Shestories

My father died when I was 21. Unfortunately, I was still in the turmoil of trying to grow up, and never had the chance to say those things, or do those things, that a daughter says and does for her father when that turmoil is behind her. My father gave me many things, such as a silver charm bracelet when I was 10, and silver rosary beads when I was 18. He gave me long summer months living on a boat on a lake in New England. He took me to Paris, Heidelberg, Lausanne, Interlocken, and London. But the most beautiful gift he ever gave me is Ireland.

My father knew well the one road due west of Galway, the road into Connemara country, through Spiddal, Clifden, Leenan, and Cong. One-shop villages of cement houses the color of rain, the odd one white-washed. Between them are endless expanses of rolling green hills, but not a soft lush green. These fields are pockmarked with rock. Here he could see the earth’s hard core beneath a slim layer of sod.

The only thing that gives any sense of dimension to the landscape are the stone walls separating the fields. His ancestors had been pulling the emerged bedrock from this land for centuries, stacking the rocks in a three foot high line which marks where one family’s land ends and another begins.

There is no pattern to this system, for some fields are but a quarter of an acre, while others half. Some are almost square, others close on a triangle. But the farmer knows each of his fields as a father knows his child – their faults, their promise.

My eye would get caught into following these random lines of granite, and giving up on trying to decipher a pattern – I am always so sure of a pattern- I eventually moved on to determine if there really were forty shades of green. ‘I have that song on tape,” he’d say.

It is usually raining in Connemara, and on a wet day, the place is truly miserable. In the rain, Connemara is an endless expanse of rock and soggy soil. And the rain here has no pattern either. It falls from above, hits from the side, and seems to bounce up from the ground to strike your face. There is no natural shelter from the wet on these treeless ridges. The landscape is stark, like a father’s face when his daughter turns away.

But on a sunny day, these stretches of green come alive as the rocks sparkle in the sunshine. He points, and my eye follows the line of one rock wall up to the tip where the ridge of green hill draws a line and the blue sky begins. I am quite sure that if I were to walk up there, I could touch the sky. But then I see where my father’s finger is pointing.

One stone wall runs along a ridge, and on this day, from that spot, the sun is behind that ridge. And for one moment, as warm light filters through the spaces between the rocks, the stone walls appears to be lace. And in that moment, we are one.The sun is so strong now I must squint, which only accentuates this vision.

My father loved Connemara Country.

When I first opened my eyes in the morning, I would softly whisper her name. Very softly, so not even my husband, sound asleep next to me, would stir. The first soft whisper usually had no response, so I would whisper her name again, but just one degree louder. No response, but the third time I whispered a bit louder, and she would reply with one pronounced hit of her tail on the hallway floor outside my bedroom door, where she had slept through the night.

She would come into my bedroom and walk around the bed, running her body along the sides of it to let me know it was time to think about getting up. When she had made eye contact with me, she would smile. Her smile was actually ugly, as she curled her lips back and showed her teeth like she was going to bite. But it was truly a Chessie smile.

She would then lead me downstairs and round to the back door to let her out into the back yard to do her “business”. Then, she would lead me through to the front of the house, where I would let her out that door to get the newspaper. She would come in the house, the paper held in her mouth, and circle round the living room twice, finally presenting the paper to me in true Chessie fashion.

Then she would go to her bed in the living room, and lay there till she saw that I wasabout to leave for work. She would rise and move towards the stairs down to the den, and make eye contact with me to be sure this was right. A simple nod of my head, and she bounded down the stairs to her other day bed. I had to put the couch cushions up, as she could be tempted to sleep up there. I did not fix the cushions one day, as I felt her hips were so bad that she could not manage any more to get up on the couch. Somehow, she got up there, but her leg fell asleep so she could not get down when I got home. I had to lift my 80 pound Chessie to the floor. But I will never forget the shy smile on her face as she stood on the couch that day, so happy to see me but so embarrassed about being found out.

