An Incredible Journey

It’s proving to be a pattern that, at this time in the year, I have a hard time finding time to write. In fact, I have a hard time finding things to write about. January and February are always extraordinarily busy at school. They are cold months. We run from one chore to the next. We don’t have a ton of fun and there’s little time to reflect. These factors combine to put us all on edge and, when Quinn’s on edge, the edge gets edgier. There’s usually not much that I want to preserve. For these reasons, this year, I planned ahead. 

In November, when I was anticipating the hectic pace and extreme cold weather of January and early February, I asked Dave, my boss and our school’s headmaster, if I could go with him, and this year’s group of students, on his annual trip to Austria.

Before I begin this story, I have to offer a confession: The fact that I was able to go on this trip is thanks, in large part, to Sam’s generosity of spirit. It meant a lot more work for him to have me be away. He sent me off with encouragement and not a trace of bitterness or detectable jealousy; his magnanimity always makes me feel petty. I would have encouraged him to go too, but inevitably I would have let him know just how generous I was being in doing so. I hate this about me, but that’s a different story. In this story, I am just grateful to Sam, for taking care of Quinn by himself, while also taking care of heating the house, plowing the road, teaching his classes and even teaching some of mine. I thought it would all be relatively manageable as long as there were no big storms and Quinn didn’t get sick. Four days after I left, I checked my school email and saw Sam’s plea to all the teachers for help...they were getting a ton of snow, Quinn’s school was closed, and she had a fever. A worst case scenario--and all he got out of it was a new hat and a chocolate bar.

The other part of this confession is that in the past, I have complained about January and February, but in the context of this journey, in all its stages, any former complaints seem absurd. When I was in Germany, standing in the parking lot of the Dachau Concentration Camp, Dave said this to our group: “One thing I’ve learned from coming here is that none of us has ever had a bad day. Ever. Period.” I’ve seen my boss have what I thought were bad days now and then and, for my own part, I certainly would have said I had had some bad days. But of course, even the very worst days of my life have not been bad in comparison. What I experienced there, at Dachau, and on the other days of my week-long trip, and what I’ve experienced as a result of that trip (which is far and away the best part of this story)...these are things I hope to preserve.

First: my small portion of the story. The trip was technically my “work.” I flew to Munich a week after Dave and his group went over to begin their two to three weeks of ski training. There were twelve girls, nine of which are ninth graders in my English class. My job was to show up and provide some academic support, so the students would keep making progress on their school work, in spite of not being in their classes. When they weren’t skiing, we had study halls and English class, did group projects, took quizzes and tests, wrote papers, attempted research, etc, etc. And when we weren’t skiing or doing homework, we got to be tourists, with the local knowledge of our two guides--our headmaster,  whose wife Traudl (whom I am also privileged to know) is a German ski racing hero (a two-time German Olympian and five-time member of Germany’s World Championship team). Dave's in-laws still live in a small village in Schleching in the Bavarian Alps, and he is encyclopedic in his knowledge of the area. We also had Mike, our school’s European Training Coordinator, an Austrian ski coach, who acts as host and local coach for our groups when they go over. Needless to say, the “work” portion of my time in Austria and Germany seemed like a very, very small price to pay for all the fun I had.

On my first full day, two of the girls were in need of a rest from training, so they stayed home, resting in the school’s house in Kossen, and I stayed with them, settling in to the very lovely apartment I had just across the street. I made a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table grading papers and enjoying the quiet. And I took a lot of pictures out various windows in the house.

On my second full day, some of the girls were going to race at Kitzbuhel (home of ski racing’s famous Hahnenkamm). Because Dave was short on bodies, and in spite of my very mediocre skiing ability, he told me I would be the girls’ “start coach” that day. Fortunately my only job was to hold the radio so Mike, the real coach, could communicate with them from the course; that and be sure they made it to the start on time. When I arrived at the top of the course, the girls left to take their warm up runs, and I mostly took pictures--dozens of pictures of the same view because I just couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. 

After the race, we had a couple of hours to free ski. The sun was out, the sky was blue and my new skis made me feel like I actually knew what I was doing. I skied open faces of knee-deep powder and then hopped over to gorgeous groomed trails. And when I got to the bottom, I hopped onto a heated chairlift and rode back to the top, marveling over the interminable sea of peaks in every direction--the Alps are the most spectacular mountains I’ve ever seen. I smiled all day; it was outrageously fun. 

