two months of adult life

It’s hard to know where to start.

Two months ago, I was sit­ting bliss­ful­ly on my ter­race at Red Gate Farm, sur­round­ed by chick­ens and friends, enjoy­ing the steamy August sun­shine, teach­ing my lit­tle neigh­bor to cook, look­ing for­ward now and then to a Sep­tem­ber reunit­ed with Avery and John in London.

Then my father died.

As much as we had been expect­ing his death, and even believ­ing that it would come as a relief, the result­ing emo­tions were not as sim­ple as we might have thought.  I myself found my emo­tions com­ing in waves — relief, nos­tal­gia, regret, loss.  As Sep­tem­ber unfold­ed here in Lon­don, I looked back on my August at Red Gate Farm with a long­ing for a sim­pler life, a life that con­tained, how­ev­er altered from the man we had known in the dear past, my father.

Before our loss, the sum­mer was great­ly enlivened by my moth­er’s 80th birth­day, result­ing in the Great Mona Birth­day Bash, a glo­ri­ous gath­er­ing of fam­i­ly for the annu­al cel­e­bra­tion.  There was cook­ing — look at me, wet from the swim­ming pool!  What a luxury.

There were ear­ly ris­ers for cof­fee, and gossip.

The boys had their usu­al spar­ring match­es and dis­cus­sions to set the world to rights.

Jane wield­ed the cam­era to great effect.

And Mom had near­ly all her girls around her — it will be Christ­mas­time when we get Avery again.

There were the usu­al recur­ring jokes — “But Har­lot, Scun­ny!” and “Or even plain!”, but this year was enhanced by “Cat Say­ing Hey.”  I laugh every sin­gle time I see this.  It was the per­fect addi­tion to our time together.

As always, it was pure­ly hap­py to be togeth­er, and to give her the new cross­word puz­zle that every­one worked so hard on for months!

What per­fect fun to rem­i­nisce about the clues, which were invent­ed by every­one at the par­ty, every­one who had dif­fer­ent mem­o­ries of my moth­er, from her child­hood and ours, uni­ver­si­ty days, young mar­ried life.  She enjoyed her puz­zle so much, and we adored watch­ing her con­quer it.

We gasped with the heat!  That smoth­er­ing East Coast sum­mer­time August heat, heavy with humid­i­ty as if one were swim­ming through the air.  But so lovely!

I accom­pa­nied my beloved Aunt Mary Wayne to church, because I like church, and to spend extra time with her.  It was not air-con­di­tioned.  I stood pant­i­ng in the foy­er and was approached by a verg­er, hold­ing out a phone book of a missal to me.  “Wel­come!”

I hes­i­tat­ed, blink­ing in the dim light and per­spir­ing profusely.

“Do you speak Eng­lish?” he asked with con­cern.  I spoke noth­ing.  It was too hot!

Every­one, as always, loves Red Gate Farm.

The whole birth­day week­end exists now in my mem­o­ry, sus­pend­ed per­fect­ly as in aspic, before grief and uncer­tain­ty descended.

The birth­day over, John went back to Lon­don, leav­ing me with two full weeks on my own (which is actu­al­ly code for “every­one com­ing over all the time, in and out, keep­ing me company”).

Of course much of those two weeks was tak­en up with my beloved poul­try farm­ing adven­tures.  They were such a joy!

Kate-From-Across-the-Road came over when­ev­er she could, to learn to make a menu for a future par­ty.  Chick­en ten­ders!  (Irony.  Deli­cious irony.)

Beau­ti­ful bean and pep­per salad!

And as a crown­ing glo­ry, the suc­cess­ful tof­fee recipe, com­plete with choco­late and almonds.

Through­out our cook­ing togeth­er, of course we count­ed chick­ens, falling con­stant­ly into what we came to call “The Trap of Seven.”

“I see the roost­er, but where are the hens?  One, two, three, four, five, six, sev­en… where’s the eighth hen?”

