These are the two people in the world for whom I am most thankful, not just for today, but for all the days I will be here. Mom and Dad. Two little words that universally mean love and adoration, and I am no exception to such sentiments. This year, I’m a little more thankful than I usually convey, maybe because we have all seen the way the world can turn. In the darkest times, when everything feels a little uncertain and unsure, I turn to my family for comfort and safety. In the topsy-turvy way this year has gone, we’ve had to be there for each other.
Back in September, Dad turned 90 years old, and a couple weeks after took a nasty spill on the back patio, breaking a couple of ribs and landing himself in the hospital. A tough healing process for anyone, it’s made especially so for someone in their 90’s, with all sorts of other concerns heaped upon the pain. I made daily trips to Amsterdam to spend time with him and Mom, at a safe distance in the garage, or in a mask and even further apart in the living room. In those first few days, it was frightening to see how a fall could so badly ravage a 90-year-old man. Dad didn’t have a taste for anything and wasn’t eating much. His nights were restless and disorienting, making sleep and recuperation doubly difficult, which is probably what he needed more than anything. To stimulate his appetite, I made all sorts of his favorite Filipino dishes, starting with lumpia and pancit, which he gamely tried and began to eat.
Gradually, he ate more and more. I brought over pans of babinka, and pots of adobo, along with a steady supply of more lumpia while our deep fryer was fully operational. The weather outside turned colder and crueler, but within the garage a safe cocoon of warmth and sustenance came into existence. The scent of freshly cut wood and piles of sawdust lent the space a cozy atmosphere, while candles burned and gave off little flickers of heat and light. Even, and perhaps especially, in a pandemic, family finds a way.
The Ilagans will celebrate Thanksgiving and the rest of the holidays a different way to be as safe as possible this year, and that’s ok. I think we all realize what’s really important, and for these two people I remain most thankful. Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and your families as well – enjoy them in whatever capacity you can!
Our somewhat-annual treasure hunt for the twins managed to take place in this time of COVID thanks to some clever garage and back patio staging, along with some cooperative weather. Before they arrived, I broke out the smoke machine and filled the garage with some atmospheric spookiness, accompanied by the eerie soundtrack to ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’ – so that when they arrived the garage door opened in a puff of theatrical fog, portending the spooky Halloween aspect of the day.
Unphased by the Halloween trappings, the twins eagerly listened as I laid out the intricately-plotted outline for the day. We began with a trail of tree identification for seven different trees around the yard, coupled with a list of five objects that would cast a magic spell. We found all seven trees, as well as the list of five items – an acorn, an oak leaf, a pinecone, a green tomato and a sprig of lemon verbena – and by the time our journey rounded us back to the garage, two Halloween baskets filled with candy and treats had miraculously appeared. The spell had worked!
From there we moved to the back patio, where curtains hung from the circular canopy, closing us off from the wind. A group of candles flickered on the table lending some warmth and light. I brought out some hot cocoa, marshmallows and fresh cinnamon rolls to keep us toasty. The twins also started in on their candy, which Uncle Al allows because he’s the funnest uncle ever.
They wanted to decorate pumpkins, so we stopped at Troy’s Landscaping before our lunch at Smashburger. We found a koi pond and some cacti, then made our way to lunch.
They showed me the Smashburger pose, we ordered our meals, and made a quick stop at Starbucks for dessert.
Back in the garage, we finished up the day with some pumpkin-decorating and more marshmallows. Apparently the hottest contest right now is figuring out how many marshmallows you can fit in your mouth while still being able to recite a sentence.
It was a very good day – the longest of our treasure hunts by far. They are more talkative now, and there are more things to say, and they also have their independent streaks so I don’t need to lead absolutely everything. That said, it wiped me out. After four and a half hours, their Dad arrived to take them home, and I laid down for a two-hour nap. Next stop will be Thanksgiving, and we worked on some special name cards for that…
Pulling his yellow raincoat on and rushing out with the rest of his classmates, the boy looks up into the gray sky and feels the sting of rain. Looking further up the hill, he searches for his mother’s station wagon, always there on the days when it rains. He pulls his hood over his head and hurries the pace. The rain comes down steadily and as he reaches the top of the little hill outside school, he still cannot locate her station wagon.
