My family and I posed in front of the Ice Blue Show Queen in her virgin voyage to Amsterdam, NY. She has since been outfitted with chrome license plate frames, because my car fanaticism has taken root. All this time I’ve been worried about catching the menopause from co-workers, I didn’t realize the car obsession syndrome that was right next to me in the form of my husband. It’s the unsuspecting ones who always get it.
Some posts tell their own stories with very little promoting from this exhausted writer. Let that happen right now.
Unlike myself, my niece and nephew would rather spend their last moments of a trip in the hot tub, and I really can’t blame them. It was one of their favorite haunts on this vacation, so that’s where I found them when I was finishing up my packing and getting ready to roll out of Cape Cod for this season.
For my last hurrah, I indulged in this decadent breakfast cupcake at Buckie’s, a caramel almond concoction that was worth however many cavities it gave me. It was the sweetest ending to a very sweet vacation. (And ok, maybe it wasn’t technically a “breakfast” cupcake, but I ate it as such and feel better when it’s designated accordingly.)
A wistful look back over the last few days would have to see Andy and me through the ride home.
Remembering the splashing in the water, the way the sun felt on my shoulders, and the sand on my feet…
Remembering my family on the beach – the entire family – for the first time in almost three decades…
Remembering Andy posing in front of this car…
and playing miniature golf like it was baseball, and eating this ice cream…
… and not wanting to say good-bye.
Let’s do it again next year.
Two things that signified the Cape Cod vacations of our youth were miniature golf and ice cream at the Lil Caboose. The former was easy to replicate, and we soon found ourselves swinging away on an 18 hole course. (Yes, 18 – which, after the first two holes took half an hour to get through, meant for a very long evening.)
I don’t want to brag, but I was averaging two shots per hole, thank you very much. It’s all in the ball – and my chosen color was purple.
Andy was a maniac on the mini-greens, launching his ball out of bounds more often than not. People were actually moving out of the way when he came up to putt. (Mainly my brother and myself.)
The twins handled themselves pretty well until the last few holes. Emi was done with the whole process, and Noah was getting unruly. A few sets of players behind us had already been advised to play through, and most welcomed the chance. The mosquitoes were also out by this time, so I was very thankful when the last ball disappeared into the abyss of the last hole.
For our final outing on this family vacation, we stopped by a childhood haunt – the Lil Caboose – for ice cream. I’d spotted the venerable establishment earlier that day, astounded that it was still around, and that I still remembered. My brother instantly recalled it, and I finally realized that in many ways he is more nostalgic than me. As his kids enjoyed their first Lil Caboose experience, the distant memories of our vacations came back little by little. It was different being one of the adults this time, but different in a good way. One of the things that remained the same was the feeling, on that last night, of not wanting it to end.
The only problem traveling with a pair of four-year-olds is that meals don’t always run as smoothly as an adult like myself would prefer they would. I was expecting this, so the meltdowns the twins had were not super surprising. Yes, I was new to that (if we ever behaved like that as kids we would be in trouble I can’t even fathom) but I took it all in stride. The trouble with twins is that there is double the chance for trouble, so when one was behaving the other was breaking down. And vice versa. It made for a less-than-merry go-round, but after a while it became routine, and most of the restaurants we ate at were accustomed to kids.
Our last meal was one of our best – both behavior-wise and as far as food went. The Ocean House, from the outside, looked like just another tourist trap on the shore, but inside it was elegant, and boasted the best dishes of the entire vacation – such as this lobster salad intro and a sea bass entree.
The walk back to the hotel was filled with golden-hour light, so we paused for pictures on a walk leading to the shore.
Getting my brother and my husband to pose for photos is hard enough – adding a pair of four-year-old twins to the mix is all but impossible to manage. That’s when you let go and let God. (And laugh – a lot.)
Andy somehow managed to wrangle out this decent shot, and just in time: the promise of miniature golf and ice cream had these kids on the edge of everything.
It’s been years – almost thirty in fact – since I last played on the beach with my brother. But when he asked me to help his kids bury him in the sand, it was as if no time at all had passed. We’d done that as kids – well, I’d buried him (never the other way around because I did not find any joy in being buried alive) and here we were doing it with his children. Someone just needs to cue the ‘Circle of Life’ and be done with it.
There’s something very Tim Burton-esque about seeing your brother’s disembodied head in the sand, barking orders to his kids, and then to you. And there’s something very satisfying about getting to ignore those orders.
After seeing the fun that his Dad was having, Noah wanted to be buried too. Like father, like son.
Noah’s sister Emi was only too happy to oblige. Like uncle, like niece.
When the sun beats down, and the ocean laps at your feet, there is little to do but enjoy the moment, listen to the sea gulls, and take it all in. Making it even more special is the excitement and thrill that the kids get when frolicking on the beach. Without further words to get in the way, here is the start to a series of posts from our family vacation.
