I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately—in particular, the passage of time. So often I think of Time as an elusive resource, even an antagonist—slipping through my fingers—fingers which all too often are left clenched and grasping at its threads. I resent its unceasing passage, its whirlwind pace. I feel caught up in it, spinning out of control. Too much to do, too little time.

But right now I’m facing the sweet onset of summer and the gift of time. Time to write, time to sit, time to think. Time to connect. I often find the adjustment a bit challenging—from full-tilt all-speed-ahead to sudden stop and stillness.  There’s a jolt to my system—skid marks on my psyche. It takes time to find the rhythm of the days and my wheels spin on occasion, not quite adjusted to the slow, syrupy pace of summer days and a seeming surfeit of time.

Last week I spent the night down in Rockport, MA with an “old” friend, Sue, and her children at their rented beach house. Other than a few blips here and there, we’ve been doing this for years. It’s always been a wonderful time to relax and reconnect. Sue and I speak the shorthand of a long friendship. The year apart is insignificant and serves only to provide material for our conversations, the threads of which we set down each summer on long beach walks and which wait patiently through a long winter for us to pick up again, as we do, without a hitch, continuing to weave the fabric of our friendship. On the drive home I realized that we’ve been friends for 26 years now. How is that even possible?

Time in Rockport has always been a time away from time. It is even more so now that I teach and Sue’s visit coincides with the first days of summer vacation. I swear I took my first full breath in months, sitting at the beach, feeling the sun on my face, listening to the hiss of the surf and the calls of the gulls and realizing that for now, time was on my side. I had nothing pressing to do, nowhere to go, and could just be. Summer began to gently unfold before me like the waves unfurling and washing onto the sand at my feet.

This summer, inspired by a long-ago photo, I took a picture of my daughters and Sue’s.
I look at these photos side by side and the differences take my breath away. Clearly, even in Rockport, time presses on—the hiatus, while sweet and soothing, is illusory. While the minutes seemingly have passed slowly, this evidence of accumulating years divulges their steady pace. Time, stealthy Time, has been hard at work. Its inexorable tide has transformed these small, innocent faces into beautiful, young women. And though I yearn at times to slow down time’s passing, who would want to stop such a beautiful process?

It’s early on a cool, moist morning in Maine.  Sitting on my couch, I listen to the murmur of voices from the radio in the adjacent room.  This early in the morning it’s the British cadences of Dan Damon as World Update reports on world events and the daily news. The washing machine gurgles then spins and warmed snaps and buttons rhythmically click in the dryer. My cat sleeps next to me, warming the side of my leg.  Moments ago my sister and niece pulled out of the driveway facing a l-o-n-g drive back to South Carolina from our home in Maine.  They were the last visitors to depart. The house settles around me. It’s the morning after.

This weekend family and friends from all over the East and Midwest arrived to celebrate my youngest daughter’s graduation. Our house hummed with conversation and laughter, vibrating with a joyful noise of reunion. Friday-night pizza and revelry segued into a Saturday barbecue and the “official” celebration. On Sunday we celebrated again—this time with a Father’s Day breakfast for the fathers in our group. The weekend brimmed with siblings, cousins, grandparents, friends, food and more food, balloons, cake, hugs, and laughter, punctuated by the clicks and flashes of cameras capturing these special moments.

Then came the good-byes as visitors departed in small groups, our number gradually dwindling. By yesterday morning only my oldest sister and niece remained. We explored the Maine coast and talked and laughed—sharing memories and making new ones—from Pemaquid lighthouse to Damariscotta to Land’s End in Harpswell. It was a thoroughly delightful day, ending with a seafood dinner at a picturesque Maine harbor. And now they, too, have departed.

I relax into the moment now, on the brink of summer, on the morning after. It’s early still and my family is just beginning to stir. There’s an undeniable easing as the last of the guests have departed and summer vacation beckons, but there is also sadness—a lingering poignancy. When will we gather again?

On this morning after, I already cherish the mornings so recently passed, and I give thanks for family and friends and for the love that motivated them to be here. The joyful noise of our reunion and celebration reverberates  for me, warming me on this cool morning after and surely, for many mornings to come.

