The squeeze: Trapped

Her regular coffee shop smelled of many things that afternoon: burnt toast, a hippy’s patchouli, fresh coffee, and the new potting soil in the anonymous houseplant perched on the handpainted side table to her left. She was pregnant, and each smell brought on a new wave of nausea, but she couldn’t read at home since her mother had taken up residence there after leaving her father. And now something—humidity, air conditioning, bad luck—had filled the place with flies, which disgusted her even more than the stank of the young hippy. And so she gathered her paperback and the magazine she brought in case she bored of her spy thriller and pulled herself out of the ugly brocade couch. She was not showing, nor would she for probably another month or so, but she could already envision future lumbering exits from deep sofas. She saw herself slowly climbing up or down stairs, hand widely grasping her low back with the other pushing or pulling on the railing. Her sad reverie was broken by the silent buzz of her cell phone, which she knew would be her mother. Week 9: unwanted roommate, unwanted baby, and her world continued to close in more and more tightly.

Snow sounds, angry birds, & the silence you want

The ancient trellis behind me, heavy with snow, suddenly and for no reason dumps its bounty. The sound is the swish of a full skirt made with yards and yards of fine silk. As I awkwardly turn, bundled tightly as a toddler sent out on days like today, I see the angry jay who’d been screaming all morning. He sits alone on the lowest branch, hard to miss in the white winter wonderland formed in mere hours. Below him flutter nervous, dark juncos snacking on the nearby feeder’s refuse. I will them all to be silent so I can hear the dense snowflakes cut the air, one of the few reasons I like returning to my grandfather’s farm outside St. Louis. Snow falls with uncharacteristic aggressiveness here.

As the jay is not cooperating with my request for silence, I thread my way between broken-down farm implements down the hill to the catfish pond. Here, childhood summer days were spent tossing dry dog food onto the pond’s surface with as much quiet as children could muster. Then we waited, fishing pole at the ready, for those huge catfish mouths, surrounded by slick, thick whiskers, to emerge from the pond’s depths, silently gulp the food, and return to the cold bottom waters. Today, the pond was frozen over, as it likely had been for weeks, ice rough from winds stopped by the nothing surrounding the farm.

I continue past the pond, heading into the thick woods where childhood Me had found arrowheads and deer scat and geodes waiting to reveal brilliance or dullness. I move with less certainty than l‘d like. I pass my grandfather’s favorite tractor, now rusted and nestled in leaves and snow, which he placed here with a slightly jovial announcement so we could all visit it after it failed to start one fall Saturday. His small attempt at comedy didn’t fit with his normally sad, humorless demeanor, and it left the cousins and I confused and a bit scared, as children become when steady adults act unpredictably.

I stop in the woods expecting silence but instead hear the rattle of birch leaves, like my grandmother’s old, ill-fitting windows during a storm. I shift to the left to peer at the stream below me but stop as my parka’s whispery rustle drowns out the faint rattle of the leaves. The ivory birch leaves are thin, and a narrow scrap of sunshine lights them from behind as they sing in the wind.

Just A House: A Short Story

     Even my cousin merely floating the idea the beach house might someday be sold outside the family caused the donut to get stuck in my throat. I knew full well no one in my extended family made enough money to purchase what had been a savvy and fortunate purchase by my grandmother back in the 1940s of a tiny beige house two lots from a beautiful section prime Jersey Shore boardwalk. The fact my cousin was even verbalizing this potential scenario was cause for significant alarm, for it was his mother who now owned the house after my uncle, who grew up in that house with my dad, passed away. My dad’s claim to it was limited to its role as family portrait background and time capsule for rare days with his father.

     Growing up with both my parents working in schools, leaving summers free, that house became our summer ritual—the only Midwesterners in our town to take vacations, basically, and certainly the only ones to travel beyond 200 miles—and the spot for connecting with my dad’s side of the family. The trip out, usually my father driving straight through to avoid a pricey night in a hotel, was filled with more rituals: learning the CB radio codes, prepping ourselves for the lack of radio signal in Pennsylvania, and bonding with my dad as we smugly mocked my mom and sister for their tiny bladders. Pulling onto Hortense Avenue in the summer-swollen town of Ocean Beach, I would simultaneously hold my breath in anticipation of what awaited while trying to breathe in the sand, salt, sun, and ice cream just moments from my grasp. Cousins, too—cool cousins. Cousins I loved, with their hip clothes, perpetual tans, and easygoing confidence—relatives I wanted to be like, unlike the cousins in Missouri, who smelled of farm. 

