My family - my husband, three children, and me, went "small" for Christmas dinner this year. No family over, no fancy clothes, just "whatever was in the fridge that we needed to get rid of." Dessert was the last few remnants of the handmade, edible gifts our friends had shared with us. And it dawned on me, as I was putting my kids to bed (or trying to...) - this is our ninth Christmas in this house. This puzzled my son. "But I'm only 8," he exclaimed. To which I responded, "That's right - you were zero when we had our first Christmas here - you were six days old."
That brought back so many memories of our first Christmas in this house - so, so, comical to look back at now, but what an absolute WRECK I was living through it! That first Christmas, 2003, both my son and my address were six days old. Do the math. My good friends recall that I went into labor in the middle of moving and had to put every plan B into place to pull that one off, including calling a friend to meet the movers at the new house and having the movers rely on Visio diagrams to place the furniture. My mother and sister and her family saved us by getting the new house key from us at the hospital and unpacking the bedding for us and putting the beds together so that mommy, daddy and baby all had a place to sleep upon arriving "home" from the hospital.
Goodness, I was the picture of control before that baby was born - I knew I was due somewhere in the latter half of December, and I knew we had the move coming up, so I made sure I had all the Christmas cards written and mailed by the first week of December, all the gifts bought, wrapped and shipped; Christmas was going to be a breeeeeze. All I had to worry about was packing and hope that the baby and the movers wouldn't come on the same day. Doctor assured me that baby was due to be at least a week late. I thought for sure I could get into that house with a little time to buy a small tree. I didn't even buy Christmas presents for baby, since I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl, and I couldn't buy a "Baby's First Christmas" outfit because I didn't know if baby would be having it's first Christmas that year, or the next!
Well - without going into the whole story, the tempest hit on December 19 when I delivered my beautiful boy - middle named "Nicholas" as a commemoration of the season (and of course because we liked the name). Mommy, daddy and baby arrived at our new house on Dec. 21--the only time, coincidentally, that I ever spent longer than 24 hours in the hospital having a baby. Control was completely gone. Here I was in a new house with no Christmas tree or decorations, in a new town with no one I knew, with a new healthy baby, and surrounded by boxes. I was in total and complete shock.
I started to come out of it a few days later and rallied enough to find a few Christmas decorations - a lit animated reindeer that came with us from our old house, and one of those 4-ft. silver metal trees with the color wheel, that I bought in my single days because it was "kitschy." Gosh darnit, we were having Christmas in the new house, by hook or by crook. I even invited family over for Christmas day dinner (since they told me they would bring it...I only needed to supply the house!).
Christmas day came and I became the afore-mentioned wreck. Lunatic? Maybe some of that too. I had no friends with newborn babies, I didn't know anyone on my street, I had no lights on my house and a SILVER tree, and to top it all off, my son wasn't eating that day so I was on edge because with your first one, you don't know that those days are normal. Oh, and of course none of my nice clothes fit. Good Christmas outfits rarely come in "elastic." I spent the entire Christmas morning crying. I was so stressed out, I called my family and CANCELED Christmas.
My mother eventually forgave me.
A few days later my sanity started to return and I got my family to graciously agreed to redo Christmas on New Year's Day. I had time to get my son a "first Christmas" outfit, and I have a picture of him under that silver tree. There is even a family picture of my husband, son and me on our front lawn with that reindeer, on that new, cold, fake Christmas day. And I found pants that fit. Until dinner.
So cut to eight Christmases later, our ninth Christmas in this house. That animated reindeer, lovingly held together by duct tape, was sold at a garage sale a few years ago and replaced with three new, smaller lit reindeer - one for each child who was born here. And that silver tree? It was replaced in the living room every year since with a larger fir tree that we pick out as a family every year. And on that tree? There is a "first Christmas" ornament for each child, and most of the tree is decorated in ornaments made in preschool, Sunday school, and grade school. The kids all help decorate. My son, whom I couldn't even get to Christmas mass that first stressful Christmas, can now retell the story of the Nativity to his little sisters. The silver tree is still here, and it has a new home in the playroom. If you know where I live, you can drive past my house and see it lit up in our upstairs window.
