day at the lake

It has been a quiet summer in Maine spent mostly monotonously hanging around the house with Calvin, though we've managed barbecuing, gardening, a walk or two on the beach, a couple of boat outings, a handful of ice cream cones and one rock concert. But the other day our friends invited us up to their lakeside camp north of here about an hour, to enjoy a slightly different pace and scene. When the nurse rolled up on her Harley, we kissed Calvin goodbye, told him that we loved him and set out on our day's journey.

We arrived via the highway, followed a two-lane road turning onto a gravely pot-holed lane that meandered through trees and brush to a dead end. Rudy excitedly jumped out of the car and we all thumped down a pine needle carpeted hillside past a string of small red wooden cottages overlooking the lake. At the water's edge, the main lodge, another modest red cabin that in its history likely served as the mess hall for a boys’ summer camp, we were greeted by our lovely hosts and a veritable litter of black labs.

After meeting the large extended family I visited the camp cook who was back in the kitchen working her magic. With her hair bundled up and an apron tied around her waist she rolled clumps of shortbread cookie dough into crushed almonds and pine nuts, placing each ball carefully on a baking sheet then flattening them with the back of a spoon. She had just finished making a pot of saffron-colored chicken and rice soup that smelled deliciously of sauteed onions and butter. I found it hard to pry myself away from such intoxicating aromas.

Our first order of business, though, was taking a walk out to a point where we waded briefly in clear water and threw a stick or two for the dogs. From there we followed a narrow rambling path through a thicket of blueberry shrubs leading to a lagoon encrusted with lily pads. The two of us, plus Michael’s childhood friend, his wife, two daughters, mother-in-law and three labs, ate clusters of small blackish berries as we strolled lazily in line chattering and snacking as we went. I felt just like some character in a child's picture book.

Back at the camp, the fresh berries having whet our appetites, we slurped spoonfuls of warm golden soup and helped ourselves to a buffet of breads, meats, cheeses, spreads and salad. A wide covered porch invited us to gather and linger around a small table in stiff wooden chairs drinking sticky sweet lemonade out of flimsy turquoise colored paper cups. The lake, only a few yards from our feet, reflected a cloud-strewn sky in its mesmerizing deep lapis face. Gazing off at the idyllic scene my thoughts drifted to a girl who last summer, at a lake not far from our home, had drown in shallow water while having a seizure. I imagined her family gatherings this summer—and infinite seasons to follow—that would never again be the same.

Before we knew it we had to pack up and turn right around. Still wearing my wet bikini after a couple of fatiguing water ski runs, relaxed and tired, we were escorted uphill by Michael's friend and his youngest, just eleven. Earlier, when bringing the boat in, the girl had asked about Calvin, wanted to know how his seizures were, how many he was having compared to before and if they were bad. I explained that he was having about the same number of bad ones but fewer of the others. "He's walking better but still can't talk," I added. "Will he ever talk?" she asked. I told her we didn't know, but as long as he continued having seizures and having to take drugs for them he likely wouldn't. She made a little whimper-like sound then was silent. Walking to the car she said sweetly "I wish I could see him again," and remarked about how the last time she did "he only came up to here," touching her graceful hand lightly to her hip.

On the drive home, after many long hugs goodbye, I imagined I was still at the lake. I'd be walking arm in arm with the girls, wading in the water, brushing the tangles out of their wavy blond hair talking of random things—of life—while watching the big sky slowly darken to black, chalk full of glimmering stars and counting the fallen ones whose tails trail off then disappear into nothing. Perhaps we'd make s'mores cuddled around a fire sitting on stumps with the chill at our backs—all things I yearn to do with my own son, but can't, I thought.

Michael tapped the brakes and I snapped back into reality. Remarkable kids, I thought. So sweet and so kind. "They're such nice girls," I turned to Michael whose hand had reached out to squeeze mine, "such a nice family. I'm so glad we got to come up."

zappa plays zappa

The other night Michael and I got a rare opportunity to see some live music down in Portland (Maine.)

