Moments of Being
“The past only comes when the present runs so smoothly that it is like the sliding surface of a deep river. Then one sees through the surface to the depths. In those moments, I find one of my greatest satisfactions, not that I am thinking of the past; but that it is then that I am living most fully in the present. For the present when backed by the past is a thousand times deeper…”
Virgina Woolf, Moments of Being: A Collection of Autobiographical Writing
Tahilla Farm, April 2023
I am leaning into April showers this grey New England morning as a deep heavy rain penetrates the snow clinging to our landscape. The temperature is rising, and that can only mean Spring is on the way. It’s been such a long winter; I am excited just thinking about the little green sprigs of Eastern hay and Cinnamon ferns that will soon unfurl in our meadows.
I don’t mind the rain today because it is Saturday, and I love it all the more because tomorrow is Sunday. I have two days to flip the switch on the items on my to-do list and settle into the weekend.
But first, I need to take our dog, Tani, for his morning absolutions. I slip my bright red hooded rain cape over my head and sink my feet into my knee-high wellies while Tani wags his tail in anticipation of our outing. As the door closes behind us, the rain buckets down with an almighty roar. Tani looks at me with curious eyes as if to say it’s now or never. I quickly slide my hand down our rod iron handrail just in case I slip. We bolt to the driveway together and walk up and down to allow him enough time to take care of business. Minutes later, we run to the house, shaking off the rain as we enter. I carefully pull my rain cape over my head and hang it on the coat rack. It is the one raincoat I own that I can count on to keep me completely dry. More poncho than a cape, it is generously sized to fit over my winter coat. I bought it years ago at a rainy country fair in England. My kids say I look like Little Red Riding Hood on my way to grandmother’s house when I wear it, which is pretty funny because I am a grandmother. Leave it to the English to create a storybook raincoat for any age. I stand back as Tani swings into a big shake, rattle, and roll, water spraying all around us, the scent of a wet dog lingers in the air.
My husband, Mr. H, is preparing his breakfast in the kitchen. We like to do his and her breakfasts. He pops two slices of lightly toasted sourdough bread from the toaster and reaches for his latest Fortnum and Mason marmalade in the fridge. Today’s flavor is Blood Orange. He is in tasting mode, working through a dozen jars of marmalade, one month at a time. It is an annual Christmas gift from me to him to remember our days living in England, when a trip to buy F&M marmalade, a family favorite, was a 20-minute train ride into London instead of an international postal flight across the pond.
We habitually identify things in our house by the countries we lived in. Three years ago, Mr. H retired from an international career that moved us around the globe for 30 years. We declared to each other the day we married 37 years ago to love, honor, and only have cultural artifacts and art in our house that would tell the story of our lives. As a result, conversations often go like this:
Me: “Have you seen the umbrella stand with our collection of walking sticks from our travels? I am looking for the ebony one with the African carvings.”
Mr. H: “The one from my Peace Corp days or the one we bought in Botswana a few years ago? Look in my office, next to my statue from the Solomon Islands, under the wood carving from Papua New Guinea.”
I shake my head, laughing, and say
Me: “We must talk to the kids about taking some of this stuff into their homes. It is starting to feel like a museum around here. I just wrote a blog post about a talking painting; people might think we have spent too much time living in the woods.”
I move to the kitchen island and mix up a bowl of Greek yogurt with fresh blueberries while French Roast coffee brews, the aroma mixing with the earthy scent of rain outside our kitchen window. I reach for the table mats, deciding on the bright yellow ones to contrast against the grey skies. We settle into an oak country farmhouse table we purchased in Australia over twenty years ago. The color reminds me of the rich amber tones of Manuka honey from New Zealand.
As I reach for my coffee cup, I catch the hazy morning light bouncing off the table and smile. I can still see the ebb and flow of pen and pencil marks etched into the soft wood years ago by our children. How long ago was it? The years of books and exercise journals sprawled across the table? Under my breakfast bowl, I can still see the slight markings of the infant chair we clipped onto the side of the table for our youngest son so he could hang out with the “big kids” while they did their homework. His siblings were ten, seven, and five years old when he was born. The toddler is now 23 years old and a Sailor in the U.S. Navy. His brother is a Major in the Australian Army, and his sisters work, one in the corporate world and the other working for an NGO. I find it remarkable when I think back to them as young children and the career choices they made. The signs were there as they worked around the table…
I hear them calling me over their school books in Australia all those years ago,
“Mum, I have maths homework. Can you help?”
“Mum, how do you spell hippopotamus?”
“Mum, when is Dad coming home?”
“Mum, why do they call mothers “Mom” in America and not “Mum”?”
Coffee in hand, I feel the warmth of those memories as I gently slide my hand across the wood, each mark a grateful memory etched into my heart. It reminds me of the passage of time and the hats we wear today, the ones that come in two: husband and wife, mother and father, grandmother and grandfather.
This is what I love about Saturday mornings, time to think without interruption. Years ago, I could not have imagined a weekend free to be alone with my thoughts. I did not dare to dream of it. There was too much to do with four kids and a dog. The endless packing and unpacking of sports bags, games to play, homework to do, and playdates to be organized. How do you calculate the weekend hours and years committed to your children’s activities? Do we dare fathom? We never did; we just did it, parents and children on speed dial from school to school and country to country. My hand glides across the corner of the table again as I quietly thank it for standing strong over the years and for holding so many of those precious memories.