The next day, the girls trained at a tiny ski hill called Hinterreit--a deceiving little place with just two t-bars and two trails. The upper one is fairly steep and, from what I learned, the farmer who owns the hill is a master with his machinery and the maintenance of the trails; he knows and can create exactly the conditions racers need for training. He is so good that national teams from across Europe train there. In the two days we were on the hill, we saw national teams from Austria, Sweden, Norway and Finland. And while all the racers trained higher up, I did laps on the lower t-bar, alternating powder runs with groomer runs, working on my turns and listening to music in my new helmet. Again, I smiled all day.

Whenever we got in the vans to drive somewhere, I sat in the front with either Dave or Mike; both were generous tour guides, pointing out landmarks and the best places to hike and climb and bike in the summer. Dave is particularly good about sharing the history. Driving to Hinterreit one day, he pointed to the top of a group of peaks to our left, and told me about the Berchtesgaden, and Hitler’s mountain hideaway, the Eagle’s Nest, which is now a tourist site. The landscape is as stunning as the history is hard to fathom. 

Everything we saw had a sort of fantastical quality. For dinner one night we visited a tiny restaurant on a Bavarian hilltop, in a building that is about 700 years old, with low ceilings and thick walls. There were no menus brought to us, just delicious plates of wiener schnitzel, with berry jam and fried potatoes, and cold German beer. After dinner, the chef gave us the key to the even older church a little farther up the hill. We hiked up, let ourselves in and turned on the lights to look around. Hiking back down, through dark woods, we passed below where an ancient castle used to stand. 

We spent a snowy rest day at Dave & Traudl’s house, doing school work and eating homemade cakes, warmed by the kachelofen, looking out at the snow. When the snow stopped the next day, we traveled to Steinplatte, a ski area that is seemingly on top of the world. The girls took off to ski and Mike skied with me for a while to get me oriented (an unnecessary kindness I was grateful for!). At the top of the highest lift, he pointed in one direction and then another: “That’s Italy. That’s Germany. This is Austria. Let’s go!” On another afternoon, we went up to a hilltop lodge for apfelstrudel and coffee and then rode sleds all the way back down. Everywhere, I took pictures and imagined visiting again someday with Sam and Quinn, determined to learn some German between now and then.

It was on one of our last days that we made the two hour drive from Kossen back toward Munich, into the city of Dachau. Visiting the concentration camp is part of this trip each year. A somber contrast to the blue skies and joyful skiing, but a stop that is a responsibility.

The visit to Dachau was difficult, as it is meant to be. Walking through the memorial site was heartbreaking and uncomfortable, knowing I was walking through spaces where nearly 200,000 prisoners walked before me, and an unknowable number, in the tens of thousands, were murdered. Seeing the ovens in the crematorium was an experience for which I have no adequate words. For most of my time at Dachau, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was impossible for me to deny a heavy presence that weighted the air.

When we reconnected with Mike, after a nearly-silent two hour drive, he said only this: “I don’t need to ask you how it went today. I know how it was. There’s nothing more we can say.” He was right; even now, I am not sure what to say. When I got home to Vermont, I started reading Peter Matthiessen's last book, In Paradise. Within thirty pages, I found this passage which allowed me to stop trying to articulate the unspeakable.

“Fresh insight into the horror of the camps is inconceivable, and efforts at interpretation by anyone lacking direct personal experience an impertinence, out of the question; in the words of the survivor-writer Aharon Appelfeld, ‘The Holocaust belongs to the type of enormous experience that reduces one to silence. Any utterance, any statement, any ‘answer’ is tiny, meaningless, and occasionally ridiculous.’” 

I do not have direct personal experience, obviously, and this brings me, finally, to Part II: the truly incredible part of my journey, which was not my journey at all.

Two days after visiting Dachau, I flew home. When I arrived in Boston, I drove to my dad’s for the night and, in the morning, Louise read part of an email which contained a brief message for me: 

“Tell Kerry that at the end of WWII, I was stationed at the Chiemsee, thirty-five miles north of Salzburg (King Ludwig Castle) area. Also spent some time visiting Hitler's hide away (The Eagle’s Nest) in the outskirts of Salzburg (Berchtesgaden) on top of Bavarian Alps. Memories.” 

It was a message from my Uncle Du, a person I have loved dearly my whole life, but about whose life, I realized suddenly, I knew very little. I thought back guiltily to the advice of my high school history teacher, Dr. Hanna: “Talk to people from the older generations. Don’t miss your chance to ask them their stories.”

At 89 years old, my uncle manages to stay young in a hundred ways. One of which is his presence on Facebook, where he saw some of my photos posted from Austria, and that is what prompted his message to me. I wrote to him as soon as I got home to Vermont.

