Breaking Free

"Higher, higher! Push me higher, Mommy!"

Girl on a Swing, Winslow Homer , c.1879

Julia's upturned face and excited smile greeted the sky each time her tiny and powerful legs pumped forward on the swing. No need to explain the sense of freedom, the desire to swing for hours, for her mothers stood by her, remembering her own spring days on handmade wooden swings when she too felt she could swing high enough to caress the clouds.

Without a word, the mother slipped onto the swing next to her five year old and was soon swinging and pumping in rhythm. In silent agreement, they quietly, then raucously, chanted a song they loved from Disney's Mary Poppins musical:

          "Let's go fly a kite
           Up to the highest height!
           Let's go fly a kite and send it soaring
           Up through the atmosphere
           Up where the air is clear
           Oh, let's go fly a kite!"

Others in the park turned their way to see who delivered the concert and a few clapped and sang along. The joy was infectious as the refrain was repeated amid giggles and child-driven shrieking. The long winter bundled in sweaters and gloves and boots had thankfully given way to spring jackets and jeans and a sharing of the celebration of warmth and play.

The young mother slipped off the swing as her daughter slowed, jumping behind her to prolong the fun. Over and over they sang, driven by Julia's enthusiastic insistence to swing, " 'Gain! Again!" and the mother happily complied, reluctant to break the spell.

The winter's hibernation gave way to fresh air, traditions, and a durable mother-daughter bond building memories for a lifetime and beyond. The guaranteed trigger would always be their beloved music, true in so many of their enduring memories.

The Good Things

A space between darkness and light, just before the morning breaks over the knoll - one of the good things. The day hangs suspended, and I breathe shallow and steady so as not to wake anyone else. The world's breath has slowed as well. I want to savor the quiet, the perfection, of the stillness. Once the day's switch is flipped, the world springs to life and solitude vanishes. The moment, the feeling, doesn't happen every day but I learn to honor it when it does.

A flash of red snags my peripheral vision and I turn. It's spring and the cardinal couples are searching for nesting materials at my hanging bag of yarn and string clippings outside my bay window. Glass separates us but I stand frozen in place as they stare and size up the threat. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute passes, and then they are gone, blue and orange yarns beak-hanging. The bag is shrinking so I know they will be back until they have made all the nature-ordained preparations. Avian visitations make all good things better.

I have chopped and sliced a lot of onions in my life. Rarely does a dish come together without some form of onion included. As a child, I wasn't so keen on the flavor and I know my mother tucked

onions into everything, an Italian staple flavor whether we liked it or not. Today, I am my mother's cooking legacy as I do the same. Slice, dice, sliver, steam whole, au gratin, caramelized - an onion in any form is a good thing.

I look up from my phone (a ploy to seem occupied) as I stand waiting at the restaurant's front counter. They are busy and tables of two, four, and more are ahead of me. The hostess calls my name, careful not to add "party of one" for which I am secretly grateful. Her tag says Jamie and she chats amiably as we walk to a booth by the window, not one by the kitchen or restrooms. All the time in the world, her focus is on me, asking for my drink order, pointing out specials and favorite dishes. I settle in, purse to the side chair, and she assures me Erin will be with me shortly and she'll be back with my drink. And she was, despite those waiting for her at the front door. Kindness to every patron no matter the number in the party is humanizing, certainly a good thing.

The bottom edge of my favorite jeans is fraying, strings trailing across my instep. When the strings reach the floor, I trim them so I don't trip or create dust trails. I think I should consider retiring the jeans, the echo of my mother's voice reminding me it isn't acceptable to wear worn or torn clothes. I smile. Such a simple rebellious act, a secret salute to growing up, getting older, doing what I want. These jeans look, feel comfortable, like I want to be, like I often can't be, and remind me that even when worn down, I might still have value. The thread connecting generations can be a good thing.

A tap on the shoulder, not in person but through wireless connections. I am here; you are there. Sometimes it is all that is needed, the reminder that while we are physically alone, someone is thinking about us, nudging us, reaching out to keep us from falling. Conversations have changed, springing from fingers rather than mouths. No appointment, travel, proximity necessary. Newfangled for certain, far from the innovative stretched wires of Alexander Graham Bell, but attached at the earpiece to Steve Jobs. Connection, friendship, a hand up and out delivered via emoticon, text-speak, and clever graphics. Never being alone in our aloneness is one of the good things.

The smallest events form the tapestry we call life. What value, these good things?

Start a conversation here - share your small, good things. I am listening.

Drawn to the Glow

The glow, smoke, and brightness of campfires are so compelling. When the children were young, we had hundreds of dollars worth of camping equipment stored in our crawlspace, purchased on a whim because we had no money for vacationing and felt the siren song of the outdoors. We only used it twice, preferring to borrow a friend's camper or, better yet, stay in cabins with running water. Personally, I did not realize how uncomfortable it was for an overweight person to sleep on the ground. Body padding was not an asset. On the contrary, the extra weight pressing down on the rocky surface only heightened the cold and numbness. But ah, cabins had mattresses!

No matter the level of convenience, the delight was equally divided among early morning coffee at the picnic table while bacon crackled in the cast iron skillet, packet cooking in the coals for an easy meal, and simple campfire sitting and dreaming. As soon as the dinner was finished, gear stowed, and dishes rinsed, we would instinctively start gathering twigs, bark, and logs. We built the requisite pyramid shape and carefully laid in the dry tinder. Brushing back any stray foliage to add an extra measure of safety, anticipation grew as we awaited nightfall. Everything magical started at the edge of darkness: firefly chases, flashlight tag, ember updrafts, camp songs, and the ever-present dirty faces-hands-knees.

Competition always flared - who could start the fire with one match - but regardless of who won, we welcomed the inevitable "smoke dance." We coughed and laughed as breezes shifted, chairs scraped dirt piles as we moved from the smoky curtain, and finally claimed our ideal spot.

The night air was punctuated with "be careful" as the children drifted closer to the fire, drawn by the warmth and glow. The older children threaded marshmallows for the younger siblings, and we sat by with graham crackers and chocolate squares at the ready. S'mores were the sugar reward for a long day in the sun taking woodland hikes to hidden waterfalls and streams. It didn't matter half the marshmallows turned to torches and fell charred into the fire. That too was part of the challenge, the fun, the commitment to relaxing outdoors as a family.

Tent and camper parks, state parks, all have an easy camaraderie, a rhythm built around the interwoven ages, stories, campfires, and food. During the day, favorite toys traveled with rambling children from one site to another, then were redistributed before everyone left for home, the memories of who shared them attached like barnacles to each toy. Water jugs, shared six-packs, extra towels often moved between new friends as well. Voices and laughter drifted from site to site and, at the end of the day, as children bedded down from exhaustion, often adults would mingle easily with neighboring campers, adopting one campfire to settle in for conversation and staring. As the campfires turned to embers, the murmur of voices drifted away, and all would be still.

A favorite activity has always been driving through campgrounds to absorb the ambiance of those staying there, I haven't camped much in a long time, but one of the first things I did when I bought my own home was build a cinder block fire pit, providing the best of all worlds: enjoy the fire's glow as often as I like, and sleep in my own bed. I've made packet meals, hot dogs on sticks, and s'mores galore for my grandchildren. The legacy continues.