Picnic Memories

            A few days ago Art and I packed a picnic lunch in our small L.L. Bean cooler. We put on our hiking clothes and headed over to the Biltmore Estate.  It was a sunny but cool day. We are living in the middle of a world-wide pandemic.  Buncombe County is under a “stay home – stay safe” warning.  However, the grounds and gardens of the 8,400 acre estate in the middle of Asheville were open so that people could walk or bike.  We parked in a mostly empty parking area by the Lagoon and set out for the gardens.

            The Estate seemed eerily quiet with not many people around.  Even the regular airplanes flying over Asheville weren’t overhead to disturb the silence.  The gardens were a reminder that despite the spring day, few things are in bloom yet.  Some magnolias, forsythia, and plenty of daffodils …but no azaleas.  After all, it’s only the end of March.  However, when we walked up to the formal gardens below the house we saw the annual tulips coming into bloom.  “Biltmore Blooms” is how they advertise this gorgeous display of multicolored tulips planted especially this time of year to entice tourists on spring break.  This year there are no tourists and only some local residents like us taking photos and appreciating their beauty.

            I felt special being there without the usual crowds of visitors.  I doubted that has happened very often since George Vanderbilt’s 125-year old summer home became the biggest tourist attraction in Western North Carolina.

            Knowing the Biltmore doesn’t encourage picnickers during regular times we walked back to the car and drove up a hill to Deer Park ,which is mostly removed from the more public areas.  We parked in a completely open parking lot, got out chairs and the cooler and enjoyed our lunch while listening to the birds around us.

            “Our first picnic of the season,” Art said as he reached for a tuna sandwich.

            “Yes, a little early but nevertheless, special, “ I replied. Then the memories of picnics throughout my life and especially of Mother, came rushing at me. 

            “Mother loved to have a picnic outdoors any time even if it meant wearing a winter coat,” I said. 

            “I remember,” said Art.  He never forgets the many picnics we went on with my parents.  He has heard me say “I grew up on picnics” , for years.

 Mother & Dad on a picnic with Hayden

            Mother loved going on picnics more than anything else in life.  Dad was not a fan and yet ,that was the one thing in their marriage she insisted on. When my brothers and I were kids, Dad was on the golf course on weekends and Mother was a “golf widow”.  She’d pack a picnic and take us three and a friend or two in the car.  In Buenos Aires, it was usually to the Club Naútico, on the Tigre River.  We’d have our lunch and Mother would settle into a chair with a book while we played in the muddy river and swam or chased around on the playground. She was happy eating outdoors wherever she was in the world.

            Christmases in Buenos Aires were hot and difficult.  We’d be up early opening presents. By 10 a.m. Dad would be vacuuming up the mess, taking down the bedraggled Christmas tree.      
              Mother would announce “Get your bathing suits, I’m packing a picnic.  We’ll go to the Club.” 

            It was an annual ritual and we were used to.  Thinking back on that I realize that getting us all outdoors was a way ward off the homesickness she always had at holiday times when Christmas felt strange in the heat of summer.

            Mother organized picnics no matter where she was living in the world.  I remember them in the wild countryside outside of Bogotá.  She’d get Dad to drive and she’d find a spot under a tree, spread an old blanket, and bring out the lunch. In Vermont, when she lived there alone while Dad was in Saigon, I can see her bundled in her winter jacket sitting at the picnic table at Hawkwood enjoying a sandwich and some hot tea.  There might still be patches of snow around.

Mother on a picnic

            At our Biltmore picnic last week I remembered the most poignant picnic Art and I had with Mother….the one that will haunt me forever.  It happened nearly 10 years now but still is a clear memory that does not fade.  It was September 2010 and we had rushed to Carolina Meadows in Chapel Hill to be with Mother after Dad died.  His death was not unexpected.  It was a relief and yet a shock.  

            The phone rang the second morning we were staying at Carolina Meadows, while we took care of all the arrangements that needed to be done.

            “Kris,” Mother’s voice came on feebly.  “You need to come over now and get the urn out of here,” she said. “I can’t bear to have it sitting here in my living room.”

            Of course, we went right over with no plan of what we were to do with Dad’s ashes.  Art picked up the urn from Mom’s apartment, took it downstairs, and hid it in the trunk of the rental car we were driving.  Mother was beyond making decisions about anything.

