Cousins Week

Every year, around the first week of July, a group of cousins who live 3,000 apart takes a hike to a low, rocky outcrop in Franconia Notch, locally known as Mt. Baldy. It’s not a long hike, nor a difficult one, but the view from the top is sweet – and it has become, over the past decade or so, a family tradition. 

📷: Michelle McCarthy

Hiking Mt. Baldy has been at the top of my California nephew’s New Hampshire to-do list since one of his first visits here. Back then, the kids were all small, and the trek seemed a long journey for little legs. Now, our crew of teenagers makes it from the trailhead sign – where they somewhat grudgingly pose for the obligatory annual Baldy photo – to the top in mere minutes. This summer, the littlest cousin, who lives just down the road, made her inaugural cousins hike up Baldy, perched comfortably on her mother’s back. That littlest is now learning to walk, and I imagine on the next cousins hike, she’ll be ready to scramble along on her own.

 

Over the years, the week of activities on the list for Cousins Week has shifted a bit, as some things are added and others removed. But a few things remain from one July to the next: the Baldy hike, a trip (or two) to Chutters to stock up on candy and fudge, riding in the back of the pickup through the woods road, and loading up kayaks and lunch to drive out to Long Pond and search for salamanders and loons. In recent years, we’ve added trips to favorite breweries, a few hot laps on mountain bikes along a wooded route, and a backyard fireworks display, since the visit generally falls around the Fourth of July (and backyard fireworks are not allowed in dry California).

 

My kids talk about the cousins visit throughout the year, and in the days before the Cali crew arrives, that talk is almost non-stop. While other summer mornings, if they are not working, they may lounge around and gradually get to breakfast and whatever comes next, the week the cousins are here, my kids are out of bed and pedaling their bikes up the driveway and around the corner to my folks’ house before I’ve poured my second cup of coffee. 

 

Cousins Week means Poppy pancakes for breakfast, card games on the porch, endless and intense rounds of badminton in the back yard. There are family dinners – where the youngest generation still sits at the kids’ table, even though they’re mostly grown-up size now. There is teasing (among both cousins and middle-aged siblings) and laughing and arguing over whether that birdie landed in or out on a court that has no boundaries. 

 

It’s the kind of togetherness that only happens when the parties don’t see each regularly, when they gather together only during this one stretch of days. 

 

None of us knows how many more summers we’ll have of this week together, as college looms and summer jobs require more time close to home and the kids phase out of, well, being kids. But however long they last, I’m guessing a cousins trek up Mt. Baldy will remain in the mix, right at the top of the list.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appeared as Meghan's July 7, 2022 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Team on Three ...

What happens when you take 18 kids from a half dozen towns and four different high schools and throw them together on a soccer field? Well, if you’re lucky – and if all the stars and personalities align – you get a team. 

This was the experiment we started back in March, although the conversation started well before then. I had two kids who wanted to play spring soccer, but had no team. Some of their friends were also interested in playing. My friend Mike – whose kids are friends with my kids – was game to help with coaching. And I had a connection with an established club who said if we could wrangle enough kids, they’d include a locally-based team under the club’s umbrella. 

 

Finding those 18 kids from a half dozen towns took some scrambling, and our group grew in fits and starts. Before we got to that soccer field, we started in a high school gym. It was the home school gym for several of these kids, and a rival gym for the others. And, indeed, before we started, many of these teenagers knew each other only as rivals – having faced off on opposing sides of the soccer field or basketball court a time or two. 

 

During the first couple of practices, only two schools were represented. Those sessions were pretty quiet, with awkward silences between drills and activities, and groups forming mainly along school allegiances. Then we added a handful of boys – and another coach – from a third school. 

 

Maybe it was some “Rule of Three” effect. Or maybe it was the timing of it. Probably it had a lot to do with personalities. Whatever the reason, by the time we headed outside in mid-April, this group of mostly boys and a few girls was goofing around, cracking jokes – often at a new teammate’s expense – and assigning each other nicknames. Sometimes, they were getting along SO well that we had to pause practice and wait for them to stop talking with each other.

 

When you grow up in a small town surrounded by other small towns, you spend a good portion of your childhood with the same bunch of kids. If you play sports, you probably have the same teammates (and some of the same opponents) from kindergarten through high school. If you’re lucky, those teammates become good friends, and maybe you figure out – early on or further down the road – how to work well together on the field. 