We would walk around the neighborhood early in the evening, maybe as far as the lake and then back to the house. After dinner, she would look for another walk, but this time it had to be both my husband and me for it to be right. Then around 9:00 or 9:30 she would come to me wherever I was and stand in front of me, staring. This was to tell me that it was time for the two of us to go to bed.

It was hard for her, at the end of the day, to climb the stairs. I would stand at the top of the stairs and say You can do it, Come on up, girl , and then give her a big kiss and hug when she arrived at the top of the stairs. She would lay down in the hall with a heavy sigh, and drop into a deep sleep .

Sometimes she had a thought that digressed from this usual routine. For example, if she wanted to go outside, she stood at the back sliding glass door and stared. When she wanted to come in, she returned to the door and barked to be let in. If I was having snack while watching TV, she would want one too. When this happened, she came to me and stared. A simple Show me, Kerry and she led me to the cabinet under the sink where her snacks were kept.

They say a Chessie is a one-man dog, but my Kerry loved my boys and my husband as much as she loved me, for she knew and understood what they each meant to me. On that last day we took her to vet, Kerry and I waited by the car and my husband went into the building to see if the vet was ready to see her. Kerry was trembling in fear of the vet visit, but in spite of her fear, she did not want my husband in there alone. She led me into the vet’s waiting room.

The first time we took her to the beach, she trembled on the shoreline, in fear of the water. I waded out into the water, and when the water was waist high, I turned and called her name. She quickly paddled out to be by my side. Her unconditional love always put me first; her own fears second. I tried to return this to her, holding her close, staring into her knowing eyes, and whispering words of comfort, till her heart stopped beating.

During vet school, Beth, my dear daughter-in-law, volunteered to do a two-week stint on Vieques, which is  a small  island  just off the coast of Puerto Rico.  Vieques has a small, sparsely-funded, and  vet-less animal clinic which relies on volunteers from the vet school to come from  time to time to help the island’s pet community. One  cat which was brought in  needed surgery.  The clinic had no operating room,  but Beth put one together as best she could, as this picture shows.  Beth is fully engrossed with the task at hand, but it is the silent observer in the foreground that says it  all.

Bob Christen recently wrote in The Virginian Pilot about the deserted streets in the leafy suburbs of Virginia Beach. Apparently, as he drives around his neighborhood at night, he does not see folks relaxing on their front porches and talking with each other, like he used to do. Since he doesn’t see kids playing in the park or neighbors chatting across the fence, Bob figures that the people of Virginia Beach are glued to the television or the Internet in the dimly-lit family room at the rear of the house. Bob, where do you live? Certainly not in my Virginia Beach!

The house next door to me may appear dormant on Monday through Friday since Mom and Dad leave pretty early for work, taking turns dropping their two-year-old son at day care. But every evening around six there is a lot of activity on that end of the block, as the other young parents arrive home, their gang of two to four-year-olds grab their big wheels, and it’s party time down on the cul-de-sac. I can hear them laughing and calling after their children sometimes past eight o’clock. A couple of the Moms will deliver a second or third child over the course of the summer. I often walk through this group in the evenings, marveling at the parents’ energy after having worked all day and the children’s sheer delight with summer street life.

The house across the street is much like mine. There are two teen-age boys, Mom, Dad, a dog, and a couple of cats. That was until about two months ago, when Mom and Dad arrived home from Central America with a six-month-old baby girl, whom they had just adopted. Dad quickly realized that in order to do this right, their family needed more room. So, by himself, he started to build a thousand square feet of more space off the back of their house. Every Saturday morning the pickup trucks arrive early, and the Dad’s friends help out as much as they can. The teen-age sons take turns pushing their new little sister around the neighborhood in the stroller. This little girl is all of twenty pounds, but the spirit of family and friendship that she has brought to the house across the street is a joy to watch.

The house on the other side of mine holds Mr. and Mrs. Senior Citizen and their fifteen- year-old dog. The dog has had a series of ailments in the last year, but her biggest handicap is that she is blind. Every morning and every evening Mr. Senior Citizen slowly walks her around the block, always counterclockwise so the dog knows the way. This man always has a smile for you that really says he is happy to see you. If you stop to chat, he never complains about anything but is a patient listener to whatever is new in your life. He always tells you what nice kids you have, and when asked how his dog is doing, he says “Fine, she’s just fine.”

