Leading questions

"Hey ... I don't suppose you want to come with me and the dog on a walk?"

I know how it sounds. It's an offer with a subtle twist of the arm as well as an escape hatch. The cast of it would have let the sdol slip the hook entirely.

This is why I am surprised by the somewhat enthusiastic "Ok," followed almost immediately by the clomping of feet on the stairs.

We had reeled him in. 

"I'll hold her," he says, taking the leash from my hand and opening the door. He notices the dog's elation as she chomps at the tether and bounds onto the porch.

"Is she always this excited for a walk?"

I consider answering with an outright lie: She's NEVER this excited; it must be your presence that has sparked such joy.

"Yeah. This is part of the routine. She'll hop around with her leash for a while at the start, then she'll get serious about surveilling the local squirrel population."

I don't clue him in that there will be a mile's worth of dawdling ahead of us with random pinpoints of unruliness inserted for excitement.

Nor do I outline all the remedies a dog's-life worth of repetition has taught me. That a fluffy puppy nearly minding its own business at an intersection may provoke an unneighborly reaction from our beloved pooch. Or we might pass each other like proverbial ships in the night. Like ghosts.

It's a crap shoot.

"That will be your job," he says as if he's heard my thoughts. He extracts the bag dispenser from the loop and hands it over to me. A ringing endorsement of my skills.

I could have predicted that.

But if I've learned anything about this ritual of ordinary life is that you can always be surprised.

Evidenced, in part, by my son's voluntary presence on this warm fall evening stroll, not to mention his enthusiasm for answering my intrusive questions ...such as "What are you working on in social studies?" and "What did you have for lunch?"

Questions intended to get him talking but invariably make him chuckle at his knuckle-headed mother: "Burgers and child labor. ... Which reminds me, we're out of milk; and if you wanted to pay me for the lawn mowing two weeks ago, I wouldn't protest."

It's not a bad deal. For the promise of some future payment, he reveals more about his day as he strains against the force of the dog and the unexpected extension of her bungee leash.

I learn about the school's therapy dog, who has a taste for footwear and has cost his owners plenty in emergency vet bills.

I learned about his non-plans for Halloween. Maybe he will go out into the night dressed as a weird monster from his twisted imagination, hitting the houses that don't get quite as much traffic. Using his decades of experience, he has deduced that the offset houses will offload armloads of candy just to be rid of temptation. Or maybe he'll just sit in his room watching YouTube videos explaining the hardships of life for children in Victorian England.

"Did you know that in England, a girl fell behind in her work at a textile mill and as punishment, they put her alone in a room with a dead body? True story."

"Sounds like the beginning of a horror movie."

"Ohh. Maybe that's what we'll do on Halloween, watch a movie. I heard they remade The Shining.

"I don't suppose you'd want to watch it with me?"

"You never know."

Finding Fenway

I barely drive in unfamiliar cities, let alone run in them.

In my mind and in the expressions of many of the faces I've encountered, it seems crystal clear that runners (especially ones who are directionally challenged) don't belong on crowded sidewalks, or in bike lanes or on city streets.


That's what I tell myself, anyway, as I swipe my room card and open the door that leads to the hotel's idle treadmills. I think at least if I get lost around here I might get a sauna out of the deal.

I'm not a huge fan of the hot or steamy.

However, I am a big fan of cities; their stunning architecture; their hidden alleyways filled with bright murals; and their inviting riverside parks, where I pretend to be as I run in place.

So, on a recent trip to Boston, I willed myself to try again. To risk accidentally winding up on the other side of the city from where I wanted to be (which I managed to do twice) as I searched for cross-streets that never connected.

Even after studying maps and consulting GPS, I couldn't tell North from South or up from down. But I certainly understood how Beantown's city planning had been based, albeit mythically, on the travel paths of wild game or the meanderings of cows.

I was lost.

Every turn lead me on a new adventure.

Right onto Hemenway. Left onto Boylston. Through the chain link fence onto a narrow path along the Muddy River.

There it was.

The name alone made me touch my throat in anticipation: The Emerald Necklace ... Approximately seven miles of linear parkways that connect Boston's historic parks. The place got its name from the way these gems of greenery appear chained around the neck of the Boston peninsula.

As I loped around this place, I began to think time stood still here.

A flash of yellow flickered in my peripheral vision. When I turned my attention to the motion, I saw a songbird draft low alongside me. The moment floated on the breeze for longer than seemed possible before the bird banked smoothly and disappeared into one of the many gardens nearby.

