The Other Side of the Bleachers

My son started playing football at six years old, and after just a few weeks of practice his Dad, Roger, and I were hooked. Fortunately for us, Shane liked it too, and football became a family affair.

This past August marked the beginning of our seventh season. After serving as Head Coach for two years, and assisting for a third, Roger opted for what he imagined to be a less hands-on position this year, by volunteering to act as Commissioner for the seventh and eighth grade teams. I had done my time early on, serving as Team Mom for three seasons before opting for an “early retirement”. The break was a welcome one, allowing for more time spent writing while the boys were playing in the dirt.

This year, two weeks into the new season, we found our team without a volunteer to act as Team Mom. There are a number of reasons why this is a liability, but to illustrate without belaboring the point, I’ll employ the image of launching a canoe without benefit of oars. And as large, brown boxes of brightly colored spandex were unloaded in my garage, I felt a touch of spray upon my face, and the familiar warmth of well-worn wood sliding into my reluctant hands.

Last night was Halloween, and I had governance of twenty-three boys, all dressed as football players. Our team made the first round of play-offs, appropriately ending a season of unprecedented rain-outs on what amounted to a mud-pit bracketed by goalposts. They made an impressive showing, losing by only two points to a team that had suffered just one loss through two seasons. Leaving the field wet, muddy, tired, and defeated, the boys were greeted by a rainbow of umbrellas held by wet-footed parents eager to retreat to the relative warmth of their vehicles while racking their brains for plausible arguments against trick-or-treating. Post-game speeches given by rain-soaked coaches were barely audible above drumming canopies and “shishing” rain gear. Cheerleaders held trays of soggy cupcakes, and clocks ticked inside every prepubescent head as the witching hour waned carrying the threat of unmanned Halloween costumes. Within minutes the boys collected a pillowcase, seeded with candy earlier in the week, and struck out, undaunted, in search of more mischief while soggy, preoccupied parents slogged through the mud behind them.

My official duties aren’t finished. I have gifts to order and a party to plan. There has been some talk of an All-Star tournament that will require my organizational skills. But as I eased into my office chair this morning, it was with the knowledge that the worst is over. Most of the mistakes that could be made have either been fixed or avoided entirely; and the boys had a good season, ending the year on a positive, if not winning, note. As I heaved a satisfied sigh into my coffee mug, my inbox blinked.

I clicked before I noticed the email was from “The Parent”. You know the one; the negative parent, the parent who can’t find the time to attend a game, but always finds time to complain about the outcome; the mother who, despite her absence, assures everyone within earshot that her son didn’t get his league-mandated allotment of playing time; the parent who prefers to spend her time critiquing the work of others rather than volunteering to help. An educated eye can spot this person at the beginning of the season. It’s all in the facial expression, the set of her mouth and the turn of her nose, as though she walks ensconced by a noxiously odoriferous cloud no one else seems to notice.

I read the note and decided, without hesitation, to ignore it. I mean, what can she do? Fire me? But her ingratitude did inspire me to put down some words of hard-earned wisdom, a kind of “Everything I Needed To Know I Learned In My First Year As Team Mom”, if you will. This is my swan-song. I’ve tossed my muddied shoes, and advise the next person filling them to invest in a good pair of galoshes. Were I asked to compose a handbook for parents of children playing recreational sports, it would be just this simple:

HANDBOOK FOR PARENTS OF CHILDREN PLAYING RECREATIONAL SPORTS by Stacye Carroll

1. Observe the adults who are working with, and for, your child with the knowledge that each of them is a volunteer. And remember that the amount of time you see them sacrificing is but a small part of the actual time spent.

2. You may assume that every volunteer working with your child does so with the best of intentions. They do not undergo rigorous background checks and mind-numbing training sessions with the purpose of undermining your child’s efforts.

3. No one enjoys asking another person for money, but quality sports programs require a large amount of funding. If your child has expressed an interest in playing youth sports, it is your responsibility to determine the costs involved and whether or not your family can afford to participate. This should be done prior to signing up.

4. Many programs mandate a specific minimum number of plays, per child. Coaches spend a considerable amount of time trying to satisfy this requirement regardless of your child’s ability. If you doubt this, please reread bullet point number two.

