To celebrate my parents' 50th wedding anniversary, we didn't have a party, we didn't buy cards, we didn't buy presents. Instead we're sending them on vacation to a place my mother has always wanted to see: Italian City of Canals and Gondolas.
Three of their daughters are going along to help make sure the vacation runs smoothly. Urban Sophisticate Sister is an experienced traveler who is good at getting anyone to do what she wants, even when they don't speak her language. Red-haired Sister, who has also traveled quite a bit, always takes care of everyone around her, which makes her an important addition to the trip. And me? My role is to make my father feel gleeful that someone else gets motion sickness worse than he does.
Our adventure begins today, with a trip to the Big City Like No Other area, where we will meet up with Red-haired Sister and Urban Sophisticate before getting on a plane together to fly over the ocean. I'll be taking photos and keeping a journal, and I should have all kinds of stories when I return.
The boardwalk curved its way through a marshy area filled with birdsong and green things just beginning to unfold. Bright yellow marsh marigolds bloomed along the edges of our path. I'd driven to Black Dog Hollow to meet Nearly Kin, a blogging friend who doesn't blog very often any more. We'd chosen this fairly obscure location because it was somewhere between his town and mine, and our two cars were the only ones in the parking lot. Luckily, I'd already established that he wasn't an axe murderer. We talked as we walked, catching up on the events of the winter. When we ran out of boardwalk to explore, we went down to the pond, passing under an apple tree that was holding rosy blossoms up against the sky.
I told Nearly Kin that my goal was to find the trail to Pot Mender Falls, a waterfall I'd heard about for years. I knew there was a path from the road, but I'd looked for a sign every single Sunday as I drove past on my way to the ski slopes, and even in the stark winter landscape, I couldn't find one. We consulted maps, which helped not at all, and a printout from the computer, which was completely confusing, and then simply went up the road, looking for anything that might be a path. I figured that as long as we found some kind of creek, we could just follow that uphill.
Eventually, we did find a trail, unmarked but obviously a trail, and soon we were hiking along a small stream. It didn't take us long to come to the waterfall: thin sheets of water cascading over a rock lip, falling about sixty feet onto a tumble of rocks. We were in a shady glen of big rocks that looked like they'd been scattered by some kind of gleeful child giant. But I was horrified to see graffiti — yes, graffiti — spraypainted on the cliffs under the falls.
I quite like graffiti when I see it on the sides of trains or abandoned buildings or bridges in the city. But the garish spray paint seemed horribly wrong in this misty green glen. The graffiti wasn't even artistic or clever or political: just some names and such. I immediately began wondering if graffiti removal could be a community service project for my students next semester.
From the waterfall, we followed the stream as far as we could. We were apparently too late in the season for the annual mating migration of the spotted salamander, which is apparently a big event in Black Dog Hollow, but I did see a snake, a tiny thin garter snake that slithered quickly under the rocks when it felt the vibrations from my feet. The stream bed was completely dry once we'd gone a few hundred yards, just a long trail of flat grey rocks.
By the time we'd walked the trail, I was hungry. For some reason, I hadn't thought to bring food or water. But Nearly Kin assured me that we could find a fine dining establishment in Small Town in the Middle of Nowhere. We did, thankfully, find a Chinese restaurant, where we sat in the sun, eating vegetables and rice, washed down by bottles of drinks that were mostly high fructose corn syrup.
I'm guessing the flowers are marsh marigolds, but I'm not really sure. If anyone wants to identify them from my photo, please leave a comment. And if you look closely at the top of the waterfall photo, you can see the graffiti.
My daughter's graduation took all weekend — we were invited to three convocations, six receptions, and then, the actual commencement. Two of the events included music from a brass ensemble, and food was served at all the receptions, although the quality of the food was inversely proportional to the size of the reception. I lost track of how many times I heard "Pomp and Circumstance." More than 5,000 students graduated, which meant the campus was jampacked with people. At least three of the events were held in an area the size of a football field. Well, actually, it was a football field. At the commencement, the students marched in formally, in lines behind student marshals carrying flags, in an hour-long procession that reminded me so much of the Olympics that I kept expecting the voice on the loudspeaker to tell us who was favored to win the gold medal in figure skating.
