It was a nice trip in its own way, but so emotional.  The car was crammed to the roof all the way down to Washington.  Once we unloaded at his new apartment the car felt huge and empty, rather like the house feels now.  The place itself is very tidy and charming, and his roommates seem personable and welcoming.  The neighborhoods between his home and his work are a little....let's call them "quaint"...but he'll learn how to maneuver, and which streets are safe to travel and which aren't.

It feels so strange to talk about "his home" when it is so very far away from here.  This will always be his home to me, I suppose, at least until he meets someone and starts a "home" of his own.  But school is behind Son Number One for the moment, and the Real World Job starts on Monday.  He will blow them away with his intelligence and his charm and his affability.  Washington will be a great place for him to strut his stuff.  I think he's a little nervous about the whole venture, but I predict that within a week he'll feel as though he's been there all his life.

I am so grateful to live in the age of cell phones and text messages and Face Book.  It makes him feel nearer, and for a while I'm going to need that illusion.  It's a new phase for all of us, and I need to figure out how my end of things works.  I'm free to audition for more plays or take a class or (hah!) start an exercise program.  It's a little scary for me, too.  But we are both going to rock this.  And I'm counting the days until Thanksgiving!  But until then, go get 'em, Chief.  It's a whole new day and the world needs what you have to give!

Doors are magical.  Every day we open our front door onto another surprise.  Sometimes it's snowstorms that change our perceptions of the world we live in, sometimes hedges defiantly peeping through piles of ice and dirt, and one of these days (please, God) a crocus or tulip.  We open the door to strangers selling things, to friends visiting, to our sons coming home for visits. When I was sick recently I opened my door and found a bag of chicken soup and treats and tea from a loving friend.  Even the mail is an adventure if you look at it the right way.

Sometimes I'm not going out.  I'm coming in.  Reactions can be "Ugh, I have GOT to clean this place before they film a Febreze commercial in here!" or "Ahhhh.  Home."  If someone is there to greet me the energy is different.  If it's my husband we putter and do our separate things in companionable silence sometimes, or chatter about our days.  Eventually we'll sit on the reclining couch to watch something (anything) on the TV and one or both of us will nod off to sleep half way through.  If the boys are home they are coming or going with friends or without, but sometimes they actually stay put for a bit and talk to us and play a board game or share a meal.  I memorize those moments, realizing that they, like the snow, are disappearing quickly.  When I open the door and there is no answer to my call, the emptiness is always a disappointment.  This is one of the reasons my house is not tidy.  I hate being there alone for any length of time.  Well, that and the fact that I don't like housework.

Then there's the Big Door at the end of our lives, the one through which we walk alone.  Who knows what surprises lie beyond that door?  I find that door is ajar sometimes.  There are times when my heart drifts through to get a look at what's coming up.  It stopped scaring me a long time ago, maybe because I have so many people I've loved who have joined my "Advance Team" and gone through first.  Other times I swear I feel the presence of those wonderful friends and family members who "visit" at the most unpredictable times.  I'll hear a song that I just KNOW is a message.  A car will miss hitting me by two coats of paint and I know I'm being watched over.  The connection is still there.  The love doesn't disappear just because it can't be expressed in a hug at the moment.  Any more than the world disappears when I close my front door.

It was bound to happen.  I knew it the first time he picked up a rugby ball.  Yesterday a knee to the face resulted in a broken nose for my college senior, who has avoided serious injury (at least that he informed me about) up until now.  Luckily in this age of technology, even for Luddites like myself, Son Number One was able to comfort me long distance with a "selfie" which really didn't look all that bad.  I suspect that today there will be panda eyes and more swelling, but at least he went to the emergency room for treatment so he's been seen by someone who knows significantly more about broken noses than I, with my fairly useless degree in French.  To tell you the truth, that nose which started out like a tiny button all those years ago, has been looking a little "askew" for a while; not obvious, but just the tiniest bit crooked.  Mother is suspecting that this might be her baby's second broken nose, but who can tell?

The trial of the long distance Mom is to stay calm and supportive and let him handle it on his own, which he is quite capable of doing.  He even used his "Talk Her Off The Ledge" voice when he phoned to assure me he was fine.  I know it could have been a far worse injury. All those prayers and guardian angels I dispatch seem to be doing the job.   My idea of winning a rugby game is empty ambulances on the edge of the field.  This is football with no padding.  This is, in my humble opinion, nuts.

And so I absorb another exercise in "letting go", a class for which I don't remember registering.  Son Number Two is in Cleveland fencing for his university.  I hope he doesn't come home with a dueling scar across his cheek.  That test I would certainly fail.

It's happening again....It's only July and already the best birds have taken off for parts unknown.  If you don't believe me, set your alarm for 4:30 and open your window.  Oh wait.  It's DARK now at 4:30.  That's almost a good thing since you can now sleep for an extra hour at least, but when you DO open that window, you'll hear a mourning dove, a crow, and maybe a sparrow.  The divas have left the building.  There is still a lot of summer to go, though, and it doesn't seem quite fair, but there we are.

