Fifty Years Ago, More or Less

This is my story, and I'm sticking to it. I'm the high-waisted dorky-looking gal in the center, with my Mom and her broken foot on my left, and my Dad with his sailbags on my right. Mom and my sisters pose on the far left, in a December photo, with Mom back in her high heels. We're all wearing homemade dresses, made by either my Grandmother, Mom, or ourselves. I was eleven in these pictures, which I am sure of because my brother was not here yet, and he was born when I was 12. I think I was nine when Mom broke her foot, but that doesn't really change the story.

That's our house, in Delaware, where I just visited my Mom. The backyard in her picture, with the sandbox my Dad made, is much smaller now of course, with decks and porches and missing trees. Everything's different now. Here is our family group in our present maturity:

We do look happy. We were at the wedding of one of my three nephews, at the end of my trip. We got to stay in a very nice old hotel, The Atlantic, in Berlin, Maryland, where craftspeople struggle to capture tourists and stay in their small town with its rapidly disappearing history. The entire trip was a pleasure, with all the ease that comes in hanging out with people who have known me all of my life, and the surfacing of all the minor anxieties that come along with those relationships.

The sister on the far right gets the credit for the deluxe arrangements, and for that particular nephew and his matrimonial venture. My brother gets the credit for most of the fun things we did on the vacation, which include the crab cruise on the Christiana River and the kayaking in the salt marshes on Ayers Creek, in Maryland. The picture of the crab cruise shows his partner, Graziella, who came to meet the family and see the US for the first time. They live in Australia, and I never get to see enough of them.

The kayaking was really, really fun for me. As a kid, we sailed nearly every summer weekend and that suited me fine. I'm never happier than when I am in a boat, in a tree, or out in some woods or field or backyard or bike trail, anywhere where the birds and flowers are. You can see in my eleventh year I was unconcerned with cool, just frank, relaxed, and well, in truth, numb and disconnected. But the negative didn't show then, unless you watched closely how much I escaped into reading in the top of the willow tree, and roaming the woods, poking in mud looking for quicksand.

The current pictures only partly show that I was the only one in flats, an unfashionable dress, and with undyed hair. I'm the only one carrying ten extra pounds, something the east-coasters are really judgmental about (which judgment is not entirely gone from my inner process, either.) I had the jacket so they wouldn't see my unshaved pits, which I am sure would have ruined the whole day for someone or other. I don't fit in, and never felt that I did. I'm resigned to that now, without the superiority I used to carry, most of the defensiveness, and I definitely lost the proselytizing, thinking I could sway someone to my position. They do what they have to do there, I do what I want to do here. My Mom said that the best thing that ever happened to me was that I found Eugene.

I spent some time in the attic, where I always hope to find some ragged box with mementos I'd forgotten, to shed light on what still confuses me from my past. I never find the old charm bracelet or class ring or other lost items. Who knows what happened to them. I found some great photos, though, and for some reason centered on this 1961 grouping. My grandparents on my father's side were visiting that summer, and maybe we were all putting on a good show. I think things fell apart a bit when Mom broke her foot during an interaction with my Dad over pulling the boat out of the water at the end of a season, and I started to get the notion that scary things did happen, and that anything I depended upon could be shown to be vulnerable. The willow tree eventually got cut down, the homemade outfits I sewed had weird awkward collars and ill-fitting skirts, and the birth of my brother dissolved my position of the boy of the family. I began to grasp the role of young woman in the social world. It has always been an awkward role for me. I would rather be that frank, uncool adolescent, living in my world of books.

All of my siblings have been married twice, at least, and I have never been hitched. I am best in a solitary kayak, or so I tell myself. So much of our lives is just the stories we tell ourselves, the ruts we put ourselves in. My brother's and sisters' relationships look pretty good. I tried to picture myself in front of the folding chairs, trying not to cry while I promised things about my future I fully intended to honor. Not that great of a stretch, except for the missing partner-person.

I tried to imagine myself in a two-person kayak, or the bow of my brother's canoe, following his suggestions that I draw or back paddle. It seemed do-able, and my story seemed open to new interpretation. Maybe I fit in more than I think, or could, if I just accept the awkward parts long enough for them to feel smooth and pressed. My family gave me lots of compliments, sincerely, letting me know that they accept and even celebrate my different-ness, creativity, and the courage that takes.

Being alone is hard. Certain things are easy, such as choosing directions, getting work done, going as fast as one can paddle. Other things take an extra portion of effort, and I think I make myself work a lot harder to protect my "independence". It might just boil down to a control problem. It might just bubble out to fear, like most things do.

So I have some new material to work with, some places to poke and prod to see what surfaces. Can I go back to eleven and learn something useful to work on at 60? Guess I'll see.