We crossed the Sagamore Bridge early in the morning, easily beating any wait and the maddening summer crowds, and then we found our way to Dennisport, MA. Arriving far earlier than check-in time, the hotel was good enough to let us into our rooms within an hour (and with a pair of four-year-olds in tow and antsy to get to the beach, it was truly a blessing.) The sun was shining, and the sky was a brilliant blue. It was the perfect beginning – and it would stay perfect for our entire stay.
On the stereo, the song that always reminds me of summer in Cape Cod played: k.d. lang’s ‘Summerfling’. From her ‘Invincible Summer’ album ~ the brilliant companion-piece to any sunny summer day ~ it set the scene for the beach romps to come. ‘We ran on the beach with Kennedy flair”… I’ll do a proper musical post about that song at another time. For now, these photos will have to suffice.
When I was a little boy, the beach was one of my favorite places to be. The sun, the sand, the surf, the sandcastles – and the pulsating flow of life – from the waves to the seaweed to the crabs and the fish. The arc of the orb, the incoming tide, and the burrowing sand fleas – all were resplendent beneath the umbrella of a vacation.
Somewhere over the years, my enjoyment of the ocean waned. Well, maybe not so much waned as simply lost an outlet. Vacations no longer encompassed days at the beach, and even on semi-regular stops in Provincetown I rarely found myself making the trek to the sandy shore. It wasn’t until a few years ago, on a July trip to Ogunquit, when I fell under the spell of the ocean again.
The way the waves drummed their hypnotic cadence, the way the sun moved across the sky, and the way the seagulls accented the sand with their shadows and their cries – it conspired to craft a scene of peace, a return to the basic tenets of life.
Out in the distance, deep in the vast expanse of the Atlantic, whales and sharks swam in the murky depths. The thought both terrified and thrilled me – that by stepping gingerly into the cool water I could instantly enter their world. My feet touched the same body of water that lapped at the shore of Europe. Being on the beach always inspired such thoughts, pushed my mind to philosophical challenges. The gears were grinding again, even if they remained a bit rusty.
Already, the return to the ocean was working its magic. The cares of concerns of the landlocked drifted away here. Freedom was at hand. The sea, like the summer, stretched far ahead of us. It was a very good place to be.
Our family vacations were not for the relaxation or refreshment that most people think of when they plan a vacation. Our parents saw to it that we were up by 7:30 most mornings, seeing the local sights, traipsing through the museums and historical locations before there was beach time or pool fun. It was a regimented routine that I still find myself recreating on trips.
The first thing my Mom would do, much to our impatient chagrin, was unpack the luggage and put the clothes away in the chest and closet. While we were antsy, she methodically unpacked everything. We would whine and run around the room hoping to go anywhere or do anything other than such mundane housekeeping. These days, I rarely unload a thing from the luggage, aside from hanging some shirts of jackets to undo any wrinkling.
As for the early alarm, I realize now that she probably didn’t want to waste a moment, and I get that. I am the same way when it comes to seeing a new place for the first time. The best time of the day in many places is first thing in the morning. THat’s when the air is fresh, the light is good, and the crowds are still asleep.
For our upcoming family vacation, however, I’m going to do things a little differently. I’m not going to rush myself up in the morning. I’m not going to jam a few days of nonstop events into the itinerary. In fact, there will be no itinerary. I will make no plans. I will make no commitments. I will do as I feel, when I feel like doing it.
With a new job that has its own non-stop schedule, I want to refresh and replenish and relax. I don’t think I’ve ever truly done that before. Now is the time.
Every summer our parents would take us on a family vacation. These were usually about a week in duration (it was the most my Dad would take off from work) but they seemed much longer, in the way that childhood has of stretching out time, especially during spells of grand adventure. We’d pack up the big station wagon, load a cooler with ice and sandwiches and soda (a treat, as we never got to drink much soda as kids) and head out on a carefully-plotted excursion. Sometimes we went South – to Florida or South Carolina – and sometimes we’d head North – to Montreal or Toronto. It didn’t really matter to us – we just loved the thrill of getting out of town for a while, and the excitement of hotel stays and new places to see.
For one of these vacations, a friend of my Mom gave her a journal to keep track of everything we did. She made a few entries before this final one:
The kids are miserable.
Emil – generally miserable.
Me – wondering why the hell I plan these vacations…
Looking back, we laugh at it. At the time, I’m sure there was hell to pay. Now, as we are about to embark on our first family vacation in over two decades, I hope the twins don’t volley my karma back at me. We’ll be on the Cape, where a couple of four-year-olds can get very tiresome if there’s not fun and sun and a lot to do. Wish me luck.
This goes out to all the Fathers in the world (and out of it) – but especially to my Dad, who raised and supported us – and continues to do so. My brother and I were a handful, and we tried his patience more than we should have, and more than he deserved, but he never wavered in his love for us. If it wasn’t always the most demonstrated, we always knew it was there, in a few quick words of support, a laugh at our antics, or the way he talked about us to other people. That’s where real love gets shown. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
And to the other father in our family – my brother – a very Happy Father’s Day too!
