Last week gave me the distinct pleasure of focused time with family and friends. Out-of-state travel. The wedding of the babysitter who helped me raise our kids. Tucking our son safely into Plebe Summer at the United States Naval Academy. Reuniting with Nick, who has been away at summer school. Visiting old friends from Kentucky who have relocated to Nashville, and connecting nearly two decades worth of memories with up-to-date goings on in our now separate lives.
I could write a book on the Academy’s Induction Day alone. The final hug with our son as a civilian. The formal swearing-in ceremony. Twelve hundred freshly-shaved heads donned in sailor caps sitting quietly in lawn chairs on the expanse of lawn in front of the giant building where important people spoke. That last half- hour together. Watching him get in line with his platoon. And then that final sight—permanently imprinted in my brain—of twelve hundred men and women marching through the arch. Into what may well be the most grueling six weeks of their lives. The pain of that separation. The sullenness of our moods that night. Of lump in throat and flop in stomach.
And then on to D.C. where we witnessed yet another July 4th celebration on the mall. Sitting on blankets underneath the stars and the rain. With soaked bodies and slightly soaked spirits. Trying to energize ourselves with one less kid in tow. And enjoy the fireworks without confessing out loud about how much we missed our sweet Ben.
My husband drove the two remaining kids in our brood back home, while Nick headed south, once again to college for a new round of summer school, and I headed west to visit two cherished friends in Nashville. Graciously both housing me and giving me the grand tour of a city I did not know, their hospitality brought something to me which I needed very much at the moment. Still suffering sharp pangs of homesickness for my son, the plebe, I needed at that moment—but did not consciously realize nor acknowledge it at the time—the warmth of the cocoon of home. Of familiar friends and familiar shared pasts. Of deep-seated memories. Of laughter. Recognized southern accents (something I have not heard much of in these past five years in Connecticut). Of hanging out in jammies over breakfast. Of watching the wedding video of their son, a wedding I regret having had to miss, and crying together over its tenderness. And rejoicing in its promise of a bright future for two terrific newlyweds. Of meeting their new grandchildren. And catching up with their now-grown daughter and her new husband.
And on to the wedding of our dear Hannah. Now twentysomething and movie-star gorgeous. Thin as a noodle and looking more than smashing in her white fitted gown, veiled head and drawn-up hair with perfect make-up revealing none of the t-shirted and blue-jeaned past when she protected my kids while I dated my husband. Eating wedding feast burritos—a Hannah favorite—with her older siblings brought a floodgate of memories, as we noshed on chips and sipped on wine while catching up with every important detail of our lives.
This weekend reinforced the notion of home for me. It helped me realize more than ever that the intergenerational transfer of family ties—and of deep friendships—do not happen by chance. Or by legal transfer of title. Transfer of warmth and love through generations happens by the simple yet thoughtful acts built into the daily rhythms of life which, through years of repetition, hard work and discipline, grow into something powerful.
Not all families survive the marriages of our children. The in-laws sometimes hate the outlaws. The mother-in-laws sometimes buck heads with the daughters or the sons. Not all friendships survive hundreds of miles of geographical separation. Dinner dates are fewer and far between. Celebrations of life’s important events are sometimes missed. Catch-up phone calls are delayed. Birthdays are forgotten.
But it is this thing we call home that is the most important thing of all. Not the physical home to be sure. Homes come and homes go. Upholstery fades and the china breaks. But the substance of home remains embedded into our cores in a way that can not easily be forgotten or ignored. It is the smells. The visuals. The colors. The accents.
The hugs. The time spent. The sacrifices to personal issues made. Meals get shared and photos get exchanged. Lives get caught up on.
It is this that sustains us. That allows us to find and follow the joy.
I’m getting ready to take another trip this weekend. This time to see my aging mother. And meet up with my brother and my sister and their kids. To clean out the family home where we all grew up in order to move her into smaller and quieter quarters. One with wheelchair access and a handicapped sign in her own little spot in the parking lot. The circle of life goes on. Intergenerational transfer of love. Of care. Of yet another way to define home.