Unlike that showy waxwing, I weave my way around the perimeter of "The Fenway Victory Gardens," the oldest continuously tended plots in the country, looking in on all the home-grown marvels that have sprouted here since the 1940s.

Connected but partitioned by fences and locked gates, the gardens are a delightful patchwork of purpose and style created by citizen gardeners. Some tracks feature kitchen herbs and rows of delicate vegetables punctuated by the tightrope antics of climbing squash. While others offer a festival of fragrant flowers dotted with decorative touches like park benches, sundials, even a birdbath shaped like a ready catcher's mitt. I find myself surrounded by a beautiful tangle of color and whimsy that parallels perfectly with the streets of this complicated city. Both seem to have fended off gentrification with tenacity and pride.The changes made over the years included a more humane progress, such as making the space more accessible to people of all abilities.

As I jog along a temporary fence line where heavy machinery is staged I read a sign asking for support in the bid to restore the river banks and buckled pathways to its former glory.

This place might have faced a bulldozer long ago had it been anywhere else. Leveled to make way for something only resembling progress: a high rise building or a shopping center, or maybe a parking lot for a high-rise shopping center. Something developers would undoubtedly name after the very thing they razed: Victory Gardens Plaza.

But who would want to get lost in a place like that?

Comfort Food

I love this time of year. 

The sweet. The sour. The hidden treasure.

The trees' warm hues take the edge off the crisp, sharp air as it swirls around me in gusts, seemingly dancing with a new batch of falling leaves. It never occurs to me that I am a part of this changing rhythm yet despite my layers, the chill always finds a way to reach in and ruffle my arm feathers. 

No matter how I close up the zippers and buttons, the horripilation of hair follicles stands at attention while the rest of me shivers to get warm. It's thrilling really.

I will make a cup of coffee just to hold it in my hands. 

The spirit of the season will soon be floating through the neighborhood wearing gossamer capes and yarn wigs and red light-up eyes. The small ones will have parents in tow and get the best of us. The older ones will see our worst.

After this, we won't see them again until it snows.

Our black cat will find her way to my side. She scootches in close and presses her flank into mine. Her paw rests on my arm. It is soft except for a single claw that she has attached to my sweater. Insurance I won't suddenly get up and leave her exposed to the cold.

I don't love that the dark comes for us sooner. Or that the laundry tips the scale with its winter weight. I don't love wearing long socks and heavy boots. I dread driving that first mile and a half in a car that refuses to warm up ... until we get to the vet clinic and finally feel the heat from the vents.

It is time for the comfort of food: For soups and chilis and pot pies made of thankful leftovers. For loaves of bread that proof on the wood stove as you leave the oven to heat. No one will complain about the stuffiness of the smell, all yeasty and reassuring.

Tonight, I have it in mind to warm up a summer staple and put a pot of water on the boil.

I have time so I use the slow burner. The one that made me realize I was now old and in possession of a least favorite heating element.

I will do the work to sliver up cabbage and carrots and bell peppers. Mix them with shell-shucked peas straight from the freezer. 

I'll turn my attention to peanut butter, warming up half a cup or so in a saucepan. Splash in some rice vinegar and soy sauce. Add a few squeezes of siracha and ginger ... (did you know they make a paste?) and a healthy dollop of minced garlic. I throw a little salt over my shoulder in appreciation for the gods of processed basics, but none into the pan.

The boy wanders into the kitchen, following the scent of the air. He pokes a fork into the pot and swirls the strands inside.

Twelve minutes ago I was able to put spaghetti in the pot. And now it's what my father used to call "al dente," but my son will argue it's actually a little undercooked. In a minute I'm going to need tongs so I can coat the noodles in sauce.

What did I forget?

The sweet! I would have added maple syrup, but I found the bottle empty. Maybe a pluck of brown sugar will do in a pinch. A few more tumbles with tongs and we'll know.

Clothes out

The clothes hanger fought my efforts as I tried to pull it from the sale rack. It seemed almost welded to the display until one strong yank suddenly freed it of all its entanglements, including the very thing I had sought to inspect.

The sweatshirt stayed where it was, tightly packed amid a sedimentary layer of similar garments arranged by shade, darkest to lightest. There was no doubt Goodwill vibes were going on at this warehouse sale but I was rapidly losing humor. I plucked the garment from between its peers and held it up, snapping a blurry picture for the boy.

