Friends for life

June 1, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Some of my earliest memories revolve around my friend Dee. I was six years old, living in a small town in upstate New York, when her family moved in across the street. My sister and I watched as they carried bed after bed across the lawn into their house. We were a family of four and they were family of 13, so we stared in amazement.

As young children, we were good friends. I remember building snow forts in the winter and riding bikes around the neighborhood in the summer. We played dress-up and went to each other’s birthday parties.

Dee and I were close for 44 years. We drifted apart for a time during high school, though we did have overlapping circles of friends. My senior year at Cornell University, after I returned from a semester studying in Amsterdam, we rented a house together. Our friendship as adults stood solidly from that point on.

My favorite memories are of meals we cooked together with ingredients from our local farmer’s market. Recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook, like Mushroom and Barley Soup. To this day, enjoying good food and making a meal to share, is a way I connect best with those I care about and an expression of love. Dee and I would sit at the table at our rented house on College Avenue and talk for hours. I learned so much from her and, over the years, could always count on her sage and to-the-point wisdom.

After college, I moved first to California and then Washington State. Dee moved to Vermont, then Maine, followed by Minnesota when she got married, and finally to Massachusetts. We kept in touch through letters and occasional phone calls. It was comforting to have a friend who understood me and knew my family history. Hearing her voice always centered and soothed me. She reminded me of what was truly important in life. Dedication to those you care about, deep friendships, and being true to oneself.

This weekend, Dee’s friend Kate was in town for work and we had an opportunity to catch up. Dee and Kate met in college. In fact, it was during my stint overseas that Dee transferred to Cornell and sublet my apartment. I spent time with Kate too, but she was Dee’s friend. Over the past thirty years, Dee helped us keep tabs on each other. She was the glue between her friends. She remembered the details in our lives and stayed connected with us, no matter the miles or years that came between us.

I really enjoyed the time spent with Kate, kindred spirits and a shared friendship with Dee. We might not have reconnected in this way, if not for the December memorial in York, Maine. Dee died a few days before Christmas after a decade-long struggle with breast cancer. Kate and I were both at the service, the first time in 27 years we’d seen each other in person.

I feel so blessed to have known Dee. Her friendship was one of the greatest gifts of my life. I am, without a doubt, a better person for having known her. I feel a profound sense of loss that she is no longer in the world.

So it was a great honor, though bittersweet, to have Kate here in Washington. She was able to meet Big Papa and visit the Urban Cabin. We gathered the makings for dinner at our neighborhood farmer’s market and enjoyed a good meal and even better conversation, on our deck. We laughed. We cried. We reminisced. Together, we shared the simplest pleasures in life, which was the essence of our friendship with Dee, and the memories we will always keep close to our hearts.

A little birdie told me

May 25, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Last weekend we watched local family drama play out in our backyard. Three robin chicks were leaving the nest. The first thing that clued us in was all the commotion in the trees, tweeting, chirping, squawking and the flurry of wings. Soon, we spied two chicks in our plum tree. Shortly afterwards, we saw chick number three hopping around on the ground near our fence.

The chicks were impossibly cute, round little balls of speckled feathers, bits of fluff still hanging on. No necks to speak of, just a big yellow beak that periodically opened as wide as the Grand Canyon to accept worms, berries and grubs Mama and Papa stuffed down their hungry gullets.

One chick found his way to the fencepost and we caught him doing deep knee bends, squatting down and then up on his spindly bird legs, as if to say, “I’ll be darned, look how these things work.” For the most part they sat, in relative safety, under the cover of foliage on the trees, just taking it all in.

Mama and Papa robin, on the other hand were as hard working as any two birds with a family of fledglings could be, racing through the sky this way and that to find food for their youngins,’ while fending off the cadre of cackling crows. They would team up in a moment’s notice and dive bomb the crows to keep them at bay. We were both pretty impressed that Papa robin pulled equal weight in the “kitchen.” Each parent took turns keeping watch on the rooftops surrounding our yard as the other went in search of snacks.