Tentatively pushing forward through the rain, he is unsure whether to wait, or keep moving. Time travels differently for children. He doubles back, suddenly doubting himself, and passes the same cars he did before. She is not there. He returns to the way home, passing each car and looking down in shame and embarrassment. He’s done nothing wrong, but he doesn’t feel that way. Surely there is shame in being forgotten?
The initial flash of abandonment is replaced with a sudden prickle of anger, which is quickly subsumed by a feeling of guilt and worry – what could have happened to his mother? The worry and the stress stays with him as he walks to the end of the block and turns up the long hill that brings him closer to home. His eyes wet with rain and strain, and the nagging fear of guilt gnawing on his heart, he walks into the rain, letting the hood fall from his head, letting the rain sting his face, giving in to the dimming of the day. Halfway up the hill, his Mom’s station wagon speed into view. He gets in, wet and a bit of a mess, relieved and hurt and mad and silly. By dinner, he pretends he’s moved on to something else.
It’s strange the way hurt seeps into the soul, and it’s different for everyone. One person’s sensitivity barely registers a forgotten ride in the rain while someone else feels it so acutely it stays with them for life. First world problems, some would snarkily suggest, but if it’s your very first first world problem, and you’re only a child, who can say what scars will be wrought in the end? Who can say how deep they will run?
The most frightening moment of my life thus far was not when I let a stranger bring me back to Brandeis from Boston in a big white van, which he pulled off the road on some dark, desolate stretch of Waltham only to park and negotiate questions on when he might see me again, but when I was five or six and holding my mother’s hand in the Amsterdam Mall. I let go for a second to look at some storefront, not letting her silhouette out of my peripheral vision, and when I reached up again to the hand beside me it wasn’t my mother’s. Immediately I panicked. I didn’t see her right away, and the terror was intense. It lasted a few mere seconds – my mother didn’t even know I was gone – but the fear was instantly crushing, crippling and debilitating. When I saw her just a few feet up ahead, unaware and unconcerned with our separation, the world returned to normal, but my heart had been stricken forever. It’s something I recall vividly to this day – one of my first memories, seared indelibly on whomever I was about to become.
I’M LOSING MYSELF IN THE DARKNESS OF THE WORLD CATCH ME BEFORE I FALL SAVING MYSELF IS ALL I REALLY KNOW SEEN IT BEEN DONE BEFORE
The Fall Song of 2020 has been selected and it’s called ‘Dynasty’ by the amazing Rina Sawayama. With its familial themes and defiant streaks of rage and independence, as well as its dramatic musical bombast, this is a perfectly powerful statement in an age when families are being rendered apart thanks to things as light as politics and as deep as four-decades of mistakes and angst.
Those relationships with family members are what run the deepest, my therapist confirms after I recount a childhood memory that has haunted me for years. Almost inextricable, they have hooks that are intertwined and entangled with the entire history of a human being, conveyed from the moment of birth and running through the formative stretches of a person’s existence. They are the most difficult patterns to change, and their chasms run deeper and darker than we usually realize. Our families mark us from birth – they know our most vulnerable weaknesses, they know our most formidable powers, and if we’re lucky they only want what’s best for us. Yet it’s never quite that easy, at least not for me and mine.
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” ~ Leo Tolstoy
I’M A DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
In the midst of my teenage years of turmoil, when social anxiety was heaped on the impossible fact of being gay, I was the oldest child in a family where I did everything I was supposed to do, was the perfect son in every way I knew how to be, and still felt the chill of being different and never quite belonging, sensing even then that love was contingent upon how proud I made my parents, and one wrong misstep would result in punishment or desolation. Whether or not it was all in my head is a question that creeps into my mind to this day, a lasting effect when stability is rocked, such as when you come out as gay and it’s not greeted with a hug or instant love and assurance, but rather concern and worry and the desire to keep it secret and silent.