     Back in Ohio, there were no beaches, or ice cream trucks, or outdoor showers. The typical evening in my little town was homework after dinner and Lawrence Welk, waving my dad out the door as he returned to school to oversee an evening function. But in New Jersey, we sat outside around a fire, or curled up in a corner of the sofa reading a book, or watched the adults play cards. Dad was relaxed and in his element, Mom was Mom but just a shade more outgoing, flirty even, loving the hostess role but hating to admit it. Hearing the surf after settling into bed on that magical first night reminded us the coming weeks would not be—not at all—like Ohio.

     The house was built when my father was around age ten—old enough to know you laid down your palms in wet cement to make your mark on the world when given the chance. Memories paired with my five senses spring to mind whenever I approach the squat, sickly-tan house: scents of suntan lotion and sea spray, the feel of hot sand under my feet and waves slapping my face, the faint clanging of the ice cream truck bell meshing with screams of happy children, salty mouthfuls of ocean water and roadside sweet corn, and squinty views of wide blue horizons dotted with clouds, far-off freighters, and sailboats.

     And now, in this diner, across from me and my donut, was one of the cool cousins, telling me the small shelter which symbolized my carefree childhood and my entire relationship with him and his siblings was quite possibly going to be liquidated so his mom could retire.

     It was as if his utterance caused a physical separation from my cousin and his family, so close was the bond that house created—the difficult pulling apart of a grilled cheese sandwich when you wanted to confirm the cheese was truly melted. Unable to speak, I excused myself to the bathroom and stared at my watering eyes under bad fluorescent lighting and mauve wallpaper with a mallard duck border. For the past fourteen years, my parents had been spending the fall at the beach house, which often sat empty after the summer crush. The house once again became the place we reconnected, now with war stories of our own children, work woes, and middle-age pains of the low back variety. That now-sacred six week block of September and October, with days still warm and nights becoming cool, would end. 

     I rejoined my cousin at the table, feeling the unease and lack of understanding in his stare.

     No preamble: “But it’s just a house.”

     Me: “But it isn’t. It isn’t just a house.”

     And my stomach churned at how he didn’t get it, not even a little, this cousin with whom I shared hot, sandy afternoons watching fine salt dry on our shins after swimming and body surfing. How could he not relate to my pain, not see this was the equivalent of a direct attack on our familial attachment? 

     It’s never just your grandmother’s favorite crystal vase, or just the pocketknife your dad used when you went fishing as a child, or just your mom’s high school class ring. Or just a house.

Coffeeshops and getting to know your children

The bell jangled, and not in a charming way, as I entered the cramped coffee shop, but I was enamored just the same. I wouldn't have guessed I'd like salmon pink walls with yellow tables and bright white chairs, and yet, my delighted gaze rested upon them as I walked carefully through the patrons filling them toward the counter. Coffee shops not of the large, zombie-like chain persuasion call to me, whether or not I actually need the coffee. I can walk down a street and find myself standing in front of the best one in town, drawn there like a magnet. It's like I've been blessed with a supernatural gift, were I to believe in the supernatural.

After retrieving my coffee from the dull-eyed teen behind the counter, I made my way to the only available table in a corner near what appeared to be a community bulletin board. I settled in and reached for my notebook, only to be startled by an odd question spoken closeby. "What's your favorite family tradition?" says a female voice. At the table beside me sit what must be a mom and her son, a young man in his late teens or early 20s. He looks earnestly at her, buzz cut shining from this morning's shampoo, and ponders her question before giving a thoughtful answer, surprising both me and Mom.

Using my best spy-like sideways glance, I notice they are fingering square cards, and looking to my right, I see I have the same cards. Flipping through them, I see similar questions of the first-date variety: Would you rather live for a week in the past or in the future? Is it more fun to be a parent or a child?