And the new house in the new neighborhood? Not looking so new anymore, but the new neighborhood gelled nicely, and three of the last seven years we entered the city holiday lights contest and won for "Best Neighborhood" each time. And my counter tops are full of the delightful candies and cookies we all make for each other at holiday time. We've come a long way from having no one we knew at Christmas to having some amazing friends that will last us a lifetime.
And the Christmases have all been different - sometimes we go to a relative's house for a fancy dinner; once we gathered some other neighbors who weren't doing anything either and pot-lucked it, and some have been like tonight, when we did nothing special except have our piecemeal dinner together, all of us at the table at the same time.
Strike that...that actually is pretty darn special.
Merry Christmas one and all!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
She's Ba-ack...
I don't really know where to start. But I feel like I have to start somewhere. It's got to come out or it will poison me. There was a chapter of my life I thought was over, a book that had been closed and burned. But some things, like a bad penny, keep returning. The book is back open, and I don't know the ending anymore.
My former stepmother is back. We'll call her Linette. Cuz, well, that's her name. Or I think that was her name. There were some mysterious things about her, the history of her name among them. I always called her Linette to her face. Behind closed doors I had other names. There were documents with other names too. And her age was always in question. Somehow she was younger than my dad, but her youngest child was still older than my dad's oldest.
Let's go back to how I came to have a stepmother in the first place; I'll try to keep it short. My parents split right before I turned 13. I remember they took me to dinner at Denny's to tell me, someplace public so I wouldn't make a scene. They sold our house in the "good" part of town, and I moved with my mother into a one-bedroom apartment in the bad part of town.
Now, teenage girls not getting along with their mothers is nothing new, but I was having a particular challenge with my mom. Maybe it's because of where we lived, but she was extremely protective of me. She used to take me to the bus stop and wait there till the bus came. I wasn't allowed to walk a block-and-a-half to the library by myself. And I was 14. I felt stifled, babied, and I didn't like it. 14, 15, 16 - those are kind of dark years for me...more than enough for 10 blog entries, maybe even a book - but at 15 I decided I couldn't really take living with my mom anymore and went to live with my dad. Sure, he lived on the good side of town and I had my own room at his place, but that wasn't the appeal - I had freedom. I could cook for myself, walk to the bus stop by myself, I could get "alone" time. That was soooo...different.
Shortly after I moved in with my dad, we both moved in with his then-girlfriend. She seemed nice enough, we lived in a different city, walking distance from the beach, I had my own room that I could decorate myself (can you say "pink bordello"?). She had dogs- dogs that meant more to her (and eventually to my dad) than even children. She became my stepmother shortly before I turned 16. There you go, my stepmother - professional photographer who somehow couldn't make a living at it, bottle blonde, oh - and raging alcoholic.
I soon came to know that there was a fine line between "independence" and "neglect" or even "abuse." I can't tell you all the stories, I don't even want to. I'll never stop writing, or I'll write things that aren't fit to print. Like the time I was coming down with strep and had to ride my bike to a basketball game in winter because the dogs had to go to dog school so no one could drive me. Or the time I did something wrong- I don't remember what, I probably made dinner wrong - and she threw plates at me. And why was I making dinner? Because she was usually too drunk to by dinner time. Now, I don't want to say no one cared...they did put me in therapy. But it had to be the ones they liked. The one I loved best was the one they wouldn't let me stay with. The one who told me how smart I was and that I had to protect myself. CUT! On to the next therapist. Let's keep in mind we're not talking about a total screw-up kid here. I was still a straight-A student, cheerleader, did my chores, had a job, went to church every week. But I did have a bad habit of taking out my anger on my hair. And a few eating disorders.
After I turned 16, my sister and her infant daughter came to live with us. I know this was a lot to take on, but my sister, six years my senior, had just left an abusive relationship (I am proud (?) to say I am the first woman in my immediate family who's never had a guy beat her). My sister needed a place to stay and a job and wasn't going to try to live off anyone. She actually got a job working at the company my stepmother worked at. This allowed her to see how many times my stepmother was drunk in the office. It also allowed her to absolutely kick Linette's butt at work. Can you say, "Threatened?"