            “What would you like to do, today?”  I asked her.

            “Go on a picnic,” she whispered feebly.

            I went downstairs to the kitchen of Fairways, the assisted living facility where she lived, and ordered a picnic for three of us.  I helped Mom get ready and Art picked up the picnic basket that was ready for us. We gently helped Mother downstairs with her walker and got her into the car.

            “Where should we go?” I asked her.

            “Jordan Lake,” she replied.  “Dad and I liked to go there for picnics.”  I had been there before with Mom and knew it was a familiar place.

            I don’t remember what we ate for the picnic, but I do remember it was a hot day. None of us said much.  Mother sat quietly eating slowly, looking sad and frail.

              “Mom,” I said to her.  “You stay here and rest.  Art and I are going to go down to the lakeside to take care of the ashes.”

            She nodded and made no comment. She sat without moving where she was as we disappeared.  When we returned about a half hour later, having dispersed Dad’s ashes in Jordan Lake, Mom had not moved.  She said nothing.  We cleared off the table and slowly helped her to the car for the drive back to Carolina Meadows.  Perhaps it was my imagination but I sensed that Mother had let go a bit. She seemed exhausted from the outing but something told me she would be alright.

            Our lovely picnic and hike through the gardens at Biltmore was short-lived.  That same evening an email came from the Biltmore Estate announcing that the County was requiring that the estate be closed. They had issued a more stringent “stay home – stay safe” order.  How fortuitous that we had thought to go that particular day without realizing it would be our last for some time. I thought about those beautiful grounds and particularly the extensive gardens in the spring.  It struck me that all will bloom as always but with no audience except the birds, a hand full of gardeners, and the wide open skies above.

  

            I thought about the eerie days we are living through now. How unreal it feels to be house bound during a world wide Covid-19 pandemic.  I thought about the strong memories that came to me as we sat in the empty parking lot at Biltmore enjoying the silence and a picnic.  I had Mother with me but beyond that I felt she was sending a message. When times are tough, when you are despairing and lonely, going on a picnic (whether it’s to a scenic spot or right outside your door on a porch or deck or under a tree) is food for the soul.  It was for her. It reminded me to carry on that family tradition just as we did last week.

Starting our own family picnics ....

Living the COVID-19 Pandemic

Spring in Biltmore Lake

            “We are going to be much healthier when this is over,” said a woman I passed on a Biltmore Lake trail yesterday.  She was walking a small dog and going up the hill as I was coming down.  I had just done four miles to the water tower and was almost home.

            “There are so many more people than we usually see up here,” Art commented.  Neighbors and residents of our community who did not look or act like “walkers” were on the uphill woodsy trail which leads to a county water tower. Art and I have been hiking to the this water tower and back for several years when we want a nearby hike that’s more rigorous.  We now do it easily. 

            We stopped to chat with one couple (at a distance) who were sitting on a log resting.  We passed two other older couples walking separately but slowly. I wondered if they would make it all the way. Perhaps they will, with practice, I thought. It may be that they never would have tried if we weren’t living through the COVID-19 pandemic.

             

            This week my phone has rung often. We hear from Hayden every few days when he walks Jeter, their dog, in the mornings.  He has always been a communicator but during normal times, he is too busy getting ready for work and school runs to call us. We catch up on weekends.  Now he checks in often. He and Jessica have been role models as they are seriously following rules about “social distancing” and staying home. They are learning the ups and downs of home schooling Austin which is not so easy.  Their concern for us is touching, but I don’t let on that I worry more about them and how this all will affect their future lives.

             I have had long conversations with my brothers in California and in Reno.  Megan and I text as she is isolated at home in Berkeley in their small condo – two adults working remotely, two children downstairs with a nanny to watch over them.  How does she do it, I wonder.  Megan’s brother Ian and Angelica are now housebound in the middle of Chicago but “doing fine” he tells me. 

My cousin from Cedar Rapids, Iowa,  Julie, called so we could catch up on our lives since we last talked.  “I, too, am walking a lot,” she told me.  “I can picture just where you are walking,” she told me.  I remember that she has been to visit me in Biltmore Lake, just as we have been to see her in Boca Grande, Florida and her home in Cedar Rapids.  We have each walked the others’ trails so that now we can feel connected and picture it.

