Our house has aluminum siding painted yellow, with some sort of bionic paint that has faded a bit but not chipped a fleck in the 14 years we’ve been here. Theirs is white, wood siding (original?) that every few years Mr. McDougall seriously pledges to paint.

On his porch, a hanging geranium. In the fall, I will look out the north window and watch the frost turn the leaves black. Over the years, I have suggested he take his plant in come September—put it in the south window, save it for next year. Like my parents, from the Depression , this should appeal to his deep Yankee thrift. But he’s always too busy to make it actually happen. And then in the spring, out on the sidewalk, he’ll tell me about the outrageous cost of plants again.

Except he won’t. And I won’t. I won’t stand at my north window and watch the leaves turn black, because I will be planted on the other side of town. My tenant, when we are lucky enough to find one, will be here instead. And then we won’t discuss geranium prices in the spring. Do I write in the lease that I retain the rights to stand out front on a beautiful spring morning and talk to Mr. McDougall about the outrageous cost of plants?

Of course, the sidewalk is public domain. Sure, my tenant might think I’m a stalker, but I could just go stand out there anyway, and maybe linger a bit, hoping Mr. McDougall will come out, like a tourist in Hollywood waiting outside some mansion to see a star. But I won’t. You know I won’t. I will have new neighbors and a new window and a new view. Give me a month or two and I won’t remember the chipping paint, the cracks in his driveway, the peony he pronounces pee-OH-nee. I will forget that our houses are twins, or that he stands just below my office window on Saturday mornings humming as he chops wood. Or that he heads off, at nearly 80, on his bicycle at the end of a very long day as I collapse onto my couch. I will forget. I will forget. I will forget. And that is what I am grieving for most of all.

There are always folks at these conferences who leap at the chance to read their writing: one lady, who was wearing a flouncy maroon hat clearly selected to coordinate with her flouncy maroon sweater, literally leaped onto the stage to volunteer. Since I did not do so, but my favorite place makes me so happy, I’ve decided to share it here.

It is a rocky point but what draws me there is the sand—warm sand. Is it really there or is that just my memory playing tricks on me? No, I think it is there—maybe just a ten-inch patch of sand, but it warms like the rocks—maybe once was the rocks—and the sunshine seems to become one, so that when you touch the sand it is like holding the light in your hands. If you are lucky—and you usually are—the wind will blow high in the trees, so that there is just the slightest sense of ripples on the water but your ears still fill with the rushing sound of the trees playing you a daytime lullaby. There may be blueberries to pick or flowers on the branches to enjoy or perhaps red leaves—a second type of light—but if there is nothing at all, then still be happy because it means there is nothing but lacy branches to frame your view and you can gaze out at the island instead.

Here, you can finally take a deep breath—let the trees bring a fresh platter of oxygen to you and share some carbon dioxide in return. They don’t mind—they really like it, and they like you, too, because you sit so still that a chipmunk might mistake you for a tree stump and scamper right across your foot. You are still because this is a sacred place and you are part of the ceremony. And if you wait—do nothing but wait—no effort, no movement required—then ever so gradually, you will see stars.

I had not seen Gary in many years; I have lived on the Seacoast for about twenty years now and they stayed in Manchester. I also moved away from the church, and they remained very active. But there is no doubt in my mind that had I shown up at their door at any time, day or night, I would have been welcome to any peanut butter left in the cupboards and a spot on the sofa. Here is part of the letter I sent to Therese today.

Rest in peace, Gary—and thank you.

I wondered what I could possibly write about Gary—what exactly makes him stand out for me besides the corny jokes and the fact that the pair of you had so much more faith in me than I had in myself and weren’t afraid to show it. Here is what I decided.

So many people will miss Gary. My heart breaks for all of you. But each time one of us “pays it forward,” even just a little, that part of his life will go on.

With Sarah we are always trying to get her to be more flexible—and sometimes we don’t have much luck. In this case, she only put down knitting because she was convinced that she had to put down a second choice simply because the form asked for one. We could not talk her out of it. She could NOT permit herself to write down only cooking. Then, when she received the letter from school that stated she had been placed in knitting, she was beside herself with anger, disbelief, and despair. Despite the second choice, she had actually placed all her eggs in the cooking pot.

And she was sure they would force her to stay, just because she had signed up. I kept asking her if that could possibly—even remotely—be the reality. Through her sniffles she agreed that it could not, but then she wailed, “But it still feels like that!”

At midnight, when she called me in because her legs hurt (growing pains), she insisted that she would not go. Had not wanted to learn to knit, didn’t want to learn to knit, never would want to learn to knit. For us as parents, this caused a real dilemma:

1.Would we make her go anyway, so that she could learn that you can still have fun even when everything isn’t exactly as you planned? or

2. Would we let her skip it, to show her that it’s ok to change your mind about things (and no one can force you)? And if so, would we be teaching Beginning Quitting instead of Beginning Knitting?