At the convocation for the college of arts and sciences, family and friends sat in bleacher seats, far above the graduates who were dressed in dark blue robes. Everyone arrived early, fighting for the best parking spots, and that meant we had time to kill before the event began. When I looked down at the rows and rows of students, sitting in folding chairs on the indoor football field, I saw them with them with cell phones pressed to their ears, scanning the crowd for their families. All around me, I heard parents saying things like, "The left side? You mean my left? Stand up and wave so I can see you."
Half an hour before the convocation began, a voice over loudspeaker instructed everyone: "We ask that you turn off your cell phones at this time."
Given the choice between listening to the anonymous voice of authority or the voice of a parent on the other end of the phone, what did the students do? Naturally, they ignored the anonymous voice. Students continued to pop up, on cue, to wave at Mom or Dad. I heard delighted murmurs around me, "There she is!" or "I see him now!" To the students' credit, they did silence their cell phones as soon as the event began, reverting to discreet text messages such as: "oh god. please tell me they aren't going to read every name"
A few of the receptions were smaller and more personal. And the weather was sunny, so we were able to wander the campus when we had some time to kill between two receptions on Saturday afternoon. My father graduated from Snowstorm University's law school more than 50 years ago, and he kept pointing out to his granddaughter which old buildings he remembered. Occasionally, I'd chime in with what the campus looked like when I began graduate school 25 years ago. The boys had brought a frisbee with them, of course, and they entertained their grandmother with spectacular throws and catches, narrowing missing family members most of the time and on one occasion, clipping my husband by accident.
The last event of the day was a reception for the Treat 'Em Like Royalty Scholars. By that time, With-a-Why had acquired his sister's cap and gown, as well as her light blue scholarship stole and the dangling honors medal. He does love a costume. For a shy kid, he's amazingly unself-conscious, and he swished through the gathering happily, looking very much like Harry Potter. Boy in Black and Shaggy Hair, dressed in a fashion considerably more informal than anyone in the room, were equally unself-conscious. After sitting through two big convocations on uncomfortable bleacher seats, we were thankful to sit in comfy chairs and eat the fancy food provided, while around us students, parents, and deans mingled.
That's my daughter in the middle, with her grandfather on her left and With-a-Why on her right.
More than 5,000 students graduated from Snowstorm University this weekend. The class of 2008 included Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter, who graduated with honors and who earned a degree in English, with a minor in Psychology, and a degree in Magazine Journalism. The School of Public Communications gave her an award for being "an outstanding student who has exemplified strong, sensitive writing and the potential for being a professional magazine journalist." Her senior honors project was a magazine that she wrote, edited, designed, and produced. The feature article in the magazine was a story about a road trip that she took with -- of course -- her three younger brothers.
Two of my extras graduated as well. Film Guy, whom we've known since seventh grade, graduated with a degree in Television, Radio, and Film. He's my daughter's best friend, and they have lived near each other since seventh grade. Even during her semester abroad, they lived just a few blocks away from each other. And his off-campus apartment is upstairs from hers. Later this summer, they will likely be separated for the first time: her career is likely to take her to a big city in the northeast while his will take him to the west coast. Singing Woman, who has been in school with my daughter since kindergarten, graduated as well, with a degree from the School of Visual and Performing Arts. Her career will likely take her to any city big enough to support a symphony.
Today, I kept remembering when they were all seventh graders and they were at my house for Halloween, acting silly and self-conscious because they were getting too old for trick-or-treating. I can remember thinking then they were growing up too fast. And now, they are college graduates, self-confident, mature, and ready for whatever the future might hold.
