Summer Solstice

The beginning of summer always reminds me of being sent off to my grandparents' farm for a couple of weeks once school ended. We would make the trek up from Virginia and meet my grandparents halfway, often in Frederick, MD. We'd always have lunch at a Burger King (my grandpa liked their strawberry shakes), and then we would move luggage from one car to the next, and my grandma would begin the long drive up into the mountains towards their home. I would 'entertain' them in the car by singing all the songs I knew and playing the license plate game or 'I spy,' and my grandmother, ever the cheerful one, laughed and sang along and made the hours pass by quickly. There was always a thermos of iced tea in the trunk, so when we stopped at a rest area, we had plenty of refreshment. 

Getting to the house was a thrill, and I always raced immediately upstairs to unpack my bags, folding all my things neatly into the dresser drawers or hanging them in the closet. Summer days were long and sweet then, filled with singing and frolicking in green pastures, tending to horses, swimming in my uncle's pool that was freezing cold and filled with water from a mountain spring, picking vegetables in the garden, listening to my grandfather tell stories, helping my grandma cook and run errands, and swinging on the small wooden swing (made from some rope and an old board) under the huge pine tree. When we would go on adventures (which was usually to a garden club meeting, to church, or to check in on a relative), I would stick my arm out the window as we buzzed up and down those winding mountain roads, and sometimes, when we hit a particular bend in the road just right, I almost felt like I was flying.

Evenings were spent watching the news (well, my grandfather watched), playing monopoly after dinner, and staying up as late as I wanted reading or talking with my grandma, a fellow night owl. Sometimes we would drive into one of the neighboring towns to have dinner and see a play, but usually time was spent tucked up in those familiar hills, with only the lightning bugs and the echo of our voices against the quiet mountains to keep us company.

For as long as I am here on this earth, I will remember the smell of the sweet grass in the pastures, the cool of the horse feed I would plunge my arm into to see how far down into the barrel I could reach, the sound of the birds lazily singing in the trees during the heat of the afternoon, the softness of my grandmother's arms around me when I ran to her for a hug, my grandfather's booming voice (much too loud to ever become a whisper, though he tried in the mornings not to wake me)...all the details, big and small, that made those times the closest thing to perfection this side of heaven.

101 years

Remembering my beautiful, blue-eyed spitfire of a grandma (whose first name I share) on what would have been her 101st birthday. Born a farm girl in central PA, my grandma got herself on a train to New York City and put herself through nursing school. She remained in NYC and eventually met my grandfather, Dr. Alexander Franco, when they were both working at the same hospital. After many years building a successful private practice, they retired back to 'the hills of home' in PA where they had a lovely farm with horses and big gardens and plenty of room for a little kid to wander and dream and re-enact the opening scenes from 'the sound of music.' smile emoticon

My grandmother was a strong-willed, indomitable spirit. She was smart as a whip and extremely industrious (and yes, maybe even a little bossy). She was a phenomenal cook and seamstress and had a head for all matters practical. She fostered my own passion for cooking and baking for others by letting me help her with everything she did in the kitchen—from preparing big family meals (for swarms of relatives), to baking hundreds of cookies and pies, to scrubbing, prepping, and canning/jarring countless bushels of vegetables from my great-uncle's gardens. She was also the consummate caregiver, always helping the "little old ladies" from church or her garden club (who were often not much older than she) by taking them to lunch and appointments. She made sure others never went without and always magically had some fresh coffee and a sandwich to anyone who drove up the lane to her house 'just for a visit.' She paid attention to the unnoticed, sending birthday and holiday cards to folks many others never took the time to acknowledge. She was a night owl, loved playing cards and monopoly with her grandchildren, and stayed up with me reading on nights when I felt too scared or anxious to sleep. Her heart was much bigger than her little 4'11" body and she always had a twinkle in her eye, especially when she laughed.

Happy birthday, Sarah E. Johnson Franco. I'll love you forever but always feel you closest to me when I'm throwing flour around in the kitchen heart emoticon.

39

this past week, I celebrated my 39th birthday. so hard to believe that i've reached the age where i can truly say i'm almost 40. where exactly did the years go?

on the cusp of that milestone, i am scrolling through memory albums and making lists of new memories i want to create...new things i want to do or experience. and really, i can think of so many things that i haven't yet done, so it would be easy to feel pressured or down about how much time has gone by that i have 'wasted.' but if there's one thing i've learned it's that life isn't a waste. for those days i spent lying on the couch watching tv, maybe i just really needed the rest. for the days spent crying or carrying on about something, maybe i just really needed to work some things out. for these and many other things in my life, i am learning to forgive myself. to cut myself some slack and to avoid the waste of worrying. because that really is a shame - to spend even one minute kicking yourself or wishing your past away.

i've made all the choices that i've made and i'll continue to make all the ones to come. i'm owning it this year. good, bad, indifferent - they're all mine.

and as i check off items, one by one, i know i will have a few people around me who truly get it, who love me and are proud of me because they know what courage it takes some days to just get by. and by God, i am grateful for those souls. they have saved my very life on more than one occasion. they are, quite often, the inspiration for adding new items to my lists, for giving me the pep talks when i need them, and for holding my hand when i've disappointed myself. 

and i am learning, even, to be that friend to myself, finally. to be the voice of forgiveness and acceptance over the criticism. to be the one who says 'try again' when all i see are unmet hopes and dead ends. 