Big Papa and I were tuckered out from the flurry of activity after a couple hours. Later in the day when we ventured back out to check on our little flock, we saw that two of the three chicks were gone, hopefully off to greener pastures. One of the three chicks was still nestled into the crook of a branch on our apple tree.

Mama and Papa robin continued to keep an eye on him and feed him, but we were a bit worried when he was still there the next morning. Special needs chick? Our neighbor thought he was the runt and that his failure to “fly the coop” didn’t bode well for his future. We kept our fingers crossed that he just needed a bit more time to get himself together.

Monday morning he was still in the tree. Big Papa managed to catch a glimpse of him during a test flight from the tree to a ledge on the nearby apartment building. A few hours later, he was back in the tree. Wings, legs, and feet all seemed intact and in working order. Maybe he just liked our little oasis and was reluctant to strike out on his own. When I returned later in the afternoon, he was gone. I guess he was just a late bloomer, something I understand. The plum tree seems a bit lonelier without him and our backyard is certainly quieter.

I think about our own brood of one, who we’ll bring to nest with us in the Urban Cabin. When he fledges, I’ll be on the verge of seventy. Right now, from where we sit, the distance from the branch to the ledge seems impossibly far away. It’s hard to imagine a kiddo running around the house, much less leaving the roost a couple decades down the road. Still, like our backyard buddies, that day will come when he stretches his wings and takes flight.

Our house is a very very very fine house

May 21, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Our house was built in 1898. It’s simple house, a style called Victorian Farmhouse. At less than 1000 square feet, with only two bedrooms and one bath, it’s cozy. It still has a dirt floor basement with a few small piles of coal that must have been used way back when. We lovingly refer to our humble abode as the “Urban Cabin.”

Big Papa painted the Urban Cabin a lovely shade of yellow. When I first met him and saw his house, which one day became our house, the fact that it was yellow helped Big Papa earn few extra Brownie points. The house I grew up in on the East coast was also yellow and I reserve a special place in my heart for yellow houses.

Today, the Urban Cabin got a facelift, in the form of a new front door. The old door has a finely toothed ‘dental shelf,’ and a mechanical doorbell. When you turn the ringer, it sounds like the bell I had on the Schwinn bicycle I rode back in high school. It’s got a lot of character, that old door.

Unfortunately, over its lifetime, the fit in the door jamb isn’t as tight as it once may have been. Cold air seeps through the cracks and street noise is easily heard through the single pane glass. Our neighborhood being what is sometimes referred to as “transitional,” the number of locks and chains that have been installed make it look a bit like Fort Knox. Still, Big Papa and I feel a certain sadness to see it go.

I imagine the hundreds of thousands of times a key was placed in its lock and a hand on its doorknob. I wonder, how many times did the loud brrring-brrring of the doorbell announce visitors? And, how many comings and goings has this door, and our house, seen? Surely many, many families have called these four walls home over the past 111 years.

Big Papa and I knew just three homes between us in our growing up years. I lived in the same house from the time my parents brought me home from the hospital until I left for college. My mother still lives there. Big Papa was four when he moved ten miles from house number one to house number two.

Our memories go deep to the homes of our childhoods. We learn every nook and cranny and every quirk. The floorboard that squeaks each time you walk over it, the secret hiding places we’re sure no one else knows about, or how you have to turn the top key to the left and the bottom key to the right to open the door. Your home becomes an extension of who you are. The one tree in the yard you climbed when you were mad at your parents. How, if you crook your head just so, you’ll catch a glimpse of clouds passing by. Sounds of cars or the music of crickets after the sun has set. It’s part of our very being, just like salmon who seek the stream of their birth.