We reluctantly decided to go with Choice 2 (we couldn’t imagine, for one thing, how we’d get her there in the first place when she was so deadset against it), but then Mrs. Putney came to the rescue. When she saw our note a few weeks before class stating Sarah would not be joining the group after all, she came up with her own plan. She actually took the time to walk Sarah to the office to show her the list of other children in the class. Fortunately, some of her old buddies from kindergarten were on the list, so she relaxed and decided to go. She is already talking about making a blanket for the dog.

So what will we do the next time a Knittin’ or Quittin’ Scenario pops up? I hope we will remember to take a deep breath, stay the course, ask for help, and look for another approach.

Well, it dawned on me today that this is not a secret document, to be read by the chosen few (and Maddy certainly doesn’t present it in that way), so I looked it up on Amazon.com and tried a random search to see what came up. Here’s what caught my eye on the “open page”:

May everyone here enjoy good health. May no one suffer from disease. May everyone be blessed. This is an everyday prayer for yogis in India. They do not say, “May I be happy. May I be graced.” The yogi knows that when everybody else is healthy and prosperous, only then will he grow healthy and happy too. The best way to love God is to be the well-wisher of everyone.

My thoughts:

1. What do you do when those around you aren’t healthy and prosperous and you can’t make them so? It is very clear to me from examples such as last Memorial Day Weekend http://mywritingcoach.wordpress.com/2009/05/26/happy-memorial-day/that I feel content when everyone is happy and extremely trapped when they aren’t. All I can do is wish them well and let it go. In fact, it seems vital to do so.

2. I am frequently NOT a well-wisher of everyone. I want them to “get what they’ve got coming to them”—to learn a lesson—but really I should be wishing for everyone’s peace, which would ease all other problems (including my issue with them).

3. My anxiety is exactly this—suffering from DIS-EASE.

ps: Later in the day I came across these words in the book I am editing re: Freemasons: “. . . that anchor . . . shall safely moor us in a peaceful harbor, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” I need to find this harbor in my mind; perhaps the act of blessing is the anchor.

Sarah was complaining to Tim last night that she can’t watch The Wonder Pets anymore since we cut back our cable channels and they’ve blocked the On-Demand access. I told him I want us to teach her to
propose a solution and not just be whining for its own sake. For instance, she could say, “I really miss The Wonder Pets so could we please order a WP DVD from Netflix?

I did not get this missing piece (focus on a solution) from my mother, and I still get stuck in complaint mode today. It has to stop with this generation.

I am working on Gerry’s journal and I know one thing he does not: he only has one month to live. His goal is to have another Thanksgiving. But he won’t.

Having said that, I realize that by practicing mindfulness, he’s managed to make at least part of every day a thanks-giving. He is losing physically, but gaining spiritually.

This has been hard for me to work on. He is dying—but aren’t we all? The moment of birth, the beginning, is the start of the walk toward the ending. How do you focus on one and not the other? Since Marie’s death, I have focused too much on the latter—even now anticipating the decline of Mom and Dad when they are still very much alive. Right now they have a yard full of branches because they had the trees trimmed behind the house so Dad can work on the garage. He is nearly 83. And so I think, “What for?” But I am the only one thinking that way; they are just moving on with their lives—investing in each day. How can I obtain that line of thinking for myself?

“Hi. We’re having an H1N1 clinic in our area tomorrow, but my daughter has a stuffy nose. Will she still be able to get the vaccine?”

“You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”

“But it’s Saturday. The office is closed.”

“You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”

“I just don’t want to stand in line for five hours and then get turned away.”

“Some will and some won’t! You’ll have to speak with your doctor about that.”

“OK. Thank you. Bye.”

I reach for the telephone book. Tim asks if I am just going to keep calling around until I get the answer I want to hear. But I am nervous about the vaccine. I’m not sure what that answer would even be. I put the book away.

The next morning, her voice is still grating in my ear. Speak with your doctor about that. Hey, sometimes when the office is closed, they patch you through to a nurse.

“Hello, Nurses’ Helpline. Adele speaking. How may I help you today?” Adele’s accent is thick as honey. They must outsource these calls.

“Hi. We’re having an H1N1 clinic in our area today, but my daughter has a stuffy nose. Will she still be able to get the vaccine?”

“Oh, I think that clinic is over. A doctor told me that.”

“Um, OK. But if they did still have it, could she get the vaccine?”

“Why don’t you tell me her symptoms.”

“She just has a stuffy nose.”

“Well, it sounds like she may already have the flu. Maybe there’s some medicine she can take right now. Why don’t I ask you some questions and see. Is she making eye contact?”

“Yes. She just has a stuffy nose.”

“OK. And does she have rapid breathing?”

“That’s her singing in the next room! She really just has a stuffy nose.”

“And what about a stifle? Do you know what a stifle is?”

“No.”

“Something to do with the epiglotis. Ask her if her ears hurt.”

“‘Sometimes,’ she says.”

“OK. So when would you like to get that checked out? Later today?”

“Well, it’s Sunday. The office is closed.”

“Hmmm. It’s not letting me book you an appointment.”

“Yes, the office is closed.”

“Well, as long as you have it checked within twenty-four hours, you should be OK.”