First, we grabbed a bit of mediocre Mexican food and downed a couple of beers then headed up a rugged brick sidewalk to the old State Theatre. As we were entering, we passed by a middle-aged man with his son. The boy must have been eight or nine and was grasping a floppy orange and black stuffed tiger. There were a few other fans there with their kids to see Zappa Plays Zappa, an eight-piece band lead by the genius composer’s son Dweezil Zappa.

The scene was somewhat reminiscent of a late Grateful Dead concert, the warm house packed with salt and pepper-haired men—and some women—in t-shirts and Levi’s who’d become thick in the middle over the years. I sat next to a man and his gangly teen aged son whose smooth blond hair boasted a perfect wave of sky blue at his forehead. The boy munched on popcorn from a greasy paper bag while his dad drank a beer.

When the lights went down the crowd cheered wildly as a slim frizzy-haired fortyish man in skinny jeans, sneakers and a purple v-neck t-shirt entered the stage humbly following his fellow band-members. For two solid hours the musicians rocked the house with zany lyrics, full, round, sometimes beautifully dissonant voices, brilliant orchestral arrangements including horns, woodwinds, keyboards, guitars, a bass and two superb percussionists making utter love to a cluster of drums, snares, cymbals and a marimba.

It was difficult to stay still in my narrow seat. The music moved me. I kept looking over my shoulder, fondly, at a young barefoot couple dancing with reckless abandon on the cool cement floor. The happy pair, both with curly long hair and fair, childlike faces, took me back to my years living in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco. I wished I could have joined them. They were the only ones dancing amongst a sea of mostly motionless white folk.

But by the time the last song ended, the crowd was on its feet whistling, applauding and screaming for more. My face hurt from smiling the entire show. The band happily returned for an encore and took the house down as the audience finally danced in their seats.

Within the dark sultry scene of giddy fans, colored lights and spectacular music flowing into my brain I still thought of Calvin. At one point the percussionists played mind-blowing solos on the drums and marimba. I wished I had Calvin on my lap or seated next to me, as I dreamed of a day when he might have a taste of the wondrous thing called live music—my cure-all for any kind of blues.

the fighter

When Calvin was born he was a little munchkin, not quite five pounds. He was well on his way to being a seven-pounder but he made his way into the world, harshly, six weeks too early. Two weeks prior to that we had learned he was missing a significant portion of the white matter in his brain so we couldn’t risk a vaginal birth, a stress his tiny brain and body might not have been able to bear. Instead he emerged through an incision in my belly, barely able to breath. I didn’t see him until he was twenty-one hours old.

For a period of time within those first several hours Calvin was put on a respirator, a thin tube having been threaded down his delicate trachea. The docs gave him a surfactant to help clear his lungs of fluid. By the time I saw him he was hooked up to a cumbersome continuous positive airway pressure or C-PAP. He was diminutive, a skinny little pup with translucent skin, floppy ears, no lashes and nipples no bigger than a healthy grain of sand.

It was clear that Calvin didn’t like the C-PAP at all, and why would he? He had to wear a knit cap to which each side was velcroed lengths of blue accordion tubing just above his ears. Those tubes carried oxygen and lead to a two-pronged plastic nasal cannula which uncomfortably spread his nostrils allowing the gas to enter his lungs keeping his blood saturated with oxygen.

Just one day old and at least six weeks early (due dates can be off by as much as two weeks) that kid was batting the C-PAP with as much vigor as he could muster, and he managed to yank it out several times. Right then I knew my kid was a fighter. He’s never proved me wrong.

photo by Michael Kolster

an inconvenient poop

Last night reminded me that there are few things less convenient than a big poop in the bathtub.

photo by Michael Kolster

river ride

A few nights ago Michael and I took the boat out for our first evening cruise while Calvin’s nurse stayed home to bathe him, feed him, give him his seizure meds and put him to bed.