Every dynasty has its outcasts. Every dynasty has its rebels. And every dynasty has its stars who rise above the binding shame of history and biological bonds to ascend to something they deserve. Call it survival, call it independence, call it the righteous rage that results from a person finally refusing to be anything less than beloved – the human spirit will forge a way and we will craft our own families when the ones we’re given cannot or will not play fair.
I’M GONNA TAKE THE THRONE THIS TIME ALL THE WORLD’S ALL MINE, ALL MINE IT’S BEEN WAY TOO LONG, TOO FAR TOO GONE, TO CARRY ON YOU CAN’T HIDE IT IN THE WALLS SWEEP IT UNDER MARBLE FLOORS IT’S BEEN LIVING IN OUR LIVES BEST TOLD DAMN FAMILY LIE
I remember a morning in high school, trying to rush my way out and feeling utterly defeated by something someone did or said – I don’t even remember what it was, but I remember throwing open a desk drawer, ripping out a sheet of paper, and violently scribbling in bold, black, smelly marker: ONE DAY I WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NEVER COME BACK.
Every dynasty has its drama queen. I taped it to the mirror of my bathroom, hoping someone would find it, hoping someone would try to help. No one did. I took it down when I got back from school. It was still hanging there from the mirror, the same dejected face peering behind it, only the tears had dried and the rage had dissipated. I had to let go of the anger, and the notion of fairness and equity. The world was not fair or equitable. Families weren’t either.
ANYTHING YOU GET, RETURN TO DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
Families beg for forgiveness, over and over, and if you happen to be the one who continually gets hurt, who continually must forgive and forget, it does start to feel a bit personal. You feel a bit paranoid. You wonder if it’s you, and what might set you apart from everyone else. When you’re gay, you wonder if that’s the difference, because what else could it possibly be? You’ve done everything else right, you’ve done everything else perfectly, you’ve never messed up, and still somehow you stumble enough to be the one who gets hurt.
When parents try to correct things in the past by doing better in the present, it’s rarely with the original cast, even if we’re still around, only older. Back then I didn’t see that, so I fought harder, even as I understood less.
MOTHER AND FATHER, YOU GAVE ME LIFE I NEARLY GAVE IT AWAY FOR THE SAKE OF MY SANITY HURTING INSIDE, NO END IN SIGHT PASSING IT DOWN, I’M NOT LOSING THIS FIGHT MOTHER AND FATHER, I KNOW YOU WERE RAISED DIFFERENTLY FIGHTING ABOUT MONEY AND THIS INFIDELITY NOW IT’S MY TIME TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT AND IF I FAIL, THEN I AM A DYNASTY
Every dynasty has its trials and tests, those moments when you decide whether to stay or go, whether to keep working at it or to give up and find an easier path. Every person has their own journey to take, in whatever dynasty they find themselves, and even if their family isn’t the one they would have chosen, there is no denying the bonds and the love that almost every family has at its heart. We don’t always do it well, we don’t always do it right, but we are still there, repeating some mistakes, making new ones, hoping that this time it will be better, that this time it will all work. Humans have that basic primal need – the need to belong, to be part of a tribe, to be a valued member of a family. And luckily for us, we can make our own families, because that’s what you sometimes have to do to survive.
DYNASTY THE PAIN IN MY VEIN IS HEREDITARY DYNASTY RUNNING IN MY BLOODSTREAM, MY BLOODSTREAM DYNASTY AND IF THAT’S ALL THAT I’M GONNA BE WOULD YOU BREAK THE CHAIN WITH ME?
Happily, these three favorite people of mine are still dining out and about whenever possible, and in whatever manner and means this new world demands. The featured photo is from a sunny October weekend visit to Amore Breakfast in Ogunquit, something we will look to do again possibly next year, because there is always hope. All four of us keenly felt our extended absence from Ogunquit this year – it’s been too long, and we can’t wait to return when things get back to normal, or at least into a mode of new normality.