Our long-time friends Dick and Mary from Vermont days called for a chat yesterday.  Mary talked nonstop about her grandchildren and their lives now in Florida and Dick’s health.  We go back many years with these friends and pick up where we left off when we see them.  

“We’ll see you in Vermont again this summer,” we reassured each other before we hung up.  “For sure,” they agreed.  We signed off with memories of the many visits and celebrations we have enjoyed on the deck of their Gt. Hawk house and imagining it will happen yet again.

Mary Rojas checks in from Washington D.C. by phone - a friend I’ve known 50 years and whom we see often on visits to Hayden & family.  Our Vermont friends who loan us their house every summer posted on Facebook “hoping you’ll be able to use the house this summer”.  My dear friend Mary in Tucson sent me a photo of her kitchen filled full grocery bags her niece had dropped by for her.  She had not asked for anything but her daughter had sent them via a niece.  Acts of kindness in difficult times...

          All week I had thoughts and feelings about how our lives have changed since the pandemic has struck the U.S. and especially since we are now housebound with everything closed and cancelled.  Reading the print edition of the New York Times each morning leaves me frightened and uncertain. I look for the few articles that find the “silver linings” during this strange time.  Thinking about elderly Americans becoming healthier through outdoor walking is a positive.  Less traffic on the roads is welcome.  Making the environment cleaner now that working from home is changing greenhouse gas emissions. Finding new ways to connect through Zoom and Facetime are good and more frequent real phone calls (like our generation enjoyed for years) are welcome.

I often wonder what Mom and Dad would say if they were alive today.  I know they’d remind us that they survived the 1930’s Depression and World War II.  Mother would say, “we were scarred by the Depression and the War. “Those times influenced how we lived the rest of  our lives.”  They were the generation that saved money all their lives and rarely bought things on credit.  They valued education above all else and followed through on goals of marriage, family, and a lifetime job.  Still, a pandemic is different although the economic fallout equates to Depression times.

I am Mother’s age when she talked that way.  What have I gone through in my life? Nothing to compare to what she did nor what is going on today.  I survived a polio epidemic in Buenos Aires, Argentina and a Revolution in my childhood.  I was so sheltered from that reality that those serious times did not make a lifelong impact.  I have gone through disappointments with jobs, remember times when we had no money, and lived through the terror of nearly losing Hayden to a severe illness in Chile when he was a baby.  None of these things are the same.  I think about Hayden and Jessica, Megan and Cruz, Ian and my other nieces and nephews and wonder when this pandemic is over, will their lives be changed in some way like it was for my parents’ generation.

Months before the pandemic, we meticulously planned a trip to France in early April. It was to be a walking trip to the villages of the Luberon in Provence ending with a week-long hike along the “quiet side” of the Riviera. We said we that this would be our 45th wedding anniversary celebration, and it would mark our 75^th birthdays. We cancelled the trip a week ago. 

Now, Art checks the weather in Provence occasionally and says “we picked a perfect time to go to France, it’s in the 60’s and sunny.  If only we were there.”

“”That’s good to know…we’ll go this same time next year,” I respond with optimism I don’t necessarily always feel.

  The reality of being at home, instead of on a trip in Europe, is a relief as the COVID-19 pandemic worsens.  The mourning period for a trip “not taken” has not lingered. We are beyond that.

I am not certain how the world around me will shift in the weeks and months to come.  For now I am grateful that we live in a comfortable place with Nature all around us and the ability to get out and enjoy it every day.  Having creative outlets, as I was taught all my life, can save you during tough times. I am writing and sending simple stories to Austin in Spanish. I like to hear about the activities that Hayden and Jessica are coming up with for Austin to learn and do.  He is cooking and sending photos of what he and Jessica bake – granola and Apple Bread.  He is learning to do educational programs on his own Tablet connected to the Internet.  He is working on crafts, drawing, and painting.  Art is working on his stamp collection again after several years of it being put away.  He says there is enough to do to last him a lifetime.

We are readers and our house is full of journals and newspapers that arrive on our doorstep almost every day.  I did feel panic on the day the inevitable announcement came that the public library would be closed indefinitely.  I don’t lack for books and things to read but for me, the library has always been my “go to” escape place.  I can go there and simply browse through the shelves looking for an undiscovered gem to bring home and read.  That personal anticipation and joy is not there now. 