5. By the time your child has played a specific sport for a number of years, both you and he should be aware of his skill-set. Be reasonable about your child’s ability to play proficiently. Put another way, some children play sports with an eye towards competing on a higher level, while others play for fun. Be mindful as to which description fits your child, and allow him the freedom to be what he is, instead of what you would have him be.

6. Your athletic ability, or lack thereof, does not necessarily transfer, genetically, to your child. Please reread bullet point number five.

7. If you don’t have anything positive to say, keep your mouth shut. I borrowed this advice from my mother, and have found it serves me well in almost any situation, but is particularly effective when it comes to the emotions evoked by our love for our children. And, in case you missed it, the key word in that last sentence is “love”. Love your children, don’t brow beat them. They are truly doing the best they can do today, which isn’t necessarily as good as they did yesterday, and may be better than they will do tomorrow. Through it all, what they need from you, their parent, is love.

8. Go back and reread bullet points one and two again. If you still feel like your child isn’t being well-served, then it’s time to take a stand, as in stand up and volunteer. Your perspective will change, along with your viewpoint, as you view things from the other side of the bleachers.

Living True

Somehow I’d forgotten the particular shade of blue that is sky. That blue that defies duplication. The blue that speaks the word “yonder”, by inviting eyes to see further.

Today, I saw it, and knew the wonder.

I’ve missed the caress of wind in my hair. The feeling of freedom. A space in time whose only accompaniment is the dull roar of the engine in front of me, competing with wind whipping through an open window.

Today, I felt it, and appreciated the gift.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked into a loved one’s eyes as she spoke, or shared air, or a fork. I’ve missed the abandon of shucking my shoes under the table before resting my heels on the booth beside her. “That’s a lovely shade of blue on your toenails, honey. It looks just like you.”

Today I took the time.

Today I saw sky, and felt wind. I memorized the eyes of a friend, and held my daughter close for no reason. I stretched out, barefooted, in a booth at a restaurant and laughed loudly, with abandon.

Today, I knew the gifts of those who truly live.

Comes With Eggroll

When I was a kid, Chinese food was Chop Suey, served warm and fresh from a can. I remember dodging lots of water chestnuts in an effort to uncover tiny shreds of meat that justified use of the word “chicken” on the label. The best part of the whole meal was the topping of “noodles” which were not actually noodles at all, but tiny strips of crunchy pastry. Years later, my grandmother would introduce me to another, even tastier, use for Chinese noodles. After melting equal parts of chocolate and butterscotch chips in a double-boiler, she stirred in a package of noodles and dropped the mess by heaping spoonfuls on waxed paper. The finished product was called a “haystack” which quickly became a mainstay of childhood Christmases…but I digress.

While in college, my friends and I discovered this great little place in a strip-mall where four or five of us would meet for lunch. The “special” was a combination plate which offered a choice of two entrees, rice, soup, and eggroll. Everyone ordered something different and we shared. The price was reasonable, and there was so much food that we easily got by on just one meal a day.

As the mother of growing boys during the 1990’s, I welcomed the advent of the Chinese buffet. Not only could my sons eat until they were full for one low price, but the proprietors played to their audience by almost always filling a tray or two with traditional American favorites, such as pizza or french fries.

Saturdays usually began with a weekly visit to a local flea market that spanned an entire city block. My friend Hallie usually accompanied us and, fortunately, she too enjoyed Chinese food. After stowing our finds in the trunk of my car, we headed all the way across town for China Star Buffet. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to hear that this was the highlight of the trip for the kids.

The place was cavernous in more ways than one, as muted lighting camouflaged stains on the garishly colored, indoor-outdoor carpeting padding the seating area. My children’s behinds never even grazed the top of the tattered, vinyl-covered booth before heading for the brightly-lit, tiled buffet area at a controlled gallop. A row of six stainless steel buffet tables reflected light from exposed bulbs. in a manner that I suppose was meant to compliment the colorful display of food. The kids always made for the pizza first, before attacking the pan of beer-battered chicken, meant to be covered with sticky sweet-and-sour sauce. The last two buffets featured piles of freshly cut fruit and a full salad bar. My children’s feet never touched the tiles surrounding them.

