budding photographer

Dylan, "Self Portrait with Grammy's Camera" (2008)

why i prefer my bike

After school today, the kids and I headed over to Cafe Ra in Wallingford to meet Bryan for lunch. Just before getting on to Route 15, I came to a traffic light, where I had just missed the left-turn arrow. I still had the green light, but noontime traffic was thick, and it didn't look as though an opportunity for turning was going to present itself. No big deal; I wasn't in a rush, and it's a pretty quick light. I could wait.

Now, by no means am I a tentative driver. I'm not aggressive; just generally impatient. Hey, I grew up in the Boston area; it's in my blood. But when I have my kids in the car, I don't take any chances. I'd rather suffer through another cycle of red-yellow-green than bear the guilt of putting my children's safety at risk.

So I was quite surprised when, after having resigned myself to waiting with somewhat forced patience, I was assaulted by the sound of an angry horn from behind. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an older woman, probably in her late sixties, yelling and gesturing wildly. I looked back at the light. It turned red. She beeped again, this time with more emphasis.

I turned around to confront her through my back windshield. She looked me square in the eye and gave me the finger. This respectable looking upper-middle-aged woman in a shiny Mercedes. Flipping me off because I hadn't pulled out in front of traffic.

I didn't want to alarm the kids, but I did want to have a word. I threw up my hands and mouthed, "Where could I have gone?"

She screamed back, "I don't know! I don't know!" But this acknowledgment seemed only to fuel her anger. She fired up her other middle finger, so that while she was screaming and convulsing, she was giving me the "double flip."

"Classy," I mouthed. Her reply was the verbal version of the finger.

As I said, I'm generally not a patient person, so on some level, I should probably "get" road rage. But I don't. Haven't since I was in my mid-twenties, when I finally realized what a selfish driver I'd become: tailgating other drivers because I hadn't left myself enough time to get to where I was going and now blamed the slower cars in front of me for making me late; swearing in frustration every time I had to sit in traffic; speeding just because there didn't seem to be a reason not to. Somewhere during that time I picked up a book on the "Buddha within," and realized how much negative energy I was storing, and exhaling into the universe.

I've often felt that, when driving on Connecticut highways, I'm an unwitting participant in a game to which I don't know the rules. Bryan, who has lived here his whole life, is far more tuned in. He knows what other drivers are thinking, and, as it turns out, most of them have an underlying agenda, usually one that does not have Bryan's best interests in mind. Before moving here, I had no idea that a highway was really a complex web of mind games in which automobile operators sought to outwit their fellow commuters--otherwise known as opponents--by employing such tactics as the Variable Speed Maneuver, the Cell Phone Shuffle, and the Box-In. All of these moves are executed while the driver feigns nonchalance, which is probably why I had been naive enough to believe they were mostly just driving.

Crazy Mercedes Lady is in need of some guidance, it seems, as she hasn't quite mastered the mask of indifference--or was she employing some other, more devious strategy? So much to learn, so much to learn. . . .

autumn, etc.

Recently, I have taken advantage of our gorgeous Indian Summer by riding my bike to work. The foliage is brilliant this season, and my route consists almost entirely of bike path, which is laden with maple and oak trees. As I pedaled home on Friday, there was a slight breeze blowing, and this, combined with my modest speed, caused the leaves to come at my diagonally, hitting me in the face, sometimes poking me with a sharp edge. This was a little disorienting for the first few minutes, but after several batterings I was able to dodge the leaves by bobbing my head from side to side.

Autumn is, hands down, my favorite season. But this year, it is, like the leaves, tinged with sharp edges. It’s impossible to think of autumn without thinking of Dad. He adored this season. When most people were lamenting the passing of summer, Dad was shopping for mums and pumpkins, adhering leaf decorations to the windows, making flower arrangements in vibrant oranges and yellows. So now that the season is here, the absence of Dad is palpable.

And today would have been Michael’s 34^th birthday, which makes the air feel even heavier.