My hairdresser closed her salon so that a lifetime habit of regular haircuts is not an option anymore.  The “silver lining” is that I am not a slave to hair coloring as many women my age are.  I will accept my natural self in a world where people are dealing with much more difficult things than hair gone astray.  

I like that the everyday minutiae of life has simply evaporated. This allows me to be more grateful for what I have.   I cannot take the long view of things because that is a big unknown.   I will stick to observing Nature around me come to life now that it’s spring. I will take deep breaths of cleaner air outdoors.  I will listen to the many more birds singing all around me hoping they know something we humans don’t - that there are better times to come.

Welcome Nature once again...

Celebrating Art...Celebrating Life

        

          “We were the oldest ones at our own party,”  Art said to me as we were clearing up after guests had left. 

            “ Really? I hadn’t been thinking of our age in comparison to everyone else’s.  I only felt a need to celebrate Art this year on his 75th birthday, in a way we had not done before. (We have never not celebrated birthdays but the times of planning parties revolved around Hayden’s February birthdays until he left home.  Our birthdays were secondary and more low-keyed and continued that way through the decades.) 

  

We had a birthday cake party after dinner on the evening on March 6th and invited friends, not all of whom were able to come.  Why did I suddenly feel compelled to have a party this year? 

“We have to do something more than just go out to dinner at some ordinary restaurant,”  I told Art.  “Everyone does that…and we’ve done that for years…”

 Perhaps it was a reaction to the coronavirus pandemic that is wreaking havoc in the world right now.  Somehow with the daily updates of the number of deaths from this flu virus, the fact that we continue to live in good health is a cause for celebration.  The political scenario has been stressful all winter as has the world news of displaced migrants and continual climate change crises.  It all has seemed more dire.  And, if I allow myself to think of the actual number of years represented  by 75 one could say it’s very close to 80…the dreaded number.

That fear of 80, comes from personal experience caring for Mother and Dad in their old age.  Art was by my side always supportive as I struggled to get through difficult times with them after they turned 80.  They aged in ways they never had imagined for themselves.  They, too, had escaped serious illnesses into Dad’s first 20 years of retirement and throughout their 70’s.  They traveled and enjoyed life doing just what they had always planned.  It was after 80 when “things started to go downhill”, Mother always said.  (I’m not sure that was a great thought to leave to us but it was an assessment of how it was for them.)  In the years beyond 80 came strokes, and dementia and Alzheimer’s, broken bones, and constant reassessment of living situations.  There was no more travel and as Mother would often remind me “old people who are sick, or don’t feel well, aren’t their real selves anymore…we needed to have known them in their good years.” 

Art’s Mother descended into Alzheimer’s in her 80’s which stayed with her until she was no longer present but still alive into her 90’s.   Art and I agree that we carry an image of continually leading  the good life that we are now until 80 when we will begin to “go downhill” as Mother summed up.  Perhaps we can defy all that and make our own way but the downhill image strongly resonates and will until it changes and we see what is in store for us.

  

Friends who came to the party said to me, “Art is such a great guy…I love him because he’s always so upbeat and likes to joke around.”

  

Others said, “Thanks so much for including us in Art’s celebration…we feel honored to be here.”

“Art is very special, I wouldn’t have missed coming,” said another friend. 

Of those people who had other commitments one or two sent cards in the mail and called. Of the people who did come on Friday I have heard from most as to how special it was to be there.

Art was upbeat all day on his birthday thoroughly enjoying all the attention he was getting with phone calls from family around the country, and emails from others. He opened birthday cards as they arrived each day in the mailbox and put them on the counter to enjoy and reread.  I don’t remember a birthday of Art’s where he seemed so truly like a kid in his excitement about his own birthday.  I was imagining what it must have been like in his childhood to have a twin brother to share excitement with every March 6^th . (He is not one to moan about getting old but each year seems to get more upbeat about old age).

Celebrating in a special way as we did this year feels like we did the right thing and left us both with a sense of satisfaction if not gratitude that we have come so far together – 45 years to be exact.  Now we can set aside numbers (at least for six months until my big day comes around) and be grateful for each day…and remember to celebrate the positive more often. 

“It doesn't matter that we happen to be the oldest amongst most of our friends here,”  I told Art.  "They aren't far behind and it's not about numbers …just attitude and lifestyles."

Perhaps we will defy the dreaded 80’s if we keep living as we are.