 

But every now and then, it can be really fun to mix it up. Play with different teammates. Compete against other teams. Listen to a different coach (or two). Learn to play a new position. And, well, make some new friends. 

 

By our first game, we had players from four different high schools on the roster. While we didn’t end the season with a winning record, the highlight of the spring was a tournament over Memorial Day weekend. The team won its first three games, including beating a team they’d tied earlier in the spring, and reached the tourney’s semifinals. For coach mom here, though, the best part of the weekend was seeing this group of awesome humans hanging out with each other and just having fun together.  

 

Our coaching goals for the season were to get the kids lots of touches on the ball, teach them a bit more about the game, help them learn to become better players. And they did – as individuals and as a team. The new friendships were a collateral bonus. 

 

This week, this crew of kids who didn’t really know each other a few months ago had their final game of the season. The next day, they got together one last time for a pickup session, which was as much about socializing as it was about soccer. For 90 minutes, they ran around a soccer field, laughing and playing and talking smack. 

 

Come fall, these kids will go back to being rivals on the pitch. But at the end of the season’s last gathering, they came together in a tight circle one more time, put their hands into the center, and gave their pre-game yell: “Team on three – one-two-three team!”

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's June 9, 2022 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Birthday Season

Birthday season is in full swing in our house. All the humans who live here turn another year older during a stretch of five weeks. And from the first week of January to the last week of February, if you add only the local members of our extended family into the mix, we have nine birthdays. That’s a lot of cake. And a lot of reflecting on the passage of time.  

This stretch of winter weeks used to entail lots of time spent baking (and frosting and eating) cupcakes, wrapping presents, and planning parties for little people. Recently, I came across decade-old photos from a dinosaur-themed birthday party, including some pictures of dino-masked preschoolers playing Pin the Tail on the T-Rex. The birthday honorees in those photos are now mere months away from having their drivers permits. Gulp. 

 

For a year after my youngest was born, I could claim I had three kids under the age of 3. It was a statement that was partly prideful (as in, “I don’t know how, but I am doing this!”), but also partly oh-my-gawd-help-me! Now that I’m about to have three teenagers in the house, I feel the same way. I am so proud of these humans my husband and I are raising. And I am so challenged by raising them. 

 

Early in my parenting career I realized, often in moments of panic, that I had no idea what I was doing. This parenting thing, it’s no joke. And sometimes it’s wicked hard. What if I did something that totally messed up these children I had born and am responsible for growing into adulthood? Fifteen years into being a mom, that feeling lingers, sometimes just a distant internal hum, other times an anxiety-laden roar.

 

When the kids were little and I’d be out with them – at the playground or in the grocery store, with all three loaded into the cart – well-meaning parents of much older children (or grandchildren) would smile wistfully and tell me to “enjoy every moment.” And, like parents of small children everywhere, I’d smile politely while silently calculating how many nights in the past month I’d slept for more than four consecutive hours and wondering if I should truly enjoy EVERY moment, including the ones occupied by diaper blowouts, toddler temper tantrums, and middle-of-the-night projectile vomiting.

 

But even then, I knew my babies would grow faster than I was prepared for. The sweetness of those baby and toddler stages – and of just about every stage since – trumped all the not-so-sweet stuff. I have tried, all along the way, to cherish the best moments, even the ones – or maybe especially the ones – comprising such normalcy as a 6-year-old holding my hand as we walked down the road or a teenager skunking me in a game of cribbage. I have made it a conscious habit to NOT wish time away. And, still, the time keeps flying by. 

 

These past few years, I’ve discovered that no one ever tells a mom of teenagers to “enjoy every moment.” But those more seasoned parents will often share a quiet look of sympathetic understanding or some vague words of encouragement. With my friends who are also parenting teens, I lament adolescent angst and eye-rolling attitudes – along with the realization that too soon these kids who can sometimes cause us so much consternation will be out of the house and onto their next stage – one that doesn’t involve hand-holding walks (at least not with Mom), after-dinner family games, homework help, or curfews.  

 

So I strive to continue to hold onto those best moments, even in the midst of the not-so-fun ones. I cherish those rare afternoon ski runs with a kid or three. Or when one of them hugs me and holds on just an extra second or two. Or when they share stories from their day, and I get a little glimpse into those worlds that are more and more separate from mine all the time. I know other parents of teenagers cherish these moments, too, because we sometimes talk about the wonder of that stolen time with our kids, who so often these days are at school or at work or off with their friends or hidden away in their rooms doing homework – or just avoiding their parents. 

