Squeezing Summer

02 Monday Aug 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, The Great Outdoors, Writing

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Am I the only one to wonder how it can be August?

In between the grieving and many trips to my sister’s house and writing near cornfields and closer to home, I look up to find it’s August.

All the signs are here.  Back-to-school sales gearing up.  My Japanese Maple sporting sun-burnt finger tips.  Grassy weeds having a field day in my garden and me, Jimmy-crack-corn not caring whether they go to seed.

Summer use to last longer.   Summertime once kept the same schedule as the local municipal pool:  Opened Memorial Day.  Closed Labor Day.  In between hot punctuation points breathed three months of slower living; ninety-something summer nights to stay up late knowing one could sleep to noon the next day if they wished.

Somehow that’s all changed.  Now summer break last two months.  My grands are getting shortchanged and haven’t a clue.  Teachers too —  though I imagine summer days of spent yester-youth are recalled by some.

Fresh squeezed lemonade once kept August days bearable until summer itself was all squeezed out.  Now we squeeze out summer with air conditioners that allow us to bear down on business-as-usual in August.  My daughter reports back to school this week to prepare her room for a new crop of not-ready-for-prime-time kindergarteners.

But it’s me not ready for prime-time — me pressing on the brakes to slow down summer.  Me saying, “Not so fast Mr. August  — let me lap up a dish of summer once more before we crack open the books of everyday business.”

Today Kara and I are going to squeeze one more day out of summer break.  We’re going to lunch, then go splurge on a pair of summer sale sandals.  And like all the best of lost summertime days, one good explore will surely lead to another.  And we’ll get good and hot and inevitably end up with something cool to drink — maybe lemonade from Chick-Fil-A — before coming to our senses and seeking shelter in our separate air-conditioned corners of Oklahoma City.

Telling Stories Ripe

30 Friday Jul 2010

Posted by in Life at Home

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“Do you recall when Dad shared this story with you?”

I was glad to hear Jon recount Dad’s sad tale.  Without knowing it, Jon had confirmed a missing piece to the puzzling last day of our paternal grandmother’s life.

Hints between the lines of what my paternal grandfather didn’t tell and what made print in two newspaper accounts of the fatal car crash allowed me to piece together the why.  What came as a surprise were the two extra jigsaw pieces Jon threw on the table I hadn’t known were missing.

But isn’t this just how stories are put together?  One person receives part, another deduces some other detail, both keep what they know until one day, they sit down to compare parts and piece the story together.  Of course, we never know whether we’ve gotten the story right since much gets lost in history and in our own and others interpretation.  But it doesn’t stop us from trying, especially when the story concerns one we love.

When it comes to Daddy and his story, there are many missing pieces and lots of room for interpretation.  There is a period of Dad’s life — two years, maybe more — that I’ve come to regard as the silent years.  His sister Carol once asked Dad about this period of his life but Dad declined to talk about it.

Some can’t wait to tell what’s going on in their lives while others keep their stories to themselves.  Dad told his story as he felt the need, or when he hoped something good might come from the telling, which is how my brother came to know what he shared.  Yesterday made me realize some stories are better kept in reserve until ripe for the telling.

Time and Space All Around

27 Tuesday Jul 2010

Posted by in Life at Home, Prayer, Soul Care, The Great Outdoors

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Out my west window a Jack-in-the-beanstalk Sunflower bathes in moonlight.  Further west, far beyond sight, my youngest son flies home.

It feels good to reread these words, to let them sink under my skin, to become absorbed by heart and mind.  The time apart went fast; it’s only in the everyday that time grows still enough for questions.

My one-day retrofit back into everyday life  has made me wonder how Kyle will adjust to being home, after two months in southeast Asia.  From short emails received each week, I know Kyle has been thinking of home.  Kyle’s initial messages focused more on his new life there; latter ones mixed thoughts, always including a note on missing family and home.  At times, Kyle was torn in two, wanting to be there and here too, like when his father’s birthday rolled around mid-way through his Asian assignment.

I expect my youngest son to come home changed.  He will return full of stories to share.  He will carry some sadness at separating himself from daily contact with friends who became family during his absence.   Then there are complicating factors Kyle will face since he will not return to his old way of life.  As a new college graduate, Kyle will be sorting out next steps until he sells his first manuscript.

Up in the air, Kyle is coming down to earth  — by moving back home with me and his Dad.  As I pray Kyle’s landing is not bumpy, I recall Ranier Maria Rilke’s admonition to the young poet to “live the questions now.”  Rilke’s advice wears well one hundred years from when he first offered it.

As is my nature, I prayed yesterday with broom and dust cloth and soap and water too, preparing Kyle’s room for his return.  Going two steps further, I created space in Kyle’s closet for clothes he’ll bring home; I replaced treasured artwork with posters Kyle brought home from college.   With dust removed and fresh bedding on, his room is ready for use.  Kyle’s cell phone is charged and his laptop connected.  But how pray, do I ready myself?

I don’t kid myself that the long hours spent creating Kyle’s physical space was my part of Kyle’s re-adjustment equation.  What will be harder is to grant Kyle emotional space to sort out changes in himself, especially new views on his old home.  Can I master the fine art of being available to listen without succumbing to mother-hover?   Or not being invited to listen at all?

It will take time and space all around.  It will take holding off some of my questions until Kyle frames his own.