As you travel this summer to visit family and friends, I hope that you, too, fulfill your yearnings for home. In whatever way you define it.
Godspeed.
Carolina
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Good Foundations
Driving back from my mom’s house in Pennsylvania a couple weekends ago—after cleaning her out and moving her into a new, smaller apartment—I sang to the happy summer tunes of the Beach Boys. “Good, good, good…good vibrations” played over and over in my head.
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
And for some bizarre reason, I switched it in my brain, focusing suddenly on “Good Foundations.”
One of my mantras—as a parent of four anyway—has always been “good mattresses, good books, good shoes.” No one ever got hurt by sticking with great foundations. More than that, instilling good foundations into the core of your children—and indeed, into your home, your wardrobe, your relationships, your life!—is an enduring hallmark of a life well-lived.
So it was with this mantra in mind that I reflected on the work that my brother and sister and some of our kids performed, cleaning out our mom’s home of forty-six years. I mentally searched for those solid foundations that helped grow my siblings and I into the spouses, parents, friends and colleagues that each of us are today.
My mom’s house was built of stone. In the early 60’s. This wonderful Pennsylvania stone has proven harder and harder to come by, and it has retained its value and its charm these nearly five decades later. Its color and its texture still resonate. Inside closets are floored with hardwood. The basement never leaked. It holds both upper and lower registers, so that, depending on the season, one can turn off a register and let hot air or cold escape or rise as need be.
Investing in value is as popular today as it was in 1962 when my parents bought what would become the only home I’ll ever remember living in until I grew up and married and bought nine of my own. Sitting on a large level lot, it seemed a good investment decision at the time, and has proven so nearly five decades later, as judged by the three purchase offers and the dozens of curiosity seekers driving—or walking by—unable to ignore the many members of our extended family arsenal moving in and out for one solid week, of condensing forty-six years of memories and memorabilia into boxes in order to quickly transition my mom into her new quieter and simpler life.
And, with the house now completely empty and in need of some serious freshening up, I’ll head back down this weekend to work with her builder in finalizing decisions in the cosmetic renovation work that we’ll pursue together in the next month or so ahead: we’ll choose new toilets and new faucets; fresh paint and fresh carpeting; stainless ovens and range and dishwasher; and updated tiles and countertops. We’ll tackle the pleasant job of updating a classic in order to appeal to this generation of homebuyers who demand natural stone instead of formica; low-VOC “green” paint instead of oil-or solvent-based; industrial-strength appliances instead of avocado-enameled; and bamboo or sisal instead of hardwood or shag.
Updating from one generation of quality into another is a good thing. For as time passes, technology improves, and tastes change and sophistication in style emerges and fresh color palettes dictate and, well, things move forward. I can hardly wait to roll up my sleeves and dig in! To wade through design centers in search of bathroom tiles. To scrutinize appliance configurations for someone’s kitchen re-do other than my own. To flip through flooring samples in search of that perfect one which thirtysomethings everywhere crave.
And always—always!—choosing quality. For quality never goes out of style. White porcelain sinks: a classic. Polished nickel faucets: who could argue with those?
If you are in the middle of a renovation (seriously did that five summers ago and last summer too), you no doubt understand the angst. Choosing tiles for more than one bathroom alone could throw the most rational person over the edge. (4 inch squares or rectangular subways? Colored or white? Relief or flat?) Flooring options, too, can drive one completely nuts! (To carpet or hardwood? Pre-finished or cut on site? Oak or bamboo?)
In your quest for quality, never lose sight of your need for individuality. Follow your nose. Your eye. Your gut. A house needs to look like a home. And only with your unique stamp, your taste, your hand, will it stand out from the pack.
Good mattresses, good books, good shoes. Good sinks, good faucets, good flooring.
Good stuff—good collections—usually reflect, in one way or another, precious memories. And precious memories always start with those whom we most love.
A good house is a great start for a good home. I hope you are continually moving in that direction. And as I help to feather my mom’s new calmer and smaller nest, I hope to give her, in what may be her final home, that which each one of us, in our hearts, seeks as well.
All my best,
Carolina
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