Patty finished the hundred-day letter and placed the pen on the table. Her eyes fixed on the Christmas tree still shining brightly on January 13, 2025. Who says a tree must come down before February? In fact, one year, long ago, the tree stayed up until March. That was the year her daughter Erica accepted a full scholarship to play ball at Bentley. Patty and her ex-husband never missed a game and so, between working full time and traveling to Boston for weekends, the tree became an afterthought.
North Kingstown, RI, is a small, rural town and the news of Erica’s scholarship was big. Among the rejoicing, a small kernel of fear was planted as the high school coach whispered into her ear, “Beware the lesbians, your daughter may be encouraged to change teams!”
Her mind returned to her delicious cup of chocolate flavored coffee as she contemplated getting on the Shakti Mat. It was basically a bed of nails, an acupressure tool to supposedly cure her neck and shoulder issues.
A whole chicken, giblets and onion were already gurgling on the stovetop. Yesterday, at the mention of making soup, Tom had suggested buying a bucket of chicken soup at Macera’s, “Babe, make it easy on yourself.”
She had poo-pooed the offer. Nothing tasted as good, or simply was as healthy as the home-made concoction her mother had taught her to make.
Later in the day, she’d bring a good portion of the soup to her mother and father who live out on a large parcel of land in the woods, “The Farm”. They have lived there since 1991. Her father, Papa, had purchased the broken, run-down, overgrown piece of property and created a breathtaking place to reside. He had dredged the pond out front for a spectacular place to gaze at over meals. The binoculars rested on the windowsill at the ready to sight a variety of creatures which became the topic of conversation. Patty had encouraged Ma, a talented artist with a childlike imagination, to write storybooks for children.
Last week when the weather was at its coldest and the wicked wind made it feel much worse, Papa decided the outdoor wood-fired stove wasn’t working quite up to snuff. He had purchased the stove over two decades ago and it turned out to be a fantastic investment. He heated the entire house with this contraption. However, starting around 5 years ago, he began to balk. “Next winter, no more stove, he’d announce, next year, no more pool”, he’d growl.
Yet every summer the work began again for both.
Papa was getting tired of the upkeep; mowing acres of grass for which he had put in underground sprinkler system that drew from the pond, the mending of electric fence for the horses, the cleanup of fields and manure, the cutting of logs that fed the stove, the daily cleaning of the pool, plowing and setting up a generator as needed, and constantly grading the gravel driveway. It was becoming too much.
He built the pool as a gift of love for Ma, just as he had built a tennis court in the backyard of their last home. Ma had been a softball player at the time and was vying for the homerun title. Papa threw out an incentive to the potential champ, a diamond ring, but she said she’d prefer a tennis court. She won the title and Papa started excavating.
Papa had an enormous stone wall built around the inground body of water. Not only did she use it to keep her sciatica in check but loved that her grandchildren and great grandchildren would visit. In the past couple years, Erica, her wife Crystal, and their two young children were the constants. Greg and Kimmy’s children were now teenagers busy with sports, jobs, and friends. But the pool remained their gathering place for countless memorable cookouts and celebrations.
Auntie Nora showed up several times a week as well. She’d set up her little corner office in the shallow end of the pool: iced coffee, a pack of knock-off Marlboros, a lighter, a cell phone, and a racy novel.
Patty remembers pulling into the driveway one brutally hot summer day, looking over at Nora standing hip deep in the water, cool as a cucumber, puffing on a cigarette and lost in a dreamy romance. “What the hell am I doing wrong!” she muttered to herself.
Our teachers are everywhere.