Beside me, Son and Mom are discussing how Son likes Thanksgiving as he has fond memories of cooking with Mom as a boy. Shyly, he notes remembering "opening the oven to look at the turkey with you to see if it was done, and it never was" melting Mom's heart. Their discussion moves on to other topics, and they find themselves having, I believe to their surprise and certainly to mine, a rather grown-up conversation about deeper topics most of us don't get to in ordinary, daily chatter focusing on chores we're putting off, TV we're looking forward to, or general annoyances. Mom seems genuinely surprised at Son's thoughtful answers, and I find myself hoping Son doesn't notice. His skinny frame hunched over the tiny table, empty paper cup in his hand, he glances up and down, up and down as he talks with his mom, gaining confidence with every word.

I hoped, as they pushed yellow chairs away from their table and exited, bell jangling with a bit of charm this time, both found new appreciation for each other as adults. As for the coffeeshop, I reiterate to you my expertise at finding the best in town.

Getting rid of family, Thanksgiving, and the virtues of writing under the influence

Writing under the influence! Like that's never happened before (in time immemorial, not in my writing experience, though that's true as well). If Hemingway could, I can--good god, you know it's bad when I compare myself to Hemingway...like a playwright comparing himself to Willie S.

The family had to go. I host family early on Thanksgiving, which makes them easier to kick out early. (Hence my 5:30pm post.) Sound unlikely? You invite them over late and hope wine with 6pm dinner will make them tired and ready to leave, but you're doing this all wrong. Allow me to suggest an alternative: early.

Early works for me. I get to drink early (during the past hour, a lovely Spanish cava whom I might meet again later tonight) and boot out annoying relatives before lethargy, the real enemy, sets in. We don't watch football, so peeling them away from the TV mid-play isn't an issue. In my family, it's dessert coma which complicates things.

One dessert per person, at a minimum: That's our rule. If you're not careful, that level of sugar intake can immobilize people on couches for hours. If you're smart enough to put pitches of water on the coffee table, within close reach, you will force an occasional bathroom break, which, with careful planning and timing, can turn into an exit opportunity.

It's all in the wrists.

I'm quite sure this Thanksgiving sets a record. Family arrival 2:23pm, family departure 5:12pm to 5:21pm (Great-aunt Ethel doesn't move as quickly as she used to). And not a moment too soon. May you be so fortunate this Thanksgiving day.

A Sharpie marker changes a New Hampshire town...plus: good pie, and suicide

As of this afternoon around 3pm, the parking sign on Summer Street in Peterborough, New Hampshire, which had been missing the apostrophe indicating a contraction, had been corrected.


It embarrassed my brother, me pulling the Sharpie marker out of my pocket and striding up to the sign. Ours was a family who operated without boldness, and acts which drew attention were frowned upon: looking at a map to find out where you were, or laughing out loud. And it would only get worse for him, as I planned on openly admiring the beautiful architectural details of the buildings on nearby Grove Street after we finished what was turned out to be a delicious lunch of country ham with mashed potatoes followed by apple pie kissed with the perfect amount of cinnamon.


I like flying over New Hampshire. The countryside looks pockmarked with wetness courtesy of glacial action (or so I posit to myself, ever the romantic). Peterborough's small river was no different than the others flowing through any other tiny New England downtown. The river today was just one more spot on the growing list of places soon marked, in my head, as another place where my brother might jump to his death. Like our great-grandmother, my brother was pulled to places where he might jump and end his life...powerlessly drawn like a bee to a succulent honeysuckle flower. Our great-grannie threw herself out the large front window of her farmhouse's third story—I imagine her sprawled, thin-limbed on the dewy grass of the large front lawn and surrounded by the somber, more-grave-than normal faces I've seen in my grandmother's old photos.


With suicide a theme in my family—a gift seemingly intent to keep on giving—is it any wonder I end up with a suicidal mentee? Is this the type of person I should rightly be charged with saving? Time will tell if the answer is unequivocally yes, or unequivocally no.