Hallie and I also worked together, and often lunched at a more upscale establishment featuring an awning supported by four huge, gilded columns sprouting from the backs of statuesque lions. The food at Peking was considerably better than that enjoyed at China Star Buffet, which sat just around the corner. I’m sure it was this proximity that provoked Peking to install a lunch buffet. Theirs, however, was much smaller and featured only the food Americans think of as Chinese which one would never actually find in a restaurant in China. There was not a slice of pizza in sight.

When my oldest son, Josh, decided he liked his girlfriend enough to introduce her to his parents he requested we meet at Hong Kong Buffet; China Star Buffet being out of the question, as I had by now returned to Atlanta. Hong Kong Buffet had, apparently, purchased carpeting from the same manufacturer as China Star Buffet, and it was interesting to finally see what it looked like under sufficient lighting to confirm that it was indeed possible to remove stains made by toddlers flinging foods soaked in red sauces.

Josh’s girlfriend, Heather, and I returned to our assigned booth at the same time with similar looking plates of which the largest portion was covered by a gooey, cheesy, crab concoction. Well, I say crab. In truth, the chef had made no effort to hide the tell-tale, dye-reddened edges of faux crab he had sautéed with onions and butter, before swaddling the mix in an unnamed, but sinfully delicious, white cheese sauce. We shoveled the greasy mess into our mouths simultaneously, groaned at the same time, and shared a smile.

Shane and Roger, carrying platefuls of saucy meats and pastry encased cheese, soon joined us. Several mouthfuls later, we realized that Josh was missing. Scanning the stainless steel maze of buffets, I found him standing amidst a group of large African-American women holding empty plates while looking hungrily towards the swinging door that led to the kitchen; or as I thought of it at the time, Mecca. I could see the resolve on my son’s face as he tightened his grip on a single, thick, white, ceramic plate while staring into an empty, steaming bin where crab-legs used to be. He was first in line, and he would not be moved.

A swath of yellow light assaulted the colorful carpeting as the kitchen door swung wide, revealing a small, dark-haired woman of oriental descent who bent one knee just as the door began to arc back in her direction. The door stopped, and she gave it a little kick before entering the dining room. carrying a steaming metal dish in the direction of the buffets. Several of the women surrounding my son began to stir; their plates balanced precariously on multi-colored talons above their carefully coiffed, swiveling heads. Joshua’s eyes remained trained on the steaming hole before him.

The dark-haired serving girl cut her eyes in the direction of the milling crowd surrounding the space where crab-legs used to be, and shooting an apologetic smile in their direction, made for an adjacent buffet. Several of the women leaned in her direction, as though fearful she had taken a wrong turn, or planned a covert dump in a different pan. As she began to scoop greasy, green onion fronds mixed with bits of beef through the steam, they settled back into position, training their eyes once again on the nautically-inspired steel door.

Several minutes later, as I wiped oily remnants of crab casserole from the corners of my mouth with a napkin that definitely wasn’t cloth but wasn’t exactly paper, Josh returned to the table, slightly out of breath.

“Here…”, he growled, shoving a plated mound of steaming, orange crab legs between two sweating glasses of sweet tea. Before we could thank him, he was gone again.

I turned to see him pull a plate from the buffet and hand it to a large, blonde woman sporting a Dallas Cowboy’s jersey. Grabbing another, he meandered through the buffet maze, stopping occasionally to spoon food onto his plate. When he returned, several of his precious crab legs had been reduced to orange-colored shards.

Sighing heavily, Josh sunk into the booth beside his girlfriend and in the same motion lifted a bundle of swaddled cutlery.

Leaning in her direction he stage whispered, “Watch that door!”, motioning with his fork towards the swinging door to Mecca. “I’ll have to get up there fast if we’re going to get anymore.”

*******

Sometimes even twelve-year-old boys are needy. Take last weekend…

It wasn’t anything he said. He went about his normal routine, but something in his demeanor told me Shane needed one-on-one time; the kind you find under an immense, sparkling chandelier in a Chinese buffet. This one was called Asia Buffet and featured hand-rolled sushi and made-to-order stir fry.

“Hey?” I called out from the next room.

Shane gathered his limbs, which he had sprawled across a recliner while watching a football game.

“Yeah?”

“You hungry?”

The question warranted standing, as he answered. “Yeah!”

“Chinese buffet?”

“Cool! Let me get my shoes!”

And, I realized then that many of my family’s most pleasant memories come with eggroll.