We arrived at the launch around five. At my asking, two sweaty men, one shirtless with an enormous stomach folding over his belly, proudly and kindly showed me the blood worms they had dug up. The worms, long grayish ribbons with thin red stripes writhed, almost beautifully, in translucent white buckets.

Michael unloaded the boat and I stayed with it while he parked the car and trailer. It was low tide. We could smell it on the wind. The sun beat down on me as I slouched lazily on the warm dock and closed my eyes which, through their lids, were bathed in a glowing crackled blood orange red. The rays seemed to flicker through the leaves, but when I opened my eyes I saw the sun blazing naked in the big sky. Mere gusts of wind beating my lids had caused the light to tremble, something I had never noticed before.

We made our way without a wake down the New Meadows river past the house our friends had built not long before they moved away. I remembered the fun cookouts we used to have there, their two furry little dogs chasing Rudy around, the Mongo-sized margarita's Kellie made, along with the glistening raw shrimp appetizer she mistakenly served. I chuckled to myself reminiscing about Nigel's crazy penny poker, the laughter that echoed in their kitchen and no doubt carried across the water. Then I thought of the seizure Calvin had on their cushioned window seat, followed by the fear, the ambulance, our friends arriving later at the emergency room with a platter full of barbecue to sustain us.

Once, years ago, I walked barefoot down the steep grassy embankment to their dock, climbed into the white marshmallowy seats of their boat. We trolled on the river to a lobster shack forty-five minutes down the coast. We cracked jokes and beers, uncorked wine and drank the cold beverages from plastic cups.

"I miss those guys," I said to Michael. "Me too." This time we were making the same trip, but alone—Calvin being difficult to bring on the boat. At a generous clip the wind whipped our faces. We startled a cormorant, which flew into our path, so black and dripping it appeared soaked in oil. A few large ospreys stretched their wings in the sky above an endless bank of jade pines and oaks sprouting from craggy layers of black and gray rock. The coast was dotted with homes of all types. Small rustic cedar cabins with peeling white trim and rickety screen porches shared the bluff with quaint painted cottages and stately— sometimes absurd—fawn and khaki lodges made mostly of windows, peeking through the tops of the trees.

After a long ride against wind and current, dodging hundreds of multicolored lobster buoys, and before entering a powerful, heavy open ocean, Michael spotted our destination, motored our modest lozenge-shaped boat between lobster boats up alongside the dock and tied it off. At the snack bar window we ordered a lobster roll, pint of fresh hot battered clams and sweet potato fries. In front of us a couple with a curly-haired toddler in a little red life vest had ordered a scoop of blueberry ice cream on a cone. I stood in amazement at the words streaming out of this minuscule child's mouth as he climbed all over a green plastic chair like a monkey.

We sat at the end of the pier on iron chairs, the sun hanging low in the sky but warming us in our seats. Michael cracked a beer from our cooler, and I a small bottle of Prosecco. We toasted a successful first half of our trip while looking over the waves of cerulean water missing Calvin and Rudy, but smiling nonetheless.

photo by Michael Kolster

lucky

This morning, after I sent Calvin off to school on the short bus, I finished my bran flakes, folded a bit of laundry, put some dirty dishes into the dishwasher and brushed my teeth. I chose the orange pair of flip-flops, ran a brush through my hair, tied it back, wound a beaded bracelet around my wrist then grabbed my keys and wallet.  As I was shutting the French doors on my way out I happened to glance down at the coffee table. On it was this morning’s copy of the New York Times. The cover photo gave me great pause.

The emaciated child in the photo is haunting. I read the first few lines to learn that the child is just one of over five hundred thousand children starving in Somalia because of insurgents blocking their escape from a famine. I imagined this suffering child as my own child, as Calvin. The thought nearly brought me to my knees in grief.

I read no further as my mind soberly turned to the image of our comfortable home, the attractive addition we just finished on our kitchen, the lush trees, shrubs and flowers surrounding our house, which at times, when they are thirsty, I drench in water. I think of the list of groceries that I make every few days knowing reliably each item will be crossed off as I stroll down air-conditioned aisles plucking enormous fruits and pristine waxed vegetables off of the shelves.