“So . . . you think we should give the flu clinic a miss?”

“Well! I don’t know about that . . . They might still give her the vaccine!”

At noon we show up at the clinic and, to Sarah’s dismay, they breeze us right in. Done. We soothe ourselves with chocolate munchkins, and hope for the best. She does not break out in spots, or grow an extra head. But nine days later, it’s clear she’s got the flu. I decide to try my luck one more time.

“1-800-Ask-a-Nurse!”

“Hi, my daughter seems to have swine flu, and I’m wondering what we should do.”

“Oh, the poor thing. Let me take your information, and we can talk about some things that you might try.”

Ten minutes later, I melt popsicles for Sarah to drink. Tim buys some honey she can take for her cough. We set up the cool mist humidifier, run it in her room all night. And I realize that in my anxious state, I just wanted to feel heard.

These evening walks have quickly become my own time to unwind. Some nights I walk briskly behind the leash, as if the dog’s inner drive to chase squirrels could pull me out from the layer of stress that has pressed against my shoulders all day. As we rush along, I imagine myself as a molting lobster, scrambling out of its shell. Other nights I simply shuffle—the soft shelled lobster now, vulnerable and sensitive to everything that is.

In six years, in my neighborhood, not all that much has changed. Deborah and Michael have moved from the big white house on the corner, but their son still lives in the house, with friends. The same for Stanley and his wife, just four or five houses down. One day they suddenly disappeared under the radar, but their son stayed behind with the house.

Then again, two other sons have vanished—not literally, of course—but the young men whom Sarah and I watched playing tag football or messing around with guitars on those bright fall afternoons are both in college now.

The daycare on our street is still there, silent for the night after the children have all gone home, and the elderly neighbors, too, walking a little slower perhaps, but otherwise seeming unchanged. Blue shadows flicker against the shades at Shirley’s house, announcing that she is watching the national news on TV. A month ago, the theme song would have spilled out from the corners as we walked past, but it is October now. Windows are closed.

October now—colder and, surprisingly, dark. During the years between baby walks and dog walks I had stopped noticing the darkening nights, realizing only that one moment we had eight o’clock sunsets and then I was reaching for lights before five. Slowly, I am becoming acquainted again with the ebb and flow of the world.

And with the darkness comes another tender moment of surprise. Because I realize that I have been here before and that, in fact, this may be the very reason I wanted the dog to begin with: so I could walk in this dark place again.

I do not mean this very same sidewalk, which has weeds growing up through the deep splits and fissures under my feet. I never took Sarah around this neighborhood after dark; for the past six years, I spent all of my evening hours indoors. In fact, the street I am thinking of has no sidewalks—no traffic to speak of—at all. But this falling darkness and the rustle of the brittle leaves in the trees: the same. The heavy wood smoke and the gaps between the hushed street lights: the same. Except I wasn’t alone and I wasn’t walking a dog; I was walking with my dad. We were going to visit my uncle Al, who lived halfway down the street.

The walk back then went something like this:

Leave your house, bundled up against the cold. (A navy snowsuit with thick knitted cuffs comes to mind.) Hold hands and head for the noise of the brook, several yards down, on the right. Pause to step on your shadow under the streetlight. Pass Uncle Tony’s house on the right; Uncle Paul’s house on the left. Pass Uncle Freddy’s house, after the second brook. He died a few years ago and someone rents it now, but you picture the soft curve of the staircase, and the toilet with the big pull chain. Pass the line of tiny box houses, shaped like the green plastic homes you squeeze four to a square in Monopoly games. Move back into wide open spaces and walk up Uncle Al’s drive, to the home where Grammy lived on the second floor, with Secret deodorant in her tiny medicine cabinet and twisty straws near her fridge for your cups of ginger ale, and where Uncle Al now works in his basement, surrounded by vice grips for gluing things back together, and rows of hammers and nails. Swing your feet as you perch on the edge of a sawhorse, watching smoke drift from Uncle Al’s pipe, getting sleepy while the men chat. Tiptoe back upstairs to pet the tiger cats in the kitchen and wait with Aunt Louise. Rock in the chair by the window while she throws some more wood on the stove, finishes wiping the dishes by the sink. Remember that near the front of the house, Kevin, a whole year younger than you, sleeps in his room. Your mother grew up here; this is ground zero; and you are safe.

Back in Exeter, it has become so dark that the dog cannot see squirrels now, even if he squints. They all seem to have gone to bed anyway. It is time to go home, hang up the leash, hold Sarah’s hand up the stairs, tuck her in. Sixty-two miles away, in the veteran’s home, Uncle Al is dying, right now. The days ahead will be filled with condolences and reunions, a wake, a funeral. Under the clear October sky, your dad, who will hold hands with your mother and look fragile in his best grey suit, will reach over to rest his free hand gently between your shoulder blades. But for now you will stop to listen to a small flock of geese, calling overhead, flying together in the dark, and you will acknowledge that even though you can’t see them, they are there. You will pause under a streetlight, step on your shadow, and, just for a moment, feel safe.