It was around this time when my dad took my sister and me aside and said we were putting too much of a strain on his new marriage, and we needed to move. out. without parents.
And you know what? We did. My 22-year-old sister, her now-toddler daughter, and 16-year-old me got a cute little apartment in an OK part of town and lived off my sister's salary, my little paychecks, and the child support check that my dad was obligated to pay to my caregiver. My sister went to night school, got married to a nice guy, I eventually moved back in with my mom, and graduated high school with honors. I got my own place at 19. We didn't talk to my dad much. He made his choice.
I did see my dad (and that woman) a few times over the next 10 or so years. I put myself through college and he came to my graduation. Someone told me he cried. Not sure if that was pride or guilt he was feeling. When I got married, I wanted to make some attempt at family and invited him to walk me down the aisle. We weren't sure if he would show. He came by himself, walked me down the aisle, and left. I think that's the only picture I have with him at my wedding.
By the time I had my first child, I determined that I wanted my kids to have a relationship with their grandfather. Good news for us, I guess, in that my dad and stepmother were in the process of divorcing, he was retired, had lots of free time, and he moved about 20 minutes away from me (Linette moved to Texas). Things weren't perfect and I would be foolish to think something that damaged could be glued back together with no visible cracks, but my dad seemed to be making an attempt to bond with my children to make up for what he never gave me. And he did a pretty good job at it. Babysits my kids, comes to events with us. Was there for every baptism, every birthday party.
Until this week. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, dad can't make his only grandson's birthday party.
Because his second ex-wife, Linette, is moving back into town that day.
I guess co-dependency never really dies. Bye dad, see you around sometime. Watch out for your plates.
My former stepmother is back. We'll call her Linette. Cuz, well, that's her name. Or I think that was her name. There were some mysterious things about her, the history of her name among them. I always called her Linette to her face. Behind closed doors I had other names. There were documents with other names too. And her age was always in question. Somehow she was younger than my dad, but her youngest child was still older than my dad's oldest.
Let's go back to how I came to have a stepmother in the first place; I'll try to keep it short. My parents split right before I turned 13. I remember they took me to dinner at Denny's to tell me, someplace public so I wouldn't make a scene. They sold our house in the "good" part of town, and I moved with my mother into a one-bedroom apartment in the bad part of town.
Now, teenage girls not getting along with their mothers is nothing new, but I was having a particular challenge with my mom. Maybe it's because of where we lived, but she was extremely protective of me. She used to take me to the bus stop and wait there till the bus came. I wasn't allowed to walk a block-and-a-half to the library by myself. And I was 14. I felt stifled, babied, and I didn't like it. 14, 15, 16 - those are kind of dark years for me...more than enough for 10 blog entries, maybe even a book - but at 15 I decided I couldn't really take living with my mom anymore and went to live with my dad. Sure, he lived on the good side of town and I had my own room at his place, but that wasn't the appeal - I had freedom. I could cook for myself, walk to the bus stop by myself, I could get "alone" time. That was soooo...different.
Shortly after I moved in with my dad, we both moved in with his then-girlfriend. She seemed nice enough, we lived in a different city, walking distance from the beach, I had my own room that I could decorate myself (can you say "pink bordello"?). She had dogs- dogs that meant more to her (and eventually to my dad) than even children. She became my stepmother shortly before I turned 16. There you go, my stepmother - professional photographer who somehow couldn't make a living at it, bottle blonde, oh - and raging alcoholic.
I soon came to know that there was a fine line between "independence" and "neglect" or even "abuse." I can't tell you all the stories, I don't even want to. I'll never stop writing, or I'll write things that aren't fit to print. Like the time I was coming down with strep and had to ride my bike to a basketball game in winter because the dogs had to go to dog school so no one could drive me. Or the time I did something wrong- I don't remember what, I probably made dinner wrong - and she threw plates at me. And why was I making dinner? Because she was usually too drunk to by dinner time. Now, I don't want to say no one cared...they did put me in therapy. But it had to be the ones they liked. The one I loved best was the one they wouldn't let me stay with. The one who told me how smart I was and that I had to protect myself. CUT! On to the next therapist. Let's keep in mind we're not talking about a total screw-up kid here. I was still a straight-A student, cheerleader, did my chores, had a job, went to church every week. But I did have a bad habit of taking out my anger on my hair. And a few eating disorders.