Meanwhile, my own nest will soon be temporarily full again.  Son Number One flies home this Saturday from a summer internship in Washington, D.C. and will be in residence for a couple of weeks before heading back to his last year in college.  Son Number Two has been home since May and has been working at my place of employment since June, so we commute together.  OK, sometimes he sleeps going in or out of town, but often we chat about whatever is on his mind, or he'll run lines with me to help me memorize my script for the play I'm in.  It's been a joy to breathe the same air for the whole summer.  I'd forgotten how much fun he is.  I'll have him until just before Labor Day.  My mother used to call this "having all her chicken's in one roost" and it was her greatest joy.  I didn't understand what the big deal was back then.  I do now.

They'll both be back to school soon and the house will be quiet again.  And that's OK.  I'm getting better at letting the birds leave the nest.  I understand that it's their turn to fly and that soon they won't be coming "home" because they'll be making nests of their own.  To my complete astonishment I'm finding that my claws are retractable after all.  Not only do I not have to hang on for dear life, I don't really want to.  I'm enjoying watching the process and I am dazed at the talent and resourcefulness they both show.  But for the moment I am thoroughly enjoying the prospect of time with my boys.  Himself and I will have time for dinners and movies again, instead of playing chauffeur.  We'll be back to washing the dishes ourselves and taking out our own trash, and we're quite capable of doing all that and more.  But just as the quiet mornings make me sad once the birds leave, the quiet house will be bittersweet.  Silence can be good, too. And, as for the birds and the boys, as a very smart friend once told me every time I wept at his departure, "How can I come back if I don't leave?" and that was and will always be cause for celebration.

It's nearly the Fourth of July and I still haven't put a toe in the water, either the ocean or a pool.  Still, summer is upon us and I am more or less ready for it.  I don't have the bathing suit body I was hoping would have magically arrived by now, but there is something about having the windows open in the morning that just delights me.  In the U.K. they don't bother with screens, a fact which always fascinates me.  I'm sure it's true other places, too, where the climate is less conducive to the happy propagation of flying bugs.  I don't understand why they don't have a house full of birds, and speaking of the birds, they must be eating something, so there ARE bugs, but I digress.

We've had no obnoxious "3 H" days yet, which, for those of you not from the area, refers to "Hazy, Hot and Humid", so I can afford to be cheerful about summer still.  As is the family tradition, modified due to the internship of Son Number One in Washington, D.C., the clan got up at "zero dark thirty" on the day of the Summer Solstice and went to Nut Island to watch the sun rise.

For the second year, Papa came with us to round out the number and the view was very pretty, although I must confess it hasn't changed much since last year.  Still, it's a lovely tradition and breakfast is always fun afterwards at the Wheel House Diner.  I said to Papa, "I married into this insanity, but why do you drag yourself out of bed at this hour when you don't have to? and he replied, "Who knows how many more times I'll be able to?" and then he laughed.
I love that he laughed.  He's 84 now, which makes it no joke, but that is how he feels about life in general, I guess.  Recently he spent hours on his hands and knees putting pansies and petunias on the outside of our hedges, where there have been no flowers, no signs of life (except weeds) in twenty years.  It looks so nice that now I find myself weeding every time I go by.  OK.  Not every time, but often.  I guess it's a break from his twice daily trips to the nursing home to visit my mother-in-law.  She doesn't recognize him most of the time, but he lives for those fleet bursts of clarity when she does.  So here's to another season with Papa, who puts me to shame in so many ways.  He's at the Y or off on a walk every day, or when the weather gets really bad he's on the rowing machine in his attic.  He dotes on his grandchildren and the feeling is beyond mutual.  And he loves me, too.  How blessed am I?  All this and chirping  birds, too.

I am in such a strange mood.  Tonight is my 40th reunion from college.  At the last one of these I went to, five years ago, I thought I looked pretty good.  Then someone put up pictures on Face Book and that was the end of that delusion and the beginning of my reunion with Weight Watchers.  I'm not expecting much to be different tonight. 

I look at my sons, who are already going into their Junior and Senior years of college and I see little faces and plastic knights' helmets and Fisher Price castles with cannon balls flying. How on earth did we get here this fast?  And now I get to face the strange fact that I haven't been a college student in four decades.  A large number of these women were also classmates of mine from grade seven right through high school.  Nineteen of us went to Emmanuel in the fall of 1970 from Girls' Latin School.  Trembling with anticipation in our very first class of freshman year (English with Dr. Jerry Bernhard at 8:30AM) we all gasped when he told us our first assignment was to read "The Aeneid".  Eyes widened.  Furtive glances were stolen.  Notes were passed.  "In TRANSLATION?  ALL RIGHT!"

But that was long ago when the crust of the earth was cooling.  So much has happened since then.  There have been jobs and deaths, romances and broken hearts, children and grandchildren (not mine yet, thankfully) and 9/11 and cell phones, ATMs and iPads.  It's all new and more than a little overwhelming at times.  Yet we cope, some of us better than others.  How does one start a conversation after 40 years?  "What's new?"  Well, there's always wine.  Or I could stuff my face with cheese and crackers and feign a migraine.  At least we're not quite at the age when we don't drive at night.  Or at least I hope that's true.  You never know.  I may be in for another shattered delusion.