 

And at least during Birthday Season, I know these teenagers of mine will emerge from their rooms once in a while. After all, there’s lots of cake to be eaten this time of year.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's February 3, 2022 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Walking Through the Dark

As we approached the darkest – or at least the longest – evening of the year last month, the kids and I took to venturing out for post-dinner walks. Partly this is because with so much dark and so little daylight, it can be a challenge to fit exercise into the daylight hours. And partly it’s because there are only so many Netflix shows we can watch and games of cribbage we can play during these long nights. Sometimes we need another diversion. Or a fresh air fix. Winter evening walks are a way to have both.

Like lots of people around here, we live on a dirt road where the traffic is sparse, especially during dark winter nights. The only streetlight is at the far end of the road, and we tend to wander in other directions during our evening forays. I often strap a headlamp around my hat as we venture into the darkness, but my preference is to allow our eyes to adjust, to see our way bit by bit, sometimes with a twinkling of starlight or moonglow to guide us. 

Last year, these walks generally included only me and the dog. This winter, though, the kids have been wound up and ready to ramble with me after we’ve eaten dinner and done the dishes. Having their company is not always relaxing – they can be loud, and sometimes they run ahead to hide, then spook the rest of us by jumping out from behind some shadowy tree – but as the mother of teenagers, I figure I should take all the screen-free together time I can get these days. Plus, I’d rather have them running around outside than bouncing off the walls inside.

 

I remember watching people stroll along Lake Garda one summer, during college, when I spent a few weeks backpacking around Europe. Older couples walked arm-in-arm, kids scampered about, and nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular. They weren’t in a hurry, or pumping their arms to burn extra calories from eating all that delectable gelato – just meandering along a lake in a resort town of mountain views and sidewalk cafes. 

 

Probably most of these evening strollers were tourists, like I was. And maybe this was not their normal, non-holiday routine. But I found the idea of an after-dinner walk charming – and memorable enough that the mental image has stuck with me for more than a couple of decades and countless life changes since those two nights spent at a hostel by the lake. 

 

My winter evening rambles through the neighborhood with my kids are vastly different from those Riva del Garda strolls through the bright evening light of an Italian summer when I was 21. Somehow, though, the one evokes a recollection of the other. 

 

Then, I was sipping wine with friends and basking in warmth of the season and our youth, suntanned and carefree and thrilled to be spending a couple of days in this foreign land. Now, I walk with offspring who have surpassed me in height, our feet crunching across a frozen, white landscape. Our breath curls as wispy clouds into the darkness. The snow-laced branches of balsam firs and hemlock trees stand as silent, magical sentinels along the quiet road.

 

Sometimes we step off the road and into the woods, where our tracks crisscross those of snowshoe hare, deer, foxes, and other forest dwellers. The dog revels in the scents floating in the night air and throws herself happily down to roll in the snow. The mountains of home rise along the horizon, their familiar craggy shapes barely discernible through the dark, the bright lights of snowcats prowling along ski trails. 

 

We come home rosy-cheeked and stomping snow from our boots onto the floor, where it will melt into small, cold puddles. These winter nights are long, yes. But our walks bring us, bit by bit, through the darkness.  

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's January 6, 2022 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Snowscape

The landscape near home transformed last week, from dull and dreary late-November blah to the soft snow and sparkle that inspire those of us who love winter to welcome it back each year.  

On the afternoon before Thanksgiving, the dog and I had walked through the woods, crunching across a thick layer of fallen leaves and watching the final rays of a quickly-sinking sun sift through the bare, gray limbs of trees. Two days later, those leaves and limbs were covered by a few inches of snow. 

Snow changes everything. It softens the hard, homely edges of late fall. Covers the blemishes of the brown fields and color-depleted forest floor. Drapes the evergreens in lacy white and sets the mountains to morning brilliance and evening alpenglow. 

 

Snow – for me, at least – also provides a seasonal attitude adjustment. There is a stretch of time in late autumn (call it Stick Season – or simply November) where my instinct is to turn inward, hunker down, stay inside for all those growing hours of darkness. An outdoors lover by nature and nurture, during this time I often have to force myself to get out of the house and into the outside for that fresh air fix. I find myself wondering how I can possibly love the coming winter season – and if I really do, or it’s just what I’ve always known. 