Parenting magazines are full of advice about how and when kids should do their homework. Every kid should have his own desk, a quiet place in his bedroom perhaps, where he can sit down without any distractions. This advice sounds lovely, of course, but it's not realistic unless you live in a big house with lots of separate rooms. The living/kitchen area of our house is one room and that's pretty much the whole downstairs of the house. My kids do their homework sitting on the floor or on the couch, usually several feet away from siblings making music or eating food or talking about random stuff. And I'm there, too, doing my work while listening to their conversations.
With-a-Why: Ugh. This is the worst kind of homework. Me: How bad can it be? With-a-Why: I'm supposed to write about my feelings. Boy in Black: (laughing) Oh, that sucks. With-a-Why: MY FEELINGS. Shaggy Hair Boy: I hate that crap. With-a-Why: Yeah. Me: Let me see the sheet. Boy in Black: Is this for English? Just make up some bullshit. Boy in Black: (giving me a crooked grin.) English teachers like that. Me: (reading aloud) "Describe a time when you felt uncomfortable." With-a-Why: I'm never uncomfortable. Me: What? You are like, the shyest kid in the universe. Shaggy Hair Boy: But he's comfortable with that.
Boy in Black: (reading aloud) "How did you get through the situation? Give details about your FEELINGS." Shaggy Hair Boy: Oh, god. (He turns back to the piano and begins playing again.) Me: How about that time I tried to get you to take swimming lessons? And you were too shy? With-a-Why: I built a sand castle. Me: You could write about that. With-a-Why: I didn't feel anything. Me: You guys! Stop playing for a minute and help out. What do you do to get through uncomfortable experiences? Shaggy Hair Boy: That's ridiculous. (Begins improvising on the piano.) Boy in Black: You don't have to do anything. Boy in Black: You can't stop time. Boy in Black: You get through stuff whether you want to or not. With-a-Why: I just sat there. And then it was over. Me: Okay, pick another experience.
Boy in Black: (snickering) How about the time you went on Mom's blog and saw a naked picture of her? Shaggy Hair: He didn't get through that. Boy in Black: He was scarred for life. Me: You. Are. Not. Helping. Shaggy Hair: I felt slow today. Everything felt slow. Me: You have a cold. That makes everything slow motion. Boy in Black: We are out of milk. Again. Me: Can you think of a time when YOU felt uncomfortable? Boy in Black: Stuff doesn't make me uncomfortable. Because I don't care. Shaggy Hair: How about that time you got roped into going to the prom? Me: Hah! He's got you. Boy in Black: What was I feeling? Like, I want to get the fuck out of here. Boy in Black: Like ... I'd rather be playing Ultimate. Shaggy Hair: Even my layouts were in slow motion.
Me: How about your first piano competition? Shaggy Hair: Write about the time you had this stupid English assignment. Shaggy Hair: And it made you uncomfortable. Me: I mean, you had to talk to the judges and say the name of the pieces you were playing. With-a-Why: (scribbling) And I was supposed to bow. Me: You can write about the music -- you know lots about music. With-a-Why: I can't write anything too complicated. The teacher won't get it. Boy in Black: Just put in tons of shit about your feelings. Shaggy Hair: Do you think she'll know what allegro means? Me: You were okay once you started playing. You were probably the best musician in the room. With-a-Why: Of the kids. But that judge might have been pretty nasty on the piano.
Boy in Black: We don't have any milk. With-a-Why: How's this? Me: I just bought some yesterday. Boy in Black: Three gallons is never enough. You can't just buy three gallons. Me: You just need one last line. With-a-Why: Where did my pen go? Me: Boy in Black, you go to the store next time. With-a-Why: (reading aloud) "My love of music got me through the experience."
Every couple of months, Boy in Black goes into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and chops an inch or two off his hair. This five-minute grooming ritual puts him way ahead of his younger brothers, neither of whom has had a haircut in years.