After I turned 16, my sister and her infant daughter came to live with us. I know this was a lot to take on, but my sister, six years my senior, had just left an abusive relationship (I am proud (?) to say I am the first woman in my immediate family who's never had a guy beat her). My sister needed a place to stay and a job and wasn't going to try to live off anyone. She actually got a job working at the company my stepmother worked at. This allowed her to see how many times my stepmother was drunk in the office. It also allowed her to absolutely kick Linette's butt at work. Can you say, "Threatened?"
It was around this time when my dad took my sister and me aside and said we were putting too much of a strain on his new marriage, and we needed to move. out. without parents.
And you know what? We did. My 22-year-old sister, her now-toddler daughter, and 16-year-old me got a cute little apartment in an OK part of town and lived off my sister's salary, my little paychecks, and the child support check that my dad was obligated to pay to my caregiver. My sister went to night school, got married to a nice guy, I eventually moved back in with my mom, and graduated high school with honors. I got my own place at 19. We didn't talk to my dad much. He made his choice.
I did see my dad (and that woman) a few times over the next 10 or so years. I put myself through college and he came to my graduation. Someone told me he cried. Not sure if that was pride or guilt he was feeling. When I got married, I wanted to make some attempt at family and invited him to walk me down the aisle. We weren't sure if he would show. He came by himself, walked me down the aisle, and left. I think that's the only picture I have with him at my wedding.
By the time I had my first child, I determined that I wanted my kids to have a relationship with their grandfather. Good news for us, I guess, in that my dad and stepmother were in the process of divorcing, he was retired, had lots of free time, and he moved about 20 minutes away from me (Linette moved to Texas). Things weren't perfect and I would be foolish to think something that damaged could be glued back together with no visible cracks, but my dad seemed to be making an attempt to bond with my children to make up for what he never gave me. And he did a pretty good job at it. Babysits my kids, comes to events with us. Was there for every baptism, every birthday party.
Until this week. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, dad can't make his only grandson's birthday party.
Because his second ex-wife, Linette, is moving back into town that day.
I guess co-dependency never really dies. Bye dad, see you around sometime. Watch out for your plates.
Monday, October 17, 2011
How far forgiveness?
I've recently started reading the blog my ex-husband writes.
OK, maybe a few surprises in that sentence. Yes, I can read, and yes, I have an ex-husband. Welcome to the '90s for Christine Tancredi.
Well, it actually started in the '80s when we met. We belonged to our respective groups of girl/guy friends who worked at different stores in Del Amo Mall. I think somehow in our interlinked group, each of the guys had dated (or, well, maybe something short of dated...) at least two girls in the group, and vice versa. We were no exceptions, and we all kinda made our way around it. Maybe one of the things that bonded the two of us was that we were both writers, both Communications majors at our respective colleges. I went the advertising/PR route, and he was more of a traditional journalist. What's funny about it now is that we both have blogs. I assume he has one for the same reason I do - we're both in jobs that are not terribly creative, and we each need our creative outlets.
There's a lot of assumption in the above, because I don't really know. We're not actually friends. Which got me thinking...why couldn't we be?
I haven't spoken to him in years. In fact I think the last time I did was when I was remarrying. I thought I needed to have my marriage to him annulled and I of course needed his agreement to do so. I ended up not needing the annullment, but I did get some feedback from him that I wasn't expecting. I *think* he forgave me for the mistakes I made in our marriage. He let me know at that time that he could look back on our 7-year-relationship and remember more of the funny times than the bad times, and that he was no longer angry. This was 10 years ago. His mom died a few years ago and I had planned to go to her funeral, but I decided not to at the last minute because frankly I didn't know if I'd be welcome.