 

Then it snows, and all is right in my world. 

 

Despite my touchy relationship with November, this year’s lingering warmth and smattering of sweet sunshine softened the drabness. I’ve often thought I’d adjust more easily to this seasonal shift if we went from 50-degree days straight into winter, and that’s sort of what last week’s snow transformation felt like. In a day, we shifted from Thanksgiving to the Christmas season, from autumn to winter, from blah to brilliant. 

 

The first snow also fell on a rare weekend when my family had very little on the calendar. We were free to simply revel in the newness of this season without rushing to the ski slopes or driving to soccer practice. Homework was done. No one had to go to work. 

 

We walked through the woods and had our first (short) ski through the field. We laughed at the dog’s joyful snow-rolling antics. Even after dinner, we returned outside. A few evenings earlier, the dark had seemed all encompassing. Now, a soft glow reflected from the snow, providing just enough light for us to make our way along the quite roads. The stars, I think, shine more brightly when there is snow sparkle below.

 

I know it’s easy to love winter when it’s sparkly and new. I know that in the coming months there will likely be rain that ruins the snow and my mood, bitter winds that make me want to stay inside by the fire, and nights long and dark enough for me to yearn for spring’s return. But it snowed last week. And, for now, that’s enough. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's December 2, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Stick Season

Each year, when we reach November, I find ways to distract myself from – well, all things November-y. The damp chill that settles into bones. The protracted dark of the mornings and evenings. The stark bareness of the landscape once all the leaves drop from their trees and the growing, blooming things of summer have turned to dormancy.  

The moniker of Stick Season is certainly apt for this month between the blazing colors of autumn and the sweeping snow and lacy frost that decorate winter. I prefer all the other seasons to this one. Even Mud Season, on the other side of winter, at least holds the promise of more light and warmth and blooming. 

 

During Stick Season, I will myself to appreciate the little things, the everyday blessings. I revel in the sunny days, even if they’re cold, just for the fullness of light. I am thankful for the leaves that hold on for a bit longer – on the rugosa hedge and the lilac bushes. For the lingering golden glow of the tamaracks. And for the views – both macro and micro – that open up during Stick Season: mountain vistas obscured in other seasons by dense foliage, a cecropia moth cocoon hanging in the cold light from a now-bare branch.

 

I notice things I miss in other months. The deer that come to eat fallen apples in our just-mown field, which at the start of autumn was filled with a riot of goldenrods and asters in various hues. The few ferns that remain green through the year – even now, amid the browns and grays – but are just part of the landscape of color during summer and early fall. The artful form of trees emerging in their bareness: the bend of each trunk, the spread of branches ending in intricate webs of twigs. 

 

It seems right, too, that Thanksgiving comes near the end of this month, this Stick Season. It is easy, perhaps, to be thankful for spring’s pastel flowers and summer’s easy cheerfulness, for the colors of autumn and the festivities of winter. Stick Season allows us – or forces us, perhaps – to consider the things right before us and to contemplate the things for which we are thankful.  

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's November 4, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Forward

Three more weeks. That’s how long my kids have to wait until they’re fully vaccinated. While most shots – to protect against such seemingly far-fetched ailments as tetanus and polio and diphtheria – are events to be dreaded at annual doctor’s office visits, the coronavirus vaccine was one all three of my children were eager to get.

This vaccine lifts a world of worry from their shoulders, one I hadn’t fully realized they’d been carrying these last long 14 months. Yes, getting the vaccine will mean less mask wearing and more hanging out with friends. But it is so much more than that.

When vaccination opened to the 12- to 16-year-old age group, I scheduled first shot appointments for early June, figuring the kids would be out of school by their second dose, and more easily able to handle any side effects. But when I happily announced this news, all three said they wanted their shots sooner. As soon as possible. They were tired of waiting. Tired of wondering when they’ll be able to hang out with friends – whenever and wherever they’d like – without masks.

They are done with pandemic worry. They are ready to move forward.

My kids have been lucky this past academic year to have spent almost all of it in school. Yes, they wore masks to class, for hours a day. Yes, they had to stick with their limited cohorts, which meant no mingling at lunch tables or in hallways – and, for my 6^th grader, missing out on many of the traditional last-year-of-elementary-school events, including the field trip to Boston, a series of outdoor education hikes in the mountains, and getting to be leaders for various activities of mixed age groups at school.