My Virginia Beach neighborhood is great, but it is not unique. There are countless streets in Virginia Beach where similar young families, middle-aged families, and senior citizens look after one another. Deserted leafy suburbs? I don’t think so. Bob, get out of your car and take a walk around your neighborhood. Get to know some of the Virginia Beach people who live in what appear to you as dimly- lit houses. You will not be disappointed.

My husband, Bookie Boland, grew up in Weehawken, New Jersey,  which is located directly across the  Hudson River from 42nd Street.  When he was about seven years old, he  watched  a squadron of Navy destroyers  sail into  New York Harbor.  He took a good, long look and decided to himself that one day he would do that.

He graduated from the United  States Naval Academy in 1973, and received his “Wings of Gold” upon his graduation from flight school in 1977.  Primarily, The Book  flew helicopters, but he also flew a few desks, squadrons, and naval bases before he retired from the USN  in 2002.

My father was 49 when his wife gave birth to his seventh child, me, in February, 1954. That summer he bought a 24 foot Chris Craft Cabin Cruiser to celebrate his appointment as a judge in Bergen County, New Jersey. Pop had never had a boat before, nor had he spent much time on the water. He proceeded to teach himself about boating making short day and weekend cruises on the Hudson River for the next five years. It was in the summer of ’59 that he made the first long cruise up the Hudson River and the Champlain Canal to spend his one month’s vacation cruising Lake Champlain. My mother stayed home with the first five children, all teenagers at the time, but sent along with him me and my eight-year-old brother.

I have many, many memories of these summers on board the Stella Maris with Pop. One, however, is most vivid and dates to that first trip. Standing on the deck behind my father, who was facing forward at the helm, I was staring at the shoreline slipping past as we cruised north on the Champlain Canal. It was a midsummer’s day and the mahogany trim on the side of the Stella had been thoroughly warmed from the sun. My hands held onto the trim, my head resting between them with my mouth open and my lips lightly resting on the mahogany. The warmth of that wood resonating with the steady vibrations of the Stella’s reliable engines and my father at the helm assured me that I had not a worry in the world – a feeling I have relished over the years.

I grew up cruising many rivers, lakes, and canals with my father. Through my eyes, he could go any where with the Stella while I lazily watched the banks of the numerous waterways slip by for hours and dream the dreams little girls dream safe knowing my father was at the helm, my father knew the channel, my father knew where the next marker was, knew what time we would reach the next lock, knew how many feet we would go up or down in that next lock, knew when it was a good time for me to take the helm while he made lunch. My father was in charge, and I, lucky me, was with him.

The Stella was sold the same year my father died, the same year I turned twenty one. I later married a Naval Academy graduate, who is an accomplished deck officer with many years at sea. Our oldest son is a Coast Guard Academy graduate where he raced ocean-going sail boats for four years. We have, as a family, chartered boats on the Chesapeake Bay. The two of them sit side-by-side and navigate from the helm. I sit behind them worrying. I continuously scan the sky for a weather change, check the depth monitor, keep an eye out for other boats, check our position on the chart. I never relax in spite of the two experienced, capable men at the helm. Lord knows I try, for there is nothing I want more than to recapture that feeling on the midsummer’s day heading north on the Champlain Canal.

But I have come to terms with the fact that I will never recapture that feeling. For when I was on the Stella with Pop, it was as if I were in a cradle of my father’s making, where I was gently rocked, I was warm, I was safe, I was loved. Every woman should have such a memory of her father.

My son, Brendan, came home from fifth grade one day with a flyer in his hand. He put the flyer down on the kitchen counter and said, “Mom, I want to do this.”   The flyer gave details of a Shakespeare After School Workshop that included a final performance by the children.  Brendan was not a “joiner”, so his interest  was of interest to myself and my husband, and  he  was signed up.  This workshop led to a variety of workshops, productions, and performances.  Brendan received his BFA in Acting from Emerson College in 2007, and his MA from New York University in Theatre Education  in 2008. Brendan was  onstage for the first time in New York City in Gone with the Masha in December of 2008.