There was always an eighth hen, but we fell into the Trap of Sev­en over and over.

One evening I came home from Jil­l’s house to arrive in the pitch dark at Red Gate Farm, and remem­bered that I need­ed to shut up the chick­en coop.  As I emerged from my kitchen door, flash­light in hand, I dis­cov­ered Hen Num­ber Eight fast asleep on the Adiron­dack chair!  What to do?  They would­n’t let me touch them!

But it turns out that a sleep­ing chick­en does not wake up if you reach out and lift it into your arms.  You can pet it, stroke it, and car­ry it all the way to the chick­en coop in bliss­ful sleep.  They are just mag­i­cal creatures.

There is noth­ing quite as hap­py as a hen­house full of chick­ens when you come to let them out in the morning.

The month was enlivened by house projects.  Jacque the Fence Magi­cian came by to meet me, to sur­vey his hand­i­work, and to thank me for the chance to spend sev­er­al months at Red Gate Farm, mourn­ing the death of his wife, recov­er­ing in the bur­geon­ing spring and sum­mer at our mag­i­cal property.

I spent a day with a sponge and a bowl of bleach, clean­ing moss and mold from the side of the house that’s always in shade.  How sat­is­fy­ing — before:

And after my labor:

It was only mild­ly frus­trat­ing to have the roofers come the next day to clean the moss from the roof, and to dis­play with their supe­ri­or tools and lad­ders how easy it is to accom­plish all I’d done in a whole day, in sec­onds.  Ah well, I earned their respect with my hard work.

In a bid to make clean­ing the chick­en coop a bit eas­i­er, I clev­er­ly switched a hook from the out­side of the door to the inside, feel­ing inor­di­nate­ly proud of myself.  What beau­ti­ful hard­ware!  On a chick­en house.

Kate and I paint­ed the Gate!  It had become sad­ly mauve, not at all prop­er­ly Red.

We had a won­der­ful time, chat­ting away about the mean­ing of life while wield­ing our brushes.

It was but the work of a moment to give the chick­ens’ gate the same treatment!

Mike came to sur­vey the wood­shed, our next big dream project.  It is falling down around us, but he will save it.

He brought lit­tle Abi­gail as his helper.

Because it’s Red Gate Farm and there are always vis­i­tors, Dewaine and Clare stopped by for din­ner and a sleep­over on their annu­al trip to New Hamp­shire.  The atmos­phere worked its mag­ic on them.

Oth­er friends popped by, too.  Every­one knows there is always food at my house.

One rare after­noon alone, I took my book and lay upon the tram­po­line, scene of so many lit­tle girls’ pre­cious games over the years.  It was utter­ly tranquil.

I fell briefly asleep.  When I awoke, the chick­ens were GONE.  Not just the Trap of Sev­en — the trap of none!  It turns out that chick­ens do not come when called.  You have to pur­sue them.  They had decid­ed life might be more fun in front of the house.

“Let us in!” they say.  I’d have had quite an explain­ing job to do with Agnes, our long-suf­fer­ing clean­ing lady.  “It was just a few chickens!”

And then the blow fell.  Jill called one after­noon, just days before my depar­ture, to say that Dad was very sick.  I went and we spent a last after­noon with him.  He died in the night.  I spent the next day por­ing over the desk draw­er full of memen­toes and pho­tographs, and found this pre­cious gem.  That’s Dad, the blond in the front, in all his 18-year-old glo­ry.  What a man.

Judy, my sweet friend, came to spend the after­noon with me, to let me cry, to tell me her own sto­ries of parental loss and grief.

Jil­l’s fam­i­ly came for anoth­er after­noon on the tram­po­line, this time to remem­ber Dad, to share sto­ries, to scat­ter his ash­es in the pond, to laugh and cry togeth­er one last time.  I knew I would feel bet­ter, leav­ing Dad at Red Gate Farm.