A Numbers Game

I spent the better part of my thirty-fourth year dreading my thirty-fifth. It wasn’t that I expected anything to change. I didn’t see thirty-five as some kind of horrific milestone, though now looking back on it, I think subconsciously I knew I’d reached a realistic half-way point.

What I couldn’t get past was the ugliness of the number itself, the overt roundness of it, the slovenly way it sits on its protuberant bellies as though fully sated and content in its rotundity. For twelve months I avoided, at every opportunity, speaking my age. The image invoked by the words disgusted me.

What makes this behavior remarkable is the fact that I assign no importance to age. I couldn’t tell you the age of my siblings, and it takes an appreciable amount of ciphering to determine my father’s. I know the age of my children, but only because I am expected to recite it with some frequency. If you admit to having children, you are expected to know when you had them. I suppose that’s fair…

For a full twelve months, while in my early forties, I aged myself by one year. As my birthday neared, a friend laughingly pointed this out to me, proving her point by counting backwards from my birth-date. She jokingly held forth my lapse as proof of some kind of mental instability, and her jeering bothered me at first, until I realized that my behavior only proved what I already knew; it really didn’t matter. For years, the question “How old are you?” forced me to think. It just wasn’t a number I carried around in my head.

Until now…

I still hesitate when asked my age, but not because I don’t know the answer. I hesitate because being forty-nine means I’ll soon be fifty, and I don’t want to be.

As my birthday nears, I find myself surrounded by two types of people; those who know, and those who don’t. And, it is those who know who have made it difficult to share with the others. For the first time in my life, people seem to feel it acceptable to pronounce me “old”. And, they do so, loudly, and often.

My father was the first to raise the baton. Months ago, as we chatted on the telephone, he mentioned my upcoming birthday, casually asking “How old will you be?”. He’s in his late seventies; the question didn’t surprise me. This was before I’d learned to hedge, and my answer came quickly.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” His voice was loud. “You’re going to be fifty?” This time his volume was accented by an accusatory tone. “Do you know how old that makes me feel…to have a daughter who’s going to be fifty?” He laughed as though he’d told a joke. I struggled to see the levity, while chuckling softly so as not to hurt his feelings.

Since that time, my birthday is never mentioned by anyone who doesn’t feel it perfectly appropriate to point out my longevity. Some appear awestruck; as though living fifty years is an accomplishment worth considerable thought and recognition. Some seem to feel as though my age poses a ticklish predicament. They giggle and point as though I’ve caught my heel in a sidewalk grate. And, of course, there are those whose faces fall in sympathy. I prefer not to know what they are thinking.

A dear friend mentioned my birthday the other day, and immediately asked how old I would be. As we’ve known each other only two years, he had no reason to know. Because he is a man, and younger, I really didn’t want him to.

I vacillated between simply ignoring the question and employing my finest southern accent, reminding him how improper it is to ask a lady her age, sure that in his usual manner he would soon turn the conversation in a different direction. While I hesitated he began to throw out numbers, “Fifty-five? Seventy-six? Fifty-two?”, until I could take no more.

“Fifty.” I said it, again.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” His response resounded with authenticity, imbuing me with the courage to explain. He listened quietly until I finished.

“I have to admit that while you were talking I imagined myself fifty…and my heart did a little flip.” That one didn’t even hurt.

Last Saturday, my children and several friends celebrated my birthday by coming to my house for a cook-out. My oldest son manned the grill, and everyone else brought plates and plates of my favorite foods. The broccoli casserole my daughter-in-law made was the best I’d ever tasted, and by the time I discovered the potato casserole my daughter had cooked, I had to scrape the sides of the dish just to get a taste. My delight in their cooking skills was enhanced by the feeling that they belonged to me. I hugged them both, telling them how much I appreciated them. They did me proud…

100_0446

Despite my warnings, my daughter insisted I have my favorite cake. The raspberry-filled, white-chocolate cake she produced was perfect. As we admired her creativity, in scattering wine-colored cherry blossoms around the perimeter of the plate, she produced the obligatory package of black and white candles; the kind that usually come with a set of gray, plastic headstones.

“Do you like the Emo candles?”, she asked demurely.

“Where are the matching headstones?”, I countered.