Then tomorrow my older college boy goes off to Washington, D.C. for the summer to serve an internship with our Congressman.  This is the very first summer of his life when he won't be home with me.  Oh I know the days are numbered anyway.  His life is taking off like a rocket, as is his brother's.  They have their friends, their own interests, and this coming year, their own apartments instead of living on campus.  I realize they may never really move home again, and that's fine.  But you'll forgive me if there is a tiny bit of mourning going on.  I don't feel needed any longer, and that is as it should be if I have done my job well.  But this letting go thing is so much harder than Virgil's "Aeneid" in Latin or in English.

After the winter that made me wonder if my husband had secretly moved us to Greenland during the night, it was lovely to see the crocuses blooming here and there on the lawn of the Federal Reserve Bank in Boston on the Summer Street side, across the street from South Station.  They aren't in big, dramatic clumps.  They are lightly scattered and most people walk by without noticing them, but they are really delightful.  Last week all the flowers were yellow, which I'm beginning to think is some "crocus hierarchy" thing, since they come up first on my lawn, too.  This week we have purple, and a few scattered white (with a hint of purple stripes).  They are as cute as anything and I'm liking them a lot.

Here amid the concrete and steel of the Fed, surrounded by  metal posts set into the sidewalk to keep trucks from driving through the windows and grabbing the money (I guess...although someone could just have really lousy taste in statuary) are these humble little patches of color, like tufts on a hand-stitched quilt.

I make a point of checking on their progress every day since I feel that anything that grows downtown needs encouragement.  I try not to talk to them aloud (people don't understand) but I do smile at them every single time I pass them.  They won't last long.  They never do.  But while they are here I intend to enjoy them.

As usual, Christmas came and went and we all survived.  It wasn't the Hallmark Movie of the Week, and "the perfect life-changing present" (which doesn't exist) wasn't under the tree, but it was lovely in its own, quiet, and ever-changing way.  One sister and her husband and daughter and her friend made it for Christmas Eve and brought meatballs and cookies (two different dishes, you'll be relieved to hear).  The other sister has grown fearful of traveling in the dark and didn't feel brave enough to venture forth, and while I understand and sympathize with that, it also made me a little sad.  Nothing stays the same.  I have to keep reminding myself that it's not supposed to.

The presents from the boys were thoughtful and whimsical and required no help from Mom and Dad except for transportation to the mall.  Son Number One gave me a tee shirt which reads "Vassar College  - undefeated since 1861" and there's a football on it.  Well the school was all girls until 1969 and there never has been a football team, and I thought it was very funny.  He also gave me a book on how to make money from writing my blog.  A certain celebrity on the west coast will read that line and rub her hands in glee and shout "See!  I told you!" but we'll talk later, Susan.
Son Number Two gave me a New York Times Crossword a Day calendar and I'm really looking forward to using it.  I love crosswords, but never make time for them.  He also gave me a tee shirt.  This one is flaming red with the Wonder Woman logo on the front.  I've already worn it to work, prompting some rather interesting comments.

It's still hard to think of all the missing friends and family who have been here in years gone by.  An ornament recalls a face or a time, a picture on the piano grabs my eye, and my heart gives the same kind of twinge I'm getting used to from my knees, except it hurts more.  But, as with the knees, I acknowledge it, suck it up, and move on.  Nobody wants to hear about my aches.  As they say about the Virgin Mary, "I ponder all these things in my heart."

Himself is a gift all on his own.  In addition to Herculean struggles at cleaning the house in preparation for company, he has continued to toil away at bringing order to chaos in the days that have followed. It has been a trip down Memory Lane as his archeological dig has unearthed bits and pieces from the past that I have long forgotten.  I'm beginning to think there might actually be a cozy home under all the piles, and that might be the greatest present of all, along with the purchase for at least the tenth year in a row of "The Writer's Market", which assures me that he still believes in my dream.  Some years the binding is never cracked.  Other years there is a tentative dive into certain sections to see what the possibilities are.  But as Father Hugh used to say, back in the day when I thought I'd be alone and misunderstood forever, "The groundwork doesn't show until one day...."

So here's to Christmas miracles and Hallmark moments and learning to "go with the flow", which reminds me of another famous Father Hugh quote: "Don't push the river, kid.  It flows by itself."  I am only beginning to learn at 61 how much courage it takes to get on the raft and enjoy the ride.

I woke at 5:30 without benefit of the alarm clock, which surprised me, considering I was at the subway at midnight picking up Son Number One after his shift ended.  The room was darker than I had expected it to be.  August is like that.  Daylight leaks out of the day like tea from a cracked mug.  The windows were open because the temperatures were cool overnight and it's always nice to get fresh air in the room and not depend on the fans or air conditioners to pull it in.  And then it hit me.  All I could hear was the hum of distant traffic.  Where are my birds?  They did it to me again!  They packed their birdie bags and slipped away when I wasn't paying attention.