Judy and Rol­lie came the next day to help with all the small chores that mount up so alarm­ing­ly on depar­ture day from Red Gate Farm.  Gen­er­a­tors to test, dehu­mid­i­fiers to install, food cup­boards to emp­ty, refrig­er­a­tor to emp­ty, sheets to wash, dry and beds to remake, last laun­dry, pack­ing up my sum­mer life.  This time with a very heavy heart, in the oppres­sive­ly humid air.  One last round-up of the chick­ens, now real­ly only a prob­lem to be dealt with after my departure.

After the night­mar­ish dri­ve in the rental car to Newark Air­port (where you cir­cle seem­ing­ly end­less­ly around the sprawl­ing com­plex search­ing ner­vous­ly for signs to the agency), I col­lapsed with a cock­tail and my thoughts, spoke to my moth­er on the phone, got on the plane.  Arrival at home seemed unreal.

And the month of Sep­tem­ber was a very long one.  Jet lag is always a killer com­ing this direc­tion, and added to that I felt a sort of per­va­sive hope­less­ness.  The eupho­ria I had felt briefly when scat­ter­ing Dad’s ash­es was born of relief that his suf­fer­ing was over, and it did­n’t last.  Even reflect­ing on the mean­ing of his life — that of an essen­tial­ly good, strong, trust­wor­thy, intel­li­gent and lov­ing man who devot­ed his life to his fam­i­ly, and to his pro­fes­sion — did­n’t com­fort me as much as I want­ed it to.

John and Avery brave­ly stepped in and we made lots of plans, to fill in Avery’s last month home with us, to appre­ci­ate each oth­er.  Because Lon­don, and espe­cial­ly SE1, are full of activ­i­ty and excite­ment, there was always some­thing to do.  “Lon­don Is Burn­ing” was a riv­er-wide spec­ta­cle com­mem­o­rat­ing the anniver­sary of the Great Fire of 1666.  A barge car­ry­ing a repli­ca 17th-cen­tu­ry cityscape in wood float­ing majes­ti­cal­ly before us, ablaze.

One evening there was a GQ event at the Tate, so we wan­dered over at din­ner time, cock­tail glass­es in hand, to see the red car­pet.  There was Poldark!  Sim­ply thrilling.

Avery popped up up out of the dark­ness to join us after a day out.  “What?  You are wear­ing your APRON?” she hissed.  Fair enough.  There were so many famous people!

We traipsed to the V&A with my dear friend Eliz­a­beth, for “You Say You Want A Rev­o­lu­tion,” all about the years in Lon­don sur­round­ing 1968 and its upheavals.  Of course there was Sas­soon, which thrilled Avery.  The chron­i­cling of unrest and dis­sat­is­fac­tion seemed uncom­fort­ably prophetic.

We saw “1984,” anoth­er sad­ly rel­e­vant piece of cul­ture.  It’s all too easy these days to doubt, in fact, whether or not 2 + 2 give you 4.  The star was Andrew Gow­er who so mem­o­rably played Bon­nie Prince Char­lie in “Out­lander.”  He gives a tru­ly dis­turb­ing per­for­mance.  Clev­er­ly, our tick­ets cost £19.84, in the front row.

My dar­ling friend Suzanne popped in from Wind­sor with her best friend Mary, and they mean­dered over to SE1 to go up with me to the Tate view­ing plat­form and take in the sights, have a cup of cof­fee, and cheer me up.  Who could be glum with these two around?  Every encounter with a warm and lov­ing friend, all month, gave me a chance to get used to my feel­ings, to artic­u­late them, to learn from my friends’ expe­ri­ences and wisdom.