Uncle Du,
Louise shared your story with me about the end of WWII! I never knew this--how fascinating! What an incredible time to be there. I drove right by the Eagle's Nest (from down below) and the headmaster (whom I was traveling with) pointed it out and told me about it. Now it is a tourist site; what was it like when you were there? Did you have to go in to any of the concentration camps? We visited Dachau and it was very difficult for all of us. I would love to hear more about your experience!

Over the course of the few weeks since my return, my uncle and I have exchanged a number of emails. Each of his attempts to answer my questions has sparked new questions. What follows is his story. I’ve combined his separate emails into one blended narrative, but only by copying and pasting; the words that follow are entirely his own, and I share them here with his gracious permission: "Simply pass along to anyone who may be interested."

Hi Kerry: 

Got your note on your trip to Austria and the brief on "The Eagles Nest." That was a long time ago but every once in a while, my memory brings me back to certain times and things that were a part of WWII. I was 18 years old and all healthy kids went into the service. It was 6 months between the draft, basic training and boarding the old Queen Mary to Scotland, overnight (by train), tea and crumpets (gifts of the British Red Cross), load the boats, cross the English Channel into Le Havre, France.  We did the usual organizing and were ordered to our new assignments that included replacing troops that needed fresh energies and we followed orders. 

I have forgotten the name of the northern French town, Charleville (I think) but we were lined up and were given our orders, by the numbers in a row. At a particular number, for example 1-70, they went to the 90th infantry division. Then 71-140 went to the 94th infantry division. A friend of mine was at the split, he went to the 94th and it was most difficult for him in a lot of ways; we had gone to school and experienced all the things that build friendships. In any case, we were given our weapons, cleaned them free of preservative and assigned to the 359th Infantry Battalion and given our march orders.  

We were infantrymen for about three weeks, when the 345th Field Artillery Battalion got wiped out and they took a certain number of us and made us artillery men, manning the old 155 mm Howitzers and given march orders. We were involved in two major campaigns, Central Europe and Rhineland Valley. There were many skirmishes; we crossed the Mosel and Rhine Rivers a couple of times; we chased, they chased, and all the stuff that went with it. One situation was a German 109 fighter plane would make an every night midnight bed check on us and strafe our positions. One of my buddies,  "Rowdy Valdez,” manned a 50 caliber machine gun and shot the German pilot down. He got a battlefield commission for that action. 

We were kind of raunchy then. Snow, cold water (from the brooks) to wash with (if we washed) etc., but the dirt helped keep us warm in the sleeping bag. Not too nice, but we did it and God saw us through. 

We wound up in Prague, Czechoslovakia where we engaged a last ditch German effort to try and save the Sudetenland. We also did some holding action, keeping the Russians back until the Allies could settle the question "who is going to get Berlin?” We know how that wound up. 

Because of the number of troops and the companies (within the battalions), each outfit has its own history; what I give you is a piece of ours and what I remember.

I hadn't seen this firing order list for a long time.  What it meant was each man had a job to do. As I recall: We had stacks of pointed 155mm heads (loaded with explosives). Then we had stacks of sugar bag ammo powder--it looked like the old cloth sugar bags--6-8 bags, bumper to bumper in a single sleeve. One man would load the head, another would slam home that head as far as it would go to seat in the chamber. The next guy would load the powder, another man would slam that home, with a long Ram Rod Pole. Another would close the chamber, another would get the direction of firing (from the forward observer), another would shift the direction, up or down, left or right. The commander would give the firing command, another would pull the lanyard (the rope that actually fired the weapon on his pull). As soon as this was done, on each round firing, every man did it over again. Every man knew every job to fill in at all times. Position for lifting, placing, slamming home, pulling the trigger (the lanyard). Turning away from the firing, flashbacks, etc. was very important.  As I recall there were four guns in a section and, on occasion, we would get a “time on target” order, where each gun would fire, one immediately following the previous gun, and that continued on to all for as long as the order was on. When you’re young and given an order, you just follow that order and only think about giving more than you get, but war is hard on all involved. 

In our march to Prague we were part of the troops that freed about 2000 prisoners (in bad shape; very emaciated) out of some camp. I have forgotten the name of the camp. We saw some of what you witnessed [at Dachau], but our visit was to open the gates, get everyone out and then we were on our way. There were a lot of prisoners in very bad shape, running wild out of the gates, just to get out, not knowing where, just going. We didn't hang around long because we were on the way to Prague on a march order. I am most thankful that my service was limited to other areas. The thought of all those humans being destroyed by other humans is incomprehensible. There is no question that their spirits roam those rooms you saw. 