On Sunday we celebrated my youngest daughter’s graduation from high school and documented the occasion with scads of photographs. My favorite one is of all of my children. I look at their three faces and wonder where my babies have gone. Sometimes my arms ache for their warm little bodies and the soft weight of their drowsy heads resting on my shoulder. The next moment I’m fascinated (and sometimes frightened) by watching them navigate the world as young adults, making choices independently and choosing their own direction. And then sometimes I see flashes or hints of where they might be heading— a new maturity or a deepening interest. How intriguing it is that I miss who they were, while appreciating who they are, and anticipate who they are becoming.

I wish I were unflappable, but I’m not. I truly admire those people who can just roll with the chaos with a smile on their face but I am so not one of them.  This year the typical end-of-the-year chaos has been heightened by a high-school graduation and impending multitudes of visitors. So, I get overwhelmed and then focus on what’s overwhelming me. I don’t attack items in a strategic manner, I write long, involved and impossible lists. Then I talk about it…ad nauseum. I am boring myself and surely I’m boring others as well. Everyone has tons to do–some manage to do it quietly and efficiently. Clearly, I don’t. I do it with a lot of “woe is me’s.” Pathetic. I’m working on it, but it’s definitely a long-term goal.

At any rate, I woke this morning determined to “reboot.” I tightened up my lesson plans and admonished myself to get over it and get on with it. I deliberately slowed down the pace on my drive in to work and took time to appreciate it. Living in Maine has some challenges, but wow, it is just gorgeous!  I am so, so fortunate, but sometimes I forget to stop and notice the beauty that surrounds me each day. Here are some pictures that highlight my ride into work and back.  The drive in was a fair bit longer but I enjoyed every moment of it–Including two different deer sightings.  Ah, Maine!

Baking is evocative. Certain desserts resonate for me and making them transports me to a different time and place. These sweets are touchstones to the past and to those who no longer are here to bake in the present. Rolling out Christmas cookies across generations ties the years together. I stand behind my grandmother and mother, with my daughters behind me, sharing stolen bites of that rich, molasses-dark, cinnamon-scented dough. There’s comfort in the repetition and ritual.

Baking is traditional. Each season and holiday has its iconic desserts. Sticky buns herald Christmas.    Strawberry rhubarb pie ushers in spring. Freshly baked apple crisp marks the official advent of fall. The latter isn’t simply apples, sugar, cinnamon, oats and flour. It embodies those crisp fall days with a taste of winter chill in the morning– The “Mandatory Family Fun Day” orchard trip with now-recalcitrant teens to pick apples–The crisp snap of a bite into a freshly picked apple–The peels and slices snapped up by our much-loved and missed family dog.  All wrapped together, heated and served with creamy mounds of vanilla ice cream. Transcendent.

Baking is restorative. Magical. The ingredients rest separately, pristine in their containers.  Fluffy, soft flour, crystalline sugar, golden sticks of butter.  Cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice: Those lushly scented spices speak of comfort, warmth, acceptance and love. Separate, awaiting transformation. Rich in potential.

In these crazy end-of-the-year school days, I set my work aside and take comfort in measuring, blending, creaming. Mixing ingredients, I step away from the chaos and move into a slower, gentler pace. Baking soothes me.

It isn’t spring until
ice and cold recede
and suddenly one night
the evening air echoes
with a chorus of spring peepers,
belting out their lusty tune
breathing, ballooning, releasing
serenading, wooing.

It isn’t spring until,
after rosy rhubarb stalks emerge,
strawberry rhubarb pie dances
a bittersweet melody on my tongue,
warm and dripping with melting swirls
of rich, golden French vanilla ice cream
and crumbles of crust.
A tantalizing tango of flavors.

It isn’t spring until
the dark purple, tightly furled buds
of the gnarled lilac bush
lighten and open
and their heady scent
spills out onto the sun-warmed air.

It isn’t spring until
the swift, whirring, buzzing hum
stirs the blossom-scented air,
and the sudden flash of red
marks the return
of the ruby-throated hummingbirds.

It isn’t spring until
the sweet, rich smell
of the freshly mown lawn,
heady on a cool evening,
wafts through cracked windows
perfuming the air,
living and green.

