The Comfort Meme

Here's the Friday Five meme from the RevGalBlogPals.

1. Comfort beverage: Herbal tea. I put a square of dark chocolate on my tongue, then take a big gulp of hot tea, and let the chocolate melt in my mouth. Mmmm....

2. Comfort chair: I hike back in my woods to a fallen tree, which makes a nice place to sit and think about life.

3. Comfort read: Books written for young people. Especially books written in other time periods, like the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace or the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

4. Comfort television/DVD/music: It would never occur to me to turn on the television for comfort. I watch very little television, and even then, only because someone else has turned it on. The only time I can ever remember watching television by myself is on September 11, 2001. I was home alone, and my mother called and told me to put the television on.

I don't really have comfort music either although the CD that I have listened to many times when I am sad is Joni Mitchell's Blue.

5. Comfort companion(s): My husband. He's a really calm, stable person, very comforting and reassuring. And my daughter is wonderful to be around when I am feeling down. But I also can be cheered up my sons, my extended family, my friends. I even get long distance comfort by exchanging emails with Artist Friend or Mirror Friend.

Why I am still not done grading those papers

Because winter is coming.
Because each sunny day must be savored.
Because in October, this part of the country is beautiful.

Empty

A couple of months ago, my mother-in-law moved into an assisted-living facility. The home she lived in for 47 years, the house that my husband lived in from the time he was born until after he graduated from college, needs to be sold. So a few weeks ago, my husband and his brother began cleaning the house out, keeping a few boxes of sentimental things such as photographs, but mostly packing everything else up to be donated or dumped.

They spent a weekend sorting through piles of papers, emptying out drawers and closets and cupboards. They came across old toys, school papers, Christmas ornaments made in elementary school, a wedding album. The old house is filled with memories – some happy, some painful, some sad – memories stretching back across my husband's lifetime.

My first visit to that house was in 1978, when my husband and I began dating. So I have memories from the last 28 years, especially the holidays when our children were little. On Christmas Eve, we used to go with my in-laws to Midnight Mass and then return to the quiet house to open presents. Many Sunday afternoons, we stopped to visit my husband's parents so they would have a chance to see their grandchildren. We'd sit around the kitchen table and my mother-in-law would pour cups of soda.

My father-in-law has been dead for nine years, but I well remember the time he and I were put in charge of taping a soap opera for my sister-in-law when she was at work. They didn't have a VCR – this was more than twenty years ago – so we were using a cassette tape. We decided that she was missing the visual element and took it upon ourselves to describe what we saw on the screen. "Oh, that was a SIGNIFICANT glance, don't you think?" Neither of us could resist mocking everything we saw. We amused ourselves so much with our witty descriptions that the tape was filled mostly with laughter. I recall that my sister-in-law was not particularly amused.

The house is quiet now. The marks on the ceiling where the Christmas tree always stood will be painted over. The bedroom my husband shared with his brother is empty. The dents on the living room carpet show where the furniture used to be -- the couch, the chair in the corner, and the television stand. The flower garden that my father-in-law tended so carefully has long since become a bed of weeds, and the backyard where the kids once played whiffle ball is now just a mown lawn of green.

The house is bare. The closets, the cupboards, even the entire basement.

Empty.

Mountains, waterfalls, and a full moon

In October in the mountains, the weather changes very quickly. As my friends and I drove north for our weekend together, we compared notes and realized we'd packed everything from winter coats to bathing suits. You never know what you might need this time of year.

That night we wore winter coats as we crowded around a crackling campfire, putting our feet on the rocks near the flames to keep warm. On the coldest night, we drove into the nearest town to eat in a warm restaurant filled with local people. Long Beautiful Hair insisted that we shoot a few games of pool, and we ended up staying for hours, laughing and screaming so much as we played that none of the men in the bar dared approach us and challenge us for the table. Yes, we are an intimidating group. (One man who knew Long Beautiful Hair did come over to us before he left to say, "Give me a call if you need bail money.")