“I said they were Emo, Mama.”, she answered with quiet forcefulness. “I’m being sweet.”

I meant to mark this day. Had all gone according to plan, I’d be wearing a jacket against an early chill as I clicked down a neon-lit sidewalk in Times Square. We’d be on our way to dinner, fashionably late of course, in a restaurant requiring reservations be made months in advance. Tomorrow would have been our final day in New York City. Our visit to the fashion district would be a wonderful memory as I laced my sneakers for one last run through Central Park.

As it is, I accept the blessing of over-time with a company hedging its bets against a fragile economy. I’m schlepping my son to football practice, and I’m writing. My gift to myself is my writing. I will document my half-century in words, and feelings, and words, and epiphanies, and words.

Happy Birthday to me…

Punting

It was late….

Darkness swaddled winding concrete pathways, separating injured playing fields, where echoes of parental calls of support lingered just above the distant tree-line.

The sound of slamming car doors bounced, softly, off firs enclosing the parking lot; and warning calls of parents to street-dancing children muffled.

And, that’s why I noticed her; she who was arriving just as everyone else was leaving.

The rubber band she’d twisted, earlier in the day, into her wispy, blonde hair was giving way, mocking facial lines that had deepened as the hours passed. Amidst the shadows, her face suggested Eastern Europe.

Two small girls of similar wisp and structure ran behind her as she began the descent towards the park. Each child clutched voluminous mounds of plastic grocery sacks.

I imagined their small hands cramming the sacks into receptacles dotting the park, above signs that read “Please clean up after your pet.” I’d always wondered who filled them.

But, they had no pet with them.

I slid behind the wheel of my own car, juggling my keys while I watched. The girls danced excitedly, taking turns leading the tiny caravan, unaware of their mother in a way that said they knew she was there, and always would be.

Just as they breached the fir-line, the woman slid her cellphone out of the pocket of her belted shorts.

And, I recognized the opportunity…and kinship.

I have been that woman…

Branded

It began as a message, unspoken;

an ocular indictment in a look of disappointment.

“Why can’t you be…?”

“I wish you were…”

“Try harder.”

As the eyes dimmed, the mouth moved,

forcing words over teeth that bite through consonants.

“Why do you always…?”

“Can’t you just….?”

“Try harder!”

And, the eyes, and the words brand the heart.

Now the looks reflect off glass and the words, unspoken,

populate the quiet spaces.

“Why didn’t I…?”

“Should I have…?”

“I’m trying…”

Lessons of the Father

Don’t tell me…

when you decided popularity trumped principle.

I don’t want to know.

Don’t tell me…

that winning is the best lesson and his trophies do more than collect the dust of missed opportunities to grow.

I don’t believe you.

Don’t tell me…

that your motives are altruistic.

Look it up.

And, as excuses fill your mouth with the bile of garbled rationalizations,

don’t tell me.

March to Manhood

“Mom? Are you sure I was supposed to bring a sack lunch?” It is at least the fifth time he’s asked the question.

“Yes, honey.” I try to sound soothing as I open the car door and pop the trunk lid. I fight the urge to heft the bag inside, and stand back as he finds the shoulder strap.

We start the hike across black pavement while I scan the growing crowd of campers for anything resembling a sack lunch.

“Look! There’s one.” I nod my head in the direction of a young brunette leaning against a large, bright green suitcase adorned with large, red hearts. A matching, miniature bag dangles from one hand.

“That’s probably not a lunch. That could be anything!”, he growls. “I don’t think we were supposed to bring a lunch. We didn’t bring one last year. We went to the dining hall.” His rests on his chest while he adjusts the shoulder strap of the larger bag.

I scan again, as we round the front fender of another parent’s car.

“Look! That has to be a lunch. See? You’re ok!”

A tall, thin boy, whose posture repeats the carelessness implicit in the length of his wavy, brown hair, stands between his parents. A small, brown, bag, imprinted with the words “Whole Foods” in large, green, block-lettering sits between his sneakered feet.

I breathe a sigh of relief at Shane’s silence.

We join the crowd, and as Shane searches for familiar faces I unsheath my camera.

“Mooomm! Don’t do that!” His effort to evade attention keeps his volume low.

“I want some pictures.” I explain while checking other parents’ shoulders for camera bags.

