officers left PDQ. So did my young heroes—before we could even offer a reward.
Later down on the dock, you shared your version of the story. You called the police after leaving the marina. (Certainly I was okay, but what if….?) The officers came to Linda’s and paced the dock with you. They shined their flashlights into the water. They eyed you with suspicion. Made you feel like you were in a Law and Order episode. Asked you a zillion questions.
As for me, I asked you only one: “How could you not remember after 30-plus years with me that I get lost everywhere, even in my own driveway?” To your credit, you didn’t attempt a comeback. And maybe there lies the key to a lasting marriage: Sometimes you just have to shrug, grin, and give in to the crazy.
So thanks for 39 years of crazy. Here’s to more fun years ahead. Love you loads! Me