The other photos are from a recent birthday dinner at Yono’s, which is probably our favorite Albany restaurant (tied perhaps with dp: An American Brasserie) and I put them up here to remind myself as much as anyone else the importance of family at such times. In the next few weeks, when our country tears itself apart and who knows what may come of it, I find myself retreating and relying on those who mean the most to me – the family and the friends I have made into my family – and that’s how I’m getting through it.
Luckily, I have Andy to help see us through the difficult times, and operating under a safe veil of social isolation and a quarantine-like fortress, we will batten down the hatches and hole up in our home for the fall and winter to come. We will be all right. We have to be.
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you have to social distance and protect the elderly and otherwise-immune-compromised in a family? You get creative and rustic, and recall what they did in epidemics of the past, all while being flexible and willing to go with the flow. Keeping all that in mind, I came up with a possible solution to the worrying question of what the Ilagan family would be doing for this Thanksgiving.
Recently, I saw a picture of a class being given during the big flu epidemic of 1918, when open-air classes were an actual thing, even in January. The students looked as fine as students in a learning situation could be, all of them bundled up and at their desks, safely distant from one another in the open-sided airiness of what looked like a glorified tent. That gave me an idea.
My parents have a decent-sized garage, with a rustic wooden interior. Two traditional doors are in the front and back, three windows let in light (and air if need be) and the main garage door opens to allow for maximum air-flow and circulation. With a couple of heat lamps, some buffed-up electrical wiring, and decorations by yours truly, we have a Thanksgiving-in-the-making that will likely be one of the more memorable on record. A single long table (or pair of long tables) will make room for social distancing, while a wall of sheer curtains will allow for air movement and a pretty screen. An abundance of candles will add light and a surprising amount of warmth to the space. Most exciting for me is the opportunity for an expanded palette of wardrobe options. The fashion possibilities of wraps and scarves and faux furs that this opens up is a gift unto itself!
Taking lemons and making lemonade is something that 2020 has certainly taught all of us, so we will be well-equipped to re-fashion our holiday celebrations this year. Depending on how this goes, we may repeat the rustic glory for Christmas. (Though we might need heavier curtains in December…)
Yesterday my Dad turned 90 years old – a milestone for a man who has slowed down a bit in recent years, but in whom there are still glimmers of the hero I idolized from the moment I came into the world. Since that was 45 years ago, and Dad just turned 90, the math means that I am the same age at which my Dad first became a father. It’s the first time I’m realizing that, and the first time I understand a little more of my childhood.
Focused mainly on his work and career in those days, Dad was busy making a good life for my brother and myself as we grew up. The idea of having a child at my age fills me with a certain sense of wariness, and when I think back to the years when our Dad was somewhat uninterested in playing or running around when he got home from a long day of work, I suddenly have a better sense of where he was at in his life, as I find myself in a similar position, and gratefully without children. Seen in that light, I have even greater respect for my Dad, who did his best even with the unruly craziness of two rambunctious boys.
I’m filled with gratitude that I get to see that now, and at his best moments I hope Dad is able to appreciate that gratitude. My Dad never really did anything that required our forgiveness, but there were times we didn’t understand his drive for work over fun – now that I’m the same age that he was when I was born, I get it. His choices were made out of love and protection, and a keen foresight to plan for the future. That’s the mark of a good father. I understand that now.
When I was a little kid, one of the best things I got to do was crawl into the bed between my Mom and Dad if I’d had a nightmare or was freaking out about bugs being in my bed (oh, the joys of sleeping with me). Most children have the same experience: the supreme safety and coziness of sleeping next to your parents, when no matter what worries or concerns you have about school or friends or siblings, simply waking up with the two people who love you unconditionally makes everything better.
Back then, my parents felt invincible, larger-than-life, and perfect in every single way. Before the light crept in, and before Dad got up to get ready, he would shift and slowly stretch his legs, raising each one up and down, slowly and methodically, working out the cracks and snaps, twisting slightly to stretch every muscle. He would do the same with his arms. Unaware of my observance, he went through this routine before he got going every morning, and it stuck with me. My Dad was doing his part to keep active and fit, and it was a lesson that has stayed with me to this very day.
