Interstices

I woke this morning concerned about the vinca — that would be Vinca major 'variegata.'  Major, indeed,  Major invasive pain in the ass.  And then I made a mental list of everything I had to accomplish today, the last day of the Thanksgiving break, and immediately ruled out vinca extraction.  All the while I felt dread, that deep kind of dread you feel on a Sunday about the coming week, but amplified, since this is the end of a vacation.  We're in the final countdown to the end of the semester, and just a few days after that, my boy will return from Thailand.  I counted up the number of concerts and rehearsals in the next few weeks, and it's a finite number.  A lot, too many, but do-able. 

So I spent the day puttering. I made stock with the turkey carcass. I polished the silver while watching Ken Burns' new documentary about the Dust Bowl. I submitted another job application, even though this position only meets one of two important criteria; sadly, it is in the middle of nowhere, not close to mountains or water (essential), but it is, thank goodness, outside of a one-day driving radius of my mother (also essential).  Some signs of the Thanksgiving feast are still out.  My friend Linda's casserole dish is  here; the cleaned goblets and polished silver and ironed linens are waiting to be stowed; chairs that we brought down from the attic need to go back up.  These little chores are satisfying when the house is quiet and there is no hurry.

After lunch I remembered that I needed a few items on campus, so I walked to my office.  The sun was low in the sky, that pale winter sun that seems so bright when you are accustomed to overcast winter days.  On my way home, I ran into a dear colleague walking his dog, and he asked what I thought was doing, working on a Sunday.  That made me chuckle, since I often work on Sundays.  He asked about my boys, and when I started to tell him, he said, "No, I mean your little boys," and he held his hand out to indicate a short person. ("My littlest boy is six foot one!")  We agreed that they grow up too fast; his son is my age, old!  He seemed happier than I had ever seen him.  He'd had Thanksgiving with the family of another colleague, folks I know, and their children were home from college — "children" I hadn't seen since we all attended a playgroup together, years ago.  And then he said:

But you know what? No one — no one —loves you like your dog and your grandkids. Your own mother didn't love you that much, your kids sure don't love you that much. None of my wives loved me that much! Being a grandfather is pretty much the best gig there is. What a way to end a life!

And he threw up his arms at that last part, in a kind of hallelujah, What a way to end a life!  Honestly?  Honestly!  I think we speak more openly with each other during these intermediary times.  The holiday is over, but we're not quite back to work.  

I continued on my way, thinking about grandchildren, thinking about work tomorrow, about lesson plans and schoolwork tomorrow, about today's chores I haven't finished yet.

I was about halfway home when I saw a family ahead, walking toward me.  A wee little girl, unsteady on her feet, was tottering ahead of her parents, pink from tip to toe.  She was so gleeful, so delighted.  As I approached, her little face lit up and she wobbly-ran toward me, clutched my finger in her little fist, and then turned right around to walk with me.  I chatted with her parents, who were apologetic and thankful.  I think the little girl may have Down's Syndrome, but I wouldn't presume.  When we got to the end of the block her parents had to convince her that it was time to say bye-bye, and this was highly distressing to her.  I promised I would walk by again, because I walk by every day.  Her mum picked her up so they could wave together.

What a way to end a vacation!  

I loved that she wanted to come along with me.  Being chosen by a small child is a special thrill, a tiny echo of what my colleague must feel receiving all that love from his grandchildren.  But that little encounter also reminded me of my own children.  My older son's face didn't glow like that little gal's; he was always Extremely Concerned as an early walker, and, frankly, preferred to be held.  At all times.  (Yes, the one in Thailand.  Take that, you mean old church ladies who said I needed to put him down or he'd never be independent!)  Number two son — no idea how he looked, walking.  He was always moving away from me, usually to the back door to make an escape. 

I am in the middle; I am not, God willin' and the creek don't rise, at the end of my life, and not at the beginning of raising a family.  And I don't have Virgil or Beatrice to guide me, dammit, but I do have kind invisible friends to cheer and console me when I just don't feel like homeschooling anymore, and who remind me that a glass of wine helps with the onerous lesson planning.  Which I will do this evening.  

These transition times, small Sunday ones, and large lifetime ones, are so tender and lovely. It's so easy to let the dread seep in and fill us with, as one friend remarked today, "recrimination, guilt, and dread."  Let's savor these days, instead.