“What kind of dog do you think that is?” Shane attempts to draw my attention to a dog of obvious varietal lineage dancing on the end of a leash held by the woman standing next to me. He moves closer to the dog, and I wonder if he feels I’m less likely to photograph him surrounded by strangers.

I snap a shot. He tidies his hair, self-consciously.

“Hey, Shane!” We both hear it.

“Who was that?”

“Nick!”, he answers in a voice that suggests I should have known, while craning his neck in the direction of the sound. “He’s gone.”, he says, leaving “…and its all your fault.” unspoken.

A tide of campers and parents moves in the direction of the buses.

“Get your bag.”, I say as I zip my camera back into the bag, hoping to lessen his stress.

Uncertainty dances through Shane’s eyes as he reaches, again, for the shoulder strap.

“Where are we going?”, his voice mirrors his eyes.

“It looks like everyone is moving towards the buses.” I look back over my shoulder to see him heft the bag.

“Are you sure?”

I take a step back and put my arm around his shoulder.

“Come on.”

He walks under my arm until we reach the crowd gathered beside Bus 2, his bus. Standing much taller than he had when last we saw him, with shoulders and arms that speak of impending manhood; Trexler waits next to his Dad. Shane shirks my shoulder for that of his friend. The two former teammates complete the obligatory bump followed by an offering of all the testosterone they can muster in the form of an urban-style handshake.

“Hey…”, Shane mutters a studied disinterested greeting.

“Your bus?”, Trex points.

“Yeah…”

“What cabin?”

“Ten.”

A lazy smile slides across the taller boy’s face.

“Me, too.”

Shane fails in his effort to control his grin. “Cool!”

The two boys begin to rehash last year’s experience.

“Yeah, we stayed up till six in the morning…” Trexler talks through his grin.

“Don’t they wake you at eight?”, I ask, sharing a smile with Trexler’s Dad, Mr. Curtis, who employs his eyes as his mouth is busied with his coffee cup.

A boarding line begins to form. Shane hefts his bag with renewed enthusiasm, maintaining his place beside his friend. I force myself to take a step back. Trexler’s Dad joins me with a look that pats me on the back.

Minutes later, the line begins to move and so do I. The last thing I see before feeling Shane’s shoulders under my hands is the look of abject horror crossing his face.

“Moomm…”, he moans, softly. I pull away quickly, smiling my understanding, and return to my place beside Mr. Curtis, whose faraway gaze assures me of his willingness to overlook my unfortunate show of emotion.

Unreasonably, I worry that the counselor at the head of the line won’t find Shane’s name on the list. I remember worrying the same worry last year. As both boys board, my companion turns to me.

“Looks like they made it…”, he smiles a salutation and disappears behind the bus on his way to join the workforce.

I strain to maintain sight of the bill of Shane’s cap as he disappears behind the smoky windows of the bus. Despite my efforts, I lose sight of him.

Perhaps he sat on the other side. I walk to the other side of the bus, willing a look of casual interest as I stand in a median in dire need of mowing. After several minutes I am sure he is not there.

I consider leaving. After all, he probably won’t notice if I stay. But, I do.

I cross back the way I came and find a spot I’m sure is visible to anyone sitting on this side of the bus. If he only looks once, I should be here, I reason.

The driver makes ready to leave by lowering the doors of the luggage bins to reveal the bill of Shane’s cap. I stand quietly as he searches. I see him see me.

He raises his hand to his cap, and three fingers repeatedly brush the brim. I wonder at the movement until I see the intensity in his eyes.

I wave back, and we both smile.

Hunting Hearts

She was the definition of grace, as she swooped and swirled in languid circles mesmerizing her prey, effortlessly.

She appeared unaware, uncaring even, of his approach, as she pointed her regal features in the direction of a far horizon and glided into another turn.

Her helpless target paused, not out of fear, but in awe of the beauty before him.

We both watched, as she sailed in the wake of glorious plumage that caught and held the rays of the sun.

As he moved towards her, I prayed a silent blessing, feeling my impotence. His journey was inevitable.

She made another pass, looking for just a moment, in his direction.

I turned to walk back up the drive. The die was cast. For the moment, she had won.

He took several halting steps in her direction before allowing his gait to announce his decision, and as he drew closer, I’m sure I saw her smile.

Little girl on a bicycle….

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.