The battles continued beyond the official ending date of the war because no one knew what was going on. I was assigned to a hospital in Wurtzburg, Germany and then to the 112th EVAC hospital. I ran a storage supply warehouse there, at the Chiemsee location.    (This facility jutted out into the Chiemsee, about 35 miles north of Salzburg with King Ludwig's, The Gold Castle. It was from this supply location that I was privileged to visit the original "Eagles Nest”...Hitler's quarters, his headquarter meeting rooms, secret hideouts, and place of other supposed action plans.)

On one side of the warehouse was Medical Supply for the 112th EVAC hospital, and the other side was general supplies, bedding, clothing, etc. I also recall that I became quite close to a group of rehabilitated German prisoners in my charge that helped in the supply warehouse. There were two Germans that helped in organizing the supplies and helped the villagers’ re-habilitation. Hans Kaltow (I called him Walter) and Hans Schneidermeister (master tailor). I don't know whether that was his name or vocation, but he and his wife and son were skiers and mountain climbers. Both of these men were German soldiers that were part of a rehab project to help and they helped. It proves there are good people everywhere. 

I got to be very close to several guys from basic training and we were fortunate to be (for the most part) close enough to meet on occasion [after the war]. I was best man for a buddy, who lived in Newton in 1947-48. (I had my brand new 1930 Model A Ford, that I had the courage to drive my mother and I to the wedding in. That was a nice car and one that Auntie and I dated in--no heat). They were good guys. They wrote me over the years, but time takes its toll. These are great memories. 

I never did get back to Germany for a visit but other than the bad things of war, Germany (Bavaria) is truly a nice area. I got to meet some good people and am fortunate enough to have the memories (way, way back) as part of history. It is just some of what I remember, from a long time ago.  

I was proud to be of service, doing what little I did to help. I didn't have to go through the actual "D Day" invasion (June 6th), so I lucked out on that score. I will say the pressure was on and we had our sufficient amount of action with minimum losses. In the march orders, we went through Munich and the Dachau area and all the bombed out churches and other areas. And your visit to Dachau will live in your memory to share with the future generations. 

Your Auntie Francie and I met shortly after I came back from Germany. Your dad was only a baby, 6-7 months old. That develops into a love story that I will share with you later (some parts edited). 

This review (like the rest of life) is how we build memories that are everlasting gifts. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to remember. 

Special Love and Prayers to all of you, always.
Uncle Du and Auntie too

My uncle has long been the patriarch of our family. He is a joyful, fun-loving man who, from the time my sister and I were quite small, insisted that any boy who was interested in us would have to go and talk to him first. He has a broad, toothy grin and a full body laugh. He pulls you close to tell you the important rules of life, “take good care of your mom and dad," “watch out for your baby sister," “Tell Miss Quinn Uncle Du loves her, okay?” In all the years I’ve been alive, I’ve known my uncle to be this way: joyful, loving, happy, devoted. I have never known this story of his part in some of the world’s most important history. It turns out, many of us in our family didn’t.

In these past few weeks, in any spare time I’ve had, I’ve been scouring the internet and collecting the names of books I now want to read, trying to see what more I can learn about the events my uncle has told me about, in his firsthand account. I’ve found many sites telling the story of the liberation of the Flossenburg Concentration Camp by the 90^th Infantry Battalion on their way to Prague; after prompting my uncle with this name, he told me that “Flossenburg rings a bell." On the United States Army’s website, I read this:

“At approximately 10:30 hours on April 23, 1945, the first U.S. troops of the 90th Infantry Division arrived at Flossenburg KZ,. They were horrified at the sight of some 2,000 weak and extremely ill prisoners remaining in the camp and of the SS still forcibly evacuating those fit to endure the trek south. Elements of the 90th Division spotted those ragged columns of prisoners and their SS guards...” 

I also found a narrative account of the “Rhine Crossing to Czechoslovakia,” in which I found my uncle’s name, in the Firing Battery, 1^st Section: Pfc. Costabile L. Cipullo, Mass. And A History of the 90^th Division in WWII, which I intend to read as soon as my uncle’s email remembrances stop showing up in my inbox--which I sincerely hope will not be soon.

Uncle Du, thank you for sharing your incredible story with me. I love and admire you, now as always. xo -Kerry

Integration

At the end of each of my Kripalu yoga classes this week, each teacher encouraged people to stay for the full shavasana, and to stay beyond that for a silent meditation. They talked about “integration,” about allowing the benefits of the yoga practice to integrate fully into the mind, body and spirit and, in so doing, to allow those parts of one’s self to become more integrated with each other. But when I tried to rest and be still, my mind was at its most active. One teacher asked, over and over again, “What has changed? What is true?” He asked it after each short series of poses, as if some transformation could come from a couple of downward dogs--some sort of truth or new observation. I thought it was kind of funny, but I also found myself wondering about an answer. What has changed? What is true?