But they have not been isolated. Their human interaction has not been limited to seeing friends and classmates only through a screen. They played soccer in the fall and competed in ski races through winter, both activities that are as much about being with friends as they are about athletics and competition. When they had questions about schoolwork, they were able to ask their teachers in person. They’ve had the welcome routine of going to school each weekday morning.

Still, amid all of this not-quite-normal, there’s been an underlying fear. Fear of getting sick. Fear of getting someone else sick. Fear of being ostracized if they did contract Covid. Being vaccinated won’t eliminate this anxiety entirely, but it alleviates it in a huge way. One shot in, my kids are already feeling that Covid concern ease a bit. One down, one to go. Forward.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's May 27, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.

Nature Nerd

Among some of my friends, I have a reputation for being a bit of a nature nerd. In winter, I scan ski trails for animal tracks from the chairlift. I can’t travel a back road without peering at tree hollows and fields to see what animals might be hiding or foraging there. On walks through the woods, I’m easily distracted by wildflowers, weird lichen, and scat.

So it was a joy last week to wander a swath of forest with my colleagues from the nonprofit organization where I work, whose mission is, in part, to foster an understanding of and appreciation for the natural wonders of forests. It was a happy gathering of nature nerds – made even more so, perhaps, by the cool spring sunshine and because this was the first time we’d all been together in over a year.

As children, we have with an innate sense of curiosity about the world around us. Why is the sky blue? Where did that word come from? How do birds fly? What do worms eat? Why do stars sparkle? I remember being inundated by Whats and Whys and Hows when my kids were little. And then, at some point, that curiosity – at least for many of us – subsides as we become more occupied with school and jobs and sports and social activities.

For me, this curiosity waned for a while, but returned well into adulthood. I think it was sparked when my children started asking so many questions, inspiring me to seek at least some of the answers. My now teenaged and almost-teenaged children still ask questions, if not so frequently. But when it comes to the natural world, I’m the one who drives them nuts, asking questions and stopping to take photos of both familiar and unknown discoveries. No matter how many birds I learn to identify, how many wildflowers I can name, or how many intriguing animal habits I read about or observe, there is always so much more to learn.

Years ago, I attended a nature writing conference in northern Vermont, where I joined the early morning birding walks. I knew next to nothing about birds, couldn’t identify much more than a chickadee and a robin. One morning I was walking along a dirt road with the program director, Dave, when the guide pointed out some species I no longer recall. I said something like, “That little thing?” Dave chuckled and suggested I might try to seem a bit more impressed if I found myself near more serious birders.

Now, when I see a bird in the yard I can’t identify, I zoom in as far as my little camera will allow and snap a photo so I can compare it to my field guides and check the Cornell Lab’s incredible All About Birds website. If I’m still stuck, I send the photo to my Northern Woodlands colleague Dan, who will tell me if I’m guessing correctly or, if not, what important features I’ve missed on the path to bird ID.

Gradually, the number of birds I can identify – by sight or song – has grown, though I’m still no birding expert. (I think I will forever be befuddled by woodpeckers.)

Some of what I’ve learned – about birds and bugs and flowers and mammals and trees – is through personal observation and education. Other things I’ve picked up through researching some story or another that I’m writing. Much of it I’ve gleaned from reading and editing the work of writers who are introducing me – and many other readers – to aspects of the world around us I’d never known, or even thought to wonder about.

During our walk last week, we meandered among oak and ash and hemlock trees, past rock ledges where bobcats and porcupines and turkey vultures and many other creatures roam. We found myriad wildflowers scattered across the forest floor, tucked into crevices or growing tall through the leaf litter. Wood ducks took flight from a vernal pool as we neared, and we heard a yellow-bellied sapsucker rat-a-tat-tatting at a tree – and found lots of places where sapsuckers had tapped rows of perfect, tiny holes into bark.

On this walk, I was not the only one stopping and stooping to inspect scat or snap photographs of familiar flowers – or of unfamiliar ones to look up later. And often, when I had a question, someone else in our little posse knew the answer. It was a pleasant way to spend part of the day – fostering our own understanding of and appreciation for the natural world. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's April 29, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.