What are you wearing?

"What are you wearing?"

I hesitated for just a moment. I don't know what she means. Is she criticizing my clothes? I look down … My shirt didn't have anything silly emblazoned on it … my pants didn't have holes. My sandals didn't show socks… I couldn't even find a smidgeon of mustard anywhere.

What's wrong with what I'm wearing?

“Not what you're wearing now …(doofus). What do you plan to wear to the graduation ceremony.”

“I don't know. I suppose I'll have to wait to find out what the temperature will be.”

The 10-degree swing in the forecast had me questioning all of my options.

But my daughter didn't want to compare climate concerns with respect to our outfits. She didn't want to know if I was planning on wearing sensible shoes ... or a maxi skirt. She wanted to know whether I was planning on wearing something that might embarrass her.

She wouldn't put it past me to throw on some boxy sweatshirt and the shapeless cargo pants that I tend to live in throughout the summer.

She knows I'm unlikely to wear a dress ... even the one she gave me during the pandemic that I promised to wear to the Post Office. Of course, she knew I had already been seen in that flouncy floral delight ... at her brother's middle school graduation ... and out to dinner once. ... and yes, even at the Post Office one Tuesday during the thickest point of isolation. 

But does she think I'm going to wear something that will call attention to the unstylish rube that I am: Maybe a bright orange blouse more befitting a Halloween pirate.

I can't blame her for the concern. It's not like I've NEVER shown up at school dressed in a gorilla outfit topped by a mermaid costume and a magician's hat.

"Don't worry. You will recognize me. ..."

Truth is … I'd already picked it out: Jeans with a long jacket - dressed up on this day with bright colors and a pair of strappy sandals. A mixture of styles I've worn in some fashion or other since my own high school days.

I could see her shudder.

It doesn't matter to her that these items all came from second-hand shops, but it may be of some surprise that they have some of the upscale labels my mother would have worn. The fabrics harken to a similar vintage: nearly antique.

“Hey, I may even use the iron.”

I go into my closet and extract the proof. The hangers click satisfyingly as I stretch out the fabric for her approval.

She nods with astonishment.

“You have come a long way, baby.”

One might think experience and maturity might have sent me down this path of dressing my age ... but no. My daughter, with her keen grasp of mathematics and style, has taught me the important angles of at least "looking" put together.

Turns out I was pretty close to having this key to the style universe all along.

She calls it a Capsule Wardrobe and it means you wear the same fifteen pieces of clothing on a rotating basis ... only the separates cost a fortune otherwise you have to call it Mix and Match.

The trick, of course, is to avoid buying the other 4,328 pieces that never seem to blend in.

Out of the ordinary

I wish my father were here. 

I miss him. Not just on Father's Day, of course, but his absence today looms large.

He wasn't a Hero ... or The Best Dad Ever. He couldn't be categorized by a card. He was just a guy who loved his kids and his grandkids and did his best for the family.

A part of me loved him most for the things he didn't get exactly right.

The indelible moments.

The hour-long trip into the snowy woods to find the perfect Christmas tree, only to realize the trip back would mean another hour's trek dragging the quarry with a half-frozen toddler on top.

The eighth birthday party, held at the Snow Dock in Albany watching the garbage barge float past, when it turned out the bowling alley was closed.

He wasn't perfect but he was enthusiastic. Pride wasn't his motive.

He rarely took the easy path. A David fighting Goliaths. 

He hummed the music of Aaron Copland. He loved the poems of Robert Frost. He had strong feelings about politics and prose. He was anxious, but he didn't worry. He loved my mother. He hated eggs.

He would have grand tutorials around the operation of his electric train set, but I don't think he ever instructed us on the commodified evils of leaving the lights on in a room we'd vacated. He'd just shut them off.

He had an impish laugh, too. The kind of laugh that started silently and wracked his slender body until it took full control. He often found humor at his own expense, but he found amazement everywhere else.

"Did I ever tell you ...." is how he began most of his stories.

About how the old neighborhood looked. How he met my mother. What shenanigans his pals at work had gotten up to. What the grandkids had said last week that made him "laugh like a fool."

Of course, he had told them all before, but there was something about his voice that always made me want to hear them again. I could picture the tale as though it were flickering behind him on a movie screen.

Nothing out of the ordinary. 

It doesn't really surprise me that, according to history, this American day of honoring dads was ingrained by a daughter who simply admired her dad.

It also doesn't surprise me that the sentiment felt so embarrassing that it took a while for the nation to catch on.

Fatherhood, according to long understood lore, was more of a noun than a verb.

My father often remarked that he only found the true joy of fatherhood later, as retirement gave him time to spend with his grandchildren. Toting them around to swim classes or ballet performances. Letting them play with the model trains before they'd even learned the basics.