The nights were chilly, but the days were sunny. On Saturday morning, we climbed a mountain, stripping off sweatshirts as we walked, warm despite the thick shade of the woods. Once we reached the summit, we found a ledge of bare rock overlooking the mountains and lakes, and we lounged there for an hour or more, eating food we had carried up with us. The sun on the rock was so hot by then that several of us stripped down to our underwear so that we could stretch out and feel the sun on our bare skin for perhaps the last time this year.

Lady bugs seemed to find all that bare skin an invitation, and I had to keep sitting up to brush the lady bugs off my arms and legs. We all tried to figure out whether the lady bugs were symbols of good luck -- or just annoying.

That evening, we gathered on the dock to look across a still lake that reflected radiance from the full moon. A mist lingered just above the water's surface. In the early morning, we stretched out on the same dock to warm our bodies in the morning sun and splash lake water on our faces. We drank hot tea or coffee while we watched the way the ripples in the lake sent waves of light through the bright yellow leaves of the trees.

On Sunday, we hiked to several waterfalls. One waterfall sprayed all kinds of mist that clung to our eyelashes and turned the morning sun into a rainbow. We decided to just hang out at that waterfall for awhile, since there were rocks to climb, side trails to explore, and sunny ledges perfect for sitting and talking. Churning water is a wonderful backdrop to a good conversation.

All weekend, Signing Woman kept pointing out wildlife – a garter snake slithering across a mossy path, deer browsing at the edge of the road, a red-tailed hawk soaring below us as we looked down from a mountain summit, a fox darting back into the woods, and a pair of owls calling in the moonlight. Long Beautiful Hair took us to places she had played as a child – the beach she'd swum at with all her siblings, the woods they camped in, the sand dunes where she'd had her first crush. We went canoeing, we hiked, we built fires.

Mostly, though, we talked. Whether we were playing pool, or eating a meal, or paddling canoes, or sitting in the sun, or climbing a mountain, or hiking a trail, or throwing sticks off a bridge, or sitting around a campfire, we were mostly deep into conversations. We talked about relationships and kids and jobs. We talked about childhood memories and careers and sex. Some of the time, we joked around and acted silly, and got into ridiculous conversations that made us all laugh. But just as often, the conversations were serious, as we took the time to think about ourselves and nurture our friendships with each other.



My friends dancing on the shore.

Time for friendship

We'll climb a mountatin on Saturday, a long hike that will include finding a rock in the sun where we can sit lazily, admire the bright foliage, and talk. We might walk a labyrinth. If it gets warm enough, we'll go skinny dipping.

We'll eat and drink, talking furiously at every meal. We'll have a full moon ceremony. Definitely, there will be wild dancing. Some of us will talk late into the night, like teenagers at a pajama party. Perhaps by morning, bras will dangle at the hearth.

I'm off to the mountains again, this time with a group of women friends. We do this every year. We leave partners, kids, and work to spend a weekend together. Because winter will come soon, and we have to enjoy this wonderful fall weather. And because we all think that time spent nurturing ourselves and our friendships is time well spent.

Mountain memories

The mountains are stunningly beautiful in October. Even the roads, winding through tree-covered mountains, are pretty. With most of the summer crowds gone, we saw all kinds of wildlife: white-tailed deer, wild turkeys, and a fox. When I go the mountains with my parents, though, we are returning for more than just the sheer beauty of the bright leaves and small lakes. We return for the wild parts of the mountains, the big tracts of land protected by the state where wildlife is free to roam, but also for the human memories.

One of our stops was at the campsite where we spent so many summer weekends in the 1960s: two other families usually joined us so whoever got there first saved three campsites near each other, along the back road with the woods behind us. The twelve of us kids would climb rocks, run around in the trees, and beg the parents to take us to the beach. My mother still remembers the time that one of the woman in the campsite went into use bathroom and came out of a stall to find a black bear roaming about near the sinks. In those days, a handful of campers used to gather at the town dump at dusk to watch black bears pick through the garbage, eating junk food that campers would toss them. I well remember the shivers of anticipation as we would stand on the dirt-covered hill and watch for the first dark bodies to come lumbering out of the woods.