By 10 years ago, I was no longer angry either, and I'd forgiven him long before that thanks to a wonderful therapist named Lily. We both made mistakes and I think we spent our entire marriage in different emotional places, unavailable to eachother at the times when one needed the other. And although our break-up wasn't quite pretty, we've both ended up in better places and must acknowledge it was for the best. And maybe that's why I don't recommend marriage for people in their early 20s. You never know who you will be when you grow up, but it's not usually who you are at 22.
So why do I hesitate when I say I thought I'd been forgiven? It kinda comes back to the blogging. I have seen things in his blog that make reference to our long-ago past. The other day he all but mentioned me by name in his blog as he distinctly recalled a funny episode from our time together. OK, good, he hasn't completely blocked it. I have left very brief, positive comments on his blog entries. And they've been deleted. And he won't be my friend on Facebook. Some of his friends are my friends, but not him.
I kinda get it. No, I really get it. You know, when I read his blog he seems like he has the kind of family my family would be friends with if we lived in the same neighborhood--and, oh yeah, if we hadn't been married to each other. There's always gonna be that. Even though I know my husband is the love of my life, I can never erase that I've had a "first marriage" before him. And do I want to erase it? No, probably not, because I wouldn't be the same person I am today without it. I haven't figured out how I'm going to tell my kids about it someday. I wonder how or if my ex will tell his.
But we will probably never be friends again, not on Facebook, not in life. And I think I will have to live with that. I started to write, "and not take it personally." That's impossible. One can't not take that personally. But one can take it realistically. Can't live in the past. My life is good now and complete. And complete doesn't mean having everything but it means having enough.
I have more than enough good in my life to not need anything more. And we can't always get what we want and that's OK. And it could be worse. I'm sure there are plenty of "I hate my ex" blogs out there, and he doesn't have one of those, right?
OK, maybe a few surprises in that sentence. Yes, I can read, and yes, I have an ex-husband. Welcome to the '90s for Christine Tancredi.
Well, it actually started in the '80s when we met. We belonged to our respective groups of girl/guy friends who worked at different stores in Del Amo Mall. I think somehow in our interlinked group, each of the guys had dated (or, well, maybe something short of dated...) at least two girls in the group, and vice versa. We were no exceptions, and we all kinda made our way around it. Maybe one of the things that bonded the two of us was that we were both writers, both Communications majors at our respective colleges. I went the advertising/PR route, and he was more of a traditional journalist. What's funny about it now is that we both have blogs. I assume he has one for the same reason I do - we're both in jobs that are not terribly creative, and we each need our creative outlets.
There's a lot of assumption in the above, because I don't really know. We're not actually friends. Which got me thinking...why couldn't we be?
I haven't spoken to him in years. In fact I think the last time I did was when I was remarrying. I thought I needed to have my marriage to him annulled and I of course needed his agreement to do so. I ended up not needing the annullment, but I did get some feedback from him that I wasn't expecting. I *think* he forgave me for the mistakes I made in our marriage. He let me know at that time that he could look back on our 7-year-relationship and remember more of the funny times than the bad times, and that he was no longer angry. This was 10 years ago. His mom died a few years ago and I had planned to go to her funeral, but I decided not to at the last minute because frankly I didn't know if I'd be welcome.
By 10 years ago, I was no longer angry either, and I'd forgiven him long before that thanks to a wonderful therapist named Lily. We both made mistakes and I think we spent our entire marriage in different emotional places, unavailable to eachother at the times when one needed the other. And although our break-up wasn't quite pretty, we've both ended up in better places and must acknowledge it was for the best. And maybe that's why I don't recommend marriage for people in their early 20s. You never know who you will be when you grow up, but it's not usually who you are at 22.
So why do I hesitate when I say I thought I'd been forgiven? It kinda comes back to the blogging. I have seen things in his blog that make reference to our long-ago past. The other day he all but mentioned me by name in his blog as he distinctly recalled a funny episode from our time together. OK, good, he hasn't completely blocked it. I have left very brief, positive comments on his blog entries. And they've been deleted. And he won't be my friend on Facebook. Some of his friends are my friends, but not him.
