It was our third or fourth date, about eleven years ago, when I knew I really liked the man that would become my husband.  I already knew I loved Ken, whether I wanted to admit that or not; I knew that on our first date. This was different.

It was Memorial Day weekend. Ken was stationed at Fort Bragg. He had a weekend pass and a buddy who was driving up to Fairfield to visit his family (turns out his friend’s family lives about five minutes away from my mom’s house, where I was staying). After he and his other buddy, Birddog (I think his real name is Eugene) met my mother (an event that turned out to be way cooler than I thought it would), the three of us went over to my best friend Jeanne’s house for a little while. Ken struck up a conversation with her brother, Scot, who had been in the army. Scot is a good guy, but he comes off as kind of mean or anti-social at first. He doesn’t laugh easily. Ken had him laughing almost instantly. I looked across the room, where Jeanne stood, staring back at me. Wow.

Birddog, Ken and I went to a diner (it might have been a Friendly’s). While we ate, I did that thing that I do when I am comfortable with someone: I played with words.

Most of my friends know what that means; I realise many of you don’t. I will try to explain here. It is something I have done all of my life, a game I used to play almost exclusively with my father when I was a little Vanessa; one of us would say something random, and the other would quickly reply with something just as weird. It would continue, a fast-moving nonsense conversation punctuated with a bunch of laughter, until one of us could not “top” the other’s statement. I only “won” a few times as a child – my father was very quick – but as an adult, I had only had two friends who understood what was going on, and only one that could “keep up”... sometimes.

Ken had played along well, and kept up with me from day one. He never looked at me like I had grown a second head or told me to grow up, as some guys had before him. He seemed to have as much fun as I did.

That night, at the diner, he “beat” me. No one had actually “beaten” me in years. I’m not bragging, but I am usually very fast with words.

We moved on to ragging on each other, topping one another, laughing and making Birddog laugh.

I forgot what the last thing I said was. I know it was funny, but for me, it was eclipsed by what Ken said afterward:

He chuckled, took my hand across the table and said, “Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.”

When I didn’t say anything, he began to explain Much Ado About Nothing to me. I let him go on while I sat there and smiled. Boy knows his Shakespeare.

When Ken was done with his synopsis, I quoted, “… They never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them.”

Birddog said, “You guys are made for each other.”

1973, A few days before Christmas...

When I woke up that morning, my brothers (I have four of them, three older, one younger than me) were all yelling, “It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” I could hear them laughing and running around the house. I remember them calling to each other, asking, “Where are my gloves?” and “Where are my boots?” There were answers: “Who cares? I need to find MINE!” and “If they were up your ass, you’d know it!”

I got up and went to my bedroom window. “Oooh! It’s sticking!” I squealed. “It’s gonna be a white Christmas!” I got dressed quickly; I remember putting my play clothes on over my pajamas, to be extra warm, and putting on two pairs of socks (I usually stole my brothers’ heavy socks in the winter).

I ran into the kitchen from my bedroom, all bundled up, ready to go out, except for my boots. My parents were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and they started to laugh.

“It takes her an hour to get out of bed for school,” my father exclaimed, “But on a snow day... look at her! Ready before seven!”

My mother said, “Breakfast first. Then you can go out and play.”

My three older brothers were gone. “How come they get to go out?”

My father said, “They’re shoveling. Do you want to shovel?”

“Yeah!” Anything to be out in all of that fluffy ice-cold white stuff.

My mother frowned. “Sit at the table. Ladies don’t shovel.”

I looked at my dad, feeling hopeful, but he said, “You heard your mother. Breakfast.”

“Ladies don’t get to do anything,” I grumbled, taking my coat off.

I ate my eggs in record time, and stole some of my dad’s coffee when he wasn’t looking (I was allowed to drink coffee, but it was more fun to steal sips from his cup).

“Can I go out now?”

My father said, “As soon as Tadpole’s ready.”

My dad took my younger brother, Tadpole and me out for a “Walk Through A Wintery Wonderland.” We walked to the telephone company so that my father could pay the phone bill. From there, we went to La Crown Market to pick up groceries, last minute Christmas food. Just before we entered the store, I whined about being cold. Tadpole said, “This’ll warm you up!” and shoved a handful of snow down the back of my coat.

