Nostalgia over Little Things

In the basement of our library, where the tweens and teens are meant to hang out at high-top tables, there is a pile of extreme dot-to-dots. Think over 400 numbers on an 8”x 11” piece of paper. Liam and I landed at one of these tables a few weeks ago. While he did homework, I tried a dot-to-dot. With my contacts in and no reading classes, the eye strain was fierce. Today, my head is in that 400+ dot arena. Each dot a tiny speck of a story that would link well with a few other scattered dots. Brilliant fall colors lining the streets. A weekend away in Rockport, MA, celebrating our 23-year wedding anniversary. Nostalgia over the ceremony that pulled so many family and friends to one place. The way life changes – major and microscopic – land us in the very chair we sit today. Whether working at a desk, reading the paper in a comfy chair, discussing our world over coffee, or waiting in the driver’s seat of a van.

So much of life to write about, yet I can’t move past this dot: a spot outside the boys’ old school where I parked my van – 5 days a week, for roughly 9 months over 6 years. Will and Liam talk nostalgically about the school where they spent their early years, remember the changes and challenges as they got older, then release the nostalgia and justify where they are today. That often happens in three sentences. I spend more time paddling in the nostalgia – the sweetness of early elementary school and the pain of change.

Now, the Malcolm school livery service, split between Bill and me, is much different: two different schools, both with quick morning drop-and-go and afternoon pick-up-and-leave procedures. At the old school, we went to the boys' classrooms to pick them up. That could take a half hour. I covet the new livery procedures but miss my old parking spot for pick-up. It was four feet from a garbage can.

If I was meeting another parent a little early before picking up, the where-shall-I-meet-you question was easy to answer. By the garbage can, but I didn’t park there because it was a landmark. I counted on that parking spot to clear garbage from my van. With the ease of a drive through, I regularly deposited van trash there. That’s all gone now with the pick-up-and-leave scenarios.

Occasionally, I spot public garbage cans and take advantage of those. Yesterday, I ran to Party City for Halloween supplies. Just beyond the entrance was a big trash can. Glancing down at the stuffed door pocket, I gathered the garbage up, kicked the door shut, and walked toward the garbage can. Then, an older gentleman opened and held the Party City door for me. I looked at him and thought, “Can’t you see I’m going to the trash can? I’m clutching empty water bottles, scraps of paper, and granola bar wrappers!” I gave a smile of thanks and nodded to the garbage can behind him. He acknowledged my nod with a funny little nod of his own.

I miss the privacy and convenience of my old trash can.

Happy Hump Day and Happy Fall.

Space Apples

My CSA apples have taken over my fruit drawer. Since apple season began, I’ve carefully weighed my allotted 1 lb., 4 oz. of apples each week. Now, those elite organics have nestled in, tight and snug. (CSA stands for Community Supported Agriculture - aka: locally grown and locally distributed. How I support family farms -- 1600 miles from my own!) With bored kids in the house yesterday afternoon, I decided it was time: to unpack my new apple peeler, corer, slicer. My sister-in-law has had one for years; finally, I have one attached to my counter. After hacking apart four apples, I stopped to read the directions. Then, viol la! What would Apple Grandma think? An hour of sitting and peeling apples replaced by minutes.

A few hand cranks left a ¼-inch peel 10 feet long, a perfect cylindrical core, and a springy coil of white apple perfectly cored, peeled, and sliced. We kept cranking until we had 20 cups of apple slices. Still, eight apples went back into the drawer – just enough for a batch of apple cobbler from my grandma’s & mom’s hometown cookbook.

Then we made two big batches of apple crisp and divided it between three pans. I sent one small pan of crisp home with my goddaughter who had cranked out the apples and mixed the crisp ingredients. After dinner, I had a bowl of warm apple crisp with vanilla ice cream. At 7:30 p.m., after cleaning the kitchen for the last time that day, I stared at the remaining two big pans of crisp. I was the only apple crisp fan in my house.

Despite darkness, I prepared to peddle apple crisp down my street. I split the crisp between four containers with lids and moved them to the distribution point: my front porch. I texted two neighbors to say I was en-route. I was just going to ring their doorbells at the other two houses. I had a fifth in mind, Barbara, but she is 90 and lives on her own; I didn’t want to scare her with a knock on the door after dark.

While they all appreciated the dessert, I selfishly appreciated their smiles of appreciation. My 2-year-old neighbor boy was reported to have hoarded the bowl while saying “mmmmmmmmm” and Kate, the neighbor two doors down who I had just met – by the light of the blood red moon lunar eclipse – said she was going to share it with Barbara. Kate also said she would meet me at the library today with a space video. After meeting Will a few weeks ago, she thought he might like the video.

