brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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I was looking through old photos the other day and came upon one of my parents. They’re at that age I hold them perpetually in my mind now that they’re gone. They’re sitting on the back terrace together, unraked leaves littering the bricks. My dad is still robust, slim but not yet frail, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and work pants. My mother is in a blouse, pair of slacks and heels — her uniform whether she is teaching school or driving to the grocery store. She is reading the newspaper, legs crossed, holding the front page open with both hands. My dad is leaned over, elbows resting on his knees, his hands together at some task, two buckets at his feet. Whoever took the picture has caught their attention, as my mother has lowered the paper and my dad has turned his head to the camera. They are both smiling.
My sister thinks our dad was peeling apples to make applesauce. It would be the right time of year, evidenced by the gathering of rust-colored leaves at their feet and the hint of gold behind the pines. One bucket would be for the peelings, the other for the bared apples. We had an apple tree out back and every other year or so it would yield a crop. They were not apples you were tempted to eat. They were small and misshapen, shrunken and knotty and puckered with holes, but to my dad they were a treasure trove. He would pick them from the tree and gather them from the ground to make batches of lumpy applesauce that was never, no matter what, sweet enough. He enjoyed the process, though — peeling the apples, boiling them for hours and then mashing the pulp. The smell would fill our house. I wish I knew what was in the pages of the newspaper my mother was reading that day. Was it the Boston Globe? The New York Times? Did she share what news there was with my father? The light on her face indicates the sun was setting in the pasture behind our house, casting a long shadow across the bricks but igniting the trees. There’s a rectangle of light along her ankle and my father’s forehead. I can feel the heat of that sun. I see the veins on my dad’s hands, recall their coolness and strength and the warmth of my mother’s hands. It’s a moment of stillness that won’t last. My mother will soon refold the paper, restoring the sections to their proper order, and my father, his work complete, will gather his buckets. She will head to the kitchen to tie on an apron and prepare dinner, the NPR theme music on the radio heralding the arrival of more news for her quiet intellect to absorb. He will retire to his study to grade the student papers stacked on his desk or roll a plain sheet of paper into his IBM Selectric typewriter. The erratic clack of the keys will be followed by the silence of his pencil or pen — a careful notation here, a quiet crossed-out word there. Somewhere in the house there are children. Reading upstairs in their bedrooms, doing homework at the kitchen table, watching TV or playing outside with friends. Summoned indoors by the dinner bell, they bring with them the scent of dry leaves and the evening’s chill. The table is set and the candles are lit. There’s a dog curled in the corner of the dining room and a cat perched on the buffet. My father takes his seat at the head of the table. At his back, behind the glass of the French doors, the light is fading, a pale glow behind black trees. The day is over and another one yet to begin, somewhere still in time.
10 Comments
Maggie
5/17/2017 08:23:27 am
The New York Times!!! It is Sunday, no doubt. The paper was purchased at Hastings after church. Thanks for capturing this photo in words, Mary Anne. I spent a long time looking at it.
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Ann Marie
5/17/2017 01:32:20 pm
Beautiful.
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Jenny
5/17/2017 03:01:00 pm
No wonder you are feeling nostalgic after writing an article like that. I am so lucky to know that life and the wonderful time we all shared. Thanks, Mary Anne, for bringing it back to us so poignantly.
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Andy
5/17/2017 05:22:03 pm
This passage congers up many familiar memories. It also makes me wonder what memories are being created right now for my children. Nicely done.
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Geneva Yelle
5/28/2017 07:12:59 pm
If only you could include that photo with this article!
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Mary Anne
6/23/2017 10:33:13 am
You know, I thought long and hard about including the photo, and while I share your reluctance to disagree with Geneva Yelle (I respect my elders), I finally came to the same conclusion as you.
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I have seen the photograph. If you were to go through a photograph album, it wouldn't have necessarily attracted your attention. But you saw something in the photograph. And that was the point of the entry. Including the actual photo would have detracted from the thought. But on everything else, Geneva Yelle is one hundred percent correct. Always has. Always will be.
Mary Anne
6/24/2017 07:05:04 am
Amen, brother!
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Geneva Yelle
7/24/2017 01:58:12 pm
When you put it that way, you are both right. I am just happy to be able to look at the photo and see the two people who mean the most to the five of us.
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Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |