Category: Patios

Frayed Strings

 

No one loves their children more than I do.  My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught.  But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful.  When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention.  The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy.  When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep.  When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it.  And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing.  Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer. 

“Do you want a party?  You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends.  We could go to the park.  You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard.  Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer.  He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party.  There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse.  As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window.  Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls.  The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls.  Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok!  So what do you want to do?  We could go out to dinner.  Your choice!  Or we could go to the movies.  You could take a friend….You tell me.  What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother.  He married just before Shane’s birthday.  He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu.  My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation.  And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house.  I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn.  I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it.  Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment.  No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased.  I shopped without uttering the word “no”.  I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house.  I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up.  He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile.  The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!”  I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den.  Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone.  I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.” 

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom.  Gotta go.”  Male voices parried in the background.  I understood the distraction.

“Ok…”  Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Tiki Tacky

I remember when it seemed that every one of my neighbors had installed solar landscape lighting, and how much I envied their muted glow. I began to research, immediately, and on seeing the price-tag, decided I could wait until next year, and the next year, and the next. ]

This year I made the jump, purchasing a dozen ten-inch lamps, which I arranged in various flower beds in such a manner as to suggest I’d given their placement little or no thought. I admire them nightly, as the dogs and I go for one last backyard stroll. And I take particular delight upon seeing them blink on as I sit on my dusky patio.

I realized recently that the shape of the sky I can see above my patio has changed little over the years. Many decades-old pines, their branches laden with a bumper crop of pine cones, strain to fill the space and fail, graciously. I like looking into the space I am given. The familiarity of it brings comfort.

That was before I saw them.

My son’s bellow interrupted my reverie forcing my eyes away from my patch of blue to the window nearest the patio. His emergency averted, I shifted my hips to a new place of comfort, and before I could assume the position, they caught my eye. It started as a twinkle; a yellowish twinkle that spoke of fire and warmth. I squinted to get a better look as the pines swayed in and out view. Within seconds I was sure. They were tiki lamps.  My neighbor had tiki lamps!

My first reaction was to scan the grounds for signs of a party. After all, everyone knows that no one lights tiki lamps unless they are having a party.  But, the grounds were quiet, save for one adolescent boy and his golden retriever, who danced in circles around his feet in preparation for his sailing of the Frisbee he held in one hand.  I squinted, again.

Their deck was awash in the glow of firelight! I counted three lamps, fully aware that the pines obscured my view, and that there could be many more lamps that I couldn’t see. I watched the boy and his dog, sure that his guests would join him momentarily, but they never did. The solar light nearest me blinked on as though aware of the competition.

The boy finally threw the disc, prompting the retriever to bound down the deck stairs, as his master made his retreat into sliding glass doors that allowed the blinking colors of a massive television screen.

I have twinkle lights. They swag between burgeoning, green hanging baskets in the sun-room. I love their tiny warmth.

And now I have solar landscape lighting. I admire their glow.

But, I don’t have tiki lamps.