It wouldn't have been a tearful goodbye.  I knew it was coming.  There are still a few sparrows and the odd robin who winters over.  Not all the birds are gone.  Why do I always feel guilty that I haven't paid close enough attention to their song?  In addition to the fact that daily exercise is a promise I make and break with depressing regularity, I find myself wishing I'd gotten up early every morning and gone for a walk just for the pleasure of the symphony we have access to for such a short time each year.  There are still heat waves ahead of us, I suspect.  It's only early August, after all.  But that beautiful background music is gone for another year and I'm missing it.  This is another reminder, as if I needed one, that the boys will be going back to school in less than two weeks and the house will be neater (some) and quieter (too much).  My heart aches just a little.

Before long the windows will be closed overnight and the traffic hum will be less noticeable, then there will be autumn winds, followed by snow, and before you know it, robin song again, because life goes by about that fast.  Next time I'll pay closer attention.  And maybe I'll stare at leaves and snowflakes a little closer this year, too.  But I'm already longing for spring.

On this, the day after Canada Day, I will sing at the funeral of my 95 year old friend Annie, who hailed from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  The wake was last night and I saw so many faces I haven't seen in more than 35 years.  How did we all get this old?  Most of the faces hadn't changed.  The two nuns are white, not gray now, but otherwise unchanged.  Aunt Isabel continues to exude joy and leave a trail of peace in her wake.  There were new faces (to me) as well.  My old "boyfriend", Annie's son, was standing with his two grown sons.  The kids I held in my arms are parents now.  Some of them are grandparents now.

Yesterday was also the birthday of my older brother.  He would have been 69 if he hadn't died at 22.  I wondered if he would have had gray hair or gone bald, how many barbecues we have missed at his house and how many children he would have had.  What would his wife have been like?  In this Year of The Big Losses nostalgia is creeping in, and I find myself aching for I know not what.

Tonight, however, there will be a dinner with "Uncle Vinny", an old friend (in both senses) and a joy.  He has driven to Boston from Ohio again (at age 82) and loves to see my kids, especially the one I named after him.  But first there's a funeral to attend on this gray day, and like it or not, it's time to face (and make) the music.

It's the first day of summer, and, as is our family tradition, we all get up at sparrow fart and drive to a place very appropriately named Nut Island to watch the sunrise on the longest day of the year.  Except this year we made some modifications.  Son Number Two is away for the week, so my wonderful father-in-law filled in.  And I stayed home in bed until 7, which was the smartest decision I've made in such a long time!  The three boys, Himself, his Dad, and Son Number Two, all went out to breakfast after viewing the sunrise over the water.  This is also a tradition.  I have been many times.  This picture came off the internet and has nothing to do with Nut Island, but trust me....it looks just like this.
A week of double shifts, working both jobs has left me feeling my age and a bit of someone else's.  Sleep was the wiser choice today.
Now it's time to get dressed and go to the office, where the coffee is free and the people are warm.  There will be more material for the book that provides the running commentary for my day,  and the voices in my head will keep me company on the subway.  They've already started whispering that the days will now start getting shorter.  I've already told them to shut up.

The neighbors are out there power washing their deck.  It's noisy, but it's almost 11:30 on a Saturday morning, and really, good for them.  I, on the other hand, sit here surrounded by so many things to do that I am doing the square root of nothing, paralyzed by the overwhelming size of each task.  This is my first day off in quite a while, and it's a lovely morning.  The temptation to sit on the couch and catch up with the last season of "Desperate Housewives" is strong.  Equally strong is the desire to gather all the old magazines which are creating teetering piles, the "Oprahs" and the virginal "Writers' Digests", and drive over to my doctor's office, scattering them throughout the waiting rooms in the building. Or to take Mother's clothes out of the front hall closet and donate them to Morgan Memorial, giving us more room, and me another iota of closure.  Or to tackle the mountains of laundry, clean and otherwise, which are taking over my bedroom like some monster in a Grade D film.  At the very least I should go for a walk or cut the grass.  But plantar fasciitis is tuning up, and by the end of a five hour shift at the mall I'm walking with a cane, and I don't bloody feel like it.  So I'll set the timer on the stove and do fifteen minutes of something.  Anything.  But first I'll have my tea.  And maybe a biscuit.
The fact is, with all this lovely weather and a day to myself, I am down in the dumps.  Finally I have time to stop and think and breathe, and the Bogeyman has caught up with me.  Griefs which I thought were healing are not, and will not until I sit with them, listen to them, maybe write a poem about them, and move on.  I'm disappointed in myself that finally getting back into the work force hasn't produced the job of my dreams, but one part time job which I very much like, and one in retail, which I very  much don't.  And the excitement of re-inventing myself has become the resignation to another round of "Aw well, it's something," but I was hoping for so much more.
So it's tea and a biscuit and something for now.  Because at least that much I can still control.