I squealed and picked up snow to throw at him... only, instead of hitting my younger brother’s face, I hit my father’s hand, knocking his cigarette to the ground.  I thought he would be angry, but he laughed and kicked a little snow at both of us...

... And that’s how my father slipped backwards and fell onto his butt.

Tadpole and I stood still and silent for a few seconds, unsure if the fall had hurt Dad (or at least ticked him off). When my father began to laugh, my younger brother and I attacked.

Laughing like crazy people, we filled my dad’s coat with snow (most of it went down his back), and I rubbed snow in his hair. My younger brother fell on top of him, screaming, “Let’s bury him in the snow!”

My father, covered in the white cold fluff, lifted his arms and growled, “I am the abominab-bubb-allll snowmannnnnnnnn!” and began tickling us. Other people going into and coming out of La Crown Market were quite entertained. I remember the Santa Claus Guy outside (I think he was a Salvation Army dude) cheering us on and laughing.

I don’t know how long we played in front of La Crown Market, but I know that by the time we got the groceries (just about everyone in the aisles laughed at us) and walked home, the three of us were frozen through.

My mother said, “Oh my God! My floor!” when we walked through the front door. Then she started laughing.

She looked at my dad and said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“They attacked me,” he said. “Your children are vicious, Mrs. G___.”

My mother looked at me and said, “What did you kids do to your father?”

Tadpole said, “Meh-uh started it!” (My younger brother had a speech impediment when we were kids. “Meh-uh” was how he said, “Vanessa”.)

I had not started it, but I shrugged. “Mom, I couldn’t help it. He’s the abominab-bubb-allll snowmannnnn!” I lifted my arms and growled like my father had outside of the market.

My younger brother laughed at my impression of our father.

My dad, peeling off his coat, whined, “Your kids are mean to me!”

My mother said, “I should send them out with you more often.”

His eyes opened wide. He was indignant. “Hey! I’m freezing over here!”

My mom said, “Yeah? I’ll warm you up!”

They left Tadpole and me to get our own boots off. I looked at my brother and said, “How’s she gonna warm him up?”

Tadpole shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Maybe she’ll stick him in the oven.”

You’re probably at the…

During the summer, I like to leave our outside light on at night. It attracts the bugs… and they attract the frogs. Sometimes, I’ll open the front door (leaving the screen door closed). Sam and Mikey, our cats, will sit and watch the little frogs jump up onto our screen door, closer and closer to the light, closer and closer to the bugs. There have been times when the cats have jumped in sync with the frogs, front paws clapping together as if catching an insect, too… or perhaps a frog.

The frog population out front thins in the summer months. Our pond is actually the center of the apartment complex parking lot, so we see squished little green guys all over the place. The frogs get squashed in the grass at night, too, because people walking back and forth to their cars don’t see them hiding in there.

In September and October, there’s a sudden rise in frog population. Ken and I tiptoe around them, and we always bring out the flashlight when walking on the grass at night. They are happy little guys, hopping around the grass and the fallen leaves.

Then they’re gone. Poof!

As Ken and I walked up the leaf-covered hill last night (home from grocery shopping), we talked about the frogs. How we miss them once they are gone, even though, when they are here, we have to step lightly and stuff.

The conversation pointed me in the direction of a sort of new thought: I’m going to miss this place when we go.

I never loathed living here. It isn’t perfect or anything: it’s too small, it’s too expensive, we’ve had strange neighbours, this was where we were when we discovered we cannot have children, this is where we almost broke up, and this is where my mother broke her hip…

But this is also where we moved when Ken got his first big promotion. This is where we lived when Ken proposed to me. This is where we were when we found out that my best friend gave birth to her son.

All of the gifts from my wedding shower in Wilton were crammed into the living/dining area, and Ken and I laughed as we said in unison: “We’re gonna need a bigger boat!’ (He and I do a lot of Jaws references.)