My first memory of her is running up the dark stairs of their Victorian home and wrapping my arms around her legs, sobbing like a kid of, well, my young age. I couldn’t have been more than five years old, and I was visiting Suzie on my own for the first time. I felt safe and had fun, but when it was time to go and a storm prevented my Mom from picking me up at the designated time, I panicked and ran into her arms. Suzie watched from the family room, probably puzzled at such excessive tears for missing my Mom from just across town. But her mother understood, and comforted me like only a seasoned mother could do. That is who Aunt Elaine will always be to me: a second mother.
A few years later, while my Dad was undergoing eye surgery and my Mom was staying at Albany Med, my brother and I had to spend the night at the Ko home. She tucked us into one of her son’s bedrooms in the attic, and once again we felt safe and cared for, comforted when a small sliver of worry hung over the slowly-ticking hours. I think she knew our latent fears, but she never let us worry or think about it too much.
A summer or two later, I rang the door to pick Suzie up to go somewhere, and Elaine answered with bags under her eyes, like she’d been crying. For the first time, I saw her as a human being. She explained that Dr. Ko had had nightmares of the war again, and had been up all night. All I had ever seen or known of her had been the jovial, unflappable matriarch. It was a glimpse of vulnerability coupled with steely strength, and I never forgot it.
She relied on that strength when Dr. Ko died in what remains one of the saddest things that has ever happened in my lifetime. In the middle of a house filled with family and friends and relatives from around the world, she held it all together, and to this day I don’t know how she didn’t crumble. We all wanted to fall apart that March, but the one person who saw everyone through it was Elaine. I remember hugging her like I did all those years ago, trying to become some small source of comfort, trying to go back to a happier time. Suzie and I grew up then, even if we didn’t want to, even if we weren’t quite ready. And still, her Mom stood, talking to others, comforting them, taking care of us, watching out for everyone.
No one was ever quite the same after that, but somehow Elaine retained her spirit and drive. In some ways I understand that she had to keep going, had to keep giving, in a valiant effort to keep from giving up. There must have been days when it seemed like too much, but she never revealed that to most of us.
Throughout all of it, she had her volunteer work. My Mom and I would marvel at how she did it. Not just at how much she loved it, but how much she physically did – all the hours of traveling, of studying, of helping. My Mom’s a pretty selfless person too, but even she was in awe of the force of nature that is Elaine Ko-Talmadge.
Recently, she received the New York State Liberty Medal, one of the highest honors presented to citizens. Nominated and presented by State Senator Cecilia Tkaczyk, the award represents a lifetime of community service and volunteer work, and nobody exemplifies that more than Elaine. I honestly don’t know one other person who has given so much. I understand now that it was in her nature to give, but it was also what she needed to do to survive.
Fittingly, many of us didn’t find out about this latest honor until it was in the newspaper because she never said anything. It wasn’t her style to make a fuss over herself – and that’s what it means to be a truly charitable person. She never did it for the accolades or the praise. She did it to make a genuine difference.
Congratulations, Aunt Elaine, on a lifetime of work that has not gone unnoticed.
It was never cool to like school. For the most part, I fell into that category too, and most years I couldn’t wait to walk out of those stuffy buildings for the last time in June. But after some years, the good ones, I didn’t want it to end. Secretly I wished we had a few more days or weeks, and privately I knew I’d miss the camaraderie of my classmates. Even then I found comfort in human contact as much as I shrugged it away.
As I was watching my niece and nephew and the graduating class of their pre-school program, I was struck with how the teacher was so moved, as she thanked those who helped her throughout the year. With tears in her eyes, she expounded upon the virtues of each member of the class, predicting what sort of career of future the kids might have, praising their strong-points, and instilling in them a sense of self that the best teachers always manage to bring out.
The pre-schoolers themselves seemed largely unaware of the finality of the moment. Their smiling faces betrayed nothing of worry or consternation at moving on to the next phase of their lives. At such a young age how could they worry about such matters? I wondered instead at their teacher, and what these transitory moments might mean to her. She’s with these kids for a year or two, informing and shaping their lives as they grow up, and at the beginning of summer she’s gone from their lives.
I don’t think I could do that. I couldn’t handle getting attached or affected by people only to have them leave after a year. Over and over again, some years more difficult than others, but each one meaningful in its own way. I don’t think my heart could take having to say goodbye every year like that. As a child I knew no other way but as an adult it’s a choice, and it’s not something I’d want to do. It sounds a bit melodramatic, and perhaps it’s an exaggeration, or at least some connection that only happens in childhood. (I never found quite the same dynamic with any of my college professors, but I remember almost every single one of my grade school teachers.)
As the twins posed in front of their silhouettes, I wondered what was going through their heads. They still have one more year to go before they move on, and they’re still too young to really remember any of this in the future. That’s all right. I’ll remember it for them.