It's been "One Of Those Weeks".  I've worked the office job from 10 to 3 Monday through Friday (after working at the boutique on Sunday) and then Thursday and Friday nights I worked at the boutique until 10.  Saturday I worked from 11 to 3:30, and today it's 2 to 7.  Son Number One's girlfriend arrived (love her!) on Saturday morning at 1AM and I am, quite frankly, a tad fatigued.  The grass is almost peeking in at the window sill and sobbing for attention.  It will wait a few hours, I'm sure.  Plantar fasciitis is tuning up for a symphony in my left heel.  For right now I am enjoying sitting still.  The torrential rains have left, and this Sunday morning the windows are open for a cool breeze and birdsong to start my day.  There is a book at my elbow which is singing its siren song, to which I have every intention of succumbing.  Give me a hot cup of tea and I shall rule the world.
I don't know what I did during the fourteen years I was lucky enough to be at home with my children.  It certainly wasn't housework.  They had their music lessons and sports, karate black belts and play dates.  My universe revolved around their schedules and that was our choice and our privilege.  Most people don't have the option of walking out on their careers and taking an orchestra seat at life.  Getting back into it (not a "career", but a "job") has been challenging.
So much of how we define ourselves involves how we make money.  At a party, when approached by a stranger and asked "Who are you?" the answer often is "I'm a doctor" or "I work in computers" or "I'm a cashier at Walmart and a pole dancer on weekends".  I was stuck for an answer for a while, feeling a little guilty that my life was mostly driving the car and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  There was the embarrassment of not making a paycheck, but also an embarrassment of riches.  I had time with my children.  My friend Flanagan (whom I miss with a white hot heat) would call many days and be the only adult I spoke to between the hours of 8AM and 7PM.  He would chide me to "Be a human being, not a human doing!" and remind me of how blessed I was to be in my situation.  He would repeat the importance of the airline safety drill of "putting on your own oxygen mask before trying to take care of everyone else".
While the children were in school I would visit with retired friends, and eventually, with my mother in her last years at the nursing home.  I was free to spoon feed her lunch and amuse her cohorts with a song or a borderline-appropriate joke or two.  I got to learn what really mattered.  After a year of emptying out my routines, children off to college, Mother and Flanagan and Webb passing away to where they don't need me, I'm filling up my life with other things.  But I have learned to appreciate the sheer luxury of sitting with a hot cup of tea and counting my blessings.  And on this sunny, bird-filled day, I gently remind you to stop and do the same.

The need to "parent" never ends.  After the usual snowstorm/airport fiasco which I've come to expect when Son #2 comes home, and having received the 3AM phone call from Son #1 who had safely landed in Seattle, I toddled downstairs and woke Son #2 from the couch and made him go upstairs to brush his teeth, wash his face, put his precious head on a newly laundered pillowcase and go to sleep.  I was feeling a little silly about this until the phone rang at 6:45 this morning and my 82 year-old father-in-law called to warn me (age 60) that I should be careful of the ice on the front stairs.

We all need to feel that our children need us.  Or that somebody needs us.  Otherwise all the mani-pedis and massages and book clubs become pointless.  Of course, it's important to take good care of and to occasionally pamper ourselves.  We deserve that, and it's good for the ego and the body and the nerves.  But I feel so much better after I've called a mourning friend and been able to make her laugh just for a moment, or shot an e-mail to a friend battling cancer to remind her that I'm praying and that she's not facing the day-to-day battle alone.  I don't think it's ego.  I think it's an awareness that we've got a job to do while we're here.  We all fall down at different points of our lives.  Our friends (and sometimes wonderful angel strangers) are usually there to pick us up.  When they fall we pick them up.  Eventually we help one another get to the other side.
As long as we don't all have our breakdowns on the same day, the system usually works, and I find it satisfying to be reminded once in a while that even though my babies are not babies any more, someone is still glad that I'm there to reach out a hand.  And I'm glad I have someone to remind me to hold the railing when the stairs are icy, even if I might have figured it out on my own.

Winter has turned into an immortal monster.  Just when you think he has gasped his last and the crocuses start to timidly peek above ground, back he comes with his arms flailing and his icy breath blowing the birds out of the trees.  It's like the dinner guest who refuses to leave three hours after the dessert has been served.  I, for one, am pretty sick of his company.

Of course the benefit of a March storm is that it never stays on the ground very long, although it will probably stay long enough to mess up Son Number Two's flight home tomorrow, something which I've started to expect from my charming snow magnet.  Spring Break, which appears to be a real misnomer this year, starts tomorrow.  Son Number One is also flying tomorrow, but he is headed to Seattle with his friend and won't be back here until next week, by which time the flowers may actually be here for real.  I'm looking forward to deep voices in the house, empty milk cartons, and the traffic of friends coming and going at all hours.  I watch in amazement as these young men float in and out of my area of vision.  Trying to retract my "mommy claws" is difficult.  They don't sleep enough, either of them.  I have no idea how they manage to do so well at school.  Nagging is pointless, but expected, so I do it but half-heartedly.  I know it will have absolutely no effect.  But what a joy it will be to have them home to nag! 
It will be the first time I've seen them in person since "Uncle Jim" passed away a few weeks ago.  They had a hard enough time when my dear Flanagan died in September, and then in November when my mother slipped away, but "Uncle Jim" had a special place in all their growing up years and they both adored him.  We need to cry together, remember together, pray together, and then celebrate.  Ritual is crucial at times like this, and then we will learn to live with the memories as a quiet companion in the background, and get on with the business of spring.