In the (hopefully) not-too-distant future, we’ll be sharing the Urban Cabin with our wee one. It will be the first “real” home he’s ever known, no disrespect meant to the orphanage that cared for him the first months of his life. I wonder what memories he’ll make in the little yellow house. Whether he’ll laugh when, later in life, he tells of splinters received from old fir floors as he learned to crawl. Will green be his favorite color, because it reminds him of the room where he laid his head each night as a young pup? Right inside our front door, is a wood sign we got as a wedding present. “Love grows in small houses.” The Urban Cabin may be small in stature but I know it’s still got plenty of love left to give.

Beauty is Only Skin Deep

May 18, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

“She canceled with only forty minutes to spare,” a job-searching friend told me describing a recent interview with his potential new boss. “We rescheduled for the next day and she was fifteen minutes late,” he continued. “But when she walked into the room, I forgave her because I was in awe of her beauty.” This said by my gay male friend, who wasn’t harboring an “I-want-to-date-her” hidden agenda.

Beauty alone won’t take you the distance, but the truth is, sometimes it provides pretty good traction. In my single days, I let plenty slide if someone floated my boat in the looks department and, if they didn’t, I doled out fewer ‘get out of jail free’ cards. Many times my vote of confidence, based primarily on attraction, was sadly misdirected.

I’ve been giving ‘beauty’ some thought lately, as Big Papa and I talk about ‘the face’ of our future kiddo, particularly as we consider adopting a child with special needs. There are so many kids in need a loving home who are, on the surface, less than perfect. They may have a club foot, be missing fingers, or possibly have cleft lip or a large birth mark, covering their face.

We try to imagine the impact this might have on our child in terms of the physical challenges he might experience, and also relative to the negative reactions or preconceived expectations he might encounter. At my gym, an instructor and a gym member were recently comparing pictures of their young tots. “Look at his face. What an angel,” one cooed. “Your daughter is gorgeous. You’ll have to keep her locked up when she gets older,” ventured the other.

I imagine pushing my cleft lip baby in his stroller down the sidewalk, only to have passersby shriek or shrink back when they peer inside. What do I say when well-meaning family members and friends ask for pictures of our bundle of joy. Do I preface what I share with cautionary statement?

When our child is old enough to understand hurtful comments directed his way, how do I handle the sadness or anger he may feel? In school, kids can be vicious. Even children without disabilities are subject to intense scrutiny and teasing. Do I teach him to be tough and stand up for himself or do I teach him to be forgiving and compassionate toward those who are ill-informed or just don’t get it? What can we do, as parents, to instill healthy self-esteem and a confident outlook on the world, particularly if our kid looks a bit different from your average Joe?

On some level my fears are based on my own history. I’ve often wrestled with feeling that if only I could lose ten pounds, I’d get the guy or just be happier. Maybe the buck stops with me. If my hope for our child is that he won’t let his life be controlled by how he thinks others see him, it’s time for me to nip my own insecurities in the bud. Be the role model I want to be by starting with how I see myself. Here’s looking at you, kid.

Thank God we’re not Mothers Day

May 8, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

Back in my 20s, every second Sunday in May, my female friends and I would congratulate each other on “Thank God we’re not Mother’s Day.” For us that meant we’d managed to survive another year without an unplanned pregnancy. We were invincible. Youth and fertility forever! We never gave a moment’s thought to menopause. Ah, the days of blissful ignorance.

In my late 30s and early 40s, I still believed pregnancy was possible. All the tabloid stories were proof. Gina Davis got pregnant at 47 with twins, as did Holly Hunter. Around my 45th birthday, I nonchalantly mentioned this at a visit with my gynecologist and she matter-of-factly informed me that they most certainly used donor eggs. I was dumbfounded. You certainly don’t read about that in People Magazine. I’m not sure I heard much of what she said past that point. I wallowed in pre-menopausal grief, as it dawned on me that chances were the only eggs in left in my basket were the chocolate eggs from the Easter bunny.