And Calvin, little Calvin, who cannot talk, cannot walk by himself, remains in diapers and must cope with the scourge of epilepsy and a battery of potent drugs, is safe and fed, warm, dry and clothed, enjoys medical care, nurses and teachers. He isn’t thirsty or in want of shelter. He isn’t at risk of suffering and dying from cholera, malaria, dysentery or starvation. He—we—are so goddamn lucky it isn’t funny. Are we so deserving? I don't think so.

Driving home from the grocer, with a hatch full of bags boasting a myriad of fresh fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses of the world, dog biscuits and pasteurized milk, I cried and cried tears of sorrow for the children and tears of shame for the times I've complained about hunger, complained about costs, complained about traffic, complained about losing my wallet, complained about breaking a glass, complained about the weather.

And entering the cool house to unload my spoils I glanced in the front hall mirror at my clean face. I studied my features—both inside and out—that I share with the whole of humanity. What makes me so special? That's just it—I'm not.

Tyler Hicks/The New York Times

summer camp

Often, I am reminded of my years coaching swimming to scores of spirited youths when I myself was still just a teenager. I have always liked kids, the way some of them seem wise beyond their years—old souls who I could sit and visit with for hours—while others bring huge grins to my face always acting the class clown, the goof-off, the prankster. Some I coached were very shy and intellectual, warming up to me slowly, while the next one in line was a rowdy tag along just like I had been. Once in a while the same family boasted all of these personalities!

The other day when I was walking Rudy, our old chocolate lab, we passed by the college field house, an impressive building with a high ceiling sheltering an indoor red rubber track. The door on the corner of the structure was open spilling out school-aged kids in neon colored t-shirts, shorts and sneakers. We had happened upon summer day camp. I decided to take a peek.

With my shoulder resting on the door jam, I poked my head inside to see hundreds of scampering rascals, some playing a game that one friendly freckle-faced girl told me was called doctor dodge ball, where the children hurl rubber balls hoping to tag one another out. The scene looked like one of those air-mix lottery machines, colorful balls bouncing and flying each and every direction. It was utter, beautiful, chaos.

On a near corner of the track bold white lane numbers seemed to corral a group of tweenagers who had spread themselves out with pens, pencils and crayons quietly drawing pictures on thick pads of paper, perhaps writing poetry. One of them was sitting with the pad in his lap pensively gazing upwards, eraser tip supporting a happy chin. At the fringe of the gathering lay a tie-dye girl propped up on sharp elbows, her bare legs crossed at the ankles sporting strappy leather sandals, her hair wound up into cute brunette sprays tied with ribbon. She must have been daydreaming.

As I stood at the mouth of the exit another group of littler kids was lining up behind a silver-haired woman to get their hands on vibrant lengths of fuzzy yarn to finger-knit into whatever their hearts desired. Every size, shape and color of kid flocked around me to chat. My heart swelled.

Several children swarmed around Rudy wanting to pet him. One, with my approval, gave him a piece of his banana. Others asked how old he was, what his name was, if he’d bite and if he was a hunter. “He likes to hunt squirrels, and he’ll hunt for your lunch,” I said. A tall teen aged girl with a hunk of metal awkwardly bracing her wide smile excitedly told me of another nice dog she had met recently, one with an orange-brown spot around one eye and a nubby tail. I complimented a skinny little girl’s cool canvas sneakers that were adorned with inky blue peace signs, hearts and stars.

And as I called Rudy to leave a couple of wiry dark-haired young brothers, Edwin and Nathan, sweetly asked me if I had a child at the camp. Holding back tears I said that no, my son was not participating, but that I hoped one day he could. I told the older one that my son had epilepsy and cerebral palsy. "Have you heard of those?" I asked. He nodded soberly. I knew there was some tacit understanding of my sorrowful situation between us, he being a boy wise beyond his years with an old soul, who, in another life, I might have sat with and talked for hours.