"Did I ever tell you how when you were little I used to go to work before you woke up and get home after you'd fallen asleep? You'd cry when you saw me on weekends because I was a stranger.

"I'm glad things are different now."

Looking forward

As graduation nears and all of its transitions loom on the horizon, I can't say a single one of us feels ready.

Though each day of this year has been leading us here, I still can't really believe it's happening. I close my eyes, and my daughter's first graduation comes into a clear focus.

The white construction paper hat, with its shimmering tassels of scissor-curled ribbon. A little girl with big plans ... So ready to move on ... to kindergarten.


Thirteen years have passed since that day. Four-thousand-seven-hundred and forty-five days.

Her unkempt hair and princess dresses have gone by the wayside, replaced by understated togs and sweeping locks Rapunzel might have envied were she a real girl like ours.

To her this moment has been slow in coming.

To me, it seems like no time has passed at all. We are all grateful to have made it through with more highs than lows.

This season of celebration, however, seems clouded in uncertainty. The stakes, of course, seeming infinitely more daunting.

In our lives. In our communities. In our understanding of how we fit into the world we live more, and more of us feel ill at ease.

It seems so dark right now. There are so many fears.

Stress stirs them up and makes tears boil over.

Every decision is fraught with anxiety.

Life itself is a risk.

Or is that just perception?

Is this life just on repeat?

The change from childhood to adulthood in one stage crossing. The pivot of a shimmery tassel from one side of her mortarboard to the other.

The accomplishment comes with a sigh of relief. We made it.

And in life's true irony, her achievement, not unlike the folder she'll receive for the photo op, will seem empty.

We have to believe it's worth all this angst, in part, because we bought the sales pitch.

It is what you make of it, or so they say. Where resilience seemed so empowering once, now it seems to be a side-effect forced by acceptance.

Maybe it's just in the moment we find ourselves. A time when so much is being taken away for no reasonable purpose. The worsening of our experiences in a nation that used to aspire toward being free.

It's hard to know what's real. It's hard to catch our breath when instincts take over.

When things don't work out the way you planned; When you have regrets;  When you feel like you are failing, and having to start over from scratch.

There are so many things we can't know for certain. So much of our experiences are strongly felt but not easily explained. Not even to ourselves.

I do not know the best way to chart a course. I know that hard work and dedication don't always mean you will realize your goals. What we want isn't always what we need. Just like I know that winning doesn't always mean we were right.

But we are still here. Looking forward to what happens next.

Greeting and salutations from that little old tree in the forest

The voice sounded so mature.

"Hello!"

I had just walked into the house and past the room where we welcome overnight guests, when a voice trailed after me.

"I'm sorry, I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message at the beep, and I will return your call as soon as possible."

Of course, I recognize this voice as it follows me on my quest for a lunch of last night's leftovers. 

My son. Sounding like a radio announcer, all smooth and silky, was replacing the outgoing message on his phone as he cuddled up with the dog on the guest bed sofa sleeper.

But something sounds off.

He notices, too.

"Hello! I'm sorry, I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message at the beep and I will get back to you soon."

Still wrong.

“Hello! I am sorry to miss your call. Leave a message at the beep. and I will get back to you.

I stood there without speaking, salvaged salad in hand, and just looked at the two of them for a while. Her graying muzzle rested on the crook of his knee as he scratched between her ears. She groaned softly has he repeated the takes.

 A lump swelled in my throat at the nostalgia before my heart sank.

"HELL-o … "

I wasn't prepared for the effrontery of this new baritone boy erasing his predecessor's froggy-throated message delivered via prank ....

"Hello? ...."

And in the the moment of hesitation after the question mark's lift, I would forge ahead with my assuage until ..

"Ahhhhhhhm not here! Leave a message and I'll call ya back!"

It got me every single time. 

Except now that little scoundrel was gone. Replaced by a new, more mature boy who was in possession of a piece of blue card stock, which permitted access to entry-level employment of limited scope during the summer. 

This new boy intuitively knew the old boy's sophmoric snark might limit his opportunities further. 

Of course, staring too long at your teenage son, is a known antidote his aspirational suave. He begins to squirm under the scrutiny.

His serious demeanor dissolves and he crosses his eyes and hopes I'll disappear.

Maturity isn't here full time just yet.

I look away … only to get another surprise:

A table lamp is lying on the floor, and next to it are the cordless phone and a small framed photo. The trio must have gathered each other up for companionship upon descent.

"Hello! What happened here?"

"Oh! There was a commotion between the dog and cat before. I didn't really pay much attention. Must have been one of them that knocked everything over."

So much for trees falling in forests, not getting heard.

As I suspected, it doesn't matter much if you heard it falling or not. The tree is still down, and the hikers are just going to walk around it until there's a new path to follow.