This Summer

This summer is drawing near to it's inevitable end and I find myself feeling reflective about what I did and who I did it with and what I wish I'd done better.  In June I looked at the calendar and saw many an empty week and wondered what I'd fill it with. The kids were not signed up for camp, no big plans were made and my attitude was very play it by ear. On any given week I could be at the beach house, in Brooklyn or up at my mom's. In fact, my friends would often text me "You around? Beacon? Shirley?", knowing those were the three spots I cycled through all summer long, never unpacking my blue back pack I lugged everywhere, transporting in it my laptop, an iPad, contacts, my array of Kiehl's products I recently decided I can't live without, snacks, a clean t-shirt, bandaids for the inevitable kid injury and pair of awesome headphones Josh bought for himself that I promptly stole.

This summer I feel deeply in love with my family. On a daily basis they pushed me to my limit and tested my dwindling patience and made me scream and shout and get it all out and blew my mind with their level of awesomeness. They have shown me unspeakable acts of kindness towards one another and deep insight into what makes me tick. They get me. And I get them. I looked at my husband many times this summer and felt profoundly grateful to be on this ride with him. Making babies and raising these little people and running our restaurants and witnessing our older family age. All of the little intimate and ordinary details of my everyday are shared with him and I can think of no one better to be in that position in my life.

This summer reminded me I can not be in two places at once, it echoed to me the sentiment my mother has always told me : the best gift you can give someone is your time. Everytime I went to visit my grandmother, whether alone or with one of my kids, I tried to have an experience with her. I tried to just hold the moment with her and leave my expectations at the door. I know in her own way, she appreciates the visits as much as I enjoy visiting her.

This summer I said good bye to people who had been in my life a combined 12 plus years, to a manager, a book keeper, my hair dresser. I watched a friend's marriage fall apart. I gave up on losing five pounds. I obsessed over getting the perfect lunch boxes for the girls' for school. I dyed my hair brown. I liked who I was this summer and I am crazy about all the people I got to spend it with, friends who visited me at the beach and hung out with me in Brooklyn and had moments with me. I loved all of our shared experiences. Thank you for that.

Rain Drops Keep Fallin On My Head

Last night I dreamt of packing up my grandmother's things, not like we did, from her final sad apartment that she spent less than a year living in. The apartment I tried cheerfully and desperately to convince her was great when we toured it together, the week after Thanksgiving 2012. In my dream we were back in the house she shared with my grandfather and everything was still intact, the house and her memory and my heart.

The contents of her bedroom were all there. The dark, oversized bedroom set, her satin lined jewelry box with its mix of heirloom and costume jewelry. Her oval mirror always sat atop her dresser and kept organized her perfume, powder and brushes. My most cherished trinket in her room was her tiny music box that, when opened, played "Rain Drops Keep Falling On My Head". She used to wind it up and set it on her dresser while she brushed my hair to distract me. When I awoke from my dream I could smell her bedroom, and my first thought was of that song. Many of her favorite singers had done versions of this song and I'd probably heard them all: Engelbert Humperdink, Perry Como, Andy Williams. Listening to old music and playing cards was how we passed our afternoons. How lucky we were.




                                        "Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head"

[Originally by B. J. Thomas]

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothing seems to fit
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'

Cause I just done me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head
Keep a-fallin'

But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me
Won't defeat me
It won't be long till happiness
Comes up to greet me
To greet greet greet greet me

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying's not for me
Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining

Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me
Because I'm free
Nothing's bothering me

The Dying Light

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

I can not write about my most recent visit to my grandmother without first acknowledging the tragic passing of Robin Williams. I heard, like most everyone did, early last night that he had taken his life, at the age of 63. The fact that he was a father and a husband and a genius and 63, each one of these facts makes it all somehow sadder to me. I am reminded that life is fragile and to be kind to everyone, as we are all fighting our private battles in life.

My grandmother's battle is her disappearing memory, her erratic behavior, her loneliness. Alzheimer's is winning, as it always does. My visit with her on Sunday was not particularly good. I found her agitated and grouchy and mostly uncooperative. I am not alarmed by this as I recognize that it is all perfectly normal. Good mood or bad, I continue on with my plan for her when I visit, a snack, a game of cards, then upstairs to the activities room, despite her very vocal protests. She's not a joiner of activities she tells me. you are now, I tell her.

It's almost like I've had two grandmother's in my life: the woman I grew up with, who braided my hair too tight and fed me too much and taught me to play cards, And the other: the one I have I've watched forget birthdays and names and what she had for breakfast. I fully love the woman she is now and very much miss the person she used to be.