I was encouraged to enjoy my breath, enjoy the quiet time that I was given for myself, and I did, but I did so with a divided mind. Part of me was glad and relieved to be with my dear friend Char on a yoga retreat. Part of me was still home reveling in the joys of this recent holiday. Running off to Kripalu as I had, cut it short in a way I hadn’t imagined. Seated on my yoga mat, again and again, I circled around trying to find an entry point into what I could write about this December, this Christmas, the end of this year. As much as I tried to settle into the present moment of my days there, and to stay disconnected from the internet, news, superficial voices, work, I still kept thinking about finding time to write, as that has become my best form of integration--my best way to process what is going on in my life and put myself at ease. “Writing is the process of figuring out what it is that you have to say,” wrote one of my college professors, and so it is true for me. What is it I want to say? What do I want to preserve for Quinn? What has changed? What is true?

Last year as Christmas approached I wondered whether or not I wanted to tell Quinn about Santa Claus. She had a loose idea of what Santa was all about and we kept it kind of loose. This year, her sense of Santa was much better defined and she had specific questions she wanted answers to, primarily: “How will he fit in our chimney?” This is especially challenging since our “chimney” is really a stove pipe, and "magic" proved my only answer. We read The Polar Express and went, with friends, on the Polar Express train in Burlington. Quinn seemed confused, if not skeptical, much of the way, and she wanted nothing to do with the “elves” who were all dressed in red calling out her name and yelling hello as we “arrived” at “the North Pole.” What kept her going through it all was her single-minded desire to get a silver bell from Santa, just as the boy had in the story. That and she said she was going to steal his hat. She trudged around in her boots and pajamas, waiting patiently for the whole affair to play out and she was rewarded at the end by seeing “the real Santa” and getting her silver bell. 

At home, as Christmas approached, I found Santa incredibly useful as well. All I had to do, when Quinn's behavior started to spin a bit toward out-of-control, was ask, “Naughty or nice? Which list are you going to be on?” She snapped back to nice without much hesitation and I found myself hoping that Santa would last for many years to come. 

On Christmas Eve we hosted the extended Jackson clan for dinner and had a lovely time. Sam’s dad wearing Quinn’s Mardi Gras beads, Quinn and Olivier playing together happily, Alden’s brother and sister-in-law visiting from England, Sam and his siblings all in one place for the first time in a long time, and the lasagna not too dry. When Quinn resisted going to bed, I told her the rules of Christmas Eve, that Santa can’t come until you’re asleep. “That’s okay,” she said, in the midst of the party, “he can just come to me last.” I thought I had her, but didn’t. “What if he doesn’t have any presents left?” She had still another answer: “Oh, Santa would just make more, Mom, that’s what he does!” Eventually  the house started to quiet down and Quinn’s exhaustion caught up with her. I read Twas the Night Before Christmas and kissed her goodnight and then didn’t see her again until 6:30 Christmas morning when she appeared urgently at the side of my bed. “Mom! I think Santa was here! I think I saw some presents when I went to make the coffee!”

The rest of the day was perfect and joyful. We opened presents, slowly--Quinn’s pace, not mine. We played with new blocks, shoveled the rain-heavy snow off the back porch with her new “shobel,” and Quinn did “some work” at her beautiful new roll-top desk from Nonna and Papa. The hat Santa left behind for her might have been her favorite thing…she laughed out loud when she found it by his note, and she wore it with a bit of proud mischief all day.

It was a lazy morning and soon it was afternoon and we all went to Josh and G’s this time for Christmas dinner. At eight months pregnant, cooking a lamb feast for seventeen in her tiny kitchen, Geraldine earned my genuine admiration. We all had another lovely evening, with a successful Secret Santa experiment in which no one, miraculously, was left out. 

When we eventually made it home, Quinn was full of gratitude for her day. She thanked me for all of her presents and I reminded her most of them were from Santa, but she seemed to need to express her thanks somehow. She loved Christmas this year and therefore so did I. 

The next day Becs and the nephews headed south and we three were left to what now felt like an empty house. It was almost noon and we were all exhausted so we hurried up to the big bed with Quinn’s now most-treasured blanket--her big fleece owl blanket, made for her and sent in time for Christmas by Julie and Eloise in Wyoming. We rested warmly and happily with nothing else that needed to be done. We closed our eyes, took deep breaths, let our minds and bodies relax in the comfort of each other. We were, I realize now, integrating...allowing the feelings of love and joy and gratitude to wash over us. That is a worthwhile practice. 