This living room is where my younger brother, Tadpole and I stayed up most of the night before my wedding, after the rehearsal dinner (Ken spent that night with a bunch of guys at the hotel. He didn’t want to see me on the day of the wedding until it was time… We are a little bit superstitious about some things.). The next night, I was up all night with my new husband, and again, the living/dining area was stuffed with gifts. I recall that we didn’t care so much about them at the time. We spent that whole week not caring about gifts or thank-you notes or anything wedding- or outside world-related. It was one of the loveliest weeks of my life, and we didn’t even go anywhere.

This is the place where my mother and I finally became good friends, and I got to see her through her last years.

That was last year, just before the frogs came back and then went off again, to wherever they go during the cold months of the year. I’ve done almost everything my mother wanted me to do after her parting. There is only one thing left.

“Live your life, now,” she said. “Take that sweet husband of yours and get the hell out of here!”

When Ken got his promotion a few months ago and started working at the store in Holyoke, I thought, Okay, we’ll move to Massachusetts, then (It is almost an hour each way!).  We planned on moving at the end of February, when our lease is up (it is too costly to break the lease here. I am still out of work, so we do not have much money.).

Change of plans: We will be moving to Wisconsin, to be closer to Ken’s family. This isn’t really a new idea; we wanted to move out there years ago. I could not leave my mother back then.

When I realised that Ken’s latest promotion wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, I brought the subject of moving out to Wisconsin up again. The next day, Ken’s dad, Sam (yeah... my cat is named after his grandpa, sort of) sent us an email saying he would be visiting soon. He came, and we told him we wanted to move out there. He has offered all kinds of support; so has the rest of Ken’s HUGE family.

I will miss this place. I will miss my friends and of course, I will miss my beach. Once we get back on our financial feet, we’ll plan visits. Until then, I plan on using the phone and email a lot.

As for my beach? It’s as much a part of me as I am a part of it. It goes wherever I go. I’ll probably take a jar of its sand with me, for good luck, but I think that the beach and I will be all right.
 
Yep. I’m taking that sweet husband of mine and getting the hell out of here.
 
I have it on good authority that there are frogs in Wisconsin...

I had many tea sets: solid pink, pink and white stripes, white with pink flowers, white with blue-purple flowers, solid lavender… all plastic, of course. I spent hours making “doilies” with construction paper and little scissors. My mom and I would bake teeny tiny (“ladylike”) cookies, usually peanut butter or chocolate chip; they were placed atop the doilies. When I got an E-Z-Bake Oven, little cakes were added to the menu. My mother would make real (iced) tea and pour it into whatever teapot I was using that day (the teapot always matched the cups and saucers, of course!).

When I think now about the conversations we had at those tea parties, I cannot help but smile. I especially remember one tea with my Auntie V in attendance. The main discussion was Everything That’s Wrong With Boys. Some of the more serious points of the conversation were: “Boys never wash behind their ears; there’s always crud back there,” “They are more likely to get cooties than girls,” and “Boys don’t stick their pinkies out when they drink tea; they’re piggies.”

At one point, my mother joined the party. She said, “But boys are cute!”

My aunt and I fell all over each other, squealing, “Ew!” and “Gross!” and “Yuck!”

My mom, laughing at our antics, added, “Well, your brothers are boys… and they’re cute!”

I answered that with a horrified scream. Everyone knew that my brothers (all four of them) got more cooties (and got them more often) than anyone else, and that they never washed behind their ears (My dad used to joke that Whoville was actually a place behind Brother #3’s left ear.).

Some time after that, I had another tea party, and my father was able to attend. He sat between Esther (my big white stuffed bunny with the pink hat) and me. Before pouring the tea, I stood up and inspected my father’s hands, and behind his ears.

He laughed, ducked his head and asked, “What’re you doin’, Little One?”

I said, “Just checkin’ for crud, Daddy.”

He snickered and asked, “Well, did you find any?”

I said, “No, but I think you might have the beginnings of the cooties.” I sat down and poured the tea, giggling.

My father chuckled and picked up his cup. I tugged on his pinky and said, “No, Daddy… The pinky goes out. Like this.”

He wriggled his pinky out of my grasp and said, “Only girls do that!”

I sighed, “Men!”

He nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

The swamp takes up a fairly large piece of “my” end of town. It nearly reaches the beach at the end of the road, and going in the other direction (east to west), it nearly reaches the Post Road (Route 1). Going north, the rectangle of swampland reaches the town center, the Old Post Road, the oldest part of Fairfield.

I believe it was in 1637, during the Pequot Wars, that the swamp, along with most of the town (then known as Uncoway, or Unquowa, “The Fair Fields") was burned. I am no historian, but I believe the Pequots were on the run from Mystic (also known as Missituck), where the British and their allied tribes (I believe the Narragansetts and Mohegans) set their village on fire, not sparing women and children. The Pequots ran all the way from Mystic (Mystic is about a 2-hour drive from Fairfield). The Sasqua helped them. About 300 Indians altogether tried to hide in the swamp, but eventually, the British and their allies found them. Sasquas, women and children were allowed to leave, but the Pequot warriors stayed and fought. Sassacus (their sachem, or leader) and a few escaped (only to be brutally brought down by the Mohawks, in New York, later on), but most were killed in the battle with the British, who burned the swamp.

The oak tree survived.

In July 1779, the British landed on McKenzie Point (which is MY beach, now called South Pine Creek Beach). British General Tryon met some resistance. The rebels fired on them from Fort Black Rock and later destroyed the Ash Creek Bridge, thwarting the General’s plans to go into Bridgeport. Tryon was so pissed off that he burned Fairfield down.

The oak tree survived.

It is a big old tree with thick, twisted limbs. It is black in places. When it starts to get dark, or just before it gets light, or when there is fog, it is the scariest-looking tree in the world. Real Halloween material.

Some say that the Pequots who were there burned in 1637 haunt it. Others say that the women, children and old men who hid there and were burned in 1779 haunt it.

When I was a little girl, “The Scary Tree” marked as far as Grandma and I could go. I was certainly never allowed to go out that far unsupervised. My brothers and other boys from the area went into the swamp and built forts… boys’ business. Cutting and hammering.

Apparently, The Boogey-Man, Monsters and Ghosts (also known as “Evil Swamp Spirits” or “Indian Ghosts”) only eat Curious Little Girls. Oh, and Nosy Little Girls, Smart-Alek Girls and Little Girls Who Should Mind Their Own Business. You know… girls’ business. Dolls and dresses.

For a while there, I was scared. Then, my grandmother and I met The Boogey-Man, who was really just a grumpy old man who preferred to live outside of society. I do not remember what his real name was; Grandma and I called him Mister Man. We brought him food sometimes and he was not scary at all, but thankful.

Mister Man told us stories about the tree and the spirits that lived inside of it. I think the tales were supposed to spook us. They did not. As a matter of fact, those stories about the fires and the ghost sightings afterward made me (and my grandmother) more enamoured of the old oak.

We brought food to the tree: Usually, just a piece of bread and an apple or something else from Grandma’s garden, and salt. My grandmother said that the salt was, “for flavour, and for life.”

Grandma said that when spirits/ghosts were hungry, of course they were grouchy, just like regular people get when they do not have enough to eat. “A spirit only needs a little bit of food, so a piece of bread and fruit can feed a lot of them,” she told me. “A little food makes them happier.”

Grandma really did like to feed everyone.

Years later, the summer before I turned thirteen, my mother, my younger brother, Tadpole and I moved into my grandmother’s house. The Meadows (condos) were just being built. The woods across the road had been thinned out considerably.

One morning, I woke up early – it was still dark out – and put an apple, a piece of bread and the saltshaker into a small paper bag. I walked across the road and through the trees, expecting the clearing and the oak tree to be gone, with all of the “development” going on.

The oak tree survived, and it had big green leaves (I had never seen it with leaves before). It still had little flecks of black here and there, but in general, it looked healthy. Happy.

I laid out the bread and the apple by its trunk, and sprinkled both items with a little salt. I could no longer remember the prayer my grandmother used to say over the food – it had been years, and my Hungarian was rusty – so I just gave it The Lord’s Prayer (in English).

When I told my grandmother that I had seen “The Scary Tree,” and it had big green leaves on it now, she smiled. She was ill then (dementia) and didn’t smile as often as she used to, so it really made my day.

Every so often, I would go and give the tree and its inhabitants a little something to eat.