I find the period after a "hit" physically exhausting.  Going to the boutique and pasting on the happy face as I deal with ladies buying clothes I couldn't begin to afford and which they don't need serves to distract me, but doesn't begin to deal with the issues.  I want a bit of quiet, but that doesn't seem to be on the schedule.

It has occurred to me that I need to start cultivating younger friends or I'm going to run out.  Since I was a child I have always gravitated towards "wisdom figures".  I wept bitterly on the last day of school from the third grade right through high school.  My teachers were my first real guides and friends.  After school I would sometimes stop by for a cup of tea and then work in the garden.  While I was in college I was the weekly housekeeper for my retired eighth grade English teacher, and we remained friends until I was well into my thirties when she passed away. 

My first priest friend fell into my life when I had surgery at the age of thirteen and hit it off with the hospital chaplain.  Since then I have met and added to my list of "inner circle friends" a number of priests.  I'm not sure why.  It's not a plan.  If there's someone in a sweatshirt and jeans at a party and we have a wonderful time talking about important things, at least six times out of ten I'll find out he's been ordained.  I guess I see the human being behind the Roman collar, and treat him accordingly.  And sometimes very irreverently, which we all need once in a while to keep our feet tethered to Earth.  My husband considers the clergy part of my dowry, and he and my children have become the family that some of these men never had.  It's "win, win" until you get to today when one of them leaves and then everyone is reeling in pain. I suppose that's true any time you open your heart wide to let someone into the inner circle.  The pain is in proportion to the depth of the joy received. And over the years this family has been blessed with great joy.

There's been another tear in the tapestry of my life.  Canon Webb (aka "Uncle Jim" around here) slipped away quietly in his sleep on Sunday night after dedicating the new chapel in Saint David's Church in Mold, Wales.  Since my boys were tiny (indeed, before they were born), we would spend our summer holidays at the presbytery, using it as a launching place for exploring castles.  Every Saturday at 7:30 either I would call him or he would call me and we would catch up on the week.  There was never a birthday, Fourth of July, or Christmas that the phone didn't ring with a greeting.  We were family by choice, which, as I maintain, is the best kind of family to be. 

Scary at first, his Cambridge University accent, hard acquired after a childhood rife with poverty, could prove off-putting.  Then he would say something outrageous like, "One found that very amusing.  We laughed so hard the tears of mirth ran down our leg," and after doing a double-take to confirm that I'd heard what I thought I'd heard, we'd howl.  He introduced us to the phrase "tickety-boo" for use when things were just lovely.  The first time I saw the town of Mold I commented that it was much larger than I'd imagined it.  He replied, "Yes, but even in one's moments of most diminished sobriety, one would never mistake it for midtown Manhattan."

He was the friend of my high school history teacher, Rosemary, and I'd known him almost twenty years before we became friends.  She passed away two months after my wedding, and when he came to town to collect his things which he'd left on various visits, we mourned her death together and sealed a friendship that will last forever.  Himself and I named our second son after him, which delighted Uncle Jim.  My friends are carefully chosen and fiercely and permanently loved.  To take a third major hit in six months has been difficult.  I haven't seen him face to face since 2007, what with college tuitions and airfare costing what they do, but the bond has never faltered.  His face, intentionally stern and unsmiling, sits atop the piano and keeps me company.

Jim's funeral will be on Saint David's Day, which is Wales' equivalent of Ireland's Saint Patrick's Day.  He'll miss the field of daffodils which should be in full bloom in his garden by then.  But not a thousandth as much as we'll miss him.  Sleep well, my dear, dear friend.  And save me a good seat.

It's always a mistake to wait until the end of the day to write.  In the  morning my intentions are so good, and the day is so full of promise.  There are a million plans waiting to be executed, each one sure to make a difference in how I feel about the world and myself.  By the time dusk starts to creep in I realize that I've blown it again.  I didn't run.  Heck, I didn't walk.  I didn't get as much laundry done and put away as I'd hoped.  I didn't send out enough resumes to find the perfect job.  The list goes on and on.

There were things I did do, of course.  I played chauffeur for my college son.  We went to visit my mother and fed her lunch to her, bite by unappetizing bite.  We went to Town Hall to get a flu shot (which apparently isn't offered until next week....I really should start reading signs), and we got Himself's car to the shop so that it no longer sounds like a Sherman tank as it zooms down the highway.  The list isn't nearly as impressive as I would like it.  There is time to get something else done, of course.  Another load of laundry, dinner, the Board of Directors meeting for my theater group.  Mostly I would like a nap, but the likelihood of that is dwindling fast.