Today, on this last day of 2014, as I look forward to the arrival of friends and family to celebrate the arrival of a new year, I know I will carry this question with me into the months ahead: What is true? This year, the magic of Christmas was true. My love of family and friends was true. And my complete joy in sharing Quinn’s journey was my greatest truth of all. 

When I walked the halls at Kripalu, or sat in the dining hall with hundreds of other people during silent breakfast, I kept thinking that what has changed for me in this life, in these past four years, is that my locus of “home” is no longer centered entirely within myself. I feel most centered, most at home in the part of my existence that is connected to the small powerful being who squealed MOM! from the front porch yesterday afternoon knowing I had returned home and was inside waiting for her on the other side of the door.

“If I know what love is, it is because of you.” 

-Herman Hesse

Big Questions

It was a crystal clear kind of day today. Cold air. Bright blue sky. It was early, and we had just finished breakfast when Quinn said she wanted to go sledding. We had our first sledding adventure of the year just last night. All three of us in our green plastic sled, legs hanging over the sides. It had snowed all day and the road had just enough cover. We whizzed down the quarter-mile hill in the dark twice before she was ready to go in. This morning she couldn’t wait to get out there again, and while we waited for Sam to get dressed and come out, Quinn and I went to the shed to grab the sled, and we took a run in the backyard. Walking back up among the snow-heavy spruces, sun sparkling off the snow all around, the blue sky above, Quinn asked, “Mom, why do some people die?” 

Before I had an answer fully formed, I heard myself trying to make it seem normal. “Well, everyone dies eventually.” She stopped walking and looked up at me. “Everyone dies?” she asked. I continued to try to make it seem normal, “Yeah, everyone does eventually, but you don’t have to worry about it. You’re not going to die for a really long time.”

Just last night she asked me "Do I have to get married?" I told her not unless she wants to. "I want to marry you," she told me, and of course I promised I would. Less than twenty-four hours later, I promised her she would live for a really long time, knowing that however long it is, it will never be long enough. Sam stepped out on the porch and she ran up to tell him about our new sled run below the woodshed. Her question had been answered and put away.

Quinn’s bedtime routine is a long one. After we each read her a book, or a few chapters from a longer one, she wants “a few minutes of snuggles.” Sometimes either of us will do, but more often than not, she wants snuggles from me. And most nights I’m thrilled to have the job, but when she makes it impossible to leave it can get frustrating. Sam and I try to take turns reading the first book so we can also take turns with the “few minutes of snuggles” that sometimes take half an hour. But lately, when he’s up there for the final phase, she will send him down to ask me if I’ll come up one more time. 

Tonight Sam came downstairs and stood behind me, reading over my shoulder for a moment. I looked at him. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to ask me if I want to go back up because…” He interrupted me, “I am...I am because she is asking why everyone has to die.”

When I returned to her room she reached out for me from her bed. She pulled at my flannel shirt and told me to just wear my tank top. “I want to snuggle you on your bare arms,” she told me. I laid down next to her and she squirmed trying to find the right spot. She wasn’t settled until she laid down fully on my chest, the way she would sleep as a baby. I could hear her voice cracking as she formed the question, “why does everyone have to die?” 

I tried again to make it seem normal. “It’s just part of life,” I told her. “Think of a flower. It is bright and beautiful in the summer, and then it dies before winter. The same is true for the leaves on the trees. And the grass. And the bugs in the grass. The same is true for everything that’s alive.” She lifted her head to look at my face, with still more panic written on hers. “Everything dies?!” She couldn’t believe the news kept getting worse. “Well the good news,” I told her, “is that people live for a really long time…” 

Even as I said it, I wondered when I would have to first explain the death of a young person in her life. For my mom, with me, it was the fourth grade. Carol Hanford, my classmate and neighbor, died from a brain tumor. And I flashed to my mother too, and offered her a silent apology: I’m sorry, Mum, I know forty-six years isn’t “a really long time.” 

Just when I thought I might have made Quinn feel safe, telling her she wouldn't die anytime soon, she jumped up and started to cry. “I don’t like it!” she yelped, “I don’t like it!” She flopped back down on the bed next to me. She curled up her body against my body, laid her head on the bend of my arm, stretched her limbs out next to mine. Today, on this beautiful, sun-filled, early winter day, this day that ended with a full moon lighting up our snowy woods, my four year old learned she would not live forever...and neither would anyone else she loves. 

She was quiet for a moment. "I think we need to put some colored lights on the Christmas tree outside," she told me. "Okay," I said; "I love you." She fell asleep then, hopefully thinking of colored lights, and how much I love her.

