yesterday,
on calvin's second to last day of being mostly home with me for all but
two of seventeen days, it rained like hell. i loved every minute of it.
after my shower, i crawled back
into bed for part of an hour to read my novel, ann patchett's, "tom
lake." since calvin's birth twenty-one years ago, i can't remember a
morning ever crawling back into bed with a book—always some task to get
done or somewhere to go. but the dark sky and driving rain on our red
metal roof beckoned me to bed, and, calvin safe and serene in his own, i
let myself succumb.
in her
novel, "tom lake," patchett describes her relationship with her three
grown daughters, all in their early twenties, who have come home to
their childhood cherry farm during the pandemic. it's a gorgeous and
absorbing read, and was nice to take a decent bite out of it instead of
my usual page or two before falling asleep at night.
once
the rain began to ease some, i loaded calvin into the car for our daily
back roads car ride. we went to the point, parked facing the bay, and
listened for fifteen minutes to rock and roll as the rain washed over
the car. we were warm and dry with a fantastic view, at least for a
spell. backing out, we passed a couple of parked cars in the turnaround.
i glanced into one and flashed a broad smile at the pretty, young
driver, a college student probably, who returned my grin with a sweet
one of her own.
as i drove down
the lane toward town, my eyes began to sting and brim thinking about how
i might have had a daughter just a couple of years older than her if i
hadn't miscarried. i was pretty sure i was carrying a girl the year
before i became pregnant with calvin. i continued to lament the loss of
what ann patchett describes with such beauty in her novel: the
connection between a mother and her healthy, intelligent, thoughtful,
curious, loving children, in this case daughters.
at
the grocery store, calvin and i met again with kind friends and
strangers, and i cashed in on copious, long, and sweet embraces from my
son.
later in the day, calvin and
i returned to the point, which is ever-changing in its beauty. on our
way down simpson's point road, i pulled aside and put my hazards on to
take photographs of the dripping forest flanking the shiny tarmac. a
truck and trailer slowly pulled up aside me, and the driver rolled down
his window, so i rolled down mine.
"is everything all right?" a white-haired man in a carhart-style jacket asked.
"yes, thank you! i am just taking photos of the trees."
the man, seated next to an attractive similarly-aged woman with a german shorthaired pointer puppy in her lap, seemed confused.
"of what?"
and so i held out my phone for him to see my most recent capture.
i
explained that i drive to pennellville and the point every day with my
disabled son, calvin, who can't do anything by himself. i rolled down
the back seat window so he could see my son, and the man said, "hello
calvin!"
i went on the describe
how i first began taking drives out to pennellville during the pandemic
when calvin didn't go to school or the grocery store for fifteen months,
and so the only thing we could really do was go for car rides. i told
him about all the locals i had seen often on those drives—lynn and john,
john the dog walker, brenda and ruby, ashby the marathoner—and how i
eventually introduced myself and calvin to each of them once it felt
safe to do so. i joked to the man about how my husband calls me the
mayor of brunswick because i know so many people. the couple chuckled,
just as i became aware of how the pandemic strangely enriched my time
with calvin, not unlike the characters in pachett's novel.
"would
calvin like to see a puppy?" the woman asked, and i told her he
probably couldn't see it since his vision is so bad, and that i wasn't
so sure he'd be interested.
"oh,
you're the kennel owners!" i exclaimed, having seen their roadside sign
for years. "i've seen you and your dogs in the field!" gesturing in the
direction of the grassy expanse on pennell way and mentioning how i
often run out here in training for races, including half marathons.
"yep, that's me!" the man replied, perhaps with some healthy pride of his prize hunting dogs.
before
we parted, i introduced myself and gave the man my card with an old
photo of me and calvin on the front and my blog and email addresses on
the back. the man's wife reached into her purse and fished out a card to
give me.
"thanks for stopping," i said, "you probably got more than you bargained for!" and the couple chuckled again.
"next time you see me, please say hello," i asked.
"oh,
we will!" then they said goodbye to calvin, who seemed oblivious,
albeit very content, in the back seat as he gnawed a shiny blue rubber
chew toy.
and as i drove off
after having had such a positive, relaxing day, full of beauty, love,
and cameraderie, i had a feeling of great satisfaction, happiness, and
hope for this crazy world.