Dad dealt with his grief over Michael by tilling the soil. He visited the cemetery nearly every day, tending to the flowers he would plant according to the season, sometimes adding a photo or a trinket. He was as attentive to the tiny plot in front of Mike’s headstone as he was to his luscious lawn. By doing this, by feeding the soil and nurturing the plants, he was able to take care of his son in a way Michael never allowed him to in his last years.

Since Michael’s death, I have spent every October 14 in the company of my family: usually, I drive up to Waltham. One year, I ran the Hartford Marathon, and Mom and Dad came to cheer me on; last year, we camped in the Berkshires.

This year, with Dad gone, Kaytie, Joey and I decided to carry on Dad’s tradition of working the earth as a way of healing our souls. Joey dug up the perfectly-planted impatiens that had blossomed so beautifully all summer, thanks to Dad’s extraordinarily green thumb. Kaytie and I bought mums and pumpkins, and set upon the task of adorning the front of the house (and, later, the headstone, which now belongs to Michael and Dad).

I love gardening, love digging up soil and planting flowers. That said, I have inherited nothing of Dad’s plant panache. After a couple of hours of work today, the mums I planted looked scraggly and ill-spaced, compared to the impeccably groomed flower beds of my memory, and to add to the sense of comic chaos, I dug so hard into what I had thought was a rock that I broke a valve on the sprinkler system, and water came shooting out at me and into the flower bed, flooding the hole I had just dug. I yelled to Mom, who thought I was running from a bee. Once I had gotten my message across, she searched the basement, trying unsuccessfully to find the correct valve so that she might stop the shower. She found it after ten minutes or so, and we had a good chuckle. I imagined Dad groaning, good-naturedly, over the state of his front yard.

In spite of the mess, it was therapeutic. I feel closest to Dad when I’m working in his yard, digging with his tools, my hands in the gloves that used to be his. I marvel at his organization. I aspire to his sense of perfection, though realistically I know I’ll never achieve it. His yard, his shed, my family’s house: all are a reflection of Dad’s love and devotion to his family.

So, we were grieving two family members today. But also celebrating lives, remembering birthdays, and enjoying each other’s company, however briefly, however chaotically.

Happy 34^th, Mike. Love ya.

you may be a redneck if. . .

Everyone knows Bryan as a car guy. Cars are more than a hobby for him; they are his life force. Our barn and driveway are filled with cars, most of them "projects," "works-in-progress," or "parts cars." Some of them are registered, and usually we have a spare car or two, just in case (I know this sounds frivolous, but with the exception of the GTV-6, which is completely apart at the moment, most of the cars are beaters with fancy brand names).

So there is much humor and irony in the fact that, although there are 5 cars in the driveway, we are down to one driveable car. Bryan's '87 BMW (in whose bumper I put a nice dent back in February) has been showing signs of revolt as of late. Ever resourceful, Bryan installed some kind of switch on the motor. "If the car stalls," he instructed last week, "pull over, pop the hood, and see if the red light is on. If it isn't, switch it on, and the car should start."

Let me back up a bit. It was already "funny" (okay, not so much to Bryan) that, Bryan's love of cars being what it is, we were driving a dented '87 model (okay, so it is a BMW, but still) and a big old down-home Chevy pickup truck. A far cry from the stately old Porsches Bryan likes to ogle on the web (not that we could ever afford one of those).

So today, just as I was leaving school, the car stalled. And wouldn't start again. I thought of calling a tow truck, but figured Bryan would have another solution. No surprise there. We got the truck, attached a bright yellow strap from the trailer hitch to the front of the BMW, and towed the car (me driving the truck, Bryan steering the sedan) from Quinnipiac back to our house. I kept my fingers crossed every time I took a corner, because as I was adjusting the rear view mirror, it came right off its perch, making it difficult to know for sure whether Bryan was behind me. Fortunately, after turning off Mount Carmel Ave., it's pretty much a straight shot.