Thanksgiving

For a short period of time after college, I worked in a corporate library at a management consulting firm at Copley Place. I was commuting into the city, trying on a working girl’s life, missing the mountains and open spaces of Vermont. At lunch time I would go to the Boston Public Library, to sit on a bench in the inner sanctuary of the open air courtyard. It was a magical place, somehow impervious to the city sounds just over the walls. 

For the past four years, I have been trying on a working mother’s life, no longer commuting, but navigating other challenges instead. None of them insurmountable, so far, and none without the balancing effect of joy, but always on the run nevertheless, trying to catch each day’s “next train.” And so this morning, after waking up rested in a Boston hotel, I find myself trying to prolong the last hours of this brief sojourn, tucked in from the weather here in the Bates Room of the public library, this still and still-magical place. 

In a room full of people, there is silence, save the occasional hum of a wooden chair sliding in or out from a long oak table. The arched windows glow with pre-storm light from the city outside. And I sit here trying to imagine what my life might have been had I stayed in the city all those years ago.

It is a great privilege, I realize, to have passed through forty-three years of phases without a single substantial regret. I regret not learning Spanish when I was a kid. I regret not taking a Bible as literature class in college. But these are regrets I can still address. All the other decisions I’ve made have led me to good places and good people. Each step has been forward. Each step has brought me great joy. How lucky I have been.

These past two days here in the city were planned months ago as part of a determined effort to hold back the unexplainable blues that still somehow, in spite of it all, rise up for me in the grey transition of November, and to celebrate the many good fortunes of my life. In previous years, I’ve scheduled doctors’ appointments and done chores. I’ve watched another anniversary and yet another birthday pass by, and I’ve often felt lonely in my reflections on the inexorable advance of time. That is one of the risks of feeling so lucky; it’s easy to feel vulnerable too. 

Last year I decided I would do this November differently. I would use this time not for tasks that remind me how short life is, but instead to slow it down and breathe it in. Our first planned stop was a couple of weeks ago: a spa weekend with Quinn. She had never stayed in a hotel before, and had a hard time believing there could be such a place: with three pools, indoors and out, and two restaurants all under one roof. She couldn’t believe her good luck when she heard there would only be one big bed and we’d all have to sleep in it together. In advance, I bought her a white spa bathrobe and scheduled her first pedicure. I asked her how she thought she would feel having a lady she didn’t know touch her feet. She thought about her answer before giving it. A smile spread over her face, “I think I’m going to like it,” she said, with a smirk. For weeks leading up to our check-in day, she would ask me when she woke up, “Is today spa day?” And eventually it was.

On the night when we returned home from the spa, lying with her in the dark, after her books were read, I thanked her for going with me. She popped up off the pillow surprised, “Thank you, Mom, for taking me!” I asked her if she wanted to know what my favorite part of our weekend had been. I told her I most loved the time after her toenails were painted when she was sitting on my lap in the big chair, and she laid back in my arms, warm and relaxed, and let me snuggle her while the lady painted my toes. “Do you want to know my favorite part?” she asked. “My favorite part was when I was sitting on your lap and getting my toes painted!” That one memory was the highlight for us both, which of course made it sweeter still.

This week, the adventure has been for just Sam and me--a brief return to life before Quinn, thanks to many incredible generosities: My dad and Louise have been watching Quinn. We stayed two nights in a lovely hotel, which was a gift from friends. And we got to see a Bruins game from the Reebok box at center ice with my cousin Paul and his daughter Jen--an experience I will enjoy again and again, for as long as I have a memory to hold it. “Thank you” never seems to really do the trick at times like these. 

We’ve wandered the city feeling grateful for two days. We visited a favorite former student who is now at BU. We tried on hats in a hat shop and laughed as we haven’t done in weeks, and we made a spontaneous stop in a basement bar on Newbury Street for lunch. Last night we ate at an amazing restaurant, slurping oysters harvested from the coastal waters of my childhood, and sipping champagne from who-knows-where. This morning we sat in bed reading, drinking coffee and eating scones, savoring each slow second of quiet as it passed by.

That is what I still miss about my pre-Quinn life: the slow, quiet mornings I used to enjoy. The endless hours of reading...But if I’m remembering those times honestly, I remember also feeling as if there must’ve been something else I was supposed to be doing. I felt, oftentimes, a little guilty for indulging in prolonged stillness, and a little anxious about what I might be missing. Now, when I have the chance to sit quietly and read, I do so gratefully. And I know exactly what I’m missing...that’s what makes it so easy, eventually, to put the book down and head home. 