It isn’t spring until
a gentle warm rain falls
and verdant foliage glows
and blossoms bloom
and a small knot of ice,
residue of a long bitter winter,
releases, melts and relaxes

Ah,
Spring.

It isn’t spring until
I venture out,
arms laden,
and set laundry to dance
on the taut nylon line
in the brisk, zephyrous air.
Sheets snap, flap and flutter,
absorb a medley of scent,
releasing it when I sink
into the embrace
of my newly-made bed.
I inhale the essence
of the sun-kissed, breezy day,
content at its end.

On Friday we were gathered on the cafeteria floor, waiting silently for the remaining classes to file in and sit down for our weekly assembly.  Two of my students suddenly began pointing at the floor and exclaiming excitedly.  I walked over to investigate.

“What’s up?” I asked quietly.

“There’s blood on the floor,” B and D said, pointing to a bright red spot between them.

 “Ew!” B said, squirming, “I don’t want to be near it!”

I looked closely at the glob of hardened mysterious substance on the floor. “Oh, I don’t think that’s blood,” I said, reassuringly,  “It’s probably just some food. Just scoot a little bit this way and don’t worry about it.  Assembly’s about to start.”

“It could be ketchup, “ D said. “That’s red and sticks to stuff.”

“It could be,” I said, ushering B to a different spot.

When I turned back to D, to guide him to a new spot, he said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hogan.  It isn’t blood or ketchup. It doesn’t taste or smell like anything.”

I froze.  “D,” I said slowly, “Did you taste it?”

I’m sure my facial expression must have been interesting, as he did not answer immediately.  After a moment he hesitatingly said, “No…..” and then picking up speed, he continued, “but I smelled it and when I smelled it, I could taste it and it didn’t taste or smell like anything.”

I stood still, staring at him,  trying to translate exactly what he had just said.  Could that possibly be right? Did he or didn’t he taste it?  I glanced at the blob on the floor.  It seemed intact.  Could he really have just smelled it?   

As I was debating what to do next, the Assistant Principal approached.  He pulled me slightly to the side and whispered , “Molly, did you know that D was just licking the floor?”  

I went time traveling this past Saturday at the Skolfield-Whittier house in Brunswick, Maine.  This time capsule of a home, last occupied full-time in 1925, captures late 19th century small town Maine life for a prominent family of sea captains, educators and doctors.  Fortunately for visitors, the furnishings, essentially a full estate, were carefully preserved by the family even as they made slight adjustments to accommodate new technologies.  Former occupants also tended to accumulate rather than replace, so the house is a treasure trove of historical artifacts.  With an able guide, each item in the home is a repository for stories about customs, people, and historical practices.

As we stood outside the home, Dan, our able tour guide, began our visit by inviting us to look at the brick exterior.  He explained that the custom of the time was to use the highest quality brick on the facade and public sides of the home, while cheaper bricks were used in the back.  The interior of the home reflected this same approach.  The “public” rooms were filled with material items to indicate social prominence and prosperity to visitors.  The back rooms were more austere. 

As we entered the house we entered those larger front rooms which were bedecked with artifacts reflecting the family’s international trade and travel, ornately carved wooden rails and moldings, marbled mantels, rich carpeting, and encaustic tiling.  Many items were imbued with deeper layers of meaning, invisible to the ignorant 21st century eye.  Dan served as our able translator.  A hall tree (coat stand) in the entry wasn’t simply a resting place for hats and umbrellas—its ornate carving made a subtle, but undeniable social statement, as did the calling card holder resting atop it.  Long curtains puddled over the floor in the dining room, their lavish length another indication of wealth.  A painting of one of thefamily’s ships was not merely decorative but also served as an insurance record of the ship in case of loss.  (Small figures are visible on the deck and, multiplied by two (for the crew resting below), this documented the crew required by the ship.)  We were hard pressed to leave each room as Dan held us in the palm of his hand, weaving stories of this family and their time.  This is the history that appeals to me—the personal stories anchored in tangible items that evoke the mists of the past and give me a sense of daily life long ago.