We stopped at the camp that Kindergarten Friend's family owns, a cottage on the shore of one of the bigger lakes, a place I visited during my childhood. They've built another camp, but otherwise, everything has stayed the same. The general store, where we bought Seek-a-Word books, is still operating. And the shady pine woods where we played, looping yarn around the trees, attaching notes to the yarn, and pulling it back and forth in some complicated game, look just the same.

Of course, my father's memories of the mountain go back farther than mine or my mother's. During summers in the 1950s, he worked as a musician at one of the resorts. As we drove around the small mountain towns, he told stories about each building we passed. "That front part there was the barroom. I used to play singles there."

Some of the old hotels are still standing, some still operating. On our annual tour, we parked wherever we felt like it, usually in sunny driveways covered with pine needles, and wandered around. My father would point out where the musicians would set up, fifty years ago, and where the staff quarters were. "There used to be a Boy Scout camp across the way," he said, "and every night at dusk, someone would walk out on the dock and play taps." I could imagine just how haunting that would sound, the notes of music coming across the water.

Of course, in small towns, the locals don't always like strangers coming to gawk. At one place, an older man walked out, gave us a meaningful look, and said in a cold voice, "May I help you?"

My father looked over at the man. "I worked here in the 1950s. I was one of the boys from the Wood Hotel."

It is funny how those words changed everything. Immediately, the man relaxed. He and my father lapsed into a series of reminiscing and catching up -- what happened where, who ran which resort, and who was still alive. As they talked, I could just picture what the small mountain town was like in the 1950s with rich people from the city staying at these elegant resorts, dressing for dinner, dancing into the night. And the staff -- the musicians, the waiters, the kitchen help -- working hard all evening and then taking off in the middle of the night for their own adventures on the dark back road along the lake.

Over the years, we've met any number of staff who worked in the mountains during the 1950s and who still talked fondly of those days, some returning to live in the mountains, some returning their for camping or hiking or boating every summer. I've often wondered about the rich families who stayed in those resorts and whether or not they, all these years later, have that same attachment to the mountains where they spent summers eating the food that was prepared for them, sleeping on the beds carefully made up for them, and dancing to the music my father and his friends provided.

Early morning on the lake

In the mountains, we stayed at an inn that was so old that the floors in the hallways were buckled and uneven, like the weird floors at a funhouse that make you feel silly when you walk. And the plumbing, added years after the inn was built, was sometimes suspect. But the big fireplace in the lobby, the comfy chairs and mulled cider that awaited us when we came in to sit near the fire, and the magnificent view of a mountain lake made any of those minor flaws seem inconsequential.

When I stay overnight somewhere, especially if I am on the water, I love to get up early in the morning to walk the shoreline. No one else was around at dawn as I walked past empty docks and cottages that have been closed for the winter. It was chilly -- I was wearing both a fleece and my winter coat -- and my sneakers were soon wet from the dew. A thick fog was draped across the mountains, muting the reds and oranges, a soft landscape that grew more brilliant as the sun rose.

Mountain Lake

As I drove home from spending a couple days in the mountains, I began counting how many lakes I had seen and realized that there were too many to count. Lakes are everywhere in these mountains, from long lakes with finger-like coves to small shallow lakes. Some of the small lakes could be mistaken for ponds if not for that small brown official sign giving it some sort of wildly original name like Fifth Lake. The woods are especially beautiful this time of year, when whole trees turn bright red or whole groves bright yellow, and whole branches of bright red-orange glow vividly against the dark green conifers, but almost every trail has as its destination a glimpse of a lake. Trails up mountains lead inevitably to a bare rock where hikers can sit down to rest and look down at a lake. Even the road winds its way close to the edge of lake after lake, as most of the camps, summer cottages, and old inns are clustered along lake shores.