When I brought my friend Cochise there, years later, I thought he would laugh at my little ritual: bread, a piece of fruit or a vegetable, some salt and The Lord’s Prayer. He didn’t laugh at all. When I told him the tree’s history, he said that it was right to offer food and a prayer to those folks who died so horribly.

Last year, I went to visit “The Scary Tree” in between services being held for my mother. I went alone, and parked in a visitor’s space at The Meadows. I brought a piece of bread, a plum and a packet of salt.

My first thought when I saw the beautiful oak, with its big green leaves fanning the breeze in a sort of lazy way, was, “You are the least scary tree I have ever seen.”

I placed the food near the trunk and emptied the packet of salt onto both items. I whispered The Lord’s Prayer. I stood up and took a few steps back, still looking at the old tree in wonder.

“Well, look at you,” I said. “Look at us. Survivors.”

Some things happened to me. I did some stuff. Some of it I blog about and some of it won’t ever be written. It happened, I did it, and sometimes I think about it. When things around me are… dark. When things that once mattered to me begin to seem less important or less reachable. When something big goes wrong or just never comes to fruition. When I cannot sleep at night, or my sleep is filled with bad dreams.

It is at those times that I think of all of this bad stuff, and I ask if The List of Bad Things is related to the You Can’t Have These Things list. Am I a bad person? Do I not deserve [insert wish here]? The questions, the thoughts, last for a minute or two. I suppose I could make them last longer. I could batter myself with a million little visuals, memories of past events and behaviours. But I don’t. Not anymore.

Instead, I sit on the couch with my notebook and pen, or in front of the computer. Sometimes, I end up not writing a single letter. I don’t think about the naughty things I have done, or the harm others have thrown my way…

I think of how lucky I am. I try to recall how I survived everything, but that gives me a headache. I think about all of the good things I have done. I think of people, some still with us, some gone, and I realise how lucky I’ve been with friendships and love. I think of all of the wonderful gifts that I have been given, the miracles I have been fortunate enough to witness.

I recount these things. They may seem like nothing to you, but to me, they are special. Seeing a whale out in the ocean. A flock of yellow butterflies landing all over me while I was out walking. A giant dog bringing me a rabbit. Deer nibbling on a plant just above my head. The ducks that live in our complex’s pond, parading their little ones back and forth on the front lawn. Doves nesting on top of the lamp outside my apartment’s front door...

“And here I am,” I think. “I’m still here.”

I do my best to be good, to do good things, and to do as little harm as humanly possible. To “keep the evil down to a low roar,” as one of my favourite men in the universe would say.

The dark times will come. I will think until I have a headache. The little things will come, too. And I will think, “And here I am. I’m still here…”

Still here to write about it, if I want to.

I usually want to.

That evening, on the way home from Holyoke, I told Ken that I was concerned about Old Harry (Yes. I named the tree). You see, usually, he’s the first tree to turn red and gold.

Ken said, “It’ll change when it’s ready.”

He sounded so serious. I didn’t expect that. “Okay,” I said.

The tree, in our conversation, became me. Apparently, both Harry and I are stubborn. I will change when I am good-n-ready. I didn’t argue; Ken is right.

It’s one of those true things that gets buried in the dark fog that surrounds me at times. You know, the truth that it is “me” that is keeping “me” from doing the things that I want to do. It is easy to forget who is in charge, and it is easier to find some way to deny that it is YOU when you’re depressed.

Hm, I thought. I think I need to grab the reins back. It’s MY life, after all. Ken’s right. I need to flip this stubbornness over, against The Black pit. Hm.

I yawned, pulling into our parking lot. Maybe tomorrow. I’m too tired to think about it right now.

Yesterday morning, I stepped outside and saw Old Harry:

“Not at all,” I said. “I’ll change when I am ready… Just like you.”

Ken came up behind me and said, “You talkin’ to trees now?”

“Yup,” I said, turning to my husband. “Just Old Harry, here. Isn’t he pretty?”

Ken shrugged.  “Told you it would be fine. Everything in it’s own time, Honey.”

He grabbed my hand and kissed it as we walked to our car.

I love that handsome, patient man of mine.