SECOND VERSE NOT QUITE THE SAME AS THE FIRST

Thirty five years ago I was single, touring the world with a tall, dark and handsome Aussie.  Zimbabwe…Switzerland…Vanuatu…Egypt… The world beckoned and we made the most of his Qantas flight benefits. We’d close up our flat in Sydney, put the mail on hold and wing our way around the globe for a month or more with barely a look back. No plans. No reservations. Not even a cell phone. Just a thirst to travel and see the world.

Thirty five years, and more than a few white hairs later, we are back on the road again. Today is the first day of our month long adventure to Australia and Fiji and I am a conflicted mess of excitement and apprehension.

Thirty five years does much to ones mindset. That handsome Aussie and I are married. With kids. And grandkids. And a house and mortgage. And our own small travel business in Colorado. We’re not nearly as free as the last time we set out on a month long adventure. And I wonder what the hell we were thinking.

Perhaps we should have dipped our toes back into the vagabond life with just a two week vacation? Will a month be too much time away from the lives we have built? Should I have visited the dentist before we left? What if I crack a tooth? Or lose a filling? Stuff happens. I packed my Medicare card but what good will that do once I cross the Pacific?

My daughters promised to water our houseplants but does anyone really care about my five year old geranium as much as I do? I’ll check emails each day to see if my clients need me but what if a blizzard hits Denver and my spring break travelers can’t get out of Dodge?

One entire month without binge watching Suits and This Is Us.  Do they even get Netflix in Australia?  Will I forget the plot and have to start all over again when we return?

I used to travel light – toothbrush, Walkman, Advil for hangovers. Now it’s a month supply of Vitamin D to keep my bones strong, magnesium to keep my cholesterol low and baby aspirin to keep the blood flowing. Tooth picks to maintain healthy gums.  Ipad to Skype with the grandkids.  Umbrella for rain. Jacket for wind.  Shorts for heat and jeans for cold.  It’s a good thing the airlines enforce strict luggage limits or I would be schlepping half of my house with me.

Today is the first day of what is either a chance to rediscover my youthful spirit of adventure or the overly ambitious journey of a silly old woman who thinks only other people grow old.  Might it have been easier to simply buy a sports car, inject Botox into my wrinkles and take up salsa lessons at the rec center? Does the soul of that young adventurer still reside in this aging version of what once was?  Only time will tell.

 

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

  They say that every generation has its moment in history.  They say this COVID-19

pandemic is our WWII. They say we will sacrifice much, like our parents and

grandparents before us, and, like them, we will come through this stronger. 

     What they can’t say is how long it will last and who we will be when it is done. How

will we even know when it is done?  WWII had treaties to sign and dancing in the

streets. Returning soldiers kissing strangers in Time Square. The war was over and it

was final and people felt safe to resume their lives.

     There will be no treaty to sign when this pandemic goes down in defeat. Will life

return to normal so gradually that we barely notice? First the yellow tape is torn down

from the swings and playgrounds reopen.  Restaurants reopen with outdoor dining and

reconfigured seating, gradually moving back indoors. Some schools reopen for some

students. And then they close again. Two steps forward and one back. Or is it one step

forward and two back?  For those of us who haven’t lost loved ones, or experienced the

virus ourselves, the constant state of not knowing what to expect next has been the

hardest to bear. Anxiety wears us down. We lose patience and just want this all to be

done.

     Yet as terrible as the pandemic has been, and continues to be, we see a glimmer now

and then of how our lives could possibly benefit from this new reality.  A slower pace to

our frantic lifestyle. Less traffic on the roads and less pollution in the air.  

People who haven’t ridden a bike since childhood discover the joy of family bike

rides.  Siblings who are isolated from their friends discover the joy of playing with each

other, using their imagination to invent games without constant direction from adults

coaching from the sidelines. With no soccer practice to rush off to, families have time

for dinner together. With neighborhood pools and playgrounds closed, my two young

grandsons have created their own adventures splashing in a local creek, racing twigs

down the slow moving stream. Neighbors trade jigsaw puzzles. Road trips replace air

travel as national parks are rediscovered and shared with a new generation. As bleak

as these months have been, there have been moments of a new found appreciation for

slower, less complicated times.  It’s as if Mother Nature has grabbed us by the scruff of

our collective necks, given us a shake and showed us some things that needed to

change.

     But will these changes last? When businesses and schools reopen, and we have the

freedom to resume our pre Covid lives, will we store the bicycles and puzzles and

resume our frantic pace? We say we love the freedom of road trips, but do we really

mean it? Or will air travel lure us back to exotic places far away?