Okay, so maybe towing our own car doesn't earn us redneck status, but it is something you don't see in this town every day, as was evidenced by the amused looks we received along the way. So, folks, if you ever need a tow, forget Triple A--just give us a holler.

heart walk

This past Saturday, I participated in the Start! Boston Heart Walk with Steph, my best friend from high school. Steph came up with the idea about a month ago, having seen the flier somewhere, and we've decided to do the walk every year in memory of our dads (Steph lost hers when we were teenagers). The 6.2 mile course started and finished at the Esplanade, right alongside the Charles River.

Before the event, friends kept asking, "So when's your race?" "It's a walk," I had to keep reminding them. And yes, walking, rather than sprinting, across the finish line was a rather new experience for me. But I have to say that I really enjoyed the pace. It's not often that I take the time to stroll along the river with a good friend, especially one I don't get to see very often. Despite all forecasts to the contrary, the weather was lovely, the Boston skyline was picturesque, and the conversation was easy and constant.

On the Hatch Shell, one or some of the members of the J. Geils Band were playing old J. Geils hits. Crossing the finish line to the tune of "Love Stinks" was a little anti-climactic, but overall, the event was well-organized and fun. Thanks again to all who supported me.

(not so) exotic visitor

On Thursday, I was trimming the shrubs in the front of our house when I came upon this long-legged arachnid. He was perched on a parchment-thin web, and when he heard me exclaim, "Wow!" he moved on top of his prey, as you see him doing in the photo. I hadn't ever encountered a spider this glamorous in Connecticut. Bryan suggested that the spider had ridden in on an imported bush, and we decided that a spider so colorful must be poisonous.

On Saturday, my mom looked him up on the web. Based on the markings, he seems to be a Yellow Argiope, also known as a Garden Spider, or Writing Spider (apparently there is a legend in which the Argiope writes a person's name in zig-zag the night before the unfortunate victim's death). We were all a little disappointed to discover that the spider is actually quite common, distributed fairly evenly throughout the lower 48. But it was a neat encounter nonetheless, and the little creature takes quite a stunning photograph.

timber!

Two weeks ago, we took down the 30-foot spruce tree that adorned our side yard. Bryan had talked about doing this for years, but I was resistant to the idea. I loved the tree. It was very north woods, and if I blocked out the surrounding suburban capes, I could pretend, as I sat on the patio, that we were living somewhere in Vermont.

Bryan doesn't like to hire professionals. And to his credit, he is a jack-of-all trades. But that didn't make me any less apprehensive about his insistence on taking on the task himself. But he was right: the tree did need to come down. When he took a few branches off, I could see that it was leaning quite precariously in the direction of our bedroom.

My friend Anne and I returned from a trail run on the designated morning to find the kids running in the yard, and Bryan heading for the tree with a chainsaw. Anne looked frightened, but tried to keep her composure. "He's, uh, really just gonna go right at it, huh?" She looked at the kids, who were oblivious to the scene.
I laughed, because I knew he was just making a few cuts. Anne was relieved.

After clearing off all of the bottom branches, Bryan found some straps and tied the tree to the trailer hitch on the pickup truck. We sent the kids and the dog next door, and I was instructed to "put my foot on the gas, gently, until the tree starts to lean."

Not a difficult task, but one I was hesitant to take on nonetheless. I did as Bryan said, then turned back. I was aware of two things happening in the same moment: Bryan yelling either "Noooo!" or "Go!"(the distinction seemed an important one), and the tree falling straight toward the bed of the truck, and, by association, me.

I was motionless for a few seconds, stunned. The tree is falling, I thought. The tree is going to fall on me.

And then I heard a "thump," and it was over. And the tree was in the middle of the yard, having just missed the truck's bumper. No damage to the garden. A perfect bullseye.
Here are the part-time arborists cleaning up the mess.

We had no idea the Yankees did charity yard work.

We put a cute little dogwood in place of the spruce. In the end, I think the yard is much more aesthetically pleasing. I'm not in Vermont, but suburban CT has its charms, I guess.