Sunday, September 27th, was the night of this eclipse. Will’s science teacher emailed all parents suggesting we let the kids stay up late to catch this phenomenon. Driving home from a Sunday evening scout committee meeting, the boys and I saw the big moon rise over the trees. Bill was in England, awake at 3 a.m. and viewing the same moon. The boys and I discussed the probability of not being able to see it from our house through all the trees. We scouted out the tennis courts near the school as a good place to see it.

Around 9 p.m., we turned left out of our drive; we drove 300 feet and saw three adults standing in the dark at the edge of a drive looking skyward. Aha! I pulled over and turned the van off. “Are you watching the eclipse?” Yes! “Do you mind if we join you?” Please do! Will and Liam spread out a quilt from our van on the drive.

We’ve lived on our street for 10 years not knowing there were space fans four houses down: Mary just turned 90; Bill and Kate are about my parents’ age. Bill soon disappeared and returned with two sets of binoculars and four folding chairs. “We haven’t used these chairs in 15 years! Have a seat!”

For 1 ½ hours, we watched the moon turn red through the binoculars and with our naked eye. And we told space and donkey stories. Barbara had lived on the street the longest. “You know, I watched Sputnik fly over – right here – in 1957!” Something in that statement made Will’s eyes widen, perhaps he felt a little closer to serious space history?

“Did you know years ago the town’s animal control officer lived in your house?” Barbara asked. “He kept a donkey in his barn, and it always got loose. One night I woke up and saw it looking in my bedroom window!” That barn is now our garage.

“We’ve watched all kinds of things with Barbara over the years: the space station, satellites, shuttles…” explained Kate. "We saw the shuttle detaching from the space station one year," I shared by favorite space memory. "I love the Apollo missions," added Will. "I built my own Saturn V. And flew it." It felt cozy sitting there in the driveway. Four generations of us. Strangers with a connection.

Today, this dreary Tuesday morning, I met Kate at the front desk and she handed me the DVD she had promised. At my writing desk, I took it out to have a look. Now, I’m wordless. Look closely, or rather, put some space between you and the screen to bring it into focus.

Do you see a space apple, slightly tilted to the left, with a stem under the "P" and a bite taken out of the right side?

I have goose bumps. Another space friend suggested this kind of coincidence can be summed up in only two words: Space love.

Happy Hump Day.

Riding the September Self-Worth Rocket

That shift in the patter from summer to fall has finally settled a bit. When the kids start school, I think, “Ahhh…” Then, I’m jerked by some unseen force between coordinating gymnastics practice, band lessons, scout meetings, and – just for kicks – fixing computers. Bill traveled to England a couple weeks ago for his brother-in-law’s 50th birthday party. That weekend the boys had multiple events both days. In passing, I saw an email from my mom, saw a missed phone call from my dad, heard a voice message from my dad, saw on my phone that my mom had Skyped me, then finally an email from my mom: “Are you OK?”

Yes. However, I am strapped to a September rocket that is spiraling out of control. Even sleep is interrupted with kids’ bad dreams and sore stomachs. I’ve used those sleepless nights to quietly pretend I’m an IT goddess and fix computers.

In early September while waiting for the kids to get out of school, another mom wisely said, “Ah, yes, I made a mental note last year: Life is crazy through September, but by October all the schedules are in place – things settle down.”

Yes. The carpools are now down pat. Will’s gymnastics practices are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The school lunch bags have a rhythm. Doing a load of uniform clothes on Wednesday will get us through to the weekend.

Liam’s Gymja Warrior (America Ninja Warrior-style) classes are on the calendar. Boy scouts always meet Tuesday evenings. Cub Scouts always meet Thursday evenings.

Doctor appointments are best made right after school Tuesdays for one kid and Wednesdays for another. Drum lessons are Thursdays after school.

Then, Friday evening we circle the wagons around and collect our shattered selves until Saturday morning Robotics class, followed by trumpet and guitar lessons. Yes, we are on a steady patter now.

Liam recently asked me if I made any money. I told him I hoped to some day with my writing. In the meantime, I pulled up this visual from www.salary.com denoting mothers’ “virtual” salaries in 2013.

Moms who work outside of the house, check out your virtual salary.

I don’t accept VISA or Mastercard. But a hug and an “I love you” and a “thank you” are highly valued in my book.

Linda Malcolm, the writer, hopes to maintain a steady course with September out of the way.

Happy Hump Day.