I recently heard an interview with a woman who is a member of her church choir,

speaking about how much she misses singing hymns on Sundays. Her congregation has

taken to humming their familiar hymns but it is just not the same. She looks forward to

the day when they can throw off their masks and joyously belt out those hymns at the

top of their lungs. Yet when that day comes, she said they will continue to hum one

hymn each week in remembrance of these times and to honor those lost to the

pandemic.  As much as I look forward to the day that this pandemic is history, I too

think it will deserve some sort of observance to remind me of the lessons I am currently

living and learning.

     Maybe it will be an annual picnic with my grandsons at the creek where they have

splashed while pools and playgrounds remained closed.  Or making sure that at least

once a week my husband and I find the time to sit on the front porch to watch the

sunset and smile and wave at neighbors passing by.  Hopefully we’ll never again let

weeks, and even months, slip by without hiking or snowshoeing in the mountains that

have kept me sane these past few months.  The pandemic has been scary and isolating

and, hopefully, not ever to be repeated on such a tragic scale. But when we get through

this, and I know we will, I hope we take the lessons we have learned and live better for

having learned them.  Maybe there really is a light at the end of the tunnel and that

light may be a better world.

LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

     They say that every generation has its moment in history.  They say this COVID-19

pandemic is our WWII. They say we will sacrifice much, like our parents and

grandparents before us, and, like them, we will come through this stronger. 

     What they can’t say is how long it will last and who we will be when it is done. How

will we even know when it is done?  WWII had treaties to sign and dancing in the

streets. Returning soldiers kissing strangers in Time Square. The war was over and it

was final and people felt safe to resume their lives.

     There will be no treaty to sign when this pandemic goes down in defeat. Will life

return to normal so gradually that we barely notice? First the yellow tape is torn down

from the swings and playgrounds reopen.  Restaurants reopen with outdoor dining and

reconfigured seating, gradually moving back indoors. Some schools reopen for some

students. And then they close again. Two steps forward and one back. Or is it one step

forward and two back?  For those of us who haven’t lost loved ones, or experienced the

virus ourselves, the constant state of not knowing what to expect next has been the

hardest to bear. Anxiety wears us down. We lose patience and just want this all to be

done.

     Yet as terrible as the pandemic has been, and continues to be, we see a glimmer now

and then of how our lives could possibly benefit from this new reality.  A slower pace to

our frantic lifestyle. Less traffic on the roads and less pollution in the air.  

People who haven’t ridden a bike since childhood discover the joy of family bike

rides.  Siblings who are isolated from their friends discover the joy of playing with each

other, using their imagination to invent games without constant direction from adults

coaching from the sidelines. With no soccer practice to rush off to, families have time

for dinner together. With neighborhood pools and playgrounds closed, my two young

grandsons have created their own adventures splashing in a local creek, racing twigs

down the slow moving stream. Neighbors trade jigsaw puzzles. Road trips replace air

travel as national parks are rediscovered and shared with a new generation. As bleak

as these months have been, there have been moments of a new found appreciation for

slower, less complicated times.  It’s as if Mother Nature has grabbed us by the scruff of

our collective necks, given us a shake and showed us some things that needed to

change.

     But will these changes last? When businesses and schools reopen, and we have the

freedom to resume our pre Covid lives, will we store the bicycles and puzzles and

resume our frantic pace? We say we love the freedom of road trips, but do we really

mean it? Or will air travel lure us back to exotic places far away?

I recently heard an interview with a woman who is a member of her church choir,

speaking about how much she misses singing hymns on Sundays. Her congregation has

taken to humming their familiar hymns but it is just not the same. She looks forward to

the day when they can throw off their masks and joyously belt out those hymns at the

top of their lungs. Yet when that day comes, she said they will continue to hum one

hymn each week in remembrance of these times and to honor those lost to the

pandemic.  As much as I look forward to the day that this pandemic is history, I too

think it will deserve some sort of observance to remind me of the lessons I am currently

living and learning.

     Maybe it will be an annual picnic with my grandsons at the creek where they have

splashed while pools and playgrounds remained closed.  Or making sure that at least

once a week my husband and I find the time to sit on the front porch to watch the

sunset and smile and wave at neighbors passing by.  Hopefully we’ll never again let

weeks, and even months, slip by without hiking or snowshoeing in the mountains that

have kept me sane these past few months.  The pandemic has been scary and isolating

and, hopefully, not ever to be repeated on such a tragic scale. But when we get through

this, and I know we will, I hope we take the lessons we have learned and live better for

having learned them.  Maybe there really is a light at the end of the tunnel and that

light may be a better world.