So, like most of the human race, I fall a bit short of my target pretty much every day.  At least I still have a target most days.  And tomorrow morning, assuming I am granted another day (which most of us blithely take for granted, but I've learned better), I'll give it another shot.  Maybe that's what matters most.  That we don't just shrug our shoulders and say, "Well, that's just the way it goes," because I am not ready to settle for that.  Are you?

Audio books are fun in the car.  I'm currently listening to something called "Don't Miss Your Life" which seems like good advice and is read by the author in a perky voice.  One of the challenges thrown out there as I wended my way home from a gain at Weight Watchers (never good for my mood) was to "think about your happiest childhood memory."  The first thing that came to mind was an enormous cardboard box which had contained a refrigerator.  It became, in turn, a house (complete with "curtains"), a train with an empty coffee can chimney,and after my brother and  I upended it, it became a store.  We sold mud pies, made from the backyard dirt.  There was no garden and very little grass  We grew up in the city in a three-decker house and my grandparents lived next door in a one bedroom apartment.  The stairs on their fire escape became the "shelves" for the mud pies.  I suspect that we broke several fire department regulations that day, but it all turned out well, as most things we worry about do.  We played for hours and days with that box until eventually the rains turned it into mush.

When I think of my sons' childhood, it is largely populated with plastic toys marked "Fisher Price", a fine company and the source of many hours of enjoyment.  I've already told you about the pirate ships and castles which will outlive all of us and may, someday, make it out of my attic and into homes of their own.  But I wonder if they missed out on something.  Most kids today are proficient at computers and video games, and can program an iPod, an iPad, and the Space Shuttle from the age of three on, but given a long summer afternoon with an electrical outage I wonder what they would do.  The pace of "Sesame Street" and life in general has produced a generation that is not very good at doing nothing.  Or at doing something simple and non-electronic.  There were the occasional "forts" made out of kitchen chairs and bed sheets (mostly when Auntie Lynnie babysat), but not a lot of going into the back yard (or "back of the 'ard" as Son Number One called it rather endearingly) to just "hang out".  I'm rather sorry about that.  Oh, they read like fiends and even wrote their own books but I don't remember a single over-sized cardboard box in their entire life that wasn't dutifully taken apart and recycled on trash day.

One of my favorite pictures of Son Number Two has him lying on his back in the middle of a field, legs casually crossed, arms under his head, and just staring at the sky watching the kites.  He wasn't worried about dirt, bugs, or dog poop.  He was enjoying the tickle of the grass and the colors darting across the ridiculously blue sky.  I don't know about you, but I think that sounds like a brilliant idea.  And I think I know where to find a kite!

Summer's back would appear to be pretty much broken.  While there might be an 80 degree day hiding around the corner, autumn has arrived.  The edges of the day are cool and require a sweater, and the mornings arrive later and later, while the nights sneak up on me earlier and earlier.  I'm not a beach bunny and never have been, so it's not as though I'll miss "summer fun".  The closest I get to a tan is when my freckles all come out at the same time.  But this time of year always makes me wistful.  The ghosts of first days of school, my own and my sons', come back to haunt me, and I have an uncontrollable urge to go out and buy new notebooks and pencils in spite of the fact that we could supply a small country with what we already have in the desk.  Reason plays no part in this.

There is something poignant about autumn.  The trees are tired of being green and are getting ready to put on their big show before November strips them bare.  And to tell the truth, I think I'm tired of them, too.  I'm ready for something different.  Still, I am not altogether happy about the fact that the boys have another summer under their belts, that my mother is that much frailer, that my hair is that much grayer (or "silver" as my younger son, the diplomat calls it) or that so many of my friends have joined what I euphemistically call "the advance team".  I'm missing people and times gone by.  For some reason many of my friends have decided to take their leave of The Big Blue Marble during the month of September.  Then there's 9/11 to think about.  All in all, it's becoming one of my least favorite months.

I'm listening to Thomas Moore's "Dark Night of the Soul" in the car these days.   There are some interesting observations about the positive aspects of dwelling on "the dark side" and most of them involve personal growth, which I believe happens far more often during times of sorrow than joy.  I don't want to become a permanent citizen here, though.  I'm already planning my escape from the doldrums.  I think I'll start by planting a sea of daffodils for the spring.  But first I'm buying myself a new notebook.

It be "Talk Like  A Pirate" day!  There be many annoyin' varmints who be talkin' all day like a parrot be sittin' on their shoulder and they be deep in the grog, and by noon I be makin' them all walk the plank!  Oh good heaven, that's enough of that nonsense!  I was first introduced to TLAP Day by my children who find this endlessly entertaining.  I feel really sorry for their professors today, because I'm not sure either of them will be able to turn it off just because they are going to (very expensive) college.