nothing is perfect (nor will it ever be) and i'm learning more and more to be okay with that. i've got another year around the sun, God willing, and i'm going to make the most of it. my camera is charged up, my pen is poised, and i have fellow adventurers at the ready. let the next leg of the journey begin. one memory at a time.

p.s.

memories created in the past 5 days of this new birth year:

*watching the sun set over the chesapeake bay on my birthday evening, complete with a few sparklers and fireworks

*falling down in the ocean and laughing as the waves knocked me back again, over and over

*feeling the warm air on my face and the sunshine on my shoulders

*eating truly amazing food - my first 7-course chef's tasting menu - and documenting every bit of it in photos

*smelling the salt air

*finding new fun places in and around my favorite beach spot

*having deep talks and lots of laughter with my best friend

*watching fireworks from locust point on independence day with my fellow baltimoreans

*experiencing some july days that felt almost like spring - low humidity, warm sunshine, and great breezes (what a gift!)

'like the corners of my mind....'

this morning i had to sort through some boxes of cards and photos to locate a baby pic or two to take with me to a shower i'm attending today. and as i was sifting through all these treasures, i found some cards from my grandparents, notes from old friends, and the hundreds of things my best friend has written me over the years. and i couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with the love contained inside those cardboard structures. i was also reminded, unfortunately, of how much i've lost...of how some of those people whose handwriting graces birthday cards or whose faces smile in pictures are no longer in this world. my grandpa al, my grandma jane, my friend polly...i shed tears for them all this morning.

and then there are people with whom i've sort of lost touch. i mean, i know where in the world they are, but our lives have taken different paths. this is the case, really, with a number of friends whose memories line those boxes. and the whole experience had me thinking....can you ever really go back?

i've made efforts over time to keep in touch with various people—and really, facebook has helped me to reconnect with a lot of people from my younger days—but the daily grind kicks back in so quickly and it's really, really hard to sustain those connections beyond something utterly superficial. and in truth, i think we're not really meant to turn around. life is lived in forward motion. if one chooses to interact with people from the past, it has to be about who they are NOW, not who they were then. and what i've learned is that some of us have never really grown up much. i see the faces of people who are still clinging to their teenage selves, still drinking like they're in college, still trying to avoid their own realities. and as much as i get that, on some level, i just can't be there.

no, see, i'm done pretending the way that 18-year-old me used to feel she had to do in order to get by. i'm done living in a big game of charades and comedy sketches, and 'what would you really think of me if you knew what i was thinking'-type scenarios. i prefer to look you in the eye and just be me, unabashed. and the me that i am now might not be super palatable to some people who've called me 'friend' over the years. i mean, sure, i haven't turned into a jerk or anything, but i've also come to this place where i no longer feel the need to live up to others' expectations. and some of my more zealous ways have been tempered into something a bit more...well....reasonable for me and where i live my life these days.

so while it's lovely and heartwarming (and, at times, sad) to sift through what i was and where i went and who i was with, i want to see what today will bring...what memories there are to be made in THIS space, at THIS time, with the beautiful people around me. and i welcome tomorrow with open arms and the hope that my future 'looking backs' will find much sweetness and very little sorrow. for now, though, head up, eyes open. onward....

'and all the roads we have to walk are winding. and all the lights that lead the way are blinding....'

i remember a late fall/early winter afternoon while i was still living in gaithersburg, maryland. i was driving home from work in my 2000 silver jetta with the weight of the world on my shoulders and a lump in my throat that had been there for 2 days straight. as i waited at the light on georgia avenue, the sun was just beginning to set and it seemed that darkness was descending quicker than i could speed down that suburban road toward home. a few minutes later, music blaring out of my CD player, i remember turning left on norbeck road and approaching the lake as the first sobs heaved out of me, tears streaming down my face and blurring my vision. i pulled my car over to the shoulder and screamed out my sadness and anger into the approaching night, the desperation raging from somewhere deep inside of me. all that i had tried—and failed—to escape was trapped inside that roof and those four doors, stifling me.

after 45 minutes, i felt a bit lighter from the emotional purging and drove the last mile to the apartment i shared with my best friend. the light inside burned my now-red eyes. my cheeks and lips and lids were swollen and tear-stained. i felt deflated and empty and walked directly to my room to lie against my cool sheets in the dark. it was better that way.

now, 7+ years later, i sit here on a thursday night realizing that these days, i might go months without a good cry, and what often sets it off has nothing to do with those old hauntings. it has been a long journey from there to here, and the road has taken me in many different directions, with stops and side trips along the way. sometimes i haven't been able to see from the grief that clouded my vision. sometimes the darkness fell too quickly and sometimes the lights shone too brightly in my eyes. sometimes all i wanted to do was sleep and yet i kept driving, with only the hope of my destination keeping me going.

i've heard it said that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. i'm here to report that this is, quite simply, untrue. there is no straight line between then and now and no 'shortest distance' to be found when it comes to walking a crooked path filled with pain and heartache. the salvation in it all, though, is that there are those chosen few who walk beside you from time to time. there is friendship and laughter and sometimes even love to stave off the loneliness and confusion. there are maps and signs and roadside stands. there are smiles and phone calls and random chats with near strangers. there are blogs and internets and people who remind you that the possibilities for joy are greater than for sorrow.

all of these things, tangible and intangible, seem to make the crooked paths straighter somehow. these are my wonderwalls, and 'i don't believe that anybody feels the way i do about you now.' they never will.