fire the weatherman

The forecast is not good for the remainder of my time on the Cape.  But today looks promising.

I pack up my lunch.  Bring a sweater just in case.  Add the book I’ve just begun, Instructions for a Heat Wave, and head out to the beach.  It is already 1 pm and still, no sign of the promised sun.

I get to the beach and I am the only one there.  It is windy and cold and overcast.

I set up my chair.  Cover my legs with a towel.  Add a cashmere hoodie to the long T shirt I am already wearing over my bathing suit.  Eat my lobster sandwich.  Read ten pages of my book. Pack up and come home.

Outside my parent's front door it looks like this; no sun in sight.

I’m hoping the clouds promised for tomorrow are as wrong as the sun promised for today. 

dinner at Blue

By now, I pretty much know all the restaurants within a 15-minute radius of my parent’s house.  But every time we plan to go out for dinner, it takes forever to decide.  Especially when three people are involved, as they are tonight.

“I hate the atmosphere there.”

“June went the other night and it was awful.”

“All they have is pizza, and I’m not in the mood for that.”

“They aren’t open for dinner.”

“I don’t want Chinese food.  Besides, that place is in a strip mall.”

 “It feels too sterile there.”

“The parking there is impossible.”

“Last time we were there the food was terrible.  I’ll never go back.”

“There’s always a long wait.  Jean was there last week and left after an hour.”

“We were just there.  It’s good, but I don’t want to go there again tonight.”

“All their food is fried.”

“It’s always freezing there.”

“No one goes there anymore.”

Exhausted by the process of picking a restaurant, we don’t. 

It’s only five pm.  My mom is hungry and my sister and I are restless.  It’s been a cloudy day, most of it spent visiting my dad.  We decide to go to Mashpee Commons and decide where to eat later.

We arrive and my mom surprises Jean and I and says, “Let’s see if we can get into Blue.”  Blue is one of my favorite restaurants.  And I am not qualifying my preference by adding the words, on the Cape.  We see two groups of people walking out.  They say to us, “I hope you have a reservation.  They have nothing until 8:30.”

We are not deterred.  The very-nice maître d’ inside confirms that the restaurant is totally booked until much later.  He offers us a table outside but it it’s about 59°.  My sister and mom leave but I linger.  Suddenly the maître d’ says, “Go grab your friends.”  I do.  He tells us that he can seat us if we can be out by eight.  It’s only a little after six.  We tell him we can and he seats us.

Dinner is extraordinary.  I have never had a better duck anywhere, ever.   We all enjoy our meals, as well as the company.  It is rare that the three of us are out together.  As spectacular as the food is, it’s the company that makes the night special.

beware of cat

My parents have a fat cat named Ellie.  She started out thin, but she is no longer that way.

My sister Jean rescued Ellie from an animal shelter about four years ago and my parents adopted her.  She follows my mother around like a loyal dog. 

When my mom returns from being out, Ellie is always waiting at the door.  If my mom doesn’t enter the house fast enough, Ellie cries until she does.  When my mom is putting on makeup, Ellie sits on the sink and watches.  When my mom is sitting in a chair, Ellie jumps up and nestles into her lap.  She is a friendly cat.  Unlike my sister Jean’s two cats who roam her house unnoticed and uninvolved, Ellie needs to be with people.  Wherever there is activity, that’s where Ellie can be found.

But Ellie has a crazy side.  If you pet her the wrong way, she bites and hisses, but only once.  And then she cowers.   We imagine she is saying to herself, “I can’t believe I did that again.  I am so ashamed.”  She just can’t help it.  When guests come over, we need to warn them. 

But most of the time Ellie is a very sweet cat.

closet sweep

I have limited domestic skills.  The kitchen, or anything related to it, is not an area where I have much expertise.  But I am good at organizing.

My mom asks me to help with her closet.  This I can do.

The first thing I notice are her hangers.  I immediately recommend switching out the plastic ones for wooden ones.  “Why, I like those hangers?” she responds.  “And besides, wooden hangers take up too much room.”  They don’t, and she has plenty of room.  A big open walk in closet and another big closet. 

I suggest grouping her clothes by type.  Morning walking clothes.  Hanging around the house clothes.  And casual dress up.  She agrees but we don’t get that far.

Today’s mission is to sort out those clothes that can be discarded.   It isn’t as easy as it should be.  It never is.  Clothes carry emotional connections.  Where did I last wear it?  Who gave it to me, if it were a present? Who was I with? I am pretty good at parting ways with clothes, but I still have a maternity dress I can’t say bye to, and a dress I wore to a wedding with Eric in 1989.  It’s a beautiful, still in style dress.  I weighed about 110 pounds and will never fit in it again, but still, I cannot part with it.

So we start. 

“No not that.  I wear that as a beach cover up.”  This is repeated multiple times for various tops I think should be thrown out. 

“No.  I like that.  You gave that to me.”

“That’s a great throw on.  I love wearing that around the house.”  Repeated over and over for items that can only be worn when there are no guests around.

“No, not that.  I wear that to walk in.”  Yes, but how many walking tops does one really need?

“I still might wear that.”  Referring to items that haven’t been worn in years.

“They are still showing that.”  

We make a big pile (though not big enough).  I could still reduce my mom’s closet by half.  I bag the items and then collect the bent plastic hangers, plastic skirt hangers, and the wire hangers from the cleaners.  Even these require a discussion.  We disagree on which hangers should be tossed and which should be kept.

My mom thinks we have accomplished a lot.  I look at her closet and know there is so much more to do, if she’d only let me.

My sister Jean arrives later in the day.  She sees a big pile of clothes that my mom is moving from her bedroom closet to another bedroom upstairs where she keeps her off-season clothes.  My sister starts to go through the clothes and asks, “Why are these here?  Aren’t they being thrown out?”  Thank-you Jean.

Tomorrow I’ll have my sister’s voice echoing mine. Together we’ll convince my mom to part with more clothes.  It won’t be easy but I am optimistic. 

once a mother, always a mother

I wonder if my mother is amazed that I manage in New York without her interventions, reminders, and warnings about everyday living?

If we are walking, she cautions me to be careful of the cracks and other sidewalk impediments.

When I take her car, she instructs me again to be careful backing up out of the driveway. 

She reminds me at least three times in an hour that she’s cut up watermelon and it’s in the refrigerator if I’d like some.

If I bring up a subject that is remotely controversial she holds up her hand, palm in— like a stop signal, and announces, “I don’t want to hear about it.”

She improves my posture, as I can hear her figuratively (if not literally) saying, “Put your shoulders back.  Stand up straight.”  Or sometimes, when others are around, she will just mimic the motion and I know what she is saying.

 

She tells me of traffic I don’t care about and that doesn’t involve me.  It’s a subject that  fascinates her, along with weather in places where we’re not.

As I’m writing, I remember that I haven’t connected with Alexander today.  I’ll send him a text before going to sleep.