As my son’s graduation from the Coast Guard Academy draws near, I pause to reflect on what I have witnessed. On that Induction Day back in July of ’99, after I said good-bye to him, I walked directly to the chapel and pleaded with God to watch over my son. My husband worried all that first summer. I started to worry that first semester of classes. As anyone who reads Shipmate knows, “they” can kick you out should your GPA fall under 2.0. Since that first semester, Brian has consistently fluctuated between a 1.9 and a 2.1. I have consistently fluctuated between rosary beads and Tylenol P.M.

One day early in that first semester he saw the ocean racing team setting off down the Thames River for a weekend on the open ocean. Brian wanted nothing more than to go with them. Shortly after that, Brian had finagled his way onto the ocean racing team and stayed with it for the four years. My husband and I would drive up to Annapolis to meet him when the races were held there . Going to watch your son participate in ocean racing is like watching submarine races. They cast off early in the morning, and reappear around 4 or 5 that afternoon. But in the evenings Brian was ours, and we could take him out to dinner.

One weekend I sensed considerable unease in my son. Brian was grappling with Physics II the second time around, and from what he shared with us, we gathered he was uncertain of how this would turn out. Bookie’s roommate and his wife, Scott and Barb Krajnik, had invited the three of us to stay at their house in Saverna Park that weekend, and they joined us for dinner at a Mexican restaurant on Saturday night.

Brian was quiet , and so was I, watching him. But this was ok because Scott was making enough noise for all five of us as he reminisced with Bookie. I sat there and loved Scott for the evening he was giving us. When my husband is with this particular soul-mate from the Class of ‘73, there is a side to him that comes out that is just plain lovely to see. That deep bond of friendship between the two of them – the unabashed love they have for each other – warms all who happen to be with them. Brian has seen this intermittently over the years. Our wanderings with the Navy haven’t allowed us many long evenings over dinner with these good friends. But Brian witnessed it again that evening as listened to the tales of days long gone by, yet so similar to the world in which he was now immersed.

A couple of days after that weekend, Bookie got an email from Brian . In the spare bedroom Brian had slept in, he had spotted one of the black velvet-covered cases that he knew usually held medals. It was on the floor of the spare room, thrown among some other stuff. Brian had taken a look inside, and saw a Legion of Merit Award. He knew this was a highly coveted award, and not given out frequently. This young cadet was quite impressed. He asked his father to tell him what Scott had done to receive such a prestigious award. And why would he just leave it there? Bookie replied, telling him in the first paragraph the reason Scott had received the Legion of Merit. In the second paragraph, Bookie told his son not to be too much concerned about medals.

Book has a couple of those medals, but own son didn’t know about them.

During the following Christmas leave, over lunch with Brian, I told him about his father’s medals. He did not say much. He listened intently as I spoke, paused for a moment of silence, and then silently nodded his head in acknowledgement – a reaction to information that has increased in my son the more time he has spent at USCGA. He then told me about how his grades were going – not good – but he hoped that his military ranking would help him out. Brian was now in his third year, but he had never spoken of a military ranking. I asked him what that number was. When he told me, I asked him to please tell his father this, as it would mean so much to him.

He said no. “How can I do that, Mom? Dad doesn’t even talk about his medals.”

Over the years, I have lectured both my sons till I was blue in the face trying to tell them how to do things right. Bookie has quietly walked through his life – good days and bad days – as a living example to his sons of how to do things right. Just as Scott has done for his daughters, Jack Rush for his children, Howard Sidman for his – the list goes on and on and it covers all those people I have come to know so well as the 16th Company, Class of ’73.

The day after graduation, Brian is flying to Florida to attend his best friend’s wedding. This gives me almost as much joy as his graduation itself. The lessons have been learned. When all is said and done, it is the friendships with which he leaves on that much-longed for graduation day that will serve him best. This bond of friendship will only deepen between the two of them , and the unabashed love they have for each other will warm all who happen to be with them.