It seems somehow that humans are drawn to bodies of water. When I am hiking, I love the smell of pine needles and fallen leaves, and I enjoy the spectacular foliage and the green mosses and ferns along the trail edges, but somehow, I am always looking for the nearest lake. There is something wonderful about coming out of the shady, thick woods and seeing an expanse of still water that reflects the sky, the trees, and the mountains.

Off to the mountains

Every fall, I take a day to drive to the mountains with my parents. It's our tradition to visit the mountains in October, when the trees are bright with red, orange, and gold, the deciduous trees gorgeous against the dark green conifers. We drive by the old inn where my father worked as a musician during summers in the 1950s, the places we camped at during my childhood in the 1960s, the lake I used to visit with Kindergarten Friend, and the campground I've come to as an adult with my husband and children. We hike some trails and have a picnic by one of the gorgeous mountain lakes, and my parents tell stories about the time they've spent in these mountains.

This year, thanks to Yom Kippur falling on a Monday, I am able to take two days for our annual trip and we are going to stay overnight at same inn where my parents once celebrated one of their wedding anniversaries. That will gives us two full days to hike, talk, picnic, and enjoy the brilliant foliage.

Home from College

Our household has adjusted to being smaller and quieter. With my two oldest off at college, Shaggy Hair Boy has assumed the role of oldest child, the responsible one who feeds the cats and locks the doors at night, the person who calms his mother down when her computer goes berserk. Boy in Black is not much for chatting on the phone like his sister will, but he talks to his brothers online and often stops home on Wednesdays after his drum lesson. And both kids meet me for lunch on Fridays.

My Beautiful Wonderful Smart Daughter will chat about her classes and her friends and her plans for next semester, which will be spent in London. Sometimes she will call me on the phone to talk to me about a story she is writing, or to tell me what is going on with a friend. She is already looking ahead to grad school and a career. She's been home to do things like gather documents so that she can get her passport.

Boy in Black is quieter. When asked about his classes, he shrugs. Even though he is taking upper level science courses, he finds the work easy so far and is puzzled that his classmates keep complaining how hard it is. He had planned to major in chemistry, but now he is thinking of shifting to physics. "I love the stuff we do in organic chemistry lecture," he said, "but I don't like the labs. The thing is -- I don't really care about chemicals." Well, I guess that's a good reason not to become a chemist.

"Are you learning anything in college?" I asked.

"I'm learning tons," he said, "in Ultimate Frisbee." His whole body became animated as he talked about the Ultimate Frisbee team – the practices, the drills, and the tournament they went to in Bison City. He rattled off sentences full of Ultimate Frisbee jargon, and he pulled a frisbee out of his backpack to demonstrate ten different ways to throw. The other night the team practiced for hours in the rain and cold. Apparently, he's found a whole group of young people who are just as fanatical about the sport as he is.

Both brother and sister have told me how nice it is to be on the same campus. "I think I've seen Sister every day," Boy in Black said. When we have lunch together, they tease each other affectionately and joke around. They are both adults now, but they will still act like kids, racing to see who gets the front seat of the car if we decide to drive somewhere. They eat lunch together every Tuesday, Boy in Black told me.

This weekend, my daughter went out of town to visit a friend, and Boy in Black decided to come home overnight. Even though most of his high school friends are off at college, he still managed to gather a dozen kids for a big Ultimate Frisbee game, teaching his brothers and extras all the new throws and moves he's learned. Even after it had been raining for a few hours, and all the other kids had drifted into the house to wrap beach towels around their wet, muddy bodies and huddle near the fire to get warm, Boy in Black and Shaggy Hair stayed out in the field, tossing a frisbee back and forth as it grew dark.

By night time, the house was filled with music. The Pseudonymous Boy Band was playing the same songs they've always played, happy to have their leader back. Blonde Niece suggested we order pizza and the group of kids hung out by the fire, eating and joking around. When Boy in Black sprawled out on the couch, With-a-Why, worn out from playing Ultimate Frisbee with the older kids, snuggled up to his big brother and fell asleep.