How long had I been here? Up to my elbows in overstock, wondering if he'd like the fawn or the cafe ole? Would he prefer teal or cerulean? All I knew for sure was that this was thankless work. 

It hadn't occurred to me until now that online shopping would still be a necessity even when standing in a brick-and-mortar store.

Yet here I was, draping an array of selections over the store fixtures and snapping away. Folding sleeves and pants' legs into action poses. Getting close-ups knowing the devil would certainly be in the details. 

I should probably feel more embarrassed to be at a store, staring into my phone as I try to curate a cascade of merchandise I've purposely flung akimbo. Is this the knoll I'm willing to die on?

But I don't feel any shame. No one is side-eyeing me over yonder in Men's Large. And I fully plan to return all rejected items to their original places in Men's Small once selections (if any) are made.

Truly, I'm not even a little irritated by my excess of indecision. It has a purpose.

I don't know what he likes. But I know I want him to not just see, but understand, that this triangular panel was a kind of wide-wale peeking out between the seams of flat knit. A glance could be deceiving and could be the deal breaker after the sale.

He has preferences that defy my best intuition. And I know from experience that any clothes I buy without such input are destined to become the unworn merchandise of the local thrift shop after giving up hope that the style grows on him or he outgrows them all together, whichever comes first.

It seems silly, I know. All of this could be avoided if I just made him come along or peruse the modern-day equivalent of the Sears & Roebuck catalog from the comfort of our couch. He could be looking over my shoulder or wading through these close-out clothes himself.

Shopping isn't his thing at the moment, it's mine: I want him to have clothes that fit his growing body and suit the plummeting temperatures. He would just as soon face the winter with a shrug in shorts or ankle-showing pants.

So I send the photos off into the ether and wait for a response I'm not sure will come.

Three dots appear.

"I think I like the lighter one," typed my son.

"What about a sweatshirt?"

"The tan one looks nice."

"Do they have any socks?"

"What color?”

“Anything is fine. And hey, thanks, mom. I hate shopping."

Just another day

 "Happy Anniversary!"

The words, followed by a volley of digital fireworks, popped up on my phone at 8 a.m., which was an unusual time for my daughter to be attempting communication regardless of any twenty-year milestone. 

"Where are you going to dinner?"

But before I could type a gracious response that included all my motherly concern about her constantly shifting schedules, she had answered my question:

"I think I need to go to urgent care."

Ordinarily, my mind might have spun into orbit, bouncing around an infinity of possible scenarios in a panic, but my early intuition kept me tethered.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I got stepped on in Spike Ball last night. I can't walk today. University Health says I should get an x-ray."

"Foot? Ankle?"

"Knee."

"Ugh. It's always the knee."

I knew she wasn't as nonplussed as she sounded.

She would have waited until after the ER visit to tell me there was one.

But her friends were in class. And she was alone with a wonky knee that she couldn't use.

For the next several hours we exchanged messages while she waited for campus police to help her hobble from her third-floor dorm room to a medical center about a mile-and-a-half away. We kept texting as she waited in triage for an available slot; and as she waited to see the doctor, or maybe a physician's assistant, she wasn't sure. I stared at my phone watching the blank screen as we both waited for imaging to return a diagnosis and the inevitable instructions she should follow upon release.

It seemed like forever. And the text chain was a mile-long string of typos and half-answered questions.

When I finally called, she immediately started to cry.

She had been handling it, and my voice wasn't a comfort so much as another problem she had to figure out how to solve. The pressure, releasing in one unexpected explosion.

She immediately apologized.

I get it. I can't say that it felt nothing like a proverbial blow to the old breadbasket, but it was easily remedied by a few deep breaths and a forced grin.

 "I know. You are doing everything you need to do, and you will be fine. I just wanted to hear your voice so I can sort out what I need to be doing. ... if anything."

I felt certain I could still play an ancillary role as an advisor. I have, after all, sprained many important hinges between my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. "The day after an injury is always the toughest. Just take it easy and get some rest. Hopefully, it will feel better in the morning." 

She seems to have the same idea.

"Thanks, mom. I'm going to be fine. You just enjoy your anniversary... Where are you going for dinner?"

I didn't know. 

"Anywhere your brother wants to eat, I suppose," which is an answer that infuriates him as much as it does her.

"Whadaya MEAN! Where do I want to go? It's YOUR anniversary."

Sometimes you just want to celebrate with everyone you love.

"Like when your brother tells me later that it's weird not having you around to celebrate, I'll be able to tell him that I feel like I got to spend the day with you, too."