It’s also something I think of when I see him slowing down, when his body is no longer able to do what it used to do. I want to see him keep going, to push himself to stay active. I write him letters imploring him to walk every day, reminding him that a little discomfort and muscle ache now might lead to a prolonged health and ability to keep moving later on. The way children and parents switch roles is an accepted way of life, and we all go through it in our own manner. I hope I’m doing some justice to the way in which Dad taught me so much.
For his age, he’s in remarkable shape, and there are still those moments when his eyes alight and he looks and engages like he is is his forties again and I’m a little kid, soaking in all his wisdom and heroism.
On this Father’s Day, I honor my Dad and all that he’s done for me, and for our family, for all these years. We get to have a outside visit, in this changed new world, and hopefully spend some more time together in the coming months.
We also remember Andy’s Dad, whose birthday was yesterday, because Father’s Day is about those we have lost too. Good Dads never stop watching over us.
Our recollection of Mother’s Days that came before continues with this concluding post of previous Broadway weekends. Theater, shopping, dining out, and simply spending time with Mom are happy events taken on their own – combined they are a bit of magical alchemy that lent such joy to our trips. The look back continues with the last three years of outings.
Suzie was back for one of our dinners this time, as was her Mom Elaine, so it was a triple Mother’s Day extravaganza, as I was the only non-mother at the table. (I’ve been hailed as a different kind of Mother, and I’m talking MoFo.) Over the course of the weekend, we saw ‘Hamilton‘, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ and ‘The Cher Show’. A little bit of everything basically.
Thinking back on all these wonderful times leaves me with a pang of sadness that things are so different right now, yet there is such happiness and love in all these memories that they will see us through until we can make new ones. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
The calamity that is 2020 ended up canceling this year’s Mother’s Day Weekend on Broadway, making this pair of posts the closest we’ll be getting to the stage in quite some time. Originally we had tickets for both parts of ‘The Inheritance’, ‘Jagged Little Pill’, ‘The Minutes’ and ‘Six’. That’s quite a lot of dashed dreams, but such is the price of being safe so we’re not complaining. And while social distancing has kept Andy and I from properly seeing Mom and Dad since mid-March, I sent her a Mother’s Day gift box (fully sanitized of course) in the snail-mail which has already been delivered. With that, I wish her a very Happy Mother’s Day, and with this we’ll take a moment to look back at what we’ve done over the last few years.
Since we have some time, here’s a detailed and link-filled revisiting of our previous Broadway jaunts, all of which are filled with happy memories and wonderful recollections. We’ve been doing this off and on since the 90’s (see the photo below, taken the first time we saw ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in its original Broadway run in 1995). Our Broadway tradition has taken hold as a Mother’s Day mainstay, one that we’ll miss this time around, but we’ll make it up in different fashion sometime in the future.
Happy Birthday! Now you are ten years old! That’s a double-digit milestone, and an important one. This is usually the age where you will start to remember things. I know you have memories of your younger childhood, but even those are fading by the day. There is so much happening now, and it’s all happening so quickly. Maybe it’s good that we have birthdays to give us pause, to mark a day and a moment, to make a memory that lasts.
I still remember your first birthday. It had rained all morning, but it was warm – a balmy spring day that was perfect for starting two new lives. Uncle Andy picked me up from work as usual and we drove to the hospital to find the two of you – so tiny and impossibly small – wrapped tightly in little blankets. You each fit in a single arm. I loved you instantly, and that’s rare for me.
In those early days, you didn’t do much. You slept, you cried, you fussed, you drank, you slept, you pooped, you cried, you slept, you peed, you cried. And gradually you grew. Little by little the tiny infants you were turned into babies – with more recognizable human attributes. A smile, a frown, a laugh, a coo, a shriek, a cough – and a growing recognition of the world around you. What did you see when you first recognized your Uncle Al? I’m afraid to ask.
By the time you were walking, I wanted to tell you to slow down, to stop growing, to stop moving toward the future, even when that’s exactly what you should be doing. You may need to remind me of that, because there are going to be times when your Uncle is wrong. (It won’t always or often happen, but it will on occasion.)