Pirates have a long history at our house.  It started when Son Number One was three and Santa brought the Fisher Price Pirate Ship.  Then came the Castle.  The next year Santa brought Son Number Two the new and improved Pirate Ship.  Then the new and improved Talking Castle.  All of this, along with more toys than Macy's has in stock for Christmas, filled what would be a den in a normal house. Walking through the room was interesting, because the chance of getting hit with a flying plastic cannon ball was very high, and it didn't matter if you were family or honored guest, you were a target. At one point Himself and the boys made "pirate hard tack", which were disgusting cookies or biscuits or something made to the actual recipe that the pirates used.  Happily, they left out the maggots which usually took the place of sprinkles that adorn better tasting cookies.  They turned out interesting rather than tasty, and were tossed into the trash after one information seeking bite.

The ships and castles are in the attic waiting for the boys to get apartments and lives of their own.  The population of little pirates and ghosts and dragons and knights are tucked into plastic boxes awaiting the next generation.  There are still two small pirate flags on either side of the bay window, and my husband's toy box from his childhood, covered with 1960's pirates and ships and flags, is serving as a coffee table. We still call it "The Pirate Room". 

It's another day when I miss having the boys at home.  Himself is working at home today, but he doesn't have the pirate knack.  His brother, who lives in Alaska, is an expert, but he's not here.  So I be talkin' to meself today and missin' the bairn (who be all grown up) and realizin' how important be tradition.  I be surprised every day at the silly things I be missin'!  Arrrrggghh.

It's happened again.  They sneaked away when I wasn't paying attention.  I distinctly remember June, when I'd wake up at 4AM to trot down the hall (why do I keep having that late evening beer with Himself?) and being amazed at the racket that was coming through the window, absolutely guaranteeing that sleep would evade me for the next two hours.  And it was light already.  At 4AM.  That's the middle of the blooming night.  Since I wasn't sleeping anyway I lay abed and listened for a while, and I was charmed.  There was an amazing array of different songs.  I am always mystified at how such tiny vocal chords (I mean THINK about it) could create a sound that could carry so far.  Then the weather got warmer and I suppose the fans went in the windows, then the air conditioners took over for a couple of months so I could sleep, and now that I need neither I am aware of an eerie silence when I do my wee hour trot (pun intended).  Oh there is the odd crow, and the blessed faithful starlings and sparrows who stick around all year through thick and thin and snow.  There is even the occasional cardinal (non-denominational).  But the rich fabric of the morning has changed.

Those of us "of a certain age" as the French say (they make everything sound sexy) may remember the old Judy Collins song, "Who Knows Where The Time Goes?" which asks the question about the birds, "Ah, how can they know it's time for them to go?" and I often wonder the same thing myself.  Their brains can't be all that big, yet I hear about these incredible distances they travel without benefit of a GPS.  I must say, I am very impressed. But I'm always a little disappointed that I don't notice the transition.  When does the song start to thin out?  Do they post on Birdie Facebook in August "This is it.  Next Saturday.  Stock up on bugs."?  Do they have one last bash in the birch tree outside my window before taking off?  Or do they, like too many of my aging friends, just slip away quietly, one by one until I look around and realize that I'm not living in the same world anymore.  It's still nice but it's different.

Soon it will be time to close the windows altogether because the nights are getting so much cooler, and then even the crows will be muffled and maybe I'll get more sleep (if I knock off the late night brew with Himself), but I must confess that I'm already looking forward to the racket that will accompany the spring.  And this time I'll pay attention!

It's trash day and I'm missing "my staff."  Granted, the trash is a lot smaller when the boys are away at college, and also that I am quite healthy and capable of hauling the recycles and bins out to the curb, but it is still making me sad.  I'm finding that I don't like having less trash.  Or noise.  Or chaos.  I rather liked being the center of the cyclone, and now that it's quiet around here I need to figure out what my days will look like.  There is a loneliness involved in this. 

The fact that autumn is fast approaching is not helping a bit.  Fall is supposed to be the time of new notebooks, backpacks that would make a burro cry, and endless papers and forms to sign.  And it is.  But not here.  Not this year.  I am so excited that my sons are getting a great education at two very wonderful (and expensive...never forget expensive) schools.  People ask me how I am doing with the "empty nest."  I get the feeling that I should either respond to this with a tear in my eye and a quivering chin, or a lurid wink and the impression that my husband and I are chasing each other through each empty room of the house and rediscovering the wild passions of twenty years ago.  Neither one is quite true.  And each is a little true.  It's nice not having to figure out what I'm making for dinner for four and not having to play chauffeur (that's right...neither drives) to various and sundry social engagements that really mess up whatever it is I want to do.  And, yes, it's very nice not to worry about who is going to come bursting through the door when Himself is working from home and we "break for lunch", but the truth is the house does feel empty.  What is my purpose these days anyway, if it isn't to be "Mom"?  I could be cleaning up around here, but that doesn't strike me as particularly fulfilling...or likely.

l guess this is my "back to school" time for a change.  Time to figure out what it is I need to learn.  Learning something new always makes me feel better.  I picked up piano 7 years ago.  Maybe I'll dust off the Evening Programs catalog from the local high school and see what they have to offer.  Because the evenings are worse than the afternoons around here.  The storm door gets locked a lot earlier than it used to, because once Himself is back from work, or his run...we're all in for the night.