I kinda get it. No, I really get it. You know, when I read his blog he seems like he has the kind of family my family would be friends with if we lived in the same neighborhood--and, oh yeah, if we hadn't been married to each other. There's always gonna be that. Even though I know my husband is the love of my life, I can never erase that I've had a "first marriage" before him. And do I want to erase it? No, probably not, because I wouldn't be the same person I am today without it. I haven't figured out how I'm going to tell my kids about it someday. I wonder how or if my ex will tell his.
But we will probably never be friends again, not on Facebook, not in life. And I think I will have to live with that. I started to write, "and not take it personally." That's impossible. One can't not take that personally. But one can take it realistically. Can't live in the past. My life is good now and complete. And complete doesn't mean having everything but it means having enough.
I have more than enough good in my life to not need anything more. And we can't always get what we want and that's OK. And it could be worse. I'm sure there are plenty of "I hate my ex" blogs out there, and he doesn't have one of those, right?
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Summers in New Jersey
"The Notebook" is on TV tonight. I love that movie for so many reasons. Cheesy love story that hooks chicks all the time, I'm sure. Who doesn't fall for a soft-spoken Southerner who reads poetry? But tonight while watching that movie I looked at the scenery and realized another reason why that movie appeals to me - it reminds me of summers at my aunt's house in New Jersey.
Now I am sure when I say, "Summers in New Jersey," one thinks of "Jersey Shore," GTL, or something you would see on the Sopranos. There's a lot in NJ to make fun of, surely. But my aunt lived (and still lives) in a sleepy little town called Bayville, just outside of Toms River. Every house I remember there has a dock in the backyard with a little boat (or if you had a lot of money, a big boat). I caught my first fish off the boat that docked in my aunt's backyard. I inner-tubed - because I couldn't swim - in that water after climbing down a little ladder off the back of that property.
When you think about the classic "I summered in...," that's what Bayville was for me. Think about a bog with knee-high grasses. Waterways everywhere you look. Riding a rickety bike with no gears, and back then, no helmets, to the store for a soda or an ice cream. Getting eaten to death by mosquitos because you were out too late catching fireflies. Heading out to the pizza place that, well, you didn't really know what it was called because everyone always called it by it's nickname. Waking up in the morning to the sound of the water and the din of those insects you only really hear in the summer. Those sounds and sights fill the movie I am watching now - takes me back. Magnolia trees are replaced by maples and weeping willows, but so many of the visual memories are the same.
I think Bayville also represents to me one of the first chances I ever had at a little freedom. I think staying at my aunt's house was the first time I ever slept over anywhere without my parents. I can't recall how long I actually stayed at my aunt's house at a stretch; it was probably only a weekend but it felt like two weeks for me. After a time I got to know the girl across the street and her family. Michelle was slightly younger than me and she lived in Bayville all the time and I thought that was exotic. My aunt, at the time, only visited on weekends and summers but she lived in NY full time. Now that my aunt's older, she lives permanently in Bayville. I think Michelle's parents still live across the street. Michelle and I were "summer" friends who did a lot together. She took me on bikerides; she and I would sing into hairbrushes along to Air Supply records.
I lost touch with Michelle after high school. We really only had letters back then. No e-mail, no Facebook. I heard after a time that she was diagnosed bipolar and I hope she's OK. She and I shared some secrets too, just like friends do. I wonder if there were things she couldn't tell me then about how she processed information and feelings. But I had a lot of fun with Michelle and I liked spending time at her house. As much as I loved my aunt's house, I think I felt safer at Michelle's. That's a story for another blog.
My kids don't know that you can live in a house that isn't surrounded by fences and where you can run without boundaries- but that's what Bayville has. We didn't have DSs and cell phones and 425 channels then. When we went outside to play we did just that. We ran and ran and lay down under trees and looked at the sky, swam and rode bikes and got so sunburned you were peeling if off for days. We weren't BUSY.
We have a lake behind our house now, a little man-made mega-pond, and it's separated from our house by only a block wall and a street - but that's not close enough. In Bayville, you literally have the ocean in your backyard (or at least the Forked River in your backyard). But sometimes I sleep now with my window open and hear the little geyser at our end of the lake and, when I wake up and keep my eyes closed, I hear the water and it sounds a little like morning in Bayville.