The years flew by and there were glimmers of the people you were about to become. How slow the days must have felt to you, how long a single week stretched out in your young minds. Your impatience was a mark of childhood – you didn’t want to wait for anything and I only wanted you to wait a little longer and stay as young as possible for as long as possible. Most of us, if we’re lucky, miss our childhoods.
Our first family vacation with you was in Cape Cod, where your Dad and I spent so many vacations as kids. Lolo and Lola joined Uncle Andy and I, and we had the best time watching you play on the beach, burying your Dad in the sand up to his head, and walking to dinner as the sun went down on each perfect day. Still, time moved forward, as much as we may have wanted to pause in the summer sun.
When you were old enough, you began to stay over for longer periods of time. As unaccustomed to babysitting as I was, we managed to get along rather swimmingly. Your Uncle can be as much of a kid as the two of you, if not more childish on occasion. We knew how to have fun together. You reminded me of that, and your own wisdom taught me things I had both forgotten and never known. We could learn from each other.
We could also be silly and completely ridiculous, something I’d always wanted to be but never quite allowed myself. You brought that back into my life, and I will always love you for that. Who knows what you thought of your crazy Uncle Al for mirroring your silliness, but you never seemed to mind. Don’t ever change that.
We watched you play with Suzie’s kids, Oona and Milo – the next generation of an Ilagan-Ko alliance bravely marching forth into a new world. It tickled all of us, extending the idea of my world into our world, broadening my typically-self-centered existence into something more. You expanded and enriched our lives. Whenever you doubt yourself, think back to those days, and what I’m writing to you now, and realize that even at a young age, you were bringing happiness, and perhaps some necessary chaos, into the world.
You have my promise that I will always do my best to be a better person when I’m with you, and hopefully that will go beyond. You know me pretty well, so you know I won’t sugarcoat anything, but I will put some sparkle and pizzazz on things. I will try to bring some magic and enchantment to your world, a little dose of crazy creativity and artistic sensibility to the doldrums of school and rules and proper behavior. Above all else, I hope to remind you that it’s ok to be different – and even better than that, being different is sometimes the best thing to be. It marks you as special. It’s not always easy to step apart from the pack and do the right thing, it’s not a simple move to be good instead of popular, but these are the things that will make you into someone marvelous and magnificent. I know you have it in you. I’ve already seen it in action.
Emi and Noah – you give me hope. I know the world sometimes feels scary, and there may come a time when you wonder how things turned so dark just when you were coming into your own, but that’s good. It will be up to you to make things better, and if you keep your hearts and your sense of kindness and fairness and goodness, you will help lead the rest of us into that better place.
Have a wonderful 10th birthday. For the past decade you have lit up our lives. I can’t wait to see where the next decade takes us. And always remember, your Uncle Al loves you.
‘On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.’ –J.M. Barrie
“That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works… ” were the words running through my head whenever I would envision how to go about getting my Mom onto FaceBook. The Ilagan family was planning a big summer reunion, and the hundreds of messages I was getting from that FaceBook group were too much to wade through when one has a full-time job, makes his own dinner, and dresses himself in the morning. So Mom had to get on FaceBook, if only to deal with that. Besides, most of my daily activity is chronicled there so I figured it might make for a more communicative relationship. This was another way of staying in touch, so that’s how I’m billing it.
I jokingly posted, “My Mom is on FaceBook. Now I have to be good.” People said to block her, or tone down posts, or other such nonsense, all of which was laughable. Why would I block my Mom? She sees this website (hi Mom!) and she’s certainly seen much worse than anything that FaceBook would allow. One of the main social media adages that I’ve always applied has been to only post what you’re comfortable with your mother seeing. So there.