I have so many things to be thankful for that I've lost count, and in spite of all the words piling up here, none of them really communicate the gratitude I feel every day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. 

xo

Her Sense of Self

“You’re a crazy young woman!” I heard Quinn say to herself this morning. 

And then I heard her respond, in a slightly different voice:

 “I’m not a crazy young woman. I’m Batgirl!”

One of the ironies here is that before I got out of bed this morning I was trying to think of what stories I wanted to preserve from this past month, and one that came immediately to mind was Halloween. The other irony, obviously, is that in talking to herself, as she walked around the house, she was demonstrating her craziness, which was also kind of batty. Quinn’s evolution continues to entertain, inspire and challenge us, and I hope it always will. 

Sometime last month we had our first parent-teacher conference, and we were eager to hear what her primary teacher at her new school would have to say. We were eager and a little nervous; she is a powerful force--for better and for worse. Fortunately, her new teacher is known for dealing well with kids like Quinn, the especially strong-willed girls. And from the first minutes of our meeting, I knew she understood our girl. “Quinn is really smart,” she said, “And she really likes routine. And, she’s a little bit tattle-taley.” 

She grinned at that last part while we laughed and processed. I reminded her that Sam and I are both teachers, and that we can handle the truth. “You don’t have to code it for us; you can say manipulative instead of smart.” But she didn’t modify. We talked through the details, and agreed on it all. One of the details was that Quinn spends much of her time telling other kids what they should and should not do. Her teacher painted a funny picture: she will be doing something in the kitchen, for example, and Quinn will show up by her side. “So-and-so is doing xyz!” she’ll say, waiting for her teacher to be horrified and jump into action. Instead, her teacher will casually look down at her. “I know,” she’ll say, as she absorbs Quinn’s shock at her indifference. “I’ve got it under control, Quinn, you don’t have to worry.” Her goal for Quinn, she told us, is for her to “work on just being a kid.”

The problem is, Quinn doesn’t really think of herself as just a kid.

Last year for Halloween, Quinn wanted to be a butterfly. She didn’t really get what Halloween was all about, so I bought her some wings and pants in the same color and she was satisfied. She looked pretty and sweet, but the butterfly didn’t really match her personality. This year she wanted to be Batgirl. This year when she put her costume on, I felt like I was looking at her inner being shining out...a little dark, a little bit alarming in her confidence, ready to take flight to fight for what she believes is right. 

The emphasis here is on fight. She is a fighter and, while I don’t always love having to fight with her, I love that she is not afraid, love that she has strong beliefs, and love that she will let no one walk on her, or on anyone she is determined to protect. 

On Halloween this year, we took Quinn to the local trick-or-treating mecca. The town closes the road to traffic, except for the tractor-pulled wagon that hauls kids from one end of the road to the other so they can trick-or-treat their way back to the beginning. We went with friends: Quinn’s pseudo-sibling and his parents. As soon as we were off the wagon, we reminded the superheroes of the drill: go to the door, say trick-or-treat, hold out your bag, say thank you. They only needed to be told once. 

For the rest of the night, the two kids were at a full sprint. While other kids walked down driveways with their parents, Quinn and her buddy cut across lawns at full speed. His mom and I could barely keep up, and we didn’t know whether to panic or laugh as we watched, from a distance, as our kids would burst through people’s front doors and disappear into their living rooms. The dads walked slowly behind, drinking beer, happy in their own conversation. I think I laughed the entire way back to the car. 

Afterward, we all went out for pizza. A little hopped up on candy and adrenaline, a little close to bedtime, the kids were wired. But, we made it through dinner without any blow ups between them. The only blow up was theirs directed at me toward the end. I made a rookie move and gave them each a piece of candy after dinner was done--I thought both families were on the same plan: eat some real food, then you can have one treat. But we weren’t on the same plan and when Quinn’s friend was told no, he burst into tears. And so did she. Tears were inevitable at some point, so at least they happened as we were all getting ready to leave. I kept trying to calm her down, “Why are you crying?” I whispered, “you can still have your treat in the car!” Batgirl was outraged, “I’m crying because he’s crying!” she demanded, incredulous that I had to ask. Quinn lectured me all the way home about the importance of checking with moms and dads first. 

I know she’s just a kid, and I want her to enjoy being a kid, but I also want to appreciate her for who she is. She has strong intuition, she understands things, and more and more when she encounters frustration or difficulties, she’s willing to “talk it out.” And if I’m organized, and can help her prepare for what’s coming at her, she shines. 

And the best news of all, is that when she sees herself, she sees herself smiling.

One of my many hopes, as I imagine her into the future, is that she will keep learning to use her powers for good.