The semester is winding down. When Boy in Black stopped home last week, he carried in a laundry basket full of clothes and a cardboard box full of desk supplies. The next night, he came in with a bag of books and a plastic bag that held his quilt and pillows. "I've moved home, " he announced. He is a man of simple means.
My Beautiful Smart Wonderful Daughter, who has been living in an off-campus apartment, took a couple of hours last week to paint over the mural that she and I painted on her wall last July. (Her landlord didn't agree with us that the mural added value to the room. There is just no accounting for taste.) It seemed funny to see the room looking blank. She has more clothes than Boy in Black, but she, too, will move home by just tossing a few boxes of stuff in the car whenever she gets a chance.
And yesterday, I picked her up for lunch. We drove to the cafe that serves great vegan food and ate there, just the two of us. We've had lunch once a week for pretty much her whole college career, and this was officially the last lunch: she graduates this weekend.
By Monday, all my kids will be living under my roof again. I'll have them all here, playing music and draping themselves on the couch and playing card games and rounding up people for Ultimate or just hanging out teasing each other and making inappropirate jokes and watching YouTube clips.
But this will likely be the last summer that we'll all be together. Because they just keep growing up.
On the Wednesday afternoon before commencement, the senior class at Small Green gathers on the quad for a champagne toast, and a class photo taken from the roof of the library. Students invite faculty to pour the champagne (and ginger ale for those who don't drink), and everyone spends some time mingling about, talking about their plans for the future. It's the last chance to talk to the graduating seniors and just hang out casually before families begin arriving and the rush of the weekend begins.
A few years ago, my husband and I went with some friends to see a movie, the name of which I've completely forgotten. The plot of the movie was as forgettable as the name of it, and mostly I remember the way that Staten Island Woman and I mocked the movie while we watched it, much to the annoyance of the two men with us, who both claimed they prefer to watch movies without a running commentary. (Yes, I know. How crazy is that? Our insightful comments were CLEARLY the best part of the experience.)
It was a comic book movie, except with human actors and actresses instead of drawings, and I couldn't help but analyze the corny dialogue as we listened. The movie was a wonderful illustration of the black-and-white thinking in which people fall neatly into the categories of villain, victim, or hero. Even with all kinds of cool special effects, it's incredible how tiresome those narrative can be. And more than tiresome; it's downright sad. I know real life people who get stuck in those narratives.
Anyhow, the main character, a female superhero whose special powers involved throwing knives around and then disappearing without a trace, decides to avenge her mother's death by going to battle with the villain. There is a dramatic scene in which the camera focuses on the villain, who is of course evil to the core with no complex or redeeming qualities, and then shifts dramatically to show Female Superhero standing in the doorway, ready to throw knives. The drama of the moment was spoiled when Staten Island Woman and I both started laughing aloud.
See, it turns out that Female Superhero, in her fit of revenge, had felt the need to stop and buy lingerie on the way to battle. A convenient wind blows away her cape to show her standing in the doorway in skimpy spandex underthings and — of all ridiculous things —high heels. Before reaching for her knife, she wastes valuable time to throw back her hair and push out her breasts. Staten Island Woman convulsed with giggles, "Oh, god, my mom would kill me if I showed up wearing that outfit to avenge her death!"
It's the peculiar assumption of the comic book world: women can only be powerful if they have large breasts, long legs, and tiny waists. And they must be willing to dress like sex objects. I can't tell you how many times I've cringed at the sight of a small child wearing a superhero outfit that included fake cleavage. The messages that these superhero narratives give to our children fit in nicely (of course!) with the goals of patriarchy.
So I've decided to start a campaign for a new kind of superhero. I'd like to see superheros of all sizes and shapes. Superheros with grey hair. Superheros who make their kids' lunch on their way to battle. Superheros who recite poetry instead of cliches. Superheros who wear sensible hiking boots or sneakers. Superheros who stop to talk to the villains and see what's bothering them before throwing knives.
And the one part of the costume worth saving, it seems to me, is the cape.