The challenge won’t be in censoring myself or making it palatable and easy to navigate – the challenge will be in getting her engaged and involved, because otherwise there’s no point. I’m trying to paint it as an online version of her New Year’s Day gatherings, where chosen family and friends come together to mingle and share a memory or a story or the simple workings of their day. It’s kept me at touch with people I wouldn’t normally get to see, and made the world a little warmer on lonely nights. It also reminds you of when birthdays are and other events, and eventually, if you invest information and engagement, it will leave you with a diary of sorts once the memories start piling up. That’s more useful than scrolling through fifty thousand photos from two years ago.
Plus, this will make gift-giving so much easier because I tend to post and link exactly what I want as soon as I see it. Everyone wins.
This story has been told here before, and probably in better detail, but I’m going over it again because it’s a sweet one. When my brother and I were kids, before adolescence and personality quirks defined and distanced us from one another, we generally got along pretty well. Born just a year and a half apart, but diametrically opposed as to the season (his birthday is today; mine is as far as you can get from the calendar day – August 24) we managed to maintain a pretty close friendship, mostly because for a lot of the time we were all we had. Not that we didn’t have arguments and periods of not getting along, but we always came back to each other. And every once in a while we’d feel extremely loving and generous and put it on display.
While we were close, we were lucky enough to have our own bedrooms, separated by the wide berth of stairs and hall that led from one side of the house to the other. On one particular weekend afternoon, when the winter sun was not quite deigning to shine, and we were holed up inside for the day, one of us – and I wish I could remember who initiated it – placed a small gift outside the door of the other. It wasn’t anything major – maybe a candy bar or a small toy or keepsake – something silly, but the meaning of it came through. We weren’t always so kind. On this day, it inspired the other one to return the favor, and soon there was a succession of little gifts that we left outside the door of the other. We raced back to our own rooms before we were discovered each time. It went on for a little while, and it touched me in ways that remain to this very day. I often think back to that afternoon, and it always makes me smile.
Today marks my brother’s birthday, so this is my little gift to him, dropped in this online room, waiting for him to discover it. Happy birthday, baby brother.
My Mom doesn’t look a day over fifty, even though she is, quite literally, a couple of decades older than that. She wears it quite well, and I remain astounded by her perpetual grace. I learned a great many things from my mother, not the least of which is poise and elegance, and a certain icy, nonchalant disregard to the unimportant aspects of life. Her analytical and scientific background as nurse and professor was a wonder to behold, and her ability to remain unflustered (with the occasionally notable exceptions of dealing with her kids) was something to which I aspired and ultimately achieved.
The 2019 Boston Children’s Holiday Hour took place under the shadows of the missing. Alissa was no longer with us, and Kristen and Anu’s families weren’t able to make it. However, we welcomed Tommy and Janet and their kids for the first time, along with Suzie’s family and a late last-minute appearance by Chris. All in all, some of my favorite people for one of my favorite new traditions, perhaps the last of its kind. Change was in the air this year, for better and worse.
Suzie arrived extra-early, which was a bonus, as the twins were already antsy to begin the festivities and the preparatory exercises. Emi cut the cheese and everybody laughed. Noah did a few dishes. We all partook of the charcuterie board, and the mandarin oranges, and eventually the chocolate milk that Tommy put on, scalding hot water and all. (Cut to a bunch of kids putting ice on their tongues in dramatic, histrionic form.)
There were games in place of crafts, which worked out quite well. Thank God someone knows about kids because I truly don’t. And thank God for Janet, who saved a chair after hot chocolate spilled all over the antique table and ran onto the fabric of the chair. Much as I did when a candle went flying a few years ago, splashing wax all over the carpet and a curtain panel, I remained remarkably detached from the whole fiasco. It’s always a good lesson in easing up on my perfectionist nature. Kids have a knack of leading these lessons.
There were many happy moments, most of which revolved around Tommy and Janet, whom I haven’t been lucky enough to see in Boston in many, many years. This was a good reunion, and the next generation was already stepping up to the plate.
By the time we had finished an order of pizza and Thai food, Chris rolled into town for the night, joining in the bonhomie and bringing the Cornell Crew into the majority. The twins taught him a new card game that they had just learned from Suzie, and new friendships were made. It’s the best thing that can happen at a Children’s Holiday Hour.