As we stepped into the back of the house, the contrast was remarkable.  Here the look was utilitarian rather than ornate.  Gone were the ornate woodwork, exotic furnishings, and opulent fabrics.  Narrow hallways wound from the dining room to the laundry room, pantry and kitchen.  These rooms were purely functional —social nuance had no role, as visitors did not reach these regions of the home.  Thus, objects residing in these rooms offer a more intimate glimpse into the lives of past residents.  In the kitchen a small glass jar holds a butterfly and a robin’s egg—treasures of a young collector.  A lock of hair and mementos of a child lost to tragedy rest in a box sitting in an upstairs room.  Packets of soap fill the top of an old icebox.  A slop hopper, designed to drain the contents of the household’s chamber pots, is tucked into a back corner. Each question we asked Dan sparked more and more stories about the lives of the residents, customs, historical practices, and more.  We journeyed back through time in this home, spell-bound. 

As I left the tour and re-emerged into present-day Brunswick, I pondered the message of the bricks, reflected in the interior decoration of the home.  The idea that the expensive brick and the richly appointed front rooms with their embedded social messages were a deliberately created public “personna” intrigued me.  I considered their contrast with the cheaper bricks at the back of the house, and I wondered whether there is a modern equivalent to this front room/back room practice.

There are certainly people who are “house proud” but I don’t believe there is such a contrast between the front and back, or the public and private rooms in our modern homes.  I suspect our efforts are more invested in our individual public images.  We work hard to create our public persona and as we all know, much can be hidden behind a carefully crafted facade.  I think of those much-maligned Christmas cards which regale the reader with happy events and accomplishments while leaving other less celebratory events unaddressed—out of sight in the back yard, as it were.  Is there another parallel in the public face we create on our social media sites?  People chose what to share and the picture they present to the world is often quite different from their more private lives.  I’m still considering how this practice has evolved through the years and wondering if perhaps, though many, many years have passed, we haven’t changed very much.  We’re all still putting our best brick forward.

I love flower shops.  The air is always rich with moisture and scent and my eyes feast on brilliant mixtures of blossoms.  I’m always amazed by the variety of forms a blossom can take:  Exuberant freckled lilies tossing their heady fragrance with abandon.  Delicate larkspur, trembling on tall spikes.  And generously petalled roses unfolding into infinity.  The combination of scents is so intense that the air seems to tremble with its potency.  I  imagine that this fragrant air hovers on the edge of attaining a multi-colored visibility.  Just one more blossom, one more scent, and wisps of colored vapor would illuminate the shop. 

Last Saturday,  with three local proms and Mother’s Day the next day, the local flower shop was a hive of activity, and the cooler had only a few lonely arrangements awaiting pick-up.  White labeled boxes filled with corsages and boutonnieres were stacked high on a small wooden bench and a number of people waited for assistance.  Lydia and I were there to pick up the boutonniere for her date.  After hours at the local salon, she was a fitting accompaniment to the vivid floral arrangements in the shop.  Her eyelids and lips were bedecked with color, her nails polished and shining and her honeyed hair twisted and braided into a flowing arrangement.  My own sweet Lydia preparing for her Senior Prom.  Where have the years gone?

As Lydia waited in line, I wandered through the small shop, admiring those small items that enhance a florist’s shop:  vases, frames, a small assortment of jewelry, blooming plants.  I returned to Lydia’s side as she paid, and noticed a small glass vase on the counter, holding a variety of random, extra blossoms.  One perfect dusky lilac rose caught my eye.  I touched its soft petals, envisioning my bridal bouquet.

“Oh, Lyddie, this rose is the exact color of the roses Daddy and I had at our wedding.” 

The florist overheard me and picked up the rose.  She twirled it slowly in her hand, smelled it, then handed it to me and Lydia, inviting us to do the same.  When it was my turn, I inhaled deeply, trying to recapture that afternoon so long ago.  I remember my wedding roses as richly perfumed, but this one had a more delicate aroma, subtle but lovely.  I inhaled deeply again, then handed the rose back to the florist.

She shook her head.  “No,” she said, “You keep it.  Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Oh!” I said, surprised by the thoughtful gesture,  “Thank you so much.”  I turned to leave, rose in hand, and unexpectedly felt my eyes well with tears.  Walking out the door next to my daughter, holding my reincarnated wedding rose in my hand, my heart was full.