Forget the gift cards

via Forget the gift cards

Forget the gift cards

As my father planned his birthday party, family and friends began to wonder. What do you give a man for his 90th birthday?

He already had six of everything stashed away in closets and drawers. He had tools in his garage that he no longer had the strength to use. He had more shirts than he could ever hope to wear. Aside from doctor’s appointments and weekly trips to the grocery store, where would he wear a new shirt and who would even notice?

As the day drew nearer, I often wondered if the party would actually happen. His health was not good. His world was shrinking, with naps filling more and more hours of the day. On good days, he would slowly shuffle to the mailbox, only to find bills, catalogues and the occasional sweepstakes offer. On bad days, even the sweepstakes offers sat unopened.

But he persisted. This was only the second birthday party he ever had, the last one being when he was five, and he was as excited as any five year old might be. He invited everyone he knew. Neighbors. His barber. The mail lady. Planning the party energized him. It gave him something to look forward to. He said he didn’t want presents. Just having everyone there would be good enough. Of course no one would pay attention to that. What’s a party without presents? But what do you give a 90 year old man?

Dad’s 90th birthday party was a big success. He filled an entire room at the local Olive Garden. Not a bad showing for someone who had outlived his wife and many of his relatives and friends. He laughed and joked and raised a glass of iced tea to toast his guests and thank them all for coming. It was the happiest, and most energized, I had seen him in ages. The only thing that would have made it better would have been if my mother had lived long enough to share in his big day.

We spent the next morning opening cards, most of which contained gift cards to his favorite restaurants. He stacked the gift cards next to his recliner and then he napped.

The days following his party returned to his usual routine of sitting on his front porch, watching his small corner of the world go by. Friends returned to their normal routines as well. The phone rarely rang. He dozed in his recliner. With nothing to look forward, most days were merely a carbon copy of the day before. And then, six weeks after his birthday bash, his heart gave out and Dad was gone.

Clearing out your parents’ home is never easy. Emotions run high as memories flow from each photo, each trinket found tucked away in drawers and closets. But the thing that hit me the hardest, and stopped me dead in my tracks, was the pile of restaurant gift cards from his birthday party. They were still stacked next to his phone, as if waiting for an invitation to share a meal with a friend.

I remembered the joy on his face as he had looked around the room at his friends. I could hear the excitement in his voice as they reminisced about old times. And I wished that joy could have continued beyond that one evening, before everyone retreated to life as usual. I suppose he could have picked up the phone and invited one of them to join him for lunch. But he was the sort of man who left the social calendar up to my mother and when she died, his socializing died with her.

I learned an important lesson that day. I decided that when I reach for a gift card to send to a friend, I will resist. Instead, I will make a date to meet for lunch, or dinner, or even just for drinks, so that we can reconnect and share a laugh or two. We are all so busy in our own lives but there are things too important to let slip away. From now on, I resolve to give the gift of time, because time is the greatest gift of all. There never seems to be enough time and yet, in the eloquent words of Joni Mitchell:

“Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till its gone?”

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

via SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

One week into our Down Under adventure and I’m feeling a growing connection to the young woman I was before kids and mortgage and life in the burbs morphed me into a responsible adult.  Odd that I never noticed the ‘dul’   in adult before.  Hmmmm, maybe that’s what’s been nagging at me lately? Am I doomed to become just another dull old lady? Or can this month of travel rekindle my true essence?

I’m glad I wasn’t silly enough to think I could, or should, travel like I did in my twenties.  Good riddance to those youth hostel days.  There’s nothing remotely tempting about sharing a bathroom at the end of the hall with an international group of rowdy college kids returning from a night on the town just as I make the first of many late night trips to the loo.

Instead, we are housesitting in a 55 and over community. It’s modern and friendly, with smiling strangers waving to us at every turn. It’s convenient to the shops, restaurants and, most importantly, the beach. There are dance lessons and trivia nights and aqua volleyball.

But nothing screams senior citizens like hand rails in the shower and extra wide doorways for wheelchairs. Surely I’m not yet one of  “them”.  Determined to ignore the fact that one day I may actually need those accommodations,  I lace up my sneakers and set a brisk pace on the shady bush trail to the beach.

Twenty minutes, and just a few mosquito bites later, the path clears and we catch our first glimpse of a stunningly beautiful sight. Waves roll onto shore and crash onto the rock cliffs at each end of a small, deserted beach.  The powdery sand squeaks under our feet as we head to a spot in the shade. Gone are the days of sun worshipping for hours with baby oil slathered on to maximize the tanning rays.  Now it’s maximum strength sunscreen and chasing the shade as the sun dips behind the high cliff at our backs.

Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to comfy beach loungers lined up in neat rows while  attentive waiters tempt me with tropical drinks. At the very least, I’ve relied on beach chairs for back support. I can’t remember the last time I spread out a towel in the sand for a day at the beach.

My knees creak and scream that they are not the same as they once were.  Getting up from my towel has become a four step process that isn’t very pretty from any angle.  I push through the pain. What choice do I have?  Deserted beaches do not come equipped with the comforts of large resorts.  It’s a trade off I’m just going to have to accept.

Gradually, I succumb to the simple beauty of two beach towels, lying side by side in the warm sand.  Relaxing to the sound of waves breaking on the rocks, I slowly, deeply, inhale and exhale to the rhythms of the beach.   Sea birds calling. A gentle breeze blowing.  I’m once again that 17 year old lazing in the shade of the lifeguard stand at Rockaway Beach. I’m that 28 year old gazing up at the single palm tree on a tiny motu in French Polynesia, contemplating my good fortune that I am not among the masses fighting for a seat on the New York subway.  In my mind at least, not much has changed.  And then…

“Excuse me, ma’am”

Ma’am? Who is this young man standing over me and who is he talking to?  Ma’am?  Seriously?

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but is this the nude beach?”

Slowly sitting up, my glorious memories recede as the years cruelly drag me back to the present.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Would you mind if I …?”

What am I, the prude police? Just because my hair is the same color as his gran’s?

“No… of course… not at all.”

Go for it, I want to scream. You won’t be young and beautiful forever. This too shall pass. Grab it while you can. And don’t for a minute think you invented skinny dipping. Oh, the stories I could tell… moonlight in the Caymans, late afternoon on the Hawkesbury river, sunset in Fiji…

The sun continues to dip behind the cliff, elongating the shade almost to the water’s edge. Time to pack up our towels and head back to the retirement village.

Luckily for me, the man at my side, the one I share so many memories with, has been aging right along with me. Without our reading glasses, wrinkles blur and fade.  I may be Ma’am to some but, to him,  we’re still that couple biking over Diamond Head and backpacking through Europe.  There are cold beers in the fridge and salty chips on the patio, waiting for our nightly toast to the end of the day.  How nice to find that some things never change.

BLUE BIRDS OVER THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER

via BLUE BIRDS OVER THE WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER

KAVANAUGH KAHLUA KOFFEE

Trump tells us “It’s a very scary time for young men in America.” I can certainly relate to their fear. What woman hasn’t lived her life painfully aware of the dangers threatening women in our misogynist world?

In an effort to help this newly marginalized group feel safe while they indulge in that age old, male bonding ritual of downing endless brewskies until they puke, might I suggest an alternative beverage? Scary times call for bold action. Now is the time for adolescent boys, and men stalled in their college days, to make the switch to Kavanaugh Kahlua Koffee, or KKK for short.

Simply put, it’s a cup of black coffee, emboldened with a shot of Kahlua. The Kahlua provides the buzz that we now know most all-American, star athlete, academically gifted boys crave. The black coffee provides the caffeine needed to remain alert against attacks by those conniving women looking for the easy road to fame and fortune. It’s the perfect blend of adolescent risk and adult caution.  Best served with a side order of imitation Halo cookies.

 

 

AND THE PAINTED PONIES GO UP AND DOWN

carolbryantblog

My daughter, Cassie, turns 30 today. As much as that is certainly a milestone worthy of celebrating, I will also be celebrating my own milestone today. March 1, 1985 was the day that I first stepped onto the never-ending, always-spinning carousel of Motherhood. Thirty years! And what a long, strange trip it’s been.

Nothing can really prepare you for the ride. At times it slows down, like on those interminably long, rainy days when your kids need to be outside because there is only so much finger painting, coloring, dress-up and story time that you can pack into a gloomy, rain-soaked afternoon. Other times, it speeds up into warp speed, like on those family vacations when everyone is happy at the same time and each sunset brings you one day closer to the end of the best week at the beach you could have ever hoped for. Occasionally, it stands…

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