The next morning came with the let-down of having to depart. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as Chris and I had much to discuss when the twins went to bed. The last time we had been together in the condo, Alissa had been with us. A note she had left was still on the fireplace mantle, a ghostly whisper of raw loss, a searing jolt reminding us of her absence. There she had stood, there she had sat, there we had hugged, there we had said goodbye until the next time. A heaviness had set in, and we each felt a little lonelier.
Luckily there was little time to dwell, as twins will not sit still for long. I paused in the remembrance, still not quite ready to process anything, and allowed myself to get pulled into the mundane matters of the day, the only way to move forward. One tiny step of getting the twins into their winter hats, and going from there.
We headed to brunch at Boston Chops, where Noah bravely tried Eggs Benedict for the first time, and Emi had the fired chicken and biscuits. At nine years old, they knew how to behave at a restaurant, and had been pretty good for the whole weekend. I don’t know if this is a tradition we’ll get around to doing again – after five years most of the original children aren’t even children anymore – and that’s too far away to predict or think too much about. For the moment, we bounded back toward the condo, pausing in a few stores and stopping to pick up a piece of chocolate and a lollipop at the candy store.
We had a quick and uneventful ride home – the best possible thing to hope for at this late stage of the weekend, and they asked if we could have one more cup of hot chocolate with Uncle Andy, heavy on the whipped cream. I couldn’t refuse.
It began with this stern but friendly warning from me to the twins on how we would best get through our first weekend away together: “Ok, listen. I need you to behave and stay close. If I lose even one of you this weekend, I’ll get in trouble.”
Happily, they heeded the warning and we made for a more-or-less agreeable Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, one that took up the whole weekend and worked to heal some of the hurt from the previous month or so. Andy’s absence cast a pall over all the proceedings, lending shadow to my mood, but children have no need of moods, nor much care to be concerned. I took that lead and did my best to shirk it off. I’ve become quite adept at compartmentalizing the various pieces of emotional baggage I’ve been accruing these past few months. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
We traveled in the afternoon, once the twins got out of school. On the day before the shortest day of the year, we drove to the east, and by the time we arrived in Boston, the light had drained from the sky. Warmth was absent too. Still, Boston was lit from all the holiday cheer, and Christmas scenes led our way to dinner. The chocolate fantasy world of Max Brenner seemed the best choice for our entry meal, and it was listed on a kid-friendly dining guide for those of us in need of such guidance.
Following dinner we picked up a few supplies, and dessert, at Eataly, where we found a $2000 block of cheese that Noah just had to touch, after which he complained about the smell on his hands until we got back to the condo. After telling us ten times to remind him to wash his hands when he got back, he managed to remember himself.
That night, we cuddled on the bed and watched ‘Mary Poppins Returns‘ – who provided the inspiration I would use to guide us on our way. When in doubt, channel Mary Poppins: stern and a little blunt, cold but caring, stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing. When the movie was finally done it was almost midnight – a late night even by my standards, but I don’t get to see them much, and when at last I gave them their goodnight hugs, we were all fast asleep within minutes.
The chill remained in the air the next morning, but the condo was cozy and there were windows of sunlight in between the clouds. We stayed close, with a quick breakfast at the counter of Charlie’s, before venturing out again. In an attempt to stay warm, we walked through the Copley Mall into the Prudential Center, then across Boylston for some hot chocolate at Starbucks. Fortified by that, and a trio of mint mocha samples (wait, are children supposed to have coffee?) we went back out for a mini holiday stroll of sorts, pausing in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental and sitting by the fire for a spirited few rounds of ‘I Spy’ then playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals. Emi gave us a math lesson on the little chalkboard, and both of the kids colored in a couple of Christmas tree magnets on hand.
We did a little shopping on Newbury Street, finding a couple of gifts for their Dad and Lola, then we stopped at one more fireside lobby – the Lenox Hotel, where they got to spin a couple of dreidels. Noah wanted to head back to the condo before the party, so we made our way from whence we came. It was time to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour in proper.