I Google-Earthed her house tonight. I don't know how old the image is. I don't see a boat in the back dock anymore. I don't recall if my aunt could even drive the boat. I suspect the boat went away when my uncle died. I want to take my kids out to Bayville and show them the freedom you can get from the confines of a city. I see my kids run around now in their bathing suits (and the SPF 30 we never dreamed of wearing then) and know they would love the open-endedness of it. I have to get them out to New Jersey someday to show them it's not all hair and spray-tans.
Now I am sure when I say, "Summers in New Jersey," one thinks of "Jersey Shore," GTL, or something you would see on the Sopranos. There's a lot in NJ to make fun of, surely. But my aunt lived (and still lives) in a sleepy little town called Bayville, just outside of Toms River. Every house I remember there has a dock in the backyard with a little boat (or if you had a lot of money, a big boat). I caught my first fish off the boat that docked in my aunt's backyard. I inner-tubed - because I couldn't swim - in that water after climbing down a little ladder off the back of that property.
When you think about the classic "I summered in...," that's what Bayville was for me. Think about a bog with knee-high grasses. Waterways everywhere you look. Riding a rickety bike with no gears, and back then, no helmets, to the store for a soda or an ice cream. Getting eaten to death by mosquitos because you were out too late catching fireflies. Heading out to the pizza place that, well, you didn't really know what it was called because everyone always called it by it's nickname. Waking up in the morning to the sound of the water and the din of those insects you only really hear in the summer. Those sounds and sights fill the movie I am watching now - takes me back. Magnolia trees are replaced by maples and weeping willows, but so many of the visual memories are the same.
I think Bayville also represents to me one of the first chances I ever had at a little freedom. I think staying at my aunt's house was the first time I ever slept over anywhere without my parents. I can't recall how long I actually stayed at my aunt's house at a stretch; it was probably only a weekend but it felt like two weeks for me. After a time I got to know the girl across the street and her family. Michelle was slightly younger than me and she lived in Bayville all the time and I thought that was exotic. My aunt, at the time, only visited on weekends and summers but she lived in NY full time. Now that my aunt's older, she lives permanently in Bayville. I think Michelle's parents still live across the street. Michelle and I were "summer" friends who did a lot together. She took me on bikerides; she and I would sing into hairbrushes along to Air Supply records.
I lost touch with Michelle after high school. We really only had letters back then. No e-mail, no Facebook. I heard after a time that she was diagnosed bipolar and I hope she's OK. She and I shared some secrets too, just like friends do. I wonder if there were things she couldn't tell me then about how she processed information and feelings. But I had a lot of fun with Michelle and I liked spending time at her house. As much as I loved my aunt's house, I think I felt safer at Michelle's. That's a story for another blog.
My kids don't know that you can live in a house that isn't surrounded by fences and where you can run without boundaries- but that's what Bayville has. We didn't have DSs and cell phones and 425 channels then. When we went outside to play we did just that. We ran and ran and lay down under trees and looked at the sky, swam and rode bikes and got so sunburned you were peeling if off for days. We weren't BUSY.
We have a lake behind our house now, a little man-made mega-pond, and it's separated from our house by only a block wall and a street - but that's not close enough. In Bayville, you literally have the ocean in your backyard (or at least the Forked River in your backyard). But sometimes I sleep now with my window open and hear the little geyser at our end of the lake and, when I wake up and keep my eyes closed, I hear the water and it sounds a little like morning in Bayville.
I Google-Earthed her house tonight. I don't know how old the image is. I don't see a boat in the back dock anymore. I don't recall if my aunt could even drive the boat. I suspect the boat went away when my uncle died. I want to take my kids out to Bayville and show them the freedom you can get from the confines of a city. I see my kids run around now in their bathing suits (and the SPF 30 we never dreamed of wearing then) and know they would love the open-endedness of it. I have to get them out to New Jersey someday to show them it's not all hair and spray-tans.
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