Mr. H and I perch our iPads in front of us to catch up on the family news from Australia while Tani lies between our feet. This morning we are two proud grandparents watching the latest video clip of our five-year-old grandson dressed in a Batman costume, arms stretched in front of him, prepared for battle. My husband remarks, “Look how much he has grown since September; he is a young boy now, confident and determined.” I watched the video again, recalling my son at the same age. It is remarkable to see how similar father and son are. Dark brown hair and fair skin with large deep blue eyes and a big smile that makes you want to smile right back. I flip through photos in my mind, like an old slide carousel, recalling an image of my son when he was five, dressed as Luke Skywalker with the same excitement and determination as his son.
I think back to the age when my sons stopped holding my hand when we walked together in public. Their inner struggle with independence, wanting it and not wanting it, as their small hand reached out to mine until their mind was made up. I miss the gentle feel of their tiny hand in mine, the sticky warmth of their fingers tucked into my palm, a bond of love.
We have visited our grandson three times in five years. It seems inconceivable that it has only been three visits. We vowed to be the perfect grandparents when he was born, traveling to Australia to celebrate each birthday. The reality of the pandemic was a harsh one. We waited three years to return to Australia, and even now, from my Saturday morning breakfast chair, I wonder where we go from here.
Our son is committed to living in Australia for his family and military career. A fact we accepted long ago. They plan to visit our New Hampshire home, Tahilla Farm, in July. It will be our grandson’s first international flight and six years since our son last visited. We are beyond excited to share Tahilla Farm with them in the flush of summer.
We have planned for this day since we bought the house ten years ago. As our friends sold their big family homes and downsized to start traveling, we upsized and stayed still. After a nomadic life living overseas for so long, we wanted to settle down and set roots.
Today, at 65, we imagine grandchildren excitedly running through our home, inside and out, over the fields, and into the woods with a dog or two in tow. Last year we worked with our architect and a landscape designer to plan an extension, adding an extra bedroom, a pool, and gardens. I liken it to a family compound, a place always waiting for them, no matter where they live in the world.
Friends caution us not to get too far ahead of ourselves. Building a world around adult children can be challenging when they have their own families. I know the feeling all too well. I remember the look of disappointment on my parent’s faces when I told them of our plans to move overseas. I said it would only be for a few years. On each return visit, a two-week trip home every summer, I told them we would be gone for another year or two.
My parents missed the birth of two of our four children. Our first was the most difficult for me. He was born in Australia pre-internet, when long-distance phone calls and a 14–16-hour time difference made connecting difficult. As our family grew, we had each other. Our life overseas became normal for us but never for our family in America.
On my youngest son’s fifth birthday morning, my sister called me, “Jeanne, it’s Dad; he is in the hospital; come home; it does not look good.” The children arrived at the party while I booked emergency flights from Sydney to Boston. With a few hours to spare, I joined the party to supervise the bashing of the piñata. The children squealed with delight with each swift batting of the candy-filled treasure. I smiled like a mother did to keep the party excitement rolling while inside; my heart was breaking into a million pieces.
I felt the total weight of our international lifestyle that day. I caught one flight after another, praying my father would hold on. I met my five siblings at the hospital shortly after arriving; my father lived two more days, never waking from an induced coma. He was 72 years old.
All these thoughts pass in a flurry of time from our breakfast table. I look up from my coffee mug, feeling heavy-hearted over the memory of my father when a brilliant red Northern Cardinal rests on a branch outside our window. People say that cardinal sightings indicate that a loved one is near you. A believer in signs, I am always comforted when a cardinal visits; my dad loved birds too.
I can hear the heavy panting of an excited dog. Tani enjoys watching birds from our kitchen window. We push a chair to rest against a windowsill so he can take in the activity. He reclines on the seat like an Ancient Roman about to tuck into a plate of grapes. I can hear his tail swiftly tapping the side of the chair in anticipation of his morning walk. His run starts with a dash over to the bird feeder, chasing them from tree to tree, bouncing on his hind legs as if he can catch them in flight. I can sense the birds laughing playfully at the large fur ball trying to wing his way to them.
We rise, carrying our dishes over to the sink. Mr. H mentions, “We can take the Blood Orange marmalade off the next Christmas order. It wasn’t my favorite.” I make a mental note to amend the order on Monday. Tani prances between our legs, dropping the ball at our feet, a sign that it’s time for a walk. Once the door closes behind them, the house is quiet again. My thoughts run wild in the silence of our home. I pour another cup of coffee and reach for my pad of yellow-lined paper and a pen. I write about the ebb and flow of my handwriting against the grain of the table, intertwining with those of our children and, soon, another pair of little hands, our grandson. I can see him holding the pencil, with his tongue slipping out of his mouth, like his grandfather sometime does when he is deep in thought. Our grandson will grab the pencil, write, and say his name aloud as he writes, C-O-O-P-E-R, the table top taking the weight of his letters. And later, his small hand will slip into mine as we walk across the fields and into the woods with a few dogs in tow and a red cardinal watching from above.