Now, six weeks away from turning 50, I fantasize about actually experiencing Mother’s Day, as a mother. It is almost inconceivable (pun intended). I conjure images of dry toast and runny eggs appearing bedside with cheery daffodils from our yard, as I wipe the equally runny nose of my child. I imagine cute syrupy cards from my husband telling me how proud he is of me, mother to our child.

Each Mother’s Day that passes feels painfully empty to me, just as Valentine’s Day did during my long stint of singlehood. I just want to get it over with. Quickly.

Friends share the news of their ‘blessed events’ and bouncing bundles of baby love seem to pop up out of nowhere. I see little ones every place I look – at the gym, the grocery store or giggling as they run by on the sidewalk in front of our house. Facebook announcements reveal that my high school peers are welcoming grandchildren. And the truth is that I find it harder and harder to genuinely share their joy.

Finding love that would last the rest of my life took 46 years. Big Papa was worth the wait. I’m certain choices for a husband that I might have made, even ten years earlier, would not have been happy or lasting unions. I know he’ll knock it out of the park as a Dad. Every day, I count my lucky stars that I landed a keeper.

As an adoptive mom-to-be, I’ve heard over and over again, that the angst and grief will disappear the moment my child is placed snuggly in my arms. Adoptive mothers say that I will forget the agony of month after month spent waiting, just as women who give birth soon forget each painful contraction of labor. That’s what they tell me. All I can say is bring it on. I’m ready to celebrate Mother’s day, with a child to call my own.

All in the Family

May 4, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

“He has your nose, can’t you see it?” I commented recently to a friend, on the resemblance she shared with her son. “Wow, where’d she get those curls?” I asked another. “You look just like your father did at your age,” my mother has said of pictures where we are both around twenty years old. “Yup, I’ve had a lipoma in my foot for years,” my father told me when I shared the news of my recently discovered and unwelcome growth.

For good or for bad, we carry with us the genes of ancestors past. We use it to define families, “Those O’Connors all have that red-as-Maples-in-Autumn hair.” We anticipate the various ailments that we’ve seen befall our parents and grandparents. And, we take pride when our genetics bless us with good looks. “My mother still has the legs of a teenage girl at 74,” a friend at the gym said when I complimented her on her own shapely gams.

I’ve thought about this quite frequently as a prospective adoptive mom. When questioned about the Armenian people, I’ll describe them as “Mediterranean looking with olive complexions, brown eyes and dark hair.” “Oh, that’s good,” will be the response. “Your child will look just like you.”

Replicating my genetics has very little to do with my reasons for adopting. Sure, there’s a small part of me that would get a kick out of seeing a mini-me running around the playground, or might get misty-eyed if I see our kid, use that same bite-the-bottom-lip expression Big Papa pulls out when he’s really trying to focus. But seeing us in him, for me, goes so much deeper than the curls on both our heads.

Friends have asked us about how our parents feel about our pending adoption. Fortunately, Big Papa and I have very adoption-friendly families. His two older siblings are adopted. My sister’s daughter is adopted. Big Papa’s mother, in the 1950s no less, even traveled by herself to Germany to adopt her first child. Because of this, our families are nothing if not supportive of our decision

That said, Big Papa is the last of his lineage. On his father’s side he’s the only biological child of an only child. Neither my sister, nor I were able to give birth. Her ovaries gave out before they even got started and mine just plain gave out. So we are also the last to be birthed in our family.

When all is said and done, in the moments I imagine a friend telling us there is something in our child that reminds her of one of us, this is what I want to hear. That our kiddo has Joel’s sense of humor and generous heart, my green thumb or way around the kitchen. If they say he’s kind to those less fortunate or works hard to make the most out of life, that’s good enough for me. In fact, it’s better than good.

Our essence is not our dark, curly hair, easily tanned skin, large hands or tendency toward high cholesterol. It’s not my luck in aging so well that I feel compelled to pass down for generations. I don’t want to be remembered for everything on the surface, but rather everything beneath it. If our child inherits any of this from us, my heart will swell and my soul will sing. I’ll be as proud as any parent can be.