And indeed, what a deli­cious con­tro­ver­sy the view­ing plat­form con­tin­ues to be.  The idea of these peo­ple who bought the flats in our build­ing and were so hap­py to live in a glass house, appar­ent­ly unaware of the giant con­struc­tion site next door, is a real sign of our con­fused times.  The­ses peo­ple are real­ly not hap­py now, and it’s a lot of fun to read about.  We for­mer New York­ers just would­n’t mind being looked into — but we are on the oth­er side of the building.

I’ve been ring­ing, of course, at my beloved Fos­ter Lane, and see­ing my Home-Start fam­i­ly, both good activ­i­ties to take me out of myself.  There will be a turnover this week from my cur­rent Home-Start fam­i­ly of tod­dler twins, to a new fam­i­ly of a new­born baby liv­ing in iso­la­tion in a hos­tel.  So much need.

After I got my appetite back, I invent­ed a love­ly side dish.  You can always have cous­cous about in a nice glass jar, and this recipe neat­ly uses up what­ev­er left­over veg­eta­bles you have in your crisper.

Many-Veg­etable Couscous

(serve 6)

250g/2 cups whole wheat couscous

The anniver­sary of our first date came around in the mid­dle of the month (oh, the ten­der young 18-year-old I was in 1983!), and to cel­e­brate we took Avery to the impos­si­bly chic and clever botan­i­cal bar Dan­delyan at the near­by Mon­dri­an hotel.  Fen­nel!  Pet­ri­fied orange!  For the price of sort of a term at school, we had a mar­vel­lous time.  Avery adds to our image greatly.

And to think this was the day BEFORE her great, lat­est Sas­soon hair­cut!  This appeared in our home that week­end.  Amazing.

I jour­neyed back to Barnes to spend a bliss­ful, gor­geous autumn after­noon with “my” boys, Angus and Fred­die, and their beau­ti­ful moth­er Claire.  She is so gen­er­ous to share them with me now and then.  They are sim­ply filled with joy at being in the world.

I spent a day with my friend Emi­ly at Bread Ahead of Bor­ough Mar­ket, learn­ing to make Every­thing Sour­dough.  Our tutor, the very French Manuel, was a com­plete hoot.

I could­n’t believe I was able to make piz­za dough, a baguette, a seed­ed rye loaf, AND a no-knead with raisins and fen­nel seeds.  It was such fun.

Since then, I have been feed­ing my starter, which will be ready for bak­ing on Wednes­day!  I am very excit­ed to try it myself at home.  By then I will need to have acquired a prov­ing bas­ket of my very own, to pro­vide this won­der­ful shape and texture.

We also went to hear the open­ing night of the Lon­don Sym­pho­ny Opera, a gift from our love­ly friends Gus­ta­vo and YSL.  Verdi’s Requiem — not to be missed!  And such fun just to be silly.

They gave us the tick­ets as a memo­r­i­al for Dad, as the Requiem speaks to the depart­ed souls.  As seri­ous as that sound­ed, it was the most mag­nif­i­cent fun, for all four of us.

I went back to Barnes to ring for the funer­al of a won­der­ful, much-missed friend.  It was heart­warm­ing to be back in the ring­ing cham­ber with my old friends, even for a som­bre occa­sion.  My friend was the father of anoth­er dear friend, and I found the occa­sion to be full of reflec­tion, and some tears.

Final­ly the month had come to an end, with all its joys and sor­rows.  We took Avery back to Oxford.

Year two feels so dif­fer­ent from year one!  Last year at this time I remem­ber being all a‑flutter with nerves at her leav­ing home, at our impend­ing house move.  Awful mem­o­ries, actually!

This year, she goes back very hap­py, with won­der­ful friends, the sat­is­fac­tion of great suc­cess in her exams.  After set­tling her in, see­ing her friends, fill­ing her fridge and get­ting a hug, we hap­pi­ly came home to our new flat, set­tled and cosy.  There is much to be thank­ful for.

I say good­bye to the last two months with­out regret, with a sense of enor­mous hur­dles faced and tak­